Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Ahh — don’t tell me.” The old woman chuckled, but her laughter ended in a cough. “You have argued with your sister again.”

“It is impossible not to!” Morgana declared.

“But Glyn does not understand the powers. So far, of all my son’s children, only you have been blessed, though I was nearly a woman before I first noted my gift. But the sight will come to another of Daffyd’s children. This I have seen.”

“The sight, ’tis a curse!” Morgana grumbled. “’Twould serve Glyn right if she could talk to the wind. Then we’d see just how God-fearing she truly is!”

Enit lifted her frail hands and clucked her tongue. Her skin was nearly translucent, the blood in her veins webbing blue. “A curse you call it, but has not your gift saved us all?”

“Aye,” Morgana agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking her grandmother’s hand in hers. “But it frightens me,” she admitted. “’Tis so strange and so powerful.”

“Be patient, Morgana,” the old woman said, and the warmth from her frail body seeped into Morgana’s. “Be brave. Trust in your power as you trust in God.” Enit closed her eyes. “Aye,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible, her grip surprisingly strong as she clasped Morgana’s small hand, “there will be pain, but also great happiness, and that happiness, granddaughter, will be yours — if only you will accept it.”

Hours later in the lord and lady’s chamber, Daffyd sat on the edge of the bed and nudged off one boot with the toe of the other. His wife, already under the covers, saw his beetled brow and noticed his haggard expression. “You are worried, husband.”

He shrugged. Daffyd had never been able to confide in his wife. To him, telling her his troubles was a sign of weakness. “There are always worries.”

“Especially when one has a headstrong daughter.”

He glanced over his shoulder and snorted. “Two head-strong daughters and one mulish son.”

Meredydd laughed. “You would have it no other way.”

“Aye, but Glyn is right. I cannot allow the servants to gossip about Morgana.” He frowned as he kicked off his second boot. “I have decided it is time she married.”

His wife eyed him saucily. “Whom will she marry?”

“That I haven’t yet decided. But it will be a lord who can provide us with unity and protection from Osric McBrayne.”

“Would it not be better to marry her to one of Osric’s sons?” his wife asked, smothering a smile.

Daffyd shook his head, then yanked off his tunic. “I cannot give her to one of my enemies! God’s truth, Morgana tries me, but I cannot send her into marriage with a McBrayne.” On a heavy sigh, he blew out the candle.

“Good. Because Morgana will not like you picking her mate.”

“She has had long enough.” He slid beneath the fur coverlet, nestling closer to his wife, feeling the curve of her naked body mold itself against his backside. “She will marry and marry soon. Her marriage will increase the wealth and power of Tower Wenlock,” he proclaimed. “I shall speak to Morgana in the morning.”

“Saints be with you,” Meredydd whispered against his neck.

“That is not all. Cadell will be sent to another castle to learn his manners. He’s lingered too long with us as it is. Since he returned from Castle Broxworth where he learned to be a page, he has fallen back on his old slovenly ways.” Daffyd felt his wife stiffen. “Don’t argue with me about this, woman. ’Tis time for him to become a squire.”

“But he’s just a boy—”

“Aye, and a bullheaded one.”

“Like his father.”

“Or his mother.”

Meredydd sighed loudly, her breath stirring against the bare skin of his back. Daffyd quickly forgot about wayward children and centered his full attention on the woman who was smoothing her palms over the skin of his abdomen.

Morgana silently slipped from the bed. The room she shared with Glyn was dark. Only moonlight, filtered through a thin layer of fog, drifted through the window and allowed her any vision. The castle was still save for the sounds of Glyn’s breathing, a rodent scurrying through the rushes, and the wind whispering outside the walls.

Wolf, amber eyes glowing, raised his head, but Morgana pressed a fi

nger to her lips to quiet him.

Wearing her chemise and tunic, Morgana gathered her pouch, a rope she kept beneath her bed, and her dagger. She tossed her cloak about her shoulders, and carried her boots to the door.