Enchantress Page 6

  “Nay. You are still to be banished.” Sighing, Glyn crossed her small bosom and eyed her sister. “God be with you,” she said softly. “You will need all of his blessings.”

  Morgana raised a skeptical eyebrow. Whenever Glyn was in one of her pious moods, there was usually mischief about. “Did God tell you this — that I would need his blessings?”

  “Oh, Morgana, I pray for your wretched soul,” Glyn said, her face serene, her blond hair and blue eyes adding to her angelic appearance.

  “Have your prayers been answered, sister?”

  “Indeed they have.” Glyn clasped her hands over her bosom, and a mysterious smile toyed with her pink lips. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, inviting Morgana’s questions, but Morgana, sick of her sister’s convenient piety, ignored her.

  “Do you not think the baron is handsome?” Glyn asked, flitting to the cupboard where her tunics and hose were stored. She found a belt of silver silk and wound it around her small waist.

  “The fierce one?” Morgana shook her head. “He is cruel, not handsome. He brings death to us all. Garrick of Abergwynn is evil.”

  “Evil?” Glyn repeated, her pretty brow puckering. “Oh, I think not. He was with the chaplain and Father all morning long, and during breakfast he laughed, though not that often, and he oft sent looks of longing at me.” She smoothed her hair, tucking a straying lock beneath her wimple, obviously pleased with herself, and though Morgana felt a needle of irritation pierce her skin, she ignored the little pang. “I don’t think ’twill be too long before he asks for my hand.” Glyn gave a final tug on the belt.

  “You would consider marriage to a man who wants nothing but to destroy Tower Wenlock?”

  “He has no such intention!”

  “You know not of his intentions,” Morgana said quickly.

  “I know that he is the most handsome, most powerful, and most wealthy baron in all of North Wales.”

  “So?”

  “I know also that he has no wife; so powerful a man needs a wife and children.”

  “What makes you think he will have you?”

  Glyn smoothed the folds of her tunic. “You did not see the looks he cast me while sharing a trencher when we broke our fast this morning! He was captivated by me. Oh, Morgana, it was so romantic! ’Tis God’s will that we be wed, I know it.”

  Morgana could not have been more surprised if Glyn had walked naked into their chamber and begun speaking in a foreign tongue. To be seated next to a baron of Maginnis’s rank was unheard of. “But how—”

  “As I said, it seems our father is talking very seriously to Lord Garrick.” Glyn’s eyes slitted, and she seemed very proud of herself, much like the kitchen cat after stealing cream from the cook’s pantry. “It would not surprise me if I were betrothed to the baron by evenfall.”

  Morgana’s mouth gaped open, and upon hearing Glyn’s tinkling laughter, she snapped her jaw shut. What did she care if Glyn married Maginnis? If the silly goose chose to marry the first lord to walk into Tower Wenlock, then so be it. Glyn deserved the fate she so obviously wanted. As for Morgana, she intended not to wed anyone, particularly a beast from Abergwynn. “Did God tell you that you were the chosen bride of Maginnis?”

  Glyn hurriedly crossed herself. “I do not pretend to talk to our Holy Father. Yet God lets His will be known in quiet ways.”

  “Such as lustful looks over greasy trenchers of meat and eggs?”

  Glyn lifted her head, and her cheeks flamed scarlet. “You were not there, sister. You did not see the desire in the great lord’s eyes. If you had not been so foolish as to disobey Father, and if you had let the baron come here this morning as he had planned, then mayhap you would have been seated beside him and caught his eye.” Her gaze slid down Morgana’s dirty tunic, and she shook her head slowly from side to side, as if pitying some poor almswoman she’d found in the street. “Though I doubt the lord would want a wretched sinner such as you.”

  “Careful, Glyn,” Morgana warned. “I have not yet lost my powers.” She glanced at the window. “Come wind, touch my soul and wrap your cold hands around Sister Glyn’s—”

  Glyn screeched and ran to the door. “Nay, heathen! Stop it. I’ll hear no more of your spells!” she cried, pounding on the oaken planks as the sentry swung the door open. Gathering her skirts, she cast one last frightened look over her shoulder. “You will be punished,” she stated, lifting her chin stiffly.

  “Thank the Lord that you are here to impart God’s word and save me!” Morgana tossed back smartly.

  “Morgana!” Meredydd, overhearing the last of her daughter’s exchanges, scowled as she swept into the room. Glyn lingered in the doorway, but Meredydd motioned for the sentry to close the door. “Now, daughter,” she said, dropping on the edge of the bed and eyeing her firstborn’s dirty face, tangled hair, and flashing eyes. “I’ll not have any disrespect to God or the church. You’ll see the chaplain when we’re through here, and you’ll ask for a penance.

  Morgana nearly choked, but she nodded. Oh, what a horrid, horrid day! Things were going from bad to worse.

  Meredydd grabbed her eldest by the shoulders and slowly surveyed Morgana. Sighing, she said, “We must work fast. Your father’s ordered a feast in the baron’s honor for this night, and I have much to do. But first you must ready yourself.”

  “I’m allowed to partake?” Morgana asked, unbelieving.

  Meredydd cast her daughter a knowing look. “If you behave yourself.” She pointed a long finger at Morgana’s nose. “You are not to chant or call the wind or any such nonsense.”

  “But is that not what the great baron wants? Is that not why he’s here? Because he thinks I’m a sorceress?”

  “You shall not display yourself at all, Morgana. Now, I’ve no time for argument. I’ve called for Nellwyn to bring up bathwater. We shall wash you, comb your hair, and dress you in your finest tunic.” She paused, biting her lower lip as she studied her daughter. “Tell me, last night … did he …?”

  Morgana swallowed over a lump of pride in her throat. “No, Mother, I am still a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking! I would slit my own throat rather than lie with such a man.”

  Her mother flushed scarlet. “Glyn thinks he’s handsome.”

  Morgana snorted. “Glyn is a fool! She can have him,” Morgana replied, but thought she saw the ghost of a smile on her mother’s full lips. What, she wondered, did Meredydd find remotely humorous about this wretched situation?

  “So you want a husband for your daughter?” Garrick asked, his eyes narrowing on the man who had sired the witch. Garrick had dealt often with fathers anxious to marry off their daughters who, for one reason or another, were not able to find suitors. Usually the girl was homely or without dowry or disfigured. Not so Morgana of Wenlock. She was a good-looking one, the sorceress. Thick black hair, eyes the color of a dark forest, and lips full and supple, though they always seemed to be drawn into a stubborn pout. Were it not for her sorcery and her sharp tongue, Morgana would have been a woman more desirable than any he’d met in a long, long while.

  Daffyd was in a hurry to marry off his eldest, as she, at seventeen, was old for a maiden. No doubt more than one knight had shied away from her because of the cutting edge of her dagger and her razorlike words. Yea, and what man who was not daft himself would want a wife who talked to the spirits? Strahan wanted her, but Strahan, loyal though he was, had always been something of a puzzlement.

  Daffyd stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Aye, Morgana needs a husband. Make no mistake, the man must be stronger than most.”

  “Must he be rich?” Garrick asked, accepting a cup of wine from a fresh-scrubbed maid who averted her eyes and slipped quickly behind a curtain. “Are you seeking a dowry for Morgana?”

  Daffyd, a shrewd man, was not a liar. “Yea. She is beautiful and, though stubborn, could become a willing wife who would bear strong sons.”

  “She’s rumored to be a witch. In truth,
that’s why I’m here.”

  “Her powers are not of the black arts,” Daffyd said quickly, but Garrick noticed the sweat collecting on the upper lip of his host. The sorceress was more trouble than Daffyd would dare admit. Mayhap this castle was in need of gold. Garrick eyed the interior walls, whitewashed and clean, and noticed the painted wool wall hangings as well as the fresh, fragrant rushes on the floor. The linen had been clean, the gardens near the kitchen without weeds. Daffyd of Wenlock was lord of a well-run castle, showing no need of gold, though, from what Garrick had noticed, his army was small.

  Daffyd mopped his brow. “God’s truth, m’lord, Morgana is as headstrong as Friar Tobias’s donkey.” He took a swallow of wine. “Though she’s much swifter than the friar’s mount, she’s wayward and needs a strong man who will bend her will to his.”

  “Is that possible?” Garrick asked, leaning back in his chair and drinking from the silver-rimmed cup he’d been offered. He and Daffyd were alone in the great hall, though Garrick heard the soft sound of servants’ footsteps beyond the curtained inner door. Voices drifted through the maze of hallways from the kitchen and tower rooms. He thought of Morgana locked away in her chamber. She would no doubt be furious, her tongue as sharp as the knife he’d taken from her.

  Daffyd rested the heel of a boot on a bench used during meals. “Morgana is my firstborn, and I love her — aye, too much mayhap. Though she was not a son, even as a small child, she enjoyed doing man things. Meredydd and I should have bent her will at a younger age, but” —he motioned quickly with his hands, dismissing the past— “Morgana was never interested in embroidery or any duties fit for the lady of the house. Not that she couldn’t perform them, mind you, had she the need. Nay, it was that her interests were with the archers and the smith and the candlemaker—”

  “With witchcraft.”

  Daffyd scowled. “She is not a witch, Lord Garrick. I say to you on the souls of all my children, she is no witch.”

  “But I’m in need of a witch right now. Or a woman with the powers to find my son. Think you she is able?”

  Daffyd was a cunning man. He wasn’t about to destroy the good fortune that God had dropped into his lap. For having the baron here, with need of Morgana’s powers, was good fortune indeed. Yea, God had smiled on Tower Wenlock this day. Thoughtfully, he scratched his chin. “She has found others,” he admitted slowly.

  Garrick leaned forward, his wine forgotten. “Has she ever failed?”

  Unable to lie, Daffyd nodded. “Only once. Her vision was unclear, and she was unable to find the miller’s youngest son, a lad of twelve who, when the miller awoke one morn, was not to be found. Morgana found not a trace of the boy. She insisted she failed because the lad wished not to be discovered. Her father whipped him, as the son was lazy, she said, and the boy had run off.”

  “Say you that she can find only those who want to be discovered?”

  Daffyd shrugged. “I know that she has failed but once. If you want to be reunited with your boy, my lord, then Morgana can be of help to you.”

  “And you are willing to let her go?”

  “To you? Of course,” Daffyd asked, bowing his head slightly. “All that I have is yours, m’lord.”

  Garrick guessed that the man was being overly humble, but he didn’t care. The Welsh barons were known for their cunning and their treachery. Though Daffyd of Wenlock had never risen against the king and had proved himself a faithful vassal, he might still have ties to the rebellion. True, the uprising had been thwarted, but the cry for independence still echoed through the forests and hills of Wales. The need for freedom from English rule was in the heart of more than one Welsh vassal. Garrick would not be so blind as to trust Daffyd completely. “What about the dower? What price would you have?”

  “The gold is insignificant, though it is costly to run a castle and I would lose a fine leader if Morgana leaves.” As if reading the skepticism in Garrick’s eyes, Daffyd hastened on, “Though she is but a woman, the servants, and aye, even some of the men, trust her wisdom and follow her.” He sighed. “Some would probably follow her into battle. They are as loyal as that wolf that pads behind her.”

  “So gold is what you’re after.”

  “Gold would help,” Daffyd admitted as he turned his cup between his palms. “But I ask only that Morgana be taught to be a lady, that she be married to a worthy man, and that my other two children, Glyn and Cadell, receive some of the same training — Cadell as a squire and knight, Glyn as a lady.”

  “At Castle Abergwynn?”

  “As you wish.”

  Garrick turned the request over in his mind. The boy, Cadell, was welcome. Only a few years younger than Ware, Garrick’s own brother, Cadell could learn well at Castle Abergwynn. Glyn could also fit easily into the daily routine of the keep. Surely Lady Clare could mold the younger daughter into a fine lady; Glyn had already shown herself a willing pupil. She’s been overly friendly and soft-spoken at the table, her manners already in evidence. Yea, she would soon make some knight a devout and well-mannered wife. But Morgana was another matter. Sharp of tongue, quick of wit, and fleet of foot, she was dangerous and spirited, a woman who would not bend easily to any man’s way.

  Perhaps Strahan had been too hasty in asking for her hand.

  Several others of his men were in need of wives, and more than one would gladly take a woman as beautiful as Morgana. But Sir Randolph had a cruel streak that, though useful in battle, would not bode well for his woman, and Sir Fulton was portly and a clown, a knight who enjoyed ale and bawdy stories and big-bosomed wenches.

  Nay, neither would do for Morgana. Strahan had already spoken for her. Garrick had given his word. Strahan was strong enough to handle Morgana, and yea, he had seen a glint of desire in Strahan’s eyes when he spoke of her. “If Morgana will help me find my son,” Garrick said slowly, his fingers running over the silver rim of the cup he was holding, “then I promise you this: she will marry a knight of my choosing, a good man who will be given his own land and castle. He is my own cousin, Strahan Hazelwood, a loyal follower of our king. He has already inquired of her.”

  Daffyd grunted. He’d met Strahan. His old eyes gleamed, and he chanced pushing his good fortune a bit. “What of Glyn?”

  “She may come to Castle Abergwynn to be taught by Lady Clare, but I can promise no more. Not until Logan is returned safely.”

  “What if he is not?” Daffyd asked.

  Garrick’s mouth turned hard. His hands quit moving along the edge of his cup. “Pray that doesn’t happen,” he said, his face suddenly dark and forbidding. “I did not come here on a fool’s mission. Your daughter must not fail.”

  “She will not,” Daffyd assured his guest, though he rubbed his palms on his breeches as if to remove an anxious sweat.

  Garrick tossed back his wine and left the empty cup on the table. “There is more you wish?” he asked, beginning to dislike Daffyd of Wenlock.

  “Aye, m’lord. As you many have noticed, my soldiers are few, lost to disease last year and in defending our king during the uprising of neighboring lords, especially Osric McBrayne. We are in need of good men to secure this keep and to protect the village. If you could but leave a few of your soldiers—”

  “Twenty of my best men shall remain here. But I have learned there may be war with the Scots. If I’m called upon to ride with Edward, I will need my knights.”

  “And have them you shall, as well as soldiers from Wenlock. Thank you, m’lord,” Daffyd said with obvious relief. He vowed his fealty once again, then, standing, offered Garrick a smile. “Now, come, rest a while. Soon we will feast and celebrate our renewed alliance.”

  Garrick didn’t move. His eyes, hard as steel, held the other man’s, and his lips barely moved as he spoke. “Know you this, Daffyd of Wenlock. I have traveled long to come here in search of a witch. I will do everything you ask, but now your daughter must not fail me.”

  Chapter Six

  “A
h, m’lady, ‘ow lovely ye look!” Nellwyn, a gap-toothed girl with freckles and hair the color of flame, nodded approvingly at Morgana. She clasped her hands before her chest and sighed.

  “I do not feel lovely,” Morgana grumbled, refusing to eye herself in the mirror that Meredydd insisted on holding near her face. Her sandal tunic, a lavender color that reminded Morgana of twilight, was trimmed with rabbit fur. Her white mantle was embroidered in hues of pink and rose, and a silver belt was slung around her waist.

  For once her dark curls were restrained and trained beneath a wimple.

  “No one will recognize you,” her mother predicted.

  Mayhap that wasn’t so bad. Her father might have forgotten his bad mood, and should he see his elder daughter behaving in a ladylike fashion, perhaps he would forget the angry words he’d spoken in such haste. If Morgana could but get Daffyd alone, apologize for her foolishness of the night before, and swear to be obedient in the future, there was a chance her father would forgive her and take away the wretched punishment he’d so quickly meted out.

  Glyn slipped through the door and, upon spying Morgana, stopped still and audibly gasped. Morgana felt a surge of vindication when she thought of her reaction to Glyn’s announcement that she was to marry Baron Maginnis.

  “Morgana?” Glyn said, her throat bobbing a little as she closed her mouth and stared in disbelief at her older sister.

  “Aye?” For effect, Morgana lifted her chin just a little more proudly, mimicking a haughty pose she’d often seen when Glyn was in the presence of handsome men. Then quick as a cat springing, she ripped off the wimple. “I’ll not wear that binding—”

  “Ah, Morgana,” her mother sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “As you wish.”

  “I — I—” Glyn was still staring at Morgana. She cleared her throat, and Meredydd could not keep the corners of her mouth from twitching. “I must get dressed. Already it’s late, and I must not keep the baron waiting.”

  “Of course not,” Morgana agreed as her sister fussed about in the cupboard until she finally decided on her blue silk tunic and ermine-edged mantle.