Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

He whistled to Luck and snapped the reins again. Aye, the robbery and beating, which had seemed so bleak a week past, now seemed a blessing.

He drove his wagon for several miles. The sun, weak though it was, was sinking, and he thought he’d better stop and make camp. No more nighttime journeys for Will Farmer. He’d learned his lesson and well. He glanced at his pack and considered the tasty rabbit stew that the fat cook at Abergwynn had given him along with hard bread, cheese, and ale. Today at the castle he had eaten better than he had in a long, long while, and tonight’s dinner would be no different. His mouth watered.

He reined Luck in at the edge of a clearing, built a fire

, and heated his supper. With a belly full of ale and food, it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

He didn’t see the she-devil hidden in the straw of his cart, didn’t know that she quietly untied his new horse and climbed onto the stallion’s broad back. With soft words, she nudged the animal forward, away from the warm circle of light cast by the dying flames and into the woods that were as foreign to her as the Holy Land. Yet she couldn’t be afraid. Not now. Not when her escape had gone so well.

Morgana had waited until the last moment, until the farmer was in deep conversation with Habren about the stew she was giving him. He had left his cart unattended near the stables. Armed with her dagger, Morgana had crawled inside, hiding beneath the straw and the empty bags that had held Will’s produce, and praying that Clare wouldn’t see fit to start another lesson and come searching for her. It had seemed to take forever before she heard shouts of goodbye and felt the creak of the cart’s old wheels as it rolled slowly forward. Praying she was invisible to the guards in the tower, she’d listened as the farmer whistled off-key. His tune was accompanied by the steady beat of his horse’s hooves.

Dust had clogged her nostrils and she’d held her breath, hoping not to cough or sneeze, hardly believing her luck.

Luck. Aye, the stallion was aptly named, she thought now as she guided the horse with her knees. She felt more than a passing twinge of guilt for stealing the old man’s gift from Garrick, but he had another nag, and Morgana planned to return the stallion as soon as her mission was accomplished.

She only hoped that Garrick wouldn’t see fit to punish her for disobeying him by leaving the castle and taking the gift he’d bestowed upon Will. She worried a little about that. Garrick would surely have to mete out some sort of punishment, lest he look weak to his men. She cringed inwardly at the thought, but still rode on, sending up a quick prayer asking God to forgive her for being disrespectful and a thief as well. She whispered a much longer prayer that Garrick would be forgiving as well, though she knew in her heart he would be furious at the sight of her.

Well, that was just too bad. She’d agreed to help him find his son, and she couldn’t very well accomplish her duties by sitting on a stool at Abergwynn learning to read or spinning wool, or keeping an eye on the steward to see if he was taking his duties to heart. No, she had to find Garrick and risk his wrath in order to help him locate his boy.

The thought occurred to her that not all of her intentions were honorable. For there was a selfish side of her that wanted to be with Garrick, that craved to be a part of the expedition, and she felt an unlikely maternal instinct that caused her great concern for Garrick’s boy.

She could no longer lie to herself and had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that she wanted to spend more time with the man she’d so recently thought of as beast of Abergwynn, the man who she’d thought would bring death to her family, the man whose black heart all but beckoned to her.

“Saints in heaven, you’re as foolish as Glyn,” she reproved herself, for she was pledged to another man. Her stomach soured at the thought of marrying Strahan, and she knew she would never willingly become his bride. Curse the fates that had brought her to Abergwynn, to Garrick, and now to this dark, unfriendly forest.

The night was black. Only a few stars winked through the clouds, and the moon, a sliver of opalescent light, gave little illumination. But Morgana, driven by fear for Garrick’s life and by a will as strong as iron, followed the directions she’d heard from Will Farmer, and urged the horse forward.

She pulled her cloak tightly around her to keep herself warm as fog seeped through the black trees and onto the road that wound through the woods. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, for she’d always been comfortable at night, and she used the North Star to judge direction.

The undergrowth near the road rustled, and for a second Morgana feared she would be attacked by a marauding band of robbers. Her right hand tightened over the hilt of her dagger, but she saw no one and told herself that she’d heard a mouse or a rabbit scurrying away from the sharp eyes of an owl that was hooting softly in the distance.

Luck galloped onward, his hoofbeats in rhythm with the cadence of her heart. Her fingers curled over the reins, and she fought off the ever-present cold, hoping that she would find Garrick before she met the band of thugs who had stolen his child.

No more visions came to her that night, and she rode until she was exhausted and her mount weak. Convinced she had put as many miles as possible between herself and the farmer, she stopped at last and dismounted, leading the horse away from the road and into a thicket, where, after tethering the stallion in a meadow, she lay against the mossy bark of an ancient oak. Within minutes she was asleep. She didn’t wake up until well after dawn.

Without even pausing to eat the dried meat she’d stolen from the kitchen, she climbed astride the horse again and headed east toward the mountains. By midafternoon she’d ridden alongside hilly fields of tall grass and wildflowers. She’d found evidence of a large group of horses traveling on the road, and she wondered if she’d nearly caught up with Garrick or had run into the robber band.

An icy hand gripped her heart at the thought of what might become of her should she be captured by outlaws. The sight of Will Farmer’s black-and-blue face and broken teeth filled her mind. She’d considered the possibility of becoming a prisoner of the thugs before, and she’d told herself she would escape by her wits, her magic, and her skill with weapons, all of which would surprise most men. However, now that her horse had turned toward the mountains and the gloom of the forest that grew on the banks of the creek, her worries intensified. The damp smell of wet earth filled her nostrils, and fog settled in the valley near the creek. Mist gathered along the banks and seemed to catch in the fronds of ferns and cling to the mossy trunks of older trees. Will had only been beaten — the men had had no use for his body — but there was a chance that the thugs would try to force themselves upon her. What good would all her spells and chants do then? She’d heard stories of men with voracious appetites and cruel hands …

Morgana felt a fear unlike any other she’d experienced in all her seventeen years. She wished she could talk to her grandmother and that Enit’s wise words would guide her, then shoved the thought aside when she remembered her grandmother’s prediction that she would marry Strahan. Shivering, she urged the horse forward.

As dusk settled and the forest grew darker around her, she gripped her dagger more firmly and rode onward. Tonight there was moonlight to guide her. Tonight she would find Garrick.

Or come across the robbers.

Chapter Sixteen

“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Strahan thundered, his fist crashing into the table. Silver rattled, and wine from the half- filled cups sloshed onto the old stained planks. The hounds growled, startled from their naps, and Ware bristled a bit as he stared at his cousin. After all, he hadn’t made up the story; he’d just passed on the news of Morgana’s disappearance.

To hide his embarrassment, Ware propped one foot against the bench and shrugged a shoulder, as if what the witch did wasn’t all that important. “The servants have searched everywhere. Morgana of Wenlock is not at Abergwynn.”

“Holy Christ, Ware, she didn’t just walk out of here!” Strahan swore roundly as he shoved his chair away from the table. His face was knotted with anxiety, and his boots were restless against the rushes as he began to pace. A page, who had heard only part of the conversation, scurried down the hall, and several knights, drinking and tossing dice near the hearth, paused for a second before turning their attention back to their game.

Strahan’s jaw slid to the side. “She probably just went riding — that’s it.”

“Her horse isn’t missing. In fact, none of the horses are unaccounted for.”

“What about that bloody wolf of hers?”