Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

The boy, no more than sixteen and in too much pain to be embarrassed that his thigh was exposed to the women, moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to writhe in agony, but Clare’s sharp tongue and the heavy armorer himself forced the boy’s shoulder back against the sheets.

“He’s a foolish one,” the armorer gritted out, though there was concern in his dark eyes.

“He’ll be fine,” Clare assured the father.

Looking at the size and discoloration of the gash, Morgana wasn’t so sure. The lad, known for his particular lack of brains, had been playing with a sword he was supposed to have been cleaning and had cut his leg nearly clear through.

Clare worked carefully, touching the torn flesh as she stanched the flow of blood from the wound. She slid a glance at Morgana’s sister. “Now, Glyn, help here if you would. We have to bind the muscle together before we sew. Morgana, grab that silk thread and the small needle.”

“Mayhap I should pray instead,” Glyn said tightly, her complexion a greenish shade of white.

“There’ll be time for prayers later. Right now God would want us to work quickly so that the boy loses no more blood.”

Glyn groaned and looked sicker than before. “But there are bloodletters who believe that the loss of blood—”

“Enough,” Clare snapped. “Bloodletters are fools! Now do as I say.”

A sharp knock sounded on the door. It was flung open and Ware strode inside, his boyish face set and grim. “Garrick wishes to see Morgana,” he said crisply.

Clare wasn’t about to be bullied when she was giving a lesson. “She’ll be finished in about—”

“Now. It’s about Logan.”

Clare dropped the bandage, and all eyes in the room, including those of the wounded boy, were focused on Garrick’s younger brother. “Then he’s alive?” Clare asked.

“Garrick seems to think so. Some farmer has reported seeing the boy with Jocelyn.”

“Where?”

Morgana’s blood grew cold. A premonition as dark as midnight eclipsed her soul. The images were vague and shadowy, but she was sure that something was dreadfully wrong.

Ware was motioning toward the window. “To the east, near the mountains. Three or four days’ ride. Logan may have been captured by robbers.”

“Oh, dear God,” Clare whispered, and Morgana felt fear for a child she’d never set eyes upon. “On Rowley’s land?”

“Could be. Come,” he said and started for the door.

Morgana followed swiftly. They climbed the staircase to Garrick’s chamber and found a group of men inside. Garrick, Randolph, Strahan, and a thin man with lank gray hair were seated around the hearth. There was tension in the room, and distrust mingled with the smoke that rose from the fire. The stranger had bruises on his face and winced a little as he shifted on his chair.

Garrick’s gaze sought Morgana’s. His gray eyes were dark with a storm of emotions. “I thought you should hear Will Farmer’s story,” he said. “Will claims he saw Logan. Tell me if his tale is true.”

“But how would I know—” she began, then held her tongue. Obviously this was another of Garrick’s tests.

The farmer told of seeing a young boy and his nursemaid in the company of thugs, of being robbed, beaten, and left to die; and of returning to his farm and learning of the disappearance of Garrick’s son. He’d left his wife and five children to bring his news to Abergwynn himself.

“They robbed me of half a year’s earnings,” Will said, shaking his head. “I don’t know how me and the missus and the children will get on…” He cast a hopeful glance in Garrick’s direction.

The room grew silent, only the crackle of the fire disturbing the peace. Morgana felt the weight of every man’s gaze upon her. She knew Garrick expected her opinion.

“Well, witch,” he said, “what think you?”

Morgana swallowed hard; she had no choice but to say what she felt. “I don’t know if Will Farmer tells the truth, but I see no reason for him to travel so great a distance and risk angering you with a lie.”

“He could have been paid to tell this tale,” Garrick replied.

Morgana studied the farmer. The lines on his face had been drawn by long, honest hours of hard work in the elements. His hands were strong bony, and callused. The bruises on his cheeks and jaw were still green and swollen. “If he came here for money, then he is a fool, for certainly he would know the extent of your wrath,” she said, and the man didn’t flinch. Facing Garrick, she continued. “You know I’ve had no visions, but…” She glanced around, unsure of herself, not wanting everyone in the chamber to hear what she had to say. “May I speak with you alone?”

“I have no time. I’m riding soon. If you have something to say, woman, say it,” he snapped, his patience obviously worn as thin as the soles on the farmer’s boots.