Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

The old crone lifted her sparse gray eyebrows. “Her chamber is so poorly lit?”

“On these dark days it is hard for her to see the sewing and embroidering.”

Berthilde handed Morgana four candles. “Be sure these are not wasted,” she warned. “I have to answer to the steward just as he answers to your father. No one within the castle walls, least of all the steward, welcomes Daffyd of Wenlock’s wrath!”

“There will be no waste,” Morgana assured her quickly.

“Make no mistake,” Berthilde said, her watery blue eyes sparkling with suppressed devilment.

She knows, Morgana guessed, and yet she gives me the candles. Stuffing the candles into the pouch at her waist, she whistled to Wolf and made her way to the stables, but instead of finding her mare saddled and ready, she found her father, his lips compressed, his eyes cold.

“You have come for your horse,” he charged.

There was no reason to lie. “Aye, Father, I wish to go riding.”

“Despite the trouble that you say is coming.”

She nodded, feeling a blush steal up her neck.

“I think it best if you stay inside the castle walls.”

“You would treat me like a prisoner?” she asked, astounded. Never in all her years had her father confined her within the fortress. He had at times asked her not to ride in the woods, told her to stay near the tower, or sent a guard to ride with her, but not once had he forced her to stay inside the walls.

Her father’s features softened. “I could never treat you like a prisoner, daughter. You are too like the falcon — free in spirit and body. Yet there is truth in what Glyn says. The servants do speak of you and, yes, even laugh at your expense.”

“Even though I have proved myself?” Morgana demanded, her temper beginning to fire as she stood in the half-light of the stables. She stomped her foot angrily, and a horse neighed. “Did they laugh when I found the smith’s wife lost in the woods and nigh to deliver his firstborn son? Did they laugh when I foretold the storm that rippled the thatch from the roofs of their huts? Did they laugh when I discovered the wounded soldier and knew him to be a traitor?”

The horses shifted restlessly in their stalls.

“Nay, daughter, they did not laugh.”

“But now they mock me, and that is because of Glyn. ’Tis she who does not understand that the forces of nature are at one with God! ’Tis she who makes fun of that which she does not understand! ’Tis she who thinks it is becoming to a woman only to sew and stitch and primp and pray!”

Daffyd took his daughter’s arm, leading her from the dusty interior of the stables. “Mayhap Glyn is right,” he said sadly.

“But surely—”

“Now, listen, Morgana, I want no more of your spells or your sorcery. From this time on, I want you to concentrate on acquiring the skills of a lady.”

Morgana’s eyes became slits. “What of the trouble to the north? Wish you to know no more of it? Would you risk your family, your castle, those vassals who are loyal to you, because Glyn has decided ’tis time I became a lady without vision?”

“You try my patience, daughter!”

“As you try mine, Father.” They were outside now, and the armorer, who was dipping mail in barrels of sand and vinegar, glanced at them, only to let his gaze slide away. Several tradesmen, leading horse-drawn carts, were rolling into the bailey.

Morgana knew that she was being disobedient and that people could overhear their argument. She could see the spark leap in her father’s gaze. Though she realized he could be very strict and cruel when he chose to be, she could not hold her tongue. “The servants and your soldiers — aye, even Glyn — seek your protection. Would you deny them?” she questioned.

“I will put no more stock in magic and sorcery this day,” Daffyd declared. “You, daughter, will not defy me!” To add credence to his strong words, he strode directly to the porter at the gate and gave the order.

Morgana stared at his broad back and silently sent up a prayer for patience. Why, suddenly, was she at odds with the father who had indulged her all her life? Wasn’t it he who had taught her how to shoot straight with a bow and arrow? Hadn’t Daffydd himself loved God’s earth, and hadn’t his mother, Enit, been her teacher in the ways of magic? Hadn’t he allowed her to keep the wolf pup she’d found alone in the woods when others in the tower had seen the scrawny beast as an evil omen? Even Friar Tobias had crossed himself at the sight of the pup.

She stamped her foot in impatience and stalked back to the castle. She didn’t intend to pick up a needle and thread. No, she would wait, but she would do what must be done. “Stay,” she whispered to Wolf, scratching him behind the ears and leaving him in the great hall.

She climbed the back stairs to her grandmother’s room and found Enit sitting up in bed.

“You are in trouble, child?” Enit asked, barely able to speak, her voice rasping in her lungs. Her hair was so thin and fine that her scalp showed through the sparse strands, and her skin was wrinkled and spotted with age. Her blue eyes were now a milky white, and her vision was failing.

“Father has insisted upon keeping me locked in the castle.”