“Aye. And that is why I want you for my wife. Because you are different, Morgana of Wenlock.” Sheathing his blade deliberately, he turned to look her full in the face. “You have nothing to fear, little one. I will see to all your wants as well as your needs.” He touched her lightly on the arm, and she tensed, forcing herself not to recoil from him.
“I do not want to be wed,” she said flatly, though over the noise of the minstrels’ songs, clattering tableware, and conversation, no one but Strahan heard her.
The ghost of annoyance crossed his handsome features, but he quickly locked the phantom away. “You will be happy, Morgana. I will see to it.”
Morgana started to argue, but the murderous look he sent her caused her heart to freeze, and she forced her traitorous tongue to be still. She had no idea why Strahan wanted her to be his wife, she had not a large dowry, nor would she make a great lady. Yea, she could learn the art of running a household, but she knew that her skills were more suited to becoming a knight or a huntsman — hardly qualities a man would want for a bride.
Or a spy, she thought dismally as she remembered her escape from Tower Wenlock and her father’s punishment. But Strahan would have no use for a traitor — or would he? She swallowed a thick chunk of pheasant and nearly choked.
To avoid the worrisome turn of her thoughts, she tried to listen to the songs and watch the jugglers and acrobats as they performed, but the knowledge that Strahan was there, so close, nearly touching her, caused her to be anxious.
Once, while trying to force the food past her lips, Morgana looked up and caught Springan peeking through the curtain. The maidservant’s face was pasty white, her eyes nearly black with ire as she glared at Strahan and Morgana. Then, upon meeting Morgana’s gaze, her expression again became pleasant and she quickly disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Morgana to wonder if she had imagined the hatred glowing in the servant girl’s eyes.
Somehow, while the musicians and poets entertained, Morgana managed to pick her way through the meal and reply when spoken to. The festivities continued, but she was able, by pleading excessive weariness, to break away from Strahan and make her way back to her chamber. She nearly ran from the hall, aware that not only Strahan but also Garrick and his blasted family were watching her slip away from the loud room.
The rest of the household was still making merry, celebrating their lord’s safe return. Music and laughter and a few bawdy jokes trailed after her as she climbed the staircase. Morgana could stand the confines of this rich man’s castle no more. In her room she bolted her door, then tore off her fancy clothes, her mind coming up with a hundred ways of escape — all of them impossible. “Curse Abergwynn,” she muttered between her teeth as she dug through the wardrobe for her favorite black tunic and gratefully slipped it over her head.
Sheathing her dagger she waited, pacing the bedchamber anxiously until, as the hours passed and the moon rose higher in the sky, the noise from the great hall dwindled. She heard the footsteps pass by her door and imagined that they hesitated, but fortunately no one knocked or disturbed her. For that, at least, she was thankful. Eventually the castle was silent, and she assumed most of the guests and servants had at last fallen asleep.
Good. She could stand the confinement no longer. Hardly daring to breathe, she took Logan’s tiny tunic and opened her chamber door. Well-oiled hinges hardly let out a creak as she slipped through the openings and closed the oaken door behind her. Holding her breath, she crept along the corridor close to the shadowy walls, out of the glow of the rush lights and candles, and made her way down the steps and through the door to the inner bailey. She felt guilty about unlocking the door, but told herself she would be out for only a few minutes — long enough to breathe in the sea air, which would help her fight the feelings that she was to be held captive the rest of her life.
Outside, the moon was a fat crescent in the ink black night. Clouds drifted across the sky, obscuring the few stars that dared wink in the heavens. A breeze blew over the castle walls, smelling faintly of the brine of the sea as it played through the vines and fruit trees near the kitchen. Morgana moved quietly, not wanting to wake the dogs and horses that were kept in the outer bailey or disturb the sentries positioned on the thick walls of the castle.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled, and Morgana thought of the friend she’d left at Wenlock. Her heart ached to think that he was chained near the stables, tethered and never allowed to run free. Just like me, she thought, her skin prickling a bit as the wolf cried again.
Not far from the armory, a fishpond reflected a silver swath of moonlight as the breeze danced across the shimmering surface, sending ripples through the water. Morgana knelt on the bank of the pond, closing her eyes and feeling the sigh of the wind against her face.
She heard the gentle lap of the water, the flap of the wings of a night bird stalking prey, and far in the distance, again the muted cry of a wolf.
“Help me, Lord,” she prayed as she touched the neckline of Logan’s tunic. “Help me find the boy, Logan. Guide me to him and keep him safe,” she whispered into the breath of the wind, listening for the voice. “Please talk to me … let me know how to find Garrick’s son…”
Garrick stood in the shadow of the scullery, hidden by an empty cart, watching as the witch knelt, holding Logan’s tunic in her hands. He’d followed her down the stairs and into the moonlight, silently observing her as she fell to her knees by the pond, her black hair blowing free, her face turned toward the moon. Soft words caused her lips to move, and she closed her eyes, calling up some magic — or praying to a heathen god. Her fingers twisted in the folds of Logan’s tunic, and Garrick stayed in the shadows, his heart beating an unfamiliar rhythm as he observed her ritual.
He heard no chants. He saw no sacrifice. No blood was spilled, nor were any candles lit. Perhaps she talked to the w
ind, but she spoke as if in prayer. Indeed, had he stumbled upon her and known her not, he would have thought she was kneeling to worship.
From the distant hills he heard the cry of a wolf, and the hairs on the nape of his neck lifted one by one. One hound in the outer bailey offered a quick reply, but the wolf was silent, and aside from the creak of a bucket as it swung in the well and the incessant pounding of the sea against sand a hundred feet below, the night was quiet.
Morgana placed one hand in the water and moved it from side to side as if she could see into the pond’s clear depths. Then she slowly rose and, with a hasty glance over her shoulder, hurried along the thick stone walls of the inner bailey and past the blacksmith’s hut. From his position near the cart, Garrick watched her open the door of the stables and hurry inside. He looked up at the gatehouse where two sentries were posted, but neither they nor any of the other guards had noticed a mere slip of a girl moving about the castle as if she had every right to steal through the keep.
As he followed her, he thought of her foolishness at Tower Wenlock, the home she loved so dearly, and how easily she had escaped the fortress’s walls, letting down Wenlock’s defenses for the sake of a spell.
Here at Abergwynn, where she felt no such loyalty, she might prove dangerous to the entire castle’s safety. Garrick had considered posting a guard at her door, but he’d decided to treat her like a guest, not a prisoner. And in truth, he’d been mystified by her, wanting to see for himself how she would go about practicing the black arts. Aye, she was unlike any other woman he’d met, and yet he was unconvinced that she was possessed of magic and spells and power.
The stable door was still open a crack, and he slipped inside. The smell of horse dung and dust, dry straw and leather, sweat and urine, mingled in the air. A horse snorted and pawed against its tether as Garrick passed. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The sound of Morgana’s voice, soft as the murmur of leaves turning in the wind, floated toward him.
“You see, Phantom, I’ve not forgotten you,” she whispered, rubbing the mare’s neck fondly and burying her face in the horse’s coarse mane. The little mare nipped at her hand, and Morgana laughed quietly. “Ahh, you know me so well, don’t you? Well, here you go, taken right from the lord’s table, stolen from right beneath his nose, mind you.” She offered Phantom a bit of apple she’d hidden in her sleeve, and the mare’s soft lips swept the tasty prize from her palm.
“So now you’re a thief as well as a witch.” Garrick’s voice resonated in the darkness. Morgana nearly leapt from her own skin, and several horses snorted and neighed, tossing their heads and rolling eyes that suddenly showed white.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady while she stared into the darkness. The only light in the long building came from small, high windows that had not been shuttered and allowed fresh air and moonlight into the dusky interior. Still, she could not see his face or even his form, though from the sound of his voice she knew he was close.
“’Tis I who should be asking you why you are in the stables so late.”
“I could not sleep.”
“Neither could I.”