Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“She wants not to be your bride,” Garrick said evenly, unsheathing his sword. “Unless you want your miserable life to end right now, I suggest you tell your men to put down thei

r weapons and tell me where I can find my son.”

Strahan snapped his fingers and, to Garrick’s horror, two soldiers opened the door of the great hall. On the top step, a guard holding one arm wrenched behind her back, stood Clare. Her back was arched in pain, and her long mahogany-colored hair was missing — shorn from her head. His pink scalp showed from small bloodied scabs, and Garrick had to swallow back the foul taste roiling up his throat.

“Clare,” he murmured, his heart heavy. He had brought this shame to her.

“Do not give in, Garrick,” Clare said. “Ware’s escaped and—” She sucked her breath between her teeth in a hiss as the guard twisted her arm harder. Tears streamed down her face from the pain, though she would not break down and sob. “He and Cadell will bring back forces. Do not back down, Garrick, for surely that would be our doom!”

“If you ever want to see your son alive again,” Strahan said, “I suggest that you sheathe your weapon. I’ve given orders that if I’m killed, the boy is to be tortured until he dies.”

Garrick’s insides shook, but he held his ground. “You lying bastard, I’ll kill you—”

“And kill the boy,” Strahan said flatly, “as well as Clare, and Ware, too, when we catch up to him. It’s only a matter of time.” His dark eyes delved deep into Garrick’s. “As for Morgana, I assure you that if you defy me, I will make her life with me so painful she will often wish for death.”

Garrick’s gut twisted.

“You see, cousin, you have no choice.”

“Oh, but I do, Strahan.” With that, he raised his sword high over his head. “I’ll make your last hours on earth a living hell if you don’t tell me now where the boy is.”

A bloodcurdling scream filled the hair, and Garrick turned to see Clare, blood flowing from a cut above her eye. The brutish guard leered and held the knife closer to her eye.

“Next time she’ll lose her sight,” Strahan said, and Garrick steeled himself to face the pain he’d brought upon his family.

He could not bring harm to those he loved. Already his pride had cost him too much. Slowly he lowered his weapon and inwardly cringed at the cruel satisfaction gleaming in Strahan’s dark eyes.

“I wish to see all the prisoners, including my son,” Garrick said. “Once I know that they’re truly alive and you’ve assured me of their safe passage to Wenlock, I will surrender the castle and all my lands to you.”

Strahan’s tongue flicked over his lips. “Why should I trust you?”

“When have I ever gone back on my word?”

“When you chose to lie with the woman your promised was to be my wife!” Strahan’s eyes glittered with hatred. “However, I’ll accept your terms if you tell me where the witch hides. ’Twill save my men the trouble of searching for her.”

“Morgana is to go free.”

“She will be my wife.”

“Never,” Garrick said.

Eyes narrowing in anticipation, Strahan reached for his sword and ordered, “Capture the witch and bring her to me. We’ll be married tonight!”

“I’ll see you dead first,” Garrick vowed hoarsely, praying for Clare’s safety as he kicked his horse forward to battle.

An arrow hissed through the air, landing square in his shoulder.

Clare screamed, but Garrick stayed upon his charger, the steed galloping the short distance to meet Strahan straight on. Garrick’s men spurred their horses behind him, but Strahan met him eagerly. Arrows sprayed the horses and men. Garrick felt the sting of wounds in his thighs and arms. Still he didn’t falter, intent on reaching the traitor.

“You bastard,” Garrick yelled, swinging his sword as their horses collided. Garrick brought his weapon down, striking Strahan’s mail with a clang. Strahan’s horse reared, and Strahan swung wildly, his blade hitting Garrick’s arm and throwing him off his horse.

Garrick hit the ground with a thud and tried to roll away as his destrier’s sharp hooves came downward. He felt as if his chest had caved in, and his breath left his body before blackness overcame him. “Morgana!” he cried, clinging to her memory as he lost consciousness.

The wind still blew from the north. Death surrounded her. Morgana stood deep within the forest, where Sir Bradford insisted they hide. Her thoughts were with Garrick, but she knew she couldn’t save him. She and Bradford had watched as the portcullis rattled shut. There was nothing to do but wait. Yet she felt a restlessness, an irritation that she couldn’t do anything to dispel.

The north wind touched her cheek, as frigid as the lands from whence it came. Sir Bradford was running a knife along the inside of his destrier’s front hoof, trying to dislodge a stone the horse had picked up. Luck was grazing, his saddle propped up against a tree.

The wind shifted slightly, rolling through the forest, touching leaves and branches, moving the fronds of the ferns.