Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Big? Aye, I’m big,” Ware boasted, touching his groin proudly as, behind the large man, he saw Cadell rise silently to his feet. “I’ve had no complaints … not even from Lady Fiona.”

Brodie’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth gaped. “Fiona? Nelson Rowley’s niece? The beauty of Castle Pennick? The devil ye say—”

Cadell suddenly leapt upon the big man’s back and ground the bit of bone into his eye. Blood spurted, and Brodie fell screaming to one knee.

“You bloody little bastard, I’ll cut yer heart out!” Brodie roared, reaching for his knife.

Ware snatched the torch from the wall and set flame to the big man’s tunic. Furious and afraid, blood dripping from his ruined eye, Cadell still clinging to his back, Brodie shrieked and screamed. He fell to the floor and rolled in the hay. The rushes caught fire. Crackling flames burst all around. Thick smoke roiled upward.

“Get off him, you fool!” Ware yelled as Cadell jabbed his bit of bone into the guard’s neck. Brodie screamed some more, fire licking at his limbs as Ware grabbed his sword and ran him through.

“Come on!” Ware grabbed the pitcher and flung the water on the growing fire. Then, clutching the younger man’s shirt, he pulled Cadell toward the stairway.

But Cadell wasn’t quite through. He reached through the blaze and pried Brodie’s dead fingers from his knife. Once armed, he followed Ware up the stairs and out the back entrance to the inner bailey. Smoke drifted upward, and one of the other guards started shouting.

“Hey, you!” a guard called.

“Blood of Christ, there’s smoke!” a woman screamed.

“Fire!” the laundress yelled.

“Fire!” the armorer joined in, and soon everyone in the inner bailey was screaming. People ran to the castle, to the pond, to the well, with the single purpose of dousing the blaze.

“Fire!”

“Where?”

“There — my God, it’s the castle! In the basement — the prison! For the love of Mary, look at the smoke!”

“The prisoners! Oh, saints in heaven, Sir Ware and—”

“Get to work, woman! Bring me pails and every free hand in the house, and pray that the clouds drop rain!”

Men and woman scrambled toward the source of the blaze. Carpenters, thatchers, huntsmen, and soldiers joined laundress and serving girls at the well. They carried pail after pail of water to the castle while Ware and Cadell ran for the stables in the outer bailey. Ware grabbed the animals in the first two stalls while Cadell crept ahead to the gate. Only one man remained standing guard at the portcullis, and Cadell, with the aid of Brodie’s sharp blade, quickly silenced him.

Mayhem prevailed in the inner bailey. Cadell and Ware mounted their sorry-looking horses. With a kick to his steed’s sides, Ware led the way. He heard a shout behind him, realized that a sentry upon the battlement had seen them. “Come on, you nag,” Ware said, spurring his little bay mare forward. They sky was dark, the wind cold, and the smell of rain was heavy in the air. Ware clung to the hack’s neck and wished she could gallop as fast as his destrier.

There were louder shouts from the castle, and Ware guessed that the blaze had been doused and that Strahan’s men were going to give chase. He glanced over his shoulder at Cadell and was rewarded with the boy’s audacious grin.

“When this is all over,” Cadell yelled over the wind that whistled against Ware’s ears, “you must tell me about Lady Fiona.”

Ware laughed and kicked his mare. Soon they would be in the woods, safely out of sight … Then he heard it — the thunder of hoofbeats. He glanced over his shoulder, and his heart froze, for a war party of no less than twenty was following them. The men rode fresh, strong destriers and coursers, and as the distance between them lessened with horrifying swiftness, Ware recognized some of Strahan’s strongest archers.

“Ride, Cadell!” Ware cried, “and don’t look back! Hiiya!” He slapped the reins against his own mount’s shoulders and prayed that he and Cadell could lose Strahan’s men in the woods.

They were close to Abergwynn and the wind was blowing from the north. Morgana smelled the air and watched the leaves of the saplings near the road, hoping the wind would turn. The north wind, her grandmother had taught her, was the wind of death. Dry and barren, blowing from regions of cold, the north wind blew hard, and Morgana shivered. The day had turned to night. Black clouds roiled overhead.

Even the horses knew they were near home. In the last hour, the pace of Garrick’s band had picked up. Horses snorted impatiently, and men, once tired and grumbling, now began to smile and talk among themselves. There was much talk of hot baths, women, and mead. They began to joke and laugh, but Mogana’s stomach was like a band of steel tightening with each step of her horse.

Would her visions prove true? Was there deception and betrayal at Abergwynn? And what of Logan? The poor child, where was he? She’d prayed and turned her face to the wind, hoping for some inkling of the future, but the voice had fallen silent again and she was left with a feeling of impending doom.

The road widened, and the horses thundered out of the woods and through the valley over which Abergwynn towered, the banner of blue and gold snapping in the wind. Garrick held up his hand and they reined in their horses to stare at Abergwynn. The castle stood proud, seemingly unharmed, and was far from the blackened ruins she’d seen in her dreams.

Garrick, from his war-horse next to her, glanced in her direction. “See you any visions?” he asked.

“Nay. But the wind is from the north.”

When he didn’t respond, she said, “’Tis a sign of death.”