Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Home, the voice whispered. Home.

Frantic, nerves strung as tight as a bowstring, she swiveled her head, searching, hoping to learn more. “Home? What means this?” she cried. “He is not at home!” Her insides churned, and she heard nothing save the frenzied beat of her heart and her own frightened breathing. “What say you? Please don’t leave me now!” With all her strength, she forced an inner calmness to tranquilize her. From experience she knew that she couldn’t hear the voice when she was overwrought. She had to remain calm, to coax the stubborn voice to answer her. She imagined the gentle roll of the sea, the feel of sand beneath her feet, the soft fur of a newborn foal, until her heartbeat slowed. “Tell me of the boy,” she begged.

He is frightened.

“But safe?”

If you rescue him.

“Who holds him?” she asked, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

One with whom Garrick of Abergwynn would trust his very life.

But Garrick trusted so many! Why, oh, why, did th

e voice speak in these wretched riddles? “One of Lord Garrick’s knights?” she asked, her mind clicking off the possible traitors. Ivan, Guy, Randolph, Marsh, Joseph! There were far too many to count.

One he loves like a brother.

“Not Ware!” She wouldn’t believe it. No, Ware was young and mayhap impatient, but he would be true to Garrick to the very death!

The voice retreated as the wind picked up, and instinctively Morgana knew that the conversation was over. “Wait! Please. Tell me! Ware would never…” Her innards shook, and she trembled violently. “Ware! Oh, please, God, not Ware,” she prayed, still on her knees, her tunic stained, her eyes wet with tears.

But the voice had not said that Garrick’s brother had betrayed him. No — what were the exact words? “One he loves like a brother” —that was it. Not his brother. Not Ware! Another man or woman whom he trusted. But who? Clare would never … Strahan! Oh, God, of course! Strahan. The very blackguard to whom she was betrothed!

Her shoulders slumped in shame and desperation. After last night, after giving herself to Garrick and trying to talk him out of forcing her to marry Strahan, Garrick would never believe her if she told him that she’d heard the wind condemning his cousin, the man she detested. Garrick would laugh in her face. He would remind her of how she had pleaded with him to revoke her betrothal. No, the great lord would assume she had made up a story that would release her from her obligation to a man she despised. Her small fists curled, and she wished she could find a way to escape. But she had no time to think. The blood-spattered walls of Abergwynn and Glyn’s terrified scream convinced her that she had to make Garrick believe her.

The campfire had burned low; only a few embers glowed red in the gray dawn. A sentry, his back propped against a tree, was staring into the words. Morgana ducked into Garrick’s tent and found it empty. With no time to spare she quickly scanned the area, then entered the forest on the other side of camp, picking her way to the creek that gurgled and rushed through the saplings.

She followed a deer trail until she was certain that the baron had eluded her and had perhaps wandered to the other side of the camp. Then suddenly she came upon him, kneeling on the creek bank and staring into the watery depths.

A branch snapped beneath her boot, and he turned quickly, his hands moving swiftly to the hilt of his sword.

“Nay, ’tis I!” she said quickly, emerging from the thicket. Just the sight of him brought hope to her breast. As her gaze rested on his broad shoulders, she knew that beneath his shirt, scars webbed his flesh. She’d touched those ribbons that had once caused him pain, kissed them with her lips. Now, as she stood staring at him, reminded of the passion that had burned between them, she blushed.

His scowl deepened, but he let go of his sword. “You shouldn’t be creeping about—”

“I heard the voice on the wind at dawn,” she said quickly, not wanting him to think she was a common wench hoping for another quick bedding. “There is trouble at Abergwynn,” she said, lifting her chin a fraction. “A traitor has taken over the castle.”

His eyes narrowed a little. “The wind told you this? Did it also tell you who the traitor is?”

“Aye.”

He didn’t say a word, just crossed his large arms over his chest and waited, impatience flaring in his eyes.

Her heart was thundering, her palms sweating. “The traitor is someone dear to you, someone you trust.”

“There are many whom I—”

“Strahan has betrayed you, Garrick,” Morgana rushed on. “He’s spilled blood at Abergwynn and wrested command of the castle from Ware.”

“Strahan,” he said coldly, his stony, unbelieving glare cutting through her soul.

“Aye.”

“The very man whose heart you would gladly carve from his chest rather than marry.”

“Nay, I—”