By
Lisa Jackson
Published by Lisa Jackson
Visit Lisa Jackson’s official website at
www.lisajackson.com
for the latest news, book details, and other information
Copyright © Susan Crose, 1993
Cover by Extended Imagery
e-book formatting by Guido Henkel
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Prologue
Llanwynn, Wales
Spring 1286
“Help me, Lord.” Morgana of Wenlock held her chin high, facing the tempestuous wind that shrieked over Wales from the north. Cold and bitter, the sea’s breath battered her small body as she stood proudly, like a tiny soldier braced for battle in the tide pools. On other days laughter danced in her sea green eyes and a devilish smile played upon her lips, but not today, not when she sensed that the fates in all their fury had turned against her family and Tower Wenlock.
Today she reluctantly accepted her fate and prayed for a vision — a vision that would put her uneasy mind to rest.
There were those who doubted her, of course. Those who laughed. Aye, and she herself had denied the visions that had crept into her mind since she was a small girl. Why me? she’d asked, dutifully praying until her legs ached from kneeling on the cold stone floor of the chapel. O Lord, why me? God hadn’t answered, turning a deaf ear on her prayers. Finally, when she could pray no longer, she’d unwillingly accepted her grandmother’s declaration that her gift was God’s will. In Morgana’s opinion even God could make mistakes occasionally, and she would just have to accept her destiny. Still, she’d begged for God’s guidance and forgiveness for her blasphemy in questioning him — just in case her gift wasn’t an error on his part.
As she faced the fierce wind, bitter gusts whipped strands of her black hair in front of her eyes. Rain lashed at her cheeks and peppered the sea that swirled and eddied around her shivering legs.
Closing her eyes, Morgana drank in the smell of salt and brine, and touched the necklace of shells at her throat, closing her mind to the frigid water that threatened to congeal her blood and turn her toes to ice.
She waited, forcing back the cold, hoping that the voice would come, and quickly, praying it would speak to her as it had in the past. Last night she had been restless, unable to sleep, and always after such a night she was able to talk to the wind, to see through a window into the future.
“I am ready.” Her words were drowned by the thunder of the powerful ocean. “Tell me. What is to come?”
The voice was soft, rolling on the surf. There will be death. It comes to the House of Wenlock from the north.
Her heart began to pound, and she shivered violently. “When?” she asked bravely, not wanting to know.
Soon.
“Who brings it?”
You bring it upon yourselves.
Oh, God. “Tell me more — so that I can prepare,” she beseeched the voice, her fingers clenching anxiously in the folds of her tunic. “Please — who will cause this death?” she cried, her throat tight with fear as she strained to listen. But the voice of the wind disappeared, and the vision that was left was blurred — the image of a tall man, a warrior, on horseback. His crest was hidden, and his sword was raised high over his head as if he were about to slay an enemy.
That enemy was her family! She saw the unsuspecting faces of those she loved — her father, mother, sister, and brother — all naively trusting this foe who seemed a friend, who hailed from the north.
“Please, God, no.” Morgana trembled, her hand closing on the dagger at her waist. She would not accept death so easily, nor would she allow this horrid warrior on his giant black steed to take the lives of those she loved. She had God on her side, didn’t she? Were not her visions proof that he wanted to warn her? To prepare her so that she could defend her family?
In her mind’s eye she saw the warrior swing his sword downward, cleaving the air that surrounded the faces of her brother and sister. “No!” she cried. “You will not win!” She drew her dagger, holding it aloft. The terrible visage of the death warrior swam for a minute in her mind, then slowly rippled away. “Leave us be,” she ordered, hoping the formidable knight could hear her.
Knees as weak as Cook’s blood pudding, Morgana opened her eyes. The day had grown as dark as night. The storm from the north raged savagely, as if the devil warrior had truly heard her. Thunder rumbled across the high cliffs, and lightning scorched the sky, sending Tower Wenlock, mounted high on the ridge, into stark relief.
Wolf growled. He paced along the shoreline, his paws wet, his gold eyes like liquid fire as he stared at her. The thick gray and black hair on the back of his neck was raised, as if he, too, had seen the vision.
Morgana ran through the shallow water, splashing sand and foam upon the hem of her white tunic, and Wolf followed. She paused only to draw a three-fingered rune in the wet sand with a stick. As the sea lapped over her symbol of protection, she tossed the stick aside, knelt, and quickly whispered a prayer for safety.
Her horse, a dappled mare, snorted and pranced, neighing in terror.
“Shhh, Phantom. ’Tis but the wind … all is well,” Morgana lied, running to the skittish animal. She patted the horse’s sleek neck and fumbled with the sodden leather reins.
Finally the cursed knots unraveled. Morgana climbed onto a log and hopped lithely astride the mare’s wet back. “Ha!” she cried, bare heels digging into Phantom’s smooth sides.
Her game little mare whirled on her back legs, then broke into a gallop, hurtling along the water’s edge toward the path leading to Tower Wenlock. Wolf raced close behind, as he had from the day Morgana had found him abandoned in the forest near the castle.
Skirts bunched up, Morgana wound her fingers in the mare’s coarse mane as the little horse’s hooves pounded the wet sand and wind, streaming past, stung her eyes.
There will be death. It comes to the House of Wenlock from the north.
Morgana shivered, but not from the cold. Never before had she heard such an ominous message, but never before had Castle Wenlock been so weak. “It will not happen,” she vowed, thinking of her family. “There will be no death in the tower.” The danger from the north would be defeated.
Gray ears flattened against her head, hooves striking stones, the mare turned onto the path that wound up the cliff face.
Morgana leaned forward. “Do not fear, Phantom,” she urged the little horse. “We will warn them. And this time you and I and Wolf, we will thwart the fates!”
Chapter One
Castle Abergwynn, North Wales
May 1286
“As God is my witness, I’ll not stop until I find my boy!” Garrick, son of Maginnis and baron of all of Abergwynn, slid from his mud-splattered mount, his boots sinking into the wet earth of the inner bailey. His clothes were grimy, his hair unruly, his beard in need of cutting — evidence of days riding and searching and finding nothing. Nothing! Not one bloody trace of the boy or the nurse.
A scowl as dark as the thunderclouds gathering over the north tower creased his face, his harsh features ruthless and set. Tossing wet hair from his eyes, he swore a silent oath at the fates, or God, he didn’t care which.
His knights, brave souls who had ridden with him on his luckless quest, dismounted, avoiding him, leading their horses to the stable. Loyal men, they knew when to leave their lord to his dreadful moods. This was the foulest, blackest humor ever to have darkened his soul.
Only George,
an ungainly boy of barely fourteen summers, whose skin was pockmarked and reddened, dared speak, and this was only because, as Garrick’s vassal, he had no choice. “I will see to your steed, my lord,” he squeaked out, snatching the rain-swollen reins from Garrick’s gloved hand.
Barely hearing the boy, Garrick strode forward, shoulders hunched against the wind, but head unbowed. He would not be broken. He would not fail. As long as there was some trace of breath in his body, he would search for his son. For the first time in his life he didn’t care about his destrier, his castle, or his lands. All that mattered was Logan.
With a rattle of heavy chains, the portcullis clanged down, sealing off the castle, as if anything worth protecting remained inside. Garrick snorted at his own vanity. How prideful he’d been. How he’d found pleasure in the thick stone walls, the massive towers, the curtain wall wide and long enough to stand his entire army. God’s teeth, what a fool he’d been, thinking this castle, this miserable fortress, was so valuable!
Glaring up at the slate-dark heavens, he muttered a curse to a God who had not only taken his wife away from him three years past but had now stolen his boy as well.
As if in answer, lightning streaked the sky, a jagged sizzle that flashed white against the square northern tower. Thunder clapped mockingly over the land, as if God himself were laughing.
Garrick threw back his head, and rain drizzled down his neck and face, leaving cold droplets to run beneath his shirt. “I’ll find him. By all that is holy and that which is not, I’ll find my boy or die trying!”
Again thunder cracked.
Angrily Garrick stalked through the mud to the great hall at the far corner of the inner bailey. Castle Abergwynn was perched high on a cliff. On three sides the fortress stood atop sheer cliffs that fell a hundred feet to treacherous rocks and raging surf. Yet even the thick stone barricades hadn’t been protection enough to save his son from harm.
Walking briskly through the forebuilding he didn’t bother pausing at the chapel. Let Friar Francis stew in his own sanctimonious juices. Though Garrick heard the chaplain murmuring prayers, he wasn’t in the mood to face a man of God, and he’d prayed enough as it was. What good had it done? Had God seen fit to lead him to his son? No! His boots rang sharply against the stone steps as he climbed toward the great hall, his pride, his home, was now not much more than an empty, dark chamber with no laughter, no warmth, no quick little footsteps.
He strode to the hearth and warmed his hands, though the coldness would never leave his heart. Servants, accustomed to his black moods, made themselves scarce, finding work elsewhere. Smoke from the hearth curled lazily upward and out through the few recessed windows, leaving a layer of soot on the stone walls.
The dogs that had been with Garrick, as if sensing their master’s mood, slunk into the shadows, growling over a bone or scrap of meat that had fallen into the rushes. Garrick shouted at the hounds until they lay quietly in the corner, their ever-vigilant eyes turned toward him.
It had been ten days since he’d last seen Logan, his son, and although Garrick was lord of the manor, baron of Abergwynn, he was frightened that he would never lay eyes upon his boy again. Curse the souls of those who would steal his child! Blood would surely be spilled if any harm came to Logan.
Scurrying footsteps stirred the rushes covering the floor. Garrick didn’t bother looking up.
“You’re back, m’lord!” the plump woman servant, Habren, exclaimed. “Did you find…” But her voice trailed off when she noticed his grim expression. Quickly she crossed her ample bosom before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.
“Garrick!” Ware’s voice echoed off the heavy timbers supporting the high ceiling. Garrick’s head snapped up, and he narrowed his eyes against the smoke from the fire as his younger brother, his shoulders square, his blue eyes bright, his chin thrust forward defiantly, climbed down the curved staircase toward the great hall. A good-looking lad, Ware would soon be a man. His chest was thick, his pride great, though he had not yet seen his first battle.
“There’s been no word?” Garrick growled, knowing the answer before the question passed his lips.
“No.” Ware stood before him, his arrogance visible in the angle of his head.
“No ransom demands?”
“None.”
Garrick’s jaw hardened, and his eyes turned flinty gray. “The knights who guarded Logan. Have they told you nothing else?”
“Nothing, Garrick.” Ware’s eyes slid away from the power of his older brother’s gaze, and his skin seemed to lose some of its dark color.
Garrick’s mouth twisted downward. The boy had no stomach for lashings, and in truth, neither did Garrick. Yet sometimes he had no choice but to beat the truth from those whose loyalty was in doubt. “Did Strahan use every means of making them remember?”
Ware grimaced, as if he were holding on to the contents of his stomach at the memory. “Aye,” he whispered, his teeth clenched. “When it was over, they pledged their fealty yet again. They are loyal men, Garrick. You did them an injustice. ’Tis not their fault that Logan wandered off, perhaps over the cliffs—”
A massive hand clenched over the front of Ware’s tunic, and Garrick yanked hard, lifting his brother off his feet and forcing Ware to meet his gaze. “I blame no one by myself,” he muttered, “but I must know that my men were not a part of this treasonous plot to capture my son.”
Ware, true to his Maginnis spirit, lifted his chin and met Garrick’s gray eyes rebelliously. “Perhaps it was not treason. Mayhap the child ambled off, his nursemaid after him, and they both lost themselves in the forest. They could have drowned in the river or fallen from the cliffs into the sea—”
“Nay!” Garrick snarled, shaking his brother yet again. “No bodies have been found. I will not believe Logan to be dead. The boy did not wander off.” He dropped Ware to his feet and turned back to the fire, hoping the red-gold flames would stave off the cold that had seeped into his soul. “There is still much unrest here. Though Edward is king, there are those who would see him dead and spit on his grave. Since they cannot reach him, they test the very spirit of all those who are loyal to Longshanks. ’Tis not many winters since Llywelyn was killed, less time since the rebellion failed.” Garrick rubbed his chin. “Make no mistake, the rebellion is not yet over. It still simmers in the hearts of Welshmen.” His nostrils flared in anger. “Aye,” he muttered, “and those who were loyal to Llywelyn will stop at nothing to rid themselves of Edward. They would take the life of a child for their cause.”
“So you think the culprits be Welshmen?”
Wearily Garrick shook his head and clenched his fists as if closing his hands around the throat of one of Logan’s abductors. “If only I knew.”
Ware glanced at the fire. “What of the guards who were to watch Logan?”
“Banish them.”
“But—”
“Banish them, I say!” Garrick ordered savagely. “Let them know they are lucky to leave with their lives!”
“You’re making a mistake.”
The insolent pup. Garrick glowered at his younger brother. “I am baron of this castle. I shall do as I please.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Ware replied, mockery filling his voice as the door to the castle creaked open and footsteps rang on the stairs to the great hall. Garrick was in no mood for idle conversation. Strahan of Hazelwood, Garrick’s cousin and most trusted knight, entered.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with a nose that hooked and eyes as brown as the robes of an almsman, Strahan bore little resemblance to his cousins. One look at Garrick and he frowned. “You did not find Logan.”
Beneath his wet tunic, Garrick’s shoulders bunched. “No.”
“Perhaps now you will consider my suggestion.”
Garrick scowled darkly and ground his back teeth together. “You are speaking of that witch.”
“She is not a witch but a sorceress — one who talks to the wind,” Straha
n explained.
“Then she is daft.”
“She has found others who were lost,” Strahan argued. “Logan’s trail is no longer fresh. Even the dogs know not where to look.”
Garrick couldn’t argue the point. His jaw grew tight, and he threw an angry glare at the dogs lying restlessly in the shadows. Strahan spoke the truth. Logan and his nursemaid, Jocelyn, had been missing too long already. Each day that passed increased the chances that Garrick would never see his son again.
“Have you any other plan?” Strahan pressed.
Garrick shoved his wet hair from his face, leaving a streak of mud on his forehead. “I have sent spies to Castle Pennick and Castle Hawarth, whose barons once allied themselves with the rebellion. My men will mingle with the peasants and servants and learn what they can.” His nostrils flared. “If the barons have done my son harm,” he pledged, his deep voice ringing to the crossbeams overheard, “they will pay with their lives.”
“What if your men find nothing?” Strahan asked.
Garrick felt concerned, but he had no choice. As Strahan had pointed out, he would be soon out of options. “If Calvert and Trent return with naught, I shall seek out the witch.” The thought of a sorceress — a woman with a talent for magic and the black arts — bothered him. Though he was not deeply religious, he did not like going against God. Noticing Habren sweeping the rushes, he growled at her to bring him a cup of ale. When her eyebrows sprang upward in surprise, he barked still louder, and soon she returned with a silver cup for each of the men near the fire. Garrick drained his in a single swallow.
He considered what the chaplain might say if he did indeed go forth in quest of a witch, then decided he didn’t really give a bloody damn what the good man thought. Leave Friar Francis to his useless prayers. It was time for swords.
Calvert returned at nightfall. His face was white, and his shoulders slumped as he approached Lord Garrick, who was seated at the trestle table in the great hall. Kneeling before his baron, Calvert said, “I have failed, my lord.”