Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Nay, please, listen—”

“Leave it be, woman. Tomorrow we rise early. We have a mission: to find Logan. And this — this distraction of lovemaking must be forgotten.”

She felt the silly hope within her begin to wither and die, though she knew he spoke the truth. The child had been gone for many days. Time was running out.

As if Garrick could read her very thoughts, he let out a long, slow breath, and his eyes glittered with fury. “God be with me when I find the bastard who stole my son.”

Chapter Eighteen

“I’ll kill them all,” Ware swore through his pain. His mind was hazy from the beatings, his eyes bloodshot and blackened, his nose still squishy, but Strahan’s men hadn’t been able to break his spirit. As he attempted to sit, he spat blood into a bowl Clare had

begged from a servant. He winced when she tried to clean his wounds. “Leave me alone,” he growled, ashamed, for he had lost control of Abergwynn. Garrick had been right: he wasn’t man enough to protect the castle. He’d failed miserably, and his pride ached more than the pain in his face and ribs. Now he and a few others who were assumed loyal to Garrick were locked in the baron’s chamber.

“Hold still,” Clare admonished him, cleaning his wounds as best she could.

He suffered the indignity of her ministrations in silence, and he ignored the other people who had been confined with him, for their fate was his fault. Miserable and feeling sorry for himself, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball or, better yet, to end his own life with his dagger. No! Even better, he would find a way to kill Strahan. No matter that he would die along with his cousin, at least he would avenge his pride and leave this world without losing all of his dignity.

He stifled a groan. His entire body ached, and blood had clotted in his nose and throat, making eating and drinking nearly impossible. Clare lifted his tunic and began to treat the wounds on his back. Carefully she applied the cool cloth to his skin. He sucked in a swift breath through loosened teeth as the water touched his flesh. His back was striped with burning welts from a whip, yet he would take another ten thousand lashes before he’d kneel to his Judas of a cousin.

“This may hurt.”

He remained stoically silent as she applied ointment to his back. His muscles quivered from the sting as the tincture of barks seeped into his bruises and gashes. He gritted his teeth and drew away from her. He had no time to think of wounds.

“Don’t move!” she reprimanded him.

“I don’t need medicine; I need to find a way out of here,” he growled, angry at the world in general and specifically at himself for trusting Strahan.

Clare frowned at him and sponged his face yet again. “You know the castle as well as I. There’s no escape but from that window, which is too far above the ground to jump from, the window in Logan’s room, which is even higher, and the two doors, both of which are locked and guarded. So quit spending your time thinking useless thoughts and let me—”

“For Christ’s sake, Clare, no!” He shoved her hand away, and her bowl of healing mash — made from the bark of pine, wild cherry, and plum — clattered to the floor.

“Oh, Ware,” she sighed, staring at the dripping concoction that clumped in the rushes.

Ware didn’t listen. His body throbbed, and his head pounded so that seeing was difficult, but he wasn’t about to sit here and be tended while Strahan and his band of rebels were holding Abergwynn, not while there was a drop of blood in his body. “We must escape.”

“I’m with you,” Cadell agreed. Morgana’s brother was young and green, but he thought himself ready for battle. He jumped to his feet and stood in a mock battle-stance, whirling and punching and pretending to fight off three attackers at once. There wasn’t an ounce of common sense in the boy. However, Cadell’s sister appeared to recognize the gravity of the situation. Glyn sat white-faced on a corner of the bed, her head bowed in prayer, her lips moving with the quick rhythm of one who had spoken often to God.

“No one would like to get out of here more than I,” Clare whispered, “but escape is impossible.”

“Never,” Ware swore, and Cadell grinned broadly, the poor simpleton, Ware thought. The boy hadn’t a clue that Strahan’s men would gladly run him through with their swords if he so much as opened his mouth. “Surely most of the men are loyal to Garrick.”

“Are they?” Clare asked, bending over to clean up the mash from the floor. “I wonder…”

“Of course they are. They wouldn’t follow Strahan blindly. They’ve pledged themselves to Garrick’s service.”

“Words are easy. What choice had they? Either join Strahan or die. When a man’s life is threatened, it’s simple to find reasons to change loyalties.”

“The bastard. The bloody no-good bastard of a traitor!” Ware bit out, still stung by the fact that he had failed Garrick. He’d been duped and beaten like a silly puppy. Holy Father, he’d been a fool!

But he wasn’t going to give up. There had to be a way. He just hadn’t thought of it yet. But he would. In time. And he’d wrest control of Abergwynn from Strahan again, proving to Garrick that he was worthy of his own castle and soldiers.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and with a creak the large timber bolt was lifted. Old hinges groaned as the door opened, and Strahan, dressed in full armor, and Sir Joseph entered. To Ware, his cousin looked evil, his dark eyes shining, his sneer neatly in place.

Strahan swept a contemptuous glance over his captives before his dark eyes landed on Ware. “You look awful.”

“Thanks to you.”

“None of this would have been necessary if you’d only complied with my orders,” Strahan pointed out. “Believe it or not, Ware, I don’t enjoy having my own flesh and blood whipped.”