Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

He poured mead into two cups and drank heartily. His eyes felt heavy, and his muscles ached. Cadell was right; they all needed rest, though he doubted he could sleep. He yawned, then saw the wolf cock his head. The wild creature whined, paced quickly back and forth, then looked at Ware, as if to say, “Come on with you, man. We’ve got miles to travel before we rest.”

“Soon,” Ware said, finishing his mead and wiping his sleeve over his mouth. He felt the warm liquid slosh as it hit his empty stomach. Cadell was already stretched out and snoring in the grass, the willow whip lying on the ground near him. Such a boy. Again Ware yawned and let his eyelids drift downward. He would rest a few minutes, he told himself, just long enough to ease the cramps from his tired muscles. Then they’d ride again. He began to doze.

Wolf whined anxiously, but Ware couldn’t find the strength to open his eyes. “In a bit,” he muttered, drifting off and not seeing Wolf’s restlessness as he paced worriedly along the banks of the creek and growled low in his throat. With a sharp bark that barely touched Ware’s consciousness, the wolf, as if frightened of the very devil himself, snarled and dashed into the protective darkness of the woods.

“Two men on horseback, m’lord,” the scout, Sir Quinn, reported. “’Tis Garrick’s brother, Ware, and the brother of that witch. The wolf’s with them as well.”

Strahan grimaced. How did Ware and the boy sneak out of the castle? Lazy good-for-nothing guards! They would have to learn a lesson, as would Ware and Cadell — a lesson in obedience from the whip.

“Their horses are nearly spent. They rest now, by the creek.” Quinn leered wickedly. “’Twould be easy to sneak up on them and slit their throats. They wouldn’t know what hit them.”

“Nay.” Strahan rubbed the crick from his neck, and his horse moved beneath him. He didn’t like the idea of killing Ware, for, truth, be known, he liked the lad. As for Morgana’s brother, Cadell of Wenlock, heir to Daffyd, he could prove useful in the future. No, Strahan’s fight was with Garrick, and should the baron resist him, Strahan would be forced to take his life. Too many years and too many contests had he given up to his cousin, the worst of course being that while Strahan’s father had lost his lands to Osric McBrayne, the wealth of Garrick’s family had increased. Strahan, who had been groomed to become a great baron, had been deprived of his inheritance and forced to settle for becoming a mere knight who pledged his fealty to his cousin. On the day of the ceremony, when he had knelt before Garrick, a bad taste had filled Strahan’s mouth and he had barely been able to make the pledge. It had taken all of his willpower not to spit on the smooth leather of Garrick’s boots. And that vile taste was with him yet. He took pleasure in the thought that soon Garrick would have to kneel before him.

Only one minor flaw marred his plan — a flaw as irritating as a dying fly in a bowl of broth: Strahan had been forced to ally himself with the very man who had robbed him of his birthright. But that didn’t matter now. He could live with his choice. Osric McBrayne, lord of Castle Hawarth, had approached Strahan two winters past. Destiny’s die had been cast. For Strahan wanted power almost as much as he wanted Hazelwood.

“If you give me half the lands of Abergwynn and strip Maginnis of his power,” Osric had said, his old eyes gleaming in the firelight from the hearth at Castle Hawarth, “then you shall have your lands again and part of Abergwynn as well.”

Strahan had at first laughed in the old man’s face. Why would he trust McBrayne? Hadn’t Osric brought him to Hawarth as a prisoner? But as the night wore on and Strahan drank more of McBrayne’s wine, it became evident that Osric was determined to increase his estates by acquiring the vast lands of Abergwynn. In truth, Hazelwood was a much smaller demesne, but it was home, and by his birthright, Strahan should rule there.

Osric hated Garrick for the simple reason that Garrick had turned down Osric’s daughter, Rhosyn, for another woman. Her humiliation had been public, her disgrace made known throughout the kingdom.

Old Osric had given Strahan the chance for which he’d been waiting. He knew that his power, once he defeated Garrick, would be great. For Morgana of We

nlock, the sorceress who talked to the wind, would be his bride. Since meeting her, he had wanted no other woman — at least for a wife. Yes, he’d found many who had pleasured him, but only Morgana of Wenlock would serve as his wife — and serve she would.

Now, astride his horse, his loins began to ache. These days, when he took a wench to his bed, it was Morgana of Wenlock’s face he envisioned. The hands that stroked him, the tongue that slipped across his skin, belonged to Morgana — at least in his very fertile mind. Oh, he had plans for their wedding night, plans that caused him to grow hard and long, and he had to shift in the saddle and turn his attention to Sir Quinn, who was still prattling on about how easy it would be to kill Ware.

“Mayhap he turned some of your men against you,” Quinn worried aloud, obviously concerned for his own Judas-like skin. “Even now Garrick may rule Abergwynn again.”

“Even if Ware did manage to take Abergwynn again, he has no one to protect it, and soon McBrayne will storm the castle. Fear not, Abergwynn has fallen.” He felt a keen satisfaction at that thought. Soon he would be baron to the king himself, have a bride who could read the future so that he would be able to predict the downfall of his enemies — even old Osric McBrayne, the bastard. For eventually Strahan planned to seek his vengeance on McBrayne, though now he needed him as an ally. “We’ll follow Ware,” he said. “He can be of use to us.” A plan formed in his mind and he nearly laughed aloud. “If the boy has bested my men and it’s true that the gates of Abergwynn are closed to us, he will open them again. But we must lie back so that he’s unaware that he’s leading us to Garrick. Then our search will end and the battle will begin.”

As they rode west, Morgana felt Luck’s huge muscles shiver. His ears pricked forward, and he snorted as if in fear. “We’ll be home soon,” she said, patting the stallion’s sleek shoulder, but she, too, felt the changes circulating in the currents of air swirling through the valley. The fates were stirring, and their search, which had gone on for days, had turned up naught.

The woods and the mountains seemed to loom close, to press inward.

The wind began to whine, whispering low as it turned the leaves of the yew and poplar trees. Gooseflesh rose on Morgana’s arms, and rain, so cold it seeped into the bones, began to fall.

Luck pranced out of line, sidestepping and nearly kicking Sir Hunter’s steed.

“Watch out,” Hunter yelled, but the horses collided, and Morgana, in an instant of clarity, smelled death. Something was wrong — oh, God, what was it? She tried to ignore the image, but little by little, her vision altered and she was no longer riding in Garrick’s company, but watching in horror as soldiers on horseback, weapons drawn, attacked. Blood spewed, horses screamed, throwing riders and trampling them.

Her heart thundered, and she twisted her fingers in the leather reins. “No,” she whispered as she saw Cadell’s face in the vision. Not her brother? No! Yet he was there, with a band of Garrick’s knights! But they bore him ill will, and at the lead was Strahan of Hazelwood. “Oh, God, please no!”

She spurred her horse forward past two pairs of knights as she tried to reach Garrick. The horses kicked and bucked, and several knights swore loudly, but Morgana didn’t care.

Hearing the ruckus, Garrick pulled up short and Luck nearly ran into Warrior. “What’s the meaning of this?” he hissed when she reined her mount to a mincing stop.

“There’s a trap,” she said.

He rolled his eyes to the heavens, and she watched the cold rain drizzle down his neck, beneath the opening of his shirt. “What’re you saying — that we should turn around once again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Christ’s blood, woman! Make up your mind!” he growled and his horse tossed his great head and reared on thick black haunches. Garrick shifted his weight, and the stallion dropped down again.

“There is trouble. It comes for you—”

“Don’t tell me. Strahan is on the loose.”