“At Abergwynn.” Springan’s smile was meant to be friendly, but she let her eyelids fall to hide her true expression. “I thought you knew. ’Tis your mother’s gift to you.”
“Do you want to go with me to Abergwynn?” Morgana asked.
“Aye.”
“But what of Lind? Is he not too young to make the journey with soldiers?” Morgana asked, surprised that the young mother would leave her son and the comfort of Tower Wenlock to risk the unknown at Abergwynn. Here her boy would be accepted as part of the household, but at the castle of Maginnis …?
“Lind will follow later,” Springan replied without much concern. “When we are settled at the castle.” She reached down and picked the boy up, resting him on one rounded hip.
“Aye, and I’ll be takin’ care of the lad until he leaves for Abergwynn,” Tarren piped up as the eel began to sizzle over the fire.
“Well, see that you sweep the rushes here and clean this place before ye leave,” Cook ordered Springan, shaking her head as she began gutting chickens. Springan managed a cold smile and took her boy outside.
A premonition of dread trickled Morgana’s scalp. Springan, though loyal, was known for her temper and stubborn streak. She had been in several fights with the other maids. Her being at Abergwynn could only spell trouble.
There was no time for long good-byes. As Morgana rode through the gates of Tower Wenlock, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the members of her family clustered near the steps of the great hall. Her chin wobbled slightly, but she waved and straightened in the uncomfortable saddle. Wolf, who had not left her side ever since the soldiers arrived, had been forbidden to go with her. Her father and the baron were adamant; she was allowed her horse, her clothes, some jewelry, and the servant girl, Springan. All else remained at Wenlock.
Morgana held no illusions as to Springan’s intentions. She left her babe with the cook and, under the guise of servitude, lowered her lashes around her lady. But Morgana had caught the gleam of hatred in Springan’s eyes when her father announced that she was to wed Sir Strahan.
Springan, on an aging brown hack, rode at the rear of the company near a cart carrying the supplies, and Morgana ignored the murderous looks she felt cast her way by the girl. Springan wasn’t Morgana’s only enemy. Many in this company of men would just as soon see her dead as have to deal with her. The sentry she had once duped, Sir Henry, oft sent her glares full of pure hatred, and the other men, though somewhat fearful of her powers, were either lusty individuals whose looks indicated they’d like to lie with her, or skeptics who snorted at the thought of this fool’s journey to fetch a witch for Sir Strahan’s bride.
Morgana had heard the whispers, knew that though the men feared and loved their leader, some thought he’d lost his mind when he lost his son.
Wolf, who had been leashed near the stables, sent up a baleful howl as Morgana disappeared from his sight and the portcullis clanged down behind the company. Her throat closed as she thought about never returning to Tower Wenlock, never seeing her grandmother again, never running in the surf with Wolf playfully barking and splashing with her.
Wolf howled shrilly again, and Morgana’s very soul seemed to tear.
“Christ’s blood! What was that?” one skinny young soldier asked as he whipped his head around.
“The witch’s cur,” was the short reply, given by a soldier whose teeth had all but rotted away.
“But it sounded—”
“Aye, like a cry from a soul who’s been damned.”
The thin soldier crossed himself quickly and licked his lips. “I only hope Sir Garrick knows what he’s doing.”
“Has he not been good to you?”
“Aye, but the witch, she threatened to curse Sir William’s manhood.”
The black-toothed one laughed. “I’d say she failed, for I saw William with the cook’s maidservant only last night. From the sounds of pleasure coming from the wench, I doubt the curse took.”
“But to have her here with us, with Lord Garrick—”
“Shut your mouth and ride. ’Tis not for you to question,” the older man said sharply.
Morgana, overhearing the conversation, held her head high and, taking advantage of the situation, lifted one crafty dark brow and chanted some meaningless words under her breath.
The skinny soldier jumped, and his horse responded by attempting to bolt.
Phantom, in the company of unfamiliar horses, sidestepped and snorted, tossing her mane and tail as Morgana tried to keep pace with the double file of soldiers on sturdier mounts. They traveled along the road and through the woods, the very same path on which Lord Garrick had forced her to ride with him only two nights before. In the name of Mary, had it been but two days since the course of her life had changed and she’d been forced to ride with the savage one?
The forest that surrounded Tower Wenlock was thick and lush, filled with game. Morgana had once loved this thicket of trees with all her heart, and the wildflowers and warm earth had always brought her joy. But now the woods seemed gloomy and dark. Fog from the sea still rolled among the black trunks, and even the new foliage, dripping with morning dew, seemed darker than the usual green of spring.
Morgana watched Lord Garrick, riding at the front of the company. He sat tall in the saddle, and because of his height combined with the size of his destrier, he towered a full head above most of his men. He rode bareheaded, his black hair damp from the mist, his lips pressed into a line of steel. She wondered if he ever laughed, but doubted he found much merriment in life, especially since the disappearance of his child.
The road curved, and the horses plodded through the mud. One stallion, ridden by Sir Randolph, sidestepped close to Morgana. Phantom lifted her head, her nostrils extended, and, snorting, gathered herself as if to bolt. “Not now!” Morgana whispered. In truth, she too wanted to flee this harsh band of soldiers, but the time was not ripe. She could not leave until she’d tried to find the baron’s boy, but as soon as the lad was discovered, alive or dead, Morgana would escape and flee far to the south.