Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Have you not a plan to save Abergwynn and the man you love?” Enit asked with a knowing smile.

“You know?”

“I have seen your destiny, Morgana,” she said, settling back on the pillows. “You have within you all the good to make you a powerful wife, may

hap even a ruler one day, but you must prove yourself.”

“I would do anything to save Garrick,” she said simply, and Enit patted her hand.

“Then you know what you must do: sacrifice yourself and marry Strahan.”

Though she’d thought the same, injustice took hold of Morgana’s tongue. “He is a vile traitor!” she spat out. “He killed my brother and Garrick’s brother, and he has been cruel to those who trusted him.”

“He is to be your husband,” Enit said gravely. “For the sake of the child and for the sake of the man you love, you must marry him.”

Morgana knew in her heart that her grandmother was right, and yet her spirit fought the very idea of being bound to a man she hated. She shivered and wished the fates had chosen a different path for her. The voice of doom seemed to echo through her mind.

“You are clever, Morgana,” Enit said. “More so than Cadell. Use your power wisely, and take these herbs, the candles, and this.” Her fingers slipped beneath the covers to a hiding place in the bed. Slowly she withdrew a white bundle. She carefully unwrapped the old linen to show Morgana a knife with a thin steel blade and a carved wooden hilt. “Take this, child. See how it fits in your hand.”

Morgana did as she was told. The knife curved comfortably against her palm. Her fingers tightened easily around the wooden handle.

“This is not a weapon, Morgana. Understand that. This knife is for your magic and only for your magic. Keep it wrapped until the next full moon. After sunset on that day, take the knife to a wild place where you can be all alone. Upon a small hill with a stream running by, you must kneel facing north and plunge the knife blade into the earth. Leave it there for the count of thirty, and then pull it out of the ground. From the highest spot on the hill you will then face east, hold the knife aloft, and conjure up the winds. Afterward you must build a fire, face south, and thrust the knife into the flames. Finally, dip the blade into the stream and face west. Each time you use the knife you must ask nature to aid you in your practice of magic. Then you should wrap the knife in the linen for safekeeping. It will serve you well, as it has served me, but it is to be used only in the healing arts.”

Gently Morgana folded the cloth over the knife.

Her grandmother’s hand clamped firmly over hers. “All that I have, Morgana, is yours. All the powers of my sight are now vested in you. I thought that Cadell, and mayhap Glyn someday, would be able to see their destiny, but Cadell is gone and Glyn will never open her mind to the healing arts. ’Tis only you who is blessed.”

Morgana felt her grandmother tremble and noticed the rasp that was each breath. Fear assailed her. “But, Grandmother—”

“You are the guardian of the magic now, my child. God be with you. ’Tis time I rested.”

Morgana held on to her grandmother’s hand as, with a sigh, the old woman slipped from this world into the next. “Grandmother, please, don’t go, not yet. I have so much to learn!” Morgana pleaded. Tears burned in her eyes as the last rattling breath left Enit’s lungs and she lay still.

Chapter Twenty Five

“You’ll not return to Abergwynn, and I’ll hear no more of it,” Daffyd declared yet again. His face was etched with grief as he studied the blade of his sword. They stood in the great hall, and several of his most trusted men had entered. Daffyd waved them off and said to his daughter, “There’s been enough death in this family.” He shoved his sword back in its sheath. “I’ve made many mistakes, I fear. ’Twas wrong of me to banish you, Morgana. God’s eyes, but you know how to vex me, and I was too quick to punish you. But now that you are here and safe, you must stay. Leave the making of war to the men.”

“But, Father, I could be of help,” she insisted, touched by Daffyd’s admission. ‘Twas not easy for him to concede that he’d erred.

“You heard me, Morgana. Do not argue. Go to the chapel. Pray for the souls of your brother and grandmother and for the safety of your sister. I must think of war.” He waved her away from him and ordered a page to serve wine to his most trusted knights as they made battle plans.

Morgana knew that he would not change his mind. She, however, had no intention of kneeling on a cushion for hours when she was the only one who could save Garrick’s life. Daffyd had nothing to offer Strahan except bloodshed, but she could bargain with her wedding vows.

She hurried to the chapel, for she knew her father could see her, and she knelt before the altar and quickly crossed herself. Praying softly, she waited, half expecting Daffyd to send someone to spy on her. But the chapel remained quiet, and slowly, her heart in her throat, she stood. She wasn’t going to kneel here trembling and chanting feeble prayers, like Glyn, hoping for divine intervention while Garrick and his family were fighting for his castle and their very lives! No, she would have to find her own way to help Garrick.

Escape would not be difficult, for there was a window above the altar. As for a disguise, several monks’ robes hung nearby. She grabbed one of the scratchy, dirt-colored cloaks and tossed it out the window. Searching quickly, she found a candle, an extra length of thick rope for the church bell, and a flint. She threw them quickly outside and heard them land with a thud. Whispering a prayer that she wouldn’t be caught, she touched her pouch to see that her grandmother’s knife and her own dagger were tucked safely inside. She realized with a jolt that she did not have her trusty dagger, only Enit’s knife. Her mind’s eye saw the dagger in her room, meant for the pouch but lying on the table. God’s teeth, she could not go back for it. She would have to make do and use it for a weapon, if need be.

Hopping lithely onto a table near the window, she climbed onto the sill. The drop to the inner bailey was less than ten feet, and she slipped through the window, hung by her arms for a second, and then let go. She landed in the mud and grass and quickly snatched up the dull brown cloak. The rope was too heavy for her to carry, but she took the flint and candle. Then, before she was seen, she darted behind a hay wagon and donned the scratchy habit, raising the cowl to cover her hair and her face. In the pocket she found a small prayerbook. She pulled the hood lower over her face and waited for the darkness.

As night fell, Morgana ran briskly through the outer bailey, her hands deep in the pockets of her robe. Clutched in one fist she held Enit’s knife, and with her other hand she rubbed the binding of the prayerbook. “Help me,” she whispered as she hurried to the stables and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that her father had not come looking for her.

The stableboy, Robert, was still mucking out dung. She hid her face from him and approached Luck, glad the stallion was tethered close to the door.

Robert stopped his work and eyed her. Holding her breath, she untied the horse.

“That’s Morgana’s stallion, Brother,” Robert said as he leaned upon the handle of his shovel. “Ye know who I’m talkin’ about — the daughter to Daffyd, the one they claim is a witch.”

Morgana stiffened. She couldn’t let the boy recognize her. She lowered her head, keeping the cowl over her face. “Aye,” she replied gruffly. “I’m to bless the animal.”