Enchantress Page 7

  “Come, Nellwyn, help me with my hair,” Glyn ordered snappishly, and the maidservant was soon brushing Glyn’s hair into a soft golden braid.

  Morgana was tired of being held virtual prisoner in her own bedchamber, though she wasn’t in the mood for festivities. Not so Glyn, who, spying her reflection, begun humming and, when Meredydd wasn’t looking, added rouge to her cheeks. “’Twill be a grand celebration,” Glyn predicted. “Father sent word to several neighboring lords, and though they are lesser, they will share in the merriment.”

  “Is the baron in the mood for festivities?” Morgana asked, thinking of the fierce one and the sorry fact that he still held her dagger in possession.

  “He will be,” Glyn said merrily. “There will be musicians and minstrels, and I shall dance with him,” She continued talking rapidly, planning the evening ahead, and Morgana, thinking of her future, became more morose. She sat near the window as the sun set and saw the figure of a lone man walking the inner bailey walls. Garrick of Abergwynn, his visage as dark as the approaching night, stalked the courtyard; his mood did not invite company. Morgana could not imagine him dancing with Glyn or laughing at the antics of jesters or singing or partaking of bawdy stories.

  Would he, like so many lords before him, with too much wine in his belly, lie with a kitchen wench? Perhaps Tarren. She was pretty enough, with her sable hair and full lips, and she had been known to lift her skirts to visiting knights. Though Morgana’s mother did not approve of the wenches’ behavior when soldiers were about, there was naught she could do.

  Besides, the young maids were all too eager, which kept the randy soldiers who visited in fine spirits. The crop of bastards who were born each year were always treated well at Tower Wenlock. When they were old enough, they were given jobs within the castle walls so that they could earn their keep.

  Aye, Tarren or Nellwyn or any of the other women servants would likely lie with a baron of Garrick Maginnis’s wealth and power. ’Twould be an honor to share the bed of one who was master of Daffyd of Wenlock.

  It bothered Morgana a little to think of some woman lifting her skirts to him, but she closed her mind to those wayward thoughts. What cared she? He could lie with a hundred wenches and ’twould not matter. She saw his shadow pass on the stable walls. He turned suddenly to face her, his head tilted upward, his gaze locking with hers for an instant. Her heart kicked a bit, but she didn’t flinch, intent on proving she was not afraid of him or his power. Upon studying his features she half-heartedly agreed with Glyn: the man was handsome in a rugged manner. Even in the purple twilight, she saw the determination in his gaze, knew that he was here only because of his son.

  Aye, if he lay with a wench this night, it would be to forget the great melancholy that overcame him when he thought of his boy. She felt as if he had told her this, though she could hardly know his thoughts. But for one instant she felt as if she’d peered into the darkness of his soul.

  Unnerved when he didn’t swing his gaze away, Morgana, head aloft, moved from the window and ignored the fact that her heart drummed within her chest and her hands trembled slightly at the thought that soon she would be riding with Baron Maginnis on a long journey to Abergwynn.

  Garrick had no appetite, nor did he have any interest in the maids who cast him fond looks or in the music that swelled to the trusses of the great hall. Nay, he wanted only to leave Wenlock with Morgana and start the hunt for his son, though she had given him no reason to believe that she could help him.

  Yea, he’d seen her mumbling words to a stormy sky, scratching a circle in the sand, and stalking around burning candles in the darkness by the sea. God’s truth, he’d been captivated by her and her silly antics, watching as the wind tore at her hair and pressed her tunic to her supple figure. With the roar of the sea as an accompaniment, her chants had been somewhat bewitching.

  Worse yet, the ride to the camp and later to Wenlock, when he’d had to physically restrain her, had been difficult. Her small body though tense, had molded itself to his and the roundness of her buttocks had pressed firmly against his crotch, causing an unlikely swelling of his manhood.

  He’d hidden his reaction to her, and Morgana, frightened as she was, had not noticed. God’s teeth, what was wrong with him? He finished his wine with one swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A page, no more than eight, drew close and offered more spirits. Garrick grunted and motioned toward his cup. Obviously nervous, the lad was careful to spill nary a drop, though he did not look up when a murmur swept the room and all eyes turned toward the staircase where Morgana of Wenlock slowly descended.

  Her appearance gave pause even to Garrick, for this was not the slender girl with the wild hair and swift blade he’d found last night; nay, this female descending the steps was a woman, full grown and beautiful. Her skin was clear, her green eyes fringed by graceful lashes, her small chin thrust forward in defiance. Her black hair curled around her face, restrained only by a braid. Her gown flowed around her, but hugged her bosom, showing off the sculpted shape of her breasts.

  Again Garrick felt a stirring in his loins, and he crossed his legs. Fool! He heard a few of his men comment under their breath at her beauty, and more than one lustful glance was cast in her direction.

  She would be more trouble than she was worth. Garrick realized, though even he was dumbstruck at her loveliness. A journey with an army of randy soldiers was never easy, but with so comely a woman along, the going would be much worse. Men would quarrel, perhaps come to blows, and the maiden herself, too spirited for her own good, would not be easy to handle.

  Head aloft, she walked down the stairs while every eye in the great hall was trained on her.

  Daffyd, seated next to Garrick, frowned at his daughter’s approach. “Were she not so headstrong she would make some man a fine wife. She is beautiful, aye, and as smart as any woman should be. Quick with a dagger and bow, she is an excellent huntress and warrior.”

  “What needs she of a husband?” Garrick asked, and Daffyd snorted, watching as his firstborn left the great hall and walked toward the chapel where she was to meet with the chaplain and atone for yet another blasphemy against God. Would she were as pious as Glyn, Daffyd thought, as his second daughter strolled slowly down the staircase and entered the great hall. Though Glyn in her own way was headstrong, she, like most women, could be bent. But Morgana — God’s blood, the girl was a trial.

  Glyn curtsied to Lord Maginnis and took a seat on the bench next to him. She blushed prettily as the baron spoke to her, and Daffyd wondered if Maginnis would ask for her hand. He was in need of a wife to run his castle and bear him an heir. True, there was Maginnis’s son, Logan, who, if still alive, would be the rightful heir to Castle Abergwynn and all its fiefdoms, but the boy had been missing for a fortnight, and even with Morgana’s help, the chance of finding Logan alive was naught in Daffyd’s mind. So why should the baron not marry a fair maid like Glyn? Though not as striking as Morgana, Glyn was certainly beautiful, and at least she knew how to behave! Yea, she would make the baron a dutiful wife.

  For the first time since discovering that Morgana had defied him by stealing away from the castle walls, Daffyd of Wenlock smiled.

  “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.” Morgana knelt at the altar in the chapel, whispering prayers of atonement. The chaplain, a well-fed man with a ring of thick red hair surrounding a bald pate, was a stern believer in God. He clucked his tongue at her confession.

  “The Lord God will serve out his own punishment for you, Morgana,” he said, then rattled off her penance, leaving Morgana alone in the chapel, the tiny flames of candles flickering against the stone walls, to make her peace with God. Her head bowed, she closed her eyes, asking God to intercede so that she might not have to ride with the baron.

  “Any task you give me will be not too great,” she murmured, “but please deliver me from the devil from the north.”

  A quiet cough caused a cold finger of fear to s
teal up her spine. She licked her lips and caught a glimpse of black hair and a hawkish nose.

  “Devil?” he asked, when her prayer-cadence was silent. Maginnis slouched, with one shoulder propped against the door frame.

  “Speak ye not of the dark prince in the house of the Lord.”

  “’Twas you who spoke of Satan.”

  “I’ll not hear this blasphemy!” she hissed.

  “Ah, so now you speak like your sister, telling those around you of God’s will.”

  Morgana rose to her full height, yet still she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Candlelight was reflected in his gray eyes, but Morgana stood firm. “I know not how you act in the chapel at Abergwynn, but here we respect all that is God’s.”

  “By burning candles and chanting to spirits while wading in the sea?” he mocked, the amusement dying in his eyes.

  Morgana brushed past him, but he snagged her elbow, spinning her around. Her breath caught in her throat as she slammed against him. He pressed his face close to hers to study her as if she were some odd creature he’d never seen before. The smell of wine was on his breath, and his features were harsh. Panic swept through Morgana. “You’re a puzzlement,” he said lazily, “and, I suspect, quite treacherous. Were it not for Logan, I would have naught to do with you.”

  “Then leave me be.”

  “Unfortunately, it is done. Your father and I have come to an agreement, Morgana. All you must do is live up to your part of the bargain and you will be a wealthy woman, mistress of your own castle, wife to one of my best—”

  “No!” Morgana tried to wrench away from him. Oh, if she only had a dagger, she would risk God’s wrath and spill this knight’s blood in the chapel!

  “You have no choice, m’lady.”

  “You’re a beast!”

  “So some say.”

  “And a heathen!”

  His lips thinned dangerously, and the fingers around her upper arm were punishing.

  The man was pure poison! “How is it, Sir Garrick, that you have been knighted and have pledged your faith in God, yet you mock him? Did you not kneel before the altar and swear to defend God’s honor with your very life?”

  Garrick’s eyes glowed with an angry fire. “God has seen fit to take my wife’s life in giving me a son, only to wrest that son from me as well.”

  “It is his will.”

  He yanked on her arm and drew her to him, his lips curling in disgust. “Do not speak to me of God’s will. It is His will that I find my son and that you help me, witch,” he said, and she knew she’d pushed him too far, ignited a temper that was deadly. “So I care not if you are pious or pagan.” His breath, sweet with wine, filled the air. “Naught matters save Logan.”

  “What if I can’t help you?”

  “Oh, you will, for your father and I have struck a deal. You are to ride with me on the morrow and help me find my son. For this I have promised that you be wed and wed well.”

  Cold fear slid like ice through Morgana’s blood. She knew she should hold her traitorous tongue, but she could not. “Nay, I’ll not—”

  “Fear not, your future husband is my most honored knight and friend. He will serve you well, and you could do no better than my cousin.”

  A relative of this black devil’s? Never! She tried again to wrench away, and Garrick, as if sensing that he was about to lose control, released her arm. “Have you not already met Sir Strahan?”

  The name brought foggy but unwelcome memories into Morgana’s mind. “I think not. I know no one by—”

  “Strahan of the House of Hazelwood,” Garrick said impatiently. “He was here not two summers past.”

  Morgana’s fear crystallized, and her future, already bleak, grew all the darker at the memory of the man to whom her father had so casually betrothed her. “Nay,” she whispered, shaking her head and trying to draw away. “I will not.”

  “God’s teeth, Morgana. Most women would count themselves lucky to be his chosen, and he seems fond of you—” He stopped short, as if he had no reason to explain his decision. “Strahan’s better than most who would offer themselves to a woman who deals in magic.”

  “Then I’ll not marry.”

  “You would defy me?” Again his anger flared.

  “Aye, if you force me to marry against my will.”

  “Who says your will matters?”

  “I’ll not—”

  “You will marry Strahan,” Garrick growled, his face drawn taut. “As soon as you find my son.” As if he foresaw the protest rising in her throat, he clasped both hands around her arms and pressed his face next to hers. “And you will find my son, Morgana.”

  “If it’s God’s will—”

  “It’s my will, witch, and you will make it happen!” he whispered harshly, and again his eyes, in the shadowy chapel, were dark with despair and torment. For a fleeting second Morgana’s heart went out to a man who was so obviously wretched with grief. “Logan is not dead,” Garrick stated, forcing himself to believe that his boy was still alive, “and you will lead me to him or your vision will indeed come true. All that you love, all this” —he motioned broadly, and she realized that in his darkest desperation, he was dooming the entire castle— “will cease to belong to your family.”

  “You cannot…” But her voice trailed off, for this man could do as he pleased. Her throat closed in upon itself. “So it’s true. You are the danger from the north.”

  Garrick shook his head and drew his lips back against his teeth. “Aye,” he said in a deathly quiet voice that was barely audible in the cavernous chapel. “If Logan is not found alive, I swear to you on the blood of my child, I will be the death of all that is Tower Wenlock.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Would you like more wine?” Glyn asked with a giggle as she smiled up at Lord Garrick.

  Morgana’s stomach revolted. She barely tasted the eel pie and the pheasant and was all too aware of the baron seated so close to her at the table. Rather than risk her father’s ire for not eating, she carefully slid most of her meal to Wolf, who lay beneath her bench, eyeing each morsel hungrily.

  Beneath the sweep of dark lashes, she noticed her father talking and joking with Baron Maginnis, as if his daughter’s — aye, his very castle’s — fate mattered not to him.

  Marriage to Strahan of Hazelwood! Was her father so angry with her that he would marry her off to such a monster? She almost lost the contents of her stomach yet again. Not that Sir Strahan was not handsome — indeed, Glyn had said much about his dark good looks — but he was related to Maginnis, and Morgana believed Strahan’s soul to be as black as night.

  Maginnis’s threat hung over her.

  “Morgana, eat,” her father ordered, pointing with his knife at the platter of white curd and meat cooked in almonds. “’Tis your favorite.”

  “Aye, Father,” she said, not wishing to anger Daffyd any further. But the meat balled in her throat and she could barely swallow.

  Maginnis cast her a dark look when she set down her own knife and could eat no more. “The journey to Abergwynn is long, and you will need your strength.”

  She did not reply, nor did she partake of the celebration. Glyn laughed at the antics of the jesters and jugglers, and as the minstrels made their merry music she danced with more than one handsome knight. But Morgana returned to her chamber where Nellwyn, who claimed to have once been a servant to the king in London, was bustling about, packing tunics, mantles, wimples, and hose. “Aye, ‘ow lucky you are, m’lady,” Nellwyn prattled. “Such an adventure you’ll be ‘aving, and with the baron.” She sighed and looked dreamily out the window. “’E’s a handsome one, ‘e is, I’ll wager ‘e knows ‘ow to pleasure a woman, that one.”

  “Nellwyn!” Morgana snapped. “I care not what he does or whom he does it with.”

  “Ah, so ’tis true that you’re betrothed, and to the baron’s cousin, no less.”

  “So it seems,” Morgana
bit out, though the very idea settled like lead in her stomach. She would no more marry Strahan of Hazelwood that she would wed the fierce one himself. Nay, when she married, her bridegroom would be a man of her own choosing, and Sir Strahan, from what she had seen of him, would not a good husband and father make.

  She had spied him when she was barely fourteen. A band of Maginnis’s soldiers had rested at Tower Wenlock for the night. Strahan, the leader, had shown interest in her even then. He’d smiled at her during dinner, joked with her openly, and ignored Glyn’s attempts to turn his attention away from Morgana.

  Glyn, trying to undermine his interest in her older sister, had mentioned that Morgana was a sorceress and that she had spent hours talking to the wind. Sir Strahan at first had been amused. “Bewitch me, then, sorceress,” he’d said, catching her in the garden picking herbs that afternoon. The roses had been in bloom, adding fragrance to the air, and bees from the hives near the kitchen had buzzed within the bailey walls.

  “I’m not a sorceress,” Morgana told him.

  “’Tis said you talk to the wind and that the wind answers.”

  Curse Glyn for her wagging tongue! Morgana ignored the comment and bent back down, digging herbs with her knife, the blade gleaming in the hot sun. But Strahan lingered and seated himself on a garden bench beneath a mulberry tree. With one leg drawn up, he pretended to polish his sword with a cloth, though Morgana felt his gaze heavy upon her as he watched her work.

  “Some of your father’s knights claim you may be a witch.”

  “Do I look like a witch, Sir Strahan?” she asked, stopping her digging to stare him full in the face. A breeze came up, tugging her hair away from the wimple and blowing some black strands in front of her eyes. She saw it then, the desire that darkened Strahan’s gaze and curled the corners of his mouth.

  Wolf, lying in the shade of the mulberry, growled, showing black lips, but Strahan took no notice of the animal. He sheathed his sword, very slowly, his eyes never leaving Morgana’s as the blade slid silently into its scabbard. “Nay, you are a beautiful maid, perhaps the most beautiful in all of Wales.”