Let them think what they would, she decided as she rode and tried to keep her eyelids from drifting downward. Her muscles throbbed from lack of rest, her fingers were nearly useless on the reins. Above the odor of horses, dirt, and sweaty men, she smelled the sea-scent in the air, for though the road between Abergwynn and Wenlock wound through forest and valley, the rutted lane was never far from the ocean.
They rode through the forest and rolling meadows and on the third day passed through a small village, where shopkeepers and almsmen alike smiled and cheered as Garrick’s men guided their mounts along the narrow streets. The horses’ hooves rang on the cobblestones, and the smell of smoke and refuse drifted over the pervasive scent of horseflesh. Morgana lifted her chin, but caught more than one interested stare cast in her direction. It was not often a woman rode beside the baron, she realized, and she wondered how many of the townspeople thought she spent her hours dabbling in the black arts.
She noticed a cat slink down an alley, and a group of children who had been stalking the animal pulled up short to stand at the corner and gape, their attention now riveted to the procession. Several of the older boys laughed and pointed at Morgana, and one little girl drew back in horror at the sight of her.
So that was how it was going to be, Morgana thought sadly.
On the upper floors of the shops, shutters were thrown open, letting out the smell of roasting meat and the cries of babies as women and small children stared at Baron Garrick and his soldiers.
On the street, men laughed and clapped each other on the back. So Garrick, the beast of Abergwynn, was loved by those whom he guarded. The dirt-smudged faces of small boys and the toothless grins of stooped and crippled ancients attested to his popularity.
A scrawny boy, prodded by his peers at the corner near the bakery, broke apart from the group while his friends stood by and watched his thin body move through the crowd toward the soldiers. Several of the boys glanced up at Morgana, and their eyes shone with malevolence. No good would come of this, Morgana thought as the boy wove his way among the onlookers and ran into the street. Freckles were sprayed across his nose, his hair was lank and in need of washing, and his eyes were as blue as a summer lake.
“It’s the witch! She’s here!” he cried, pointing a grubby little finger at Morgana
.
Garrick pulled hard on his mount’s reins, and his horse stopped, forcing each soldier to rein in his horse until the entire company drew up short. Morgana wished she could sink beneath the cobblestones, but instead lifted her chin slightly. Phantom sidestepped, and a few other horses snorted, breaking the silence that the small boy’s proclamation had caused “I’m not a—”
“Witch! Witch! Drinks the blood of babes! Witch! Witch! Eats the eyes of knaves! Witch! Witch! Burns the skin of—”
“Tommy!” A thin woman wearing a dusty red kerchief over her hair raced through the shuffling throng. Her gaunt face was twisted in horror as she stretched her thin arms out toward her child. Scooping the boy up, she held him to her chest and stared up at Garrick with cold fear in her eyes. “I’m sorry, m’lord,” she whispered. Her lower lip trembled until she clamped it between her front teeth.
The town, boisterous only moments before, had become hushed. In the distance a chicken squawked, but the merry villagers were now sober, all eyes trained on Morgana. Tommy’s comrades quickly dispersed, breaking apart and running down separate paths lest they incur the baron’s wrath.
“Bring me the boy,” Garrick said, and the woman, shivering visibly, did as she was told.
“Do not punish him,” Morgana whispered, though her insides were twisted, her heart stone cold from the wretched chant he’d aimed at her. Nonetheless, he was just a boy, believing the terrible stories that no doubt had been grist for the gossip mill ever since Garrick had announced he would be riding to Wenlock. Gossip was known to breed within castle walls before racing along its cruel path to the villages and towns of the countryside. The boy, spurred on by his friends, was but repeating what he’d heard.
Behind Garrick, several soldiers coughed, as if to disguise the urge to laugh aloud, though Morgana found the situation far from humorous.
Garrick bent low on his horse and hauled the boy into the saddle with him. His features harsh, he studied the white-faced lad.
Tommy’s mother lifted her arms in quiet supplication. “M’lord, please. Show mercy.”
“Tommy, is it?” Garrick asked, his stern face softening slightly as he thought of his own son. This mud-splattered urchin with the unruly hair was not so unlike Logan. Garrick’s throat grew thick, and the swift justice he wanted to inflict on the boy melted.
“Aye, and it’s Tom I’m likin’ to be called,” the boy said with more than a trace of defiance.
Morgana sent up a quiet prayer for the child.
“Tom, then. This lady is Lady Morgana of Wenlock,” Garrick advised the boy.
“The witch,” Tommy replied, unintimidated by the lord who balanced him on the shoulders of his huge horse.
“Where did you hear that?”
Tommy shrugged his thin shoulders. “Ev’ybody says y’re out lookin’ for a witch to find your son.”
Tommy’s mother moaned softly. Morgana thought the woman might faint into the arms of the butcher who, wearing his blood-spattered apron, stood behind her.
“Do they, now?” Garrick’s jaw hardened, and his eyes narrowed on the boy. The silence in the town, interrupted only by the shuffling of the horses’ hooves and the occasional bark of a dog, was oppressive. Morgana wished she could do something. “Say they anything else?” Garrick asked.
“That she drinks blood when the moon is full and eats live rats, and if she touches you at midnight—” Tommy stopped suddenly, catching a swift look from his mother.
“Yes? What happens if she touches you at midnight?”
“Your throat will close and you’ll swallow yer own tongue.”