Page 2 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

T he cock crow woke Morwenna from a deep, untroubled sleep. She was laying on her pallet in the far corner of her wooden hut, beneath a shaft of golden sunlight which had filtered through the myriad gaps in the roof. Dazzled by light and unaccustomed warmth, she lay there blinking for a good minute, before reality took hold of her shoulders and gave her a firm shake.

She mustn’t lay here idly. She had far too much to do.

The cool morning air wrapped around her as she shrugged off her thin woollen blankets and pulled her aching limbs into a more upright position. Already, the demands of the day ahead were beginning to race through her mind. From the position of the sun, she could tell she had slept late. Mayhap too late. There was no time to lose.

Morwenna put a hand to her throbbing head as she lowered her bare feet to the earth floor. She had sat up overly long last night, counting out her remaining coin by the sputtering light of a single tallow candle and fretting about what was to come. That she had slept so well on the heels of so much upset, was nothing short of a miracle. It was as if her beloved grandmother had been here again, stroking her hair with a calloused hand and soothing her sorrows with wise, calming words.

All will be well, sweet Morwenna. You’ll see that I’m right.

That feeling of safety, of being cared for, was still somehow present in the draughty hut. Even though her grandmother had been dead for almost a year now.

It must have been a dream, Morwenna realised. In the depths of her distress, her troubled mind had conjured a vision of the person she missed most of all.

If her grandmother were here now, she’d tell Morwenna that there was nothing to be gained by fretting. Hot tears and regrets wouldn’t bring back her good name in the village. She could only look to hard work to answer her problems.

I’m not afraid of hard work, grandmother , she whispered silently.

Moving quickly against the morning chill, Morwenna crossed the cold floor to a small wooden chest upon which stood a roughly carved bowl. She splashed water onto her cheeks, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep, and then pulled on her cleanest kirtle. Starting from today, she had resolved to take no chances. She must make a good impression on the people of this village.

Left to her own devices, she would choose to leave her long blonde hair loose and flowing down her back. She liked to feel it move in the wind. But she also knew that a young woman of twenty summers should not appear so dishevelled– especially when rumours were already circulating. This morning she hastily combed it with her fingers and tied it into a long plait. Morwenna cared little for her appearance; but if she could have changed one thing, it would have been her height. How she longed to stand tall. Tall enough to tower over the sniggering folk of Escafeld. As it was, her short stature and slender frame lent her a girlish vulnerability.

It was hard to stand up to bullies when she had to crane her neck to look them in the eye.

She took a deep breath and lifted up the long wooden plank which had been effectively bolting her ramshackle door all through the night. As she shouldered open the door, she braced herself for a shock. Mayhap a poor dead bird, maybe runes drawn in the dirt outside, anything to ward off the evil eye of a witch.

For that was what her neighbours openly accused her of, now that her grandmother had passed on.

The irony was not lost on Morwenna, for if either one of them had the gift of sorcery, it had been her grandmother. And mayhap the villagers had suspected as much, for while her grandmother lived, their days had gone by peaceably enough. Esme’s healing salves had been highly sought after in times of sickness. People approached her with respect, tinged with just the faintest edge of fear. By contrast, Morwenna was an oddity who was viewed with far more suspicion: a girl who preferred the company of animals to people. She was treated with more derision than trepidation. Too different to be accepted, but not powerful enough to be feared.

But the only thing to greet her was a balmy warm breeze carrying the heady scent of honeysuckle and dried grass from the meadow. Morwenna clasped her hands together to hide their trembling and stepped out of the hut, carefully closing the door behind her. She must walk down the hill to the well and draw water before the villagers were up and about. Ever since the incident, she’d learned to accept their jeers and pointed fingers with a degree of dignity, but avoidance was better yet.

But a low wicker from the wattle-and-daub barn next to the hut made Morwenna pause. She turned to see two pricked brown ears and warm intelligent eyes looking at her from the half stable door.

“Good morning, Galahad,” she greeted the horse.

He whickered at her once again, no doubt wanting treats or to be allowed out of the confines of the barn to run free on the meadow.

“Soon,” she promised, crossing over to the barn and running a hand down the white blaze which carved a path through the centre of his intelligent face. “I promise, I’ll be back soon.” Galahad nudged at her pockets and she wished she had an apple for him. But her own fruit stores had near enough run dry. “Farmer Jerome is bringing supplies over for you today,” she whispered to the horse. “I told him I’d fix your nerves in return for the cost of your keep. No charge on this occasion. That’s because you’re such a lovely boy.”

It was only half true. Morwenna had always admired Farmer Jerome’s steady bay cob and she hated to see him so traumatised. A sennight before Lammas, louts from Berneshay, the village over the border, had come to Escafeld with pitchforks and knives, plundering homes and shops and setting half the village on fire. Poor Galahad had been hitched to a wooden cart carrying produce for Farmer Jerome to sell at market when the first raiders struck. The cart had also caught ablaze, and now the horse reared in horror whenever he was shown to a harness.

But the real reason Morwenna had promised to cure Galahad for no charge, was because she was desperate for the work. If Farmer Jerome, who was well respected in Escafeld, could put in a good word for her, then mayhap many of her problems would be over. No one would dare tell the wealthiest man in the village– a man who gave work to many and whose crops fed almost all– that he was consorting with a witch. The refrain, which was gaining such a foothold in certain circles, would start to die down.

Galahad’s arrival in her barn had been an unanticipated gift, for which she could never thank Farmer Jerome enough.

Galahad flicked his brown ears forwards, wanting her to stay.

“I’ll be back soon,” she whispered, giving his nose one last pat and turning to leave.

If only the Berneshay louts had passed the village of Escafeld by. If her former friends and neighbours had not lost their food stores, coin and other treasures, they would not be looking so hard for a scapegoat to blame for their troubles.

There were times when Morwenna even found herself wishing the Berneshay raiders had not spared her modest home. She would rather have lost what remained of her grandmother’s careful savings than become an object of suspicion.

Morwenna sniffed back her tears, dragging a chilled hand over her face and straightening her shoulders. What was done was done. And in truth, it was her own actions that had brought about this recent slander. Her own carelessness, anyway. She’d forgotten, for a crucial moment, about the need to always be vigilant. To always check that there was no one watching. Lessons her grandmother had taught her from the cradle. Protect our small secrets at all costs.

It was not a mistake she would make a second time.

Morwenna’s hut stood atop a high meadow which led down to the small village of Escafeld. She’d always enjoyed the peace and views, until these recent weeks when her solitude lent weight to the air of mistrust against her. Now she picked up her pail and set off down the winding rabbit path, trying to find solace in the soaring beauty of the blackbird’s morning song. The well stood on the edge of the gently sloping village green. Thankfully no one was about to see Morwenna fill her pail and she crept back up the hill like a common thief.

It wasn’t until she was all but home, that she realised something was wrong. The creak of the barn door gave it away, but the hairs on the back of Morwenna’s neck had begun to lift long before then. She carefully placed her pail of water by the front door and flattened herself to the wooden wall, peering around the corner. What she saw made her heart plummet.

“Farmer Jerome,” she gasped, walking forwards with her arms outstretched entreatingly. “Where are you taking him?”

Farmer Jerome was a bluff, middle-aged man, used to hard work and hearty meals. He had put a halter onto Galahad and was in the process of leading him out of the barn. He coughed into his hand and looked anywhere but at Morwenna as he answered her. “Home, I’m afraid, lass. I’ve no choice in the matter.”

Morwenna took a deep breath and tried to steady her voice. “I understand you need him to pull the cart. Otherwise you can’t take your produce to market.” She stepped forwards and patted Galahad’s shining neck. “But if he’s scared of the harness, you won’t get very far.”

“It isn’t that.” Farmer Jerome looked at her frankly. “I’ve always liked you, Morwenna. I knew your grandmother well. She was a wise woman.” He paused, noting the alarm in her eyes, and cleared his throat. “In the very best sense of the word,” he added, softly. “And you’ve always kept yourself very respectable.”

Morwenna felt a blush warming her cheeks. She knew where this was going. And she couldn’t bear it.

“Please don’t say you believe the rumours about me?” she forced out.

“Nay, not I.” Farmer Jerome looked thoroughly embarrassed. He switched Galahad’s halter rope from one hand to the other and shuffled his feet. “But folk around here are a superstitious lot. And my wife amongst them.” He cleared his throat. “She’s told me to fetch back the horse. I’m sorry, lass.”

Morwenna’s cheeks were stinging now. “But you must know I’m innocent?”

“I know that well enough,” he said with sincerity. “But folk won’t buy my crops if they think my horse has been bewitched.” He screwed up his face to show his dislike for the notion as Galahad gazed at the distant hills.

“I would never bewitch Galahad,” Morwenna said steadily. She put out a hand to the smooth stones of the barn, taking small comfort in their strength and solidity in a world seemingly gone mad.

He sighed heavily, making his nostrils flare. “Honestly, lass, if I were you, I’d look for work elsewhere. In time, the people of Escafeld will forget all about this. They’ll move onto something else…”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” interjected Morwenna.

Farmer Jerome held up a warning hand. “But you might starve afore then,” he said solemnly. He inclined his head to a shallow crate standing beside the barn. “I’ve brought you something to tide you over. And by way of an apology.” His mouth tightened into a grimace. “I’d hoped we could help each other. I’m sorry.” With a regretful shrug of his shoulders, he urged Galahad onwards and the two walked away from Morwenna, in the direction of his farm on the other side of the meadow. Galahad’s brown ears flicked back towards her, as if wondering why she wasn’t coming along. The horse’s steady affection unleashed something inside her and she leaned back against the barn wall until the surge of grief passed.

Her last hope of restoring her good name in Escafeld had gone.

Tears blinded her eyes as she remembered the unfortunate events that had brought her so low.

Just days after the Berneshay raids, two families in the village succumbed to a dreadful flux, with those taken sick dying within hours of one another. The gentle cobbler and his kind wife were the first to go, leaving a son, Gerrault, newly orphaned with naught but a pillaged business, a half-burned home and a lame donkey to his name.

Minnie was the donkey’s name. Gerrault had ridden her as a young boy and she’d become more a family pet than a beast of burden. At the end of a long, blustery day, Morwenna had come across a distraught Gerrault standing with Minnie in the centre of the village green. Minnie was laying down, four furry legs outstretched. Gerrault could not entreat her to stand.

“Is she dying?” he’d sobbingly asked Morwenna, who came to stand by his side. Tall and thin, he was almost a man, but not quite, and his boyish grief was the more affecting for it.

“Not dying,” she reassured him, putting a placatory hand on his elbow and carefully observing the donkey. Minnie didn’t appear injured or unwell, simply defeated. She didn’t so much as flinch as a strong wind lifted her tail off the ground.

“Can you help me?” Gerrault had begged, reddish hair hanging over his eyes. “Please, Miss Morwenna.”

“You don’t have to call me Miss Morwenna, Gerrault, not anymore. You’re the man of the house now,” Morwenna told him. The donkey’s eyes were rheumy with age. Her fetlocks were almost entirely white. “How old is Minnie?” she asked him.

Gerrault frowned as he worked it out. “Pa got her for me when I was a young’un. I’m near enough sixteen now, so Minnie can’t be far behind. Is that old for a donkey?” He swallowed hard. “She’s all I have left in this cursed place.”

Morwenna tightened her lips. The setting sun was casting long shadows over the green and the buffeting breeze brought goose bumps out onto her arms. She guessed Minnie had been several years old when the cobbler first brought her home. But donkeys usually lived long lives, and even an ageing donkey deserved better than to end her days slumped on the village green.

She positioned herself in front of the donkey’s head and squatted down next to her. Without thinking to check they were alone, she put her hands on either side of Minnie’s soft head and stilled her mind.

After no more than a minute, her face stretched into a smile. “Why, Gerrault, I do believe she’s thirsty.”

“Thirsty?” The boy looked thoroughly confused. “But her water trough is full. I check it every day.”

Morwenna slowly got to her feet, thinking hard. “When your parents first became sick, what water had they been drinking?”

“Water from our well at the south of the village,” Gerrault began. He stopped abruptly as understanding dawned. “Is the water over there poisoned somehow?”

“The water source is fouled. No one is using the well.” Alarmed, she glanced over at the boy to double check this was true, and he nodded his agreement.

“The apothecary told me to fetch water from here.” He nodded towards the main well, a few feet away from them.

“Good.” Morwenna heaved out a breath and drew her shawl closer around her shoulders. “Minnie’s water trough is most likely fed by the same fouled stream as the well. She’s a clever girl, Gerrault. She’s not been drinking it.”

“You mean, she might live?” His voice wobbled with hope.

Morwenna nodded. “But you mustn’t think this village is cursed, Gerrault. We’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s all. You more than most.”

His lips tightened and he looked away so she couldn’t see the tears shining in his eyes. “I know it ain’t the village,” he said, sniffing loudly. “But life ain’t got no joy in it without the people you love.”

His words struck a chord deep inside her. In his stumbling eloquence, Gerrault had hit upon a truth.

Life had held no joy for Morwenna since the passing of her grandmother.

“Well, there’s every chance you still have Minnie,” she said briskly.

He gazed at her with wide, grey eyes. “I should have guessed about the water,” he whispered. The boy looked in sore need of a good meal and Morwenna wished she had the means to offer him one.

“There’s no reason you should,” she said kindly.

But Gerrault was still wretched. “You worked it out so quickly.”

She threw him a smile. “Only because Minnie told me.”

He put a hand to his chest, over his ragged tunic, considering her words. As the seconds stretched on, Morwenna felt the first pinprick of worry, a harbinger of what was to come. But then Gerrault smiled back. “I’m that glad. You mean, I can fetch her water from here and she’ll be okay?”

“That’s what I think.” Morwenna nodded once, warm with relief. “Why don’t we give it a try?”

It had all happened as Morwenna foretold. The donkey perked up after Gerrault offered her careful drinks of clean water. She eventually walked gamely away, led by a highly relieved Gerrault, who shortly afterwards left the village in search of a brighter future elsewhere. Minnie was now in the capable hands of Farmer Jerome. Morwenna would have given the whole thing no further thought, were it not for the vicious rumours that began circulating shortly afterwards.

“Morwenna talks to animals. Morwenna’s a witch.”

She knew that young Gerrault wasn’t the source of such slander. He’d gifted her a new pair of boots as a thank you for her help with Minnie. No doubt using the last of his father’s wares to do so. The boots were a shade too small and pinched her toes, but Morwenna appreciated them nonetheless.

Nay, it must have been someone nearby who had witnessed the scene and heard Morwenna’s foolish proclamation. After all these years of care, to have spoken out so rashly about her inherited gifts was sheer idiocy. And now she was paying the price.

It wasn’t even true. She couldn’t talk to animals. But she could communicate with them, which was a whole different thing.

Horses were the easiest. And most horses she’d come across were a whole lot better at communicating than the feckless folk in Escafeld.

Angry now, Morwenna stooped down to pick up the crate left by Farmer Jerome. A crusty loaf wrapped in muslins sat beside a basket of apples and some cured ham. Gratitude washed away her ire, making her weak-kneed and tearful once again. What was she to do now?

Eat , she heard her grandmother’s voice speaking in her mind. No situation is ever resolved on an empty stomach.

With a hard lump forming in her throat, Morwenna shouldered her way back into the shack and placed Farmer Jerome’s offerings on her small wooden table. She walked back to close the door and, after a moment’s thought, replaced the heavy bar to ensure no one could enter without her say so.

How awful to live in fear and mistrust of those I’ve known all my life.

She tore off a hunk of bread and pushed it into her mouth. If only she was a witch! She would certainly feel less vulnerable, up here all alone. And mayhap she could cast some kind of spell to fix the roof and replenish her plundered supplies.

Morwenna shook her head at the fancy. She, more than anyone, knew that the Sight was not a gift to be wielded at will. Despite her grandmother’s meagre powers, the two of them had lived a modest life. They didn’t have much, but they never went hungry either. And they’d always had the security of a small stash of coin, hidden away for emergencies.

Emergencies like a leaking roof, which she couldn’t afford to repair since she had been obliged to dip into those same savings on a regular basis lately. The last of her grandmother’s salves had been sold. Without work, Morwenna faced a harsh winter ahead.

It was no good. Morwenna abandoned all efforts to eat and simply put her elbows on the table and sobbed. Salty tears stung her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.

Farmer Jerome had suggested she leave Escafeld. But she didn’t want to leave this hut; the only home she’d ever known, where precious memories of her grandmother were at their most vivid and sharp.

Besides, when all was said and done, she lacked the courage to make such a change. How could she have faith in her abilities to better her situation, when all she had done was worsen things since her grandmother’s death?

She put a hand over the white leather cuff which she always wore on her left wrist. The cuff was a relic from another time and place. A thing of elegance and beauty, despite its simplicity. Her grandmother had passed it to her, just days before her death. The pattern engraved into the leather had faded over time, but it was so familiar to Morwenna that her fingers could trace it without any prompting.

Morwenna was so lost in her grief that she didn’t hear the footsteps trampling to her door, nor the first rap against the wood. It wasn’t until the rap turned into a hammering that she raised her head and bit down on her lip in fear.

“Open up, in the name of the Earl of Wolvesley,” came the order, accompanied by more hammering.

Morwenna’s heart beat quicker. The Earl of Wolvesley had never once come to Escafeld, and neither had anyone representing him. She pushed herself up from the table on trembling legs and advanced to the door, where her nerves failed her. She paused for a moment and listened quietly, clinging onto a na?ve hope that whoever it was might simply go away.

“Open up, I say,” came the voice again. It was a man’s voice, deep and masterful. A voice accustomed to being obeyed.

Morwenna’s hands shook as she removed the bar from the door and reluctantly pulled it open. A uniformed guard stood on her threshold, wearing the dark green and gold colours of Wolvesley. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a gleaming sword at his hip.

Morwenna swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

The man looked her up and down, his expression giving nothing away. “Are you the woman called Morwenna?”

Her heart jumped inside her chest. “I am,” she whispered. There was no use denying it.

“Then you must come with us.” He stood back to allow her to pass and indicated a stately green and gold carriage waiting on the meadow. It was pulled by a pair of gleaming black horses, who pawed at the ground and snorted impatiently. Morwenna had never seen anything so grand.

She shook her head, fear burgeoning in her belly. “This is my home,” she whispered. “I have no wish to leave it.” Suddenly, the familiarity of Escafeld, despite her recent troubles, had never seemed more precious.

“By order of the earl,” the man added, in a tone that would brook no argument.

Morwenna’s legs all but failed her. She could think of only one reason why the Earl of Wolvesley would trouble himself with a poor woman from a humble village.

And it was a reason which struck terror into her very bones.

She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again for what could she say? The man had a sword. Heart beating wildly, she nodded once in assent and edged herself out of the door, keeping as far away from the guard as she could. He allowed her time to fasten the door, then marched her towards the waiting carriage.

Morwenna didn’t dare look right or left, fearful that she’d spy villagers come to bear witness to her shame. Mayhap the same villagers who had reported her to the earl for witchcraft? Once again, her legs buckled and the guard shot out a strong arm to save her from falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

“Thank you,” she managed, as he helped her up the carriage steps and closed the door firmly behind her.

At least she had been handled with courtesy.

Morwenna folded herself onto the narrow seat, hoping to blend in with the dark interior and hide from prying eyes. Of all things, she had never expected this.

Her neighbours had betrayed her in the worst possible way.

How would the earl deal with a woman accused of witchcraft?

Her grandmother had told her many stories about the Wolvesley witch hunts. Nay, not stories.

Warnings.

Because the punishment for witchcraft was burning .

Albeit, these were in the time of the old earl, when Esme had been a young woman.

Morwenna dug her nails into her palm, unable to think of a way this might possibly end well. At least he had asked for her in person, rather than sending his soldiers to dispatch her in her home. Mayhap that hinted at a fair-minded man, who might yet give her a fair trial?

But she was naught, and he was the wealthiest earl in the whole of England. They were creatures from different worlds. How could she expect him to believe her?

Nay, even to listen to me?

She knew nothing of the man himself. Wolvesley was but a fantasy to her. A mythical place of beauty and riches, where an all-powerful earl presided over all.

Morwenna’s stomach churned and she feared she may be sick as the carriage jolted down endless narrow lanes. The seat, after the first few minutes, became hard and uncomfortable, with tight springs all but protruding through the soft surface. The blinds at the windows were half closed and she dare not open them for fear she might see streets lined with hard-faced villagers, ready to throw eggs or worse at a woman such as she. Her back ached and her eyes stung with tears. More than once she eyed the door, wondering if she could force it open and make a bid for freedom. But the two black horses were travelling at a clip and she had no knowledge of the lay of the land in these parts. She might tumble hard and break a bone, only to be picked up by the guard soon afterwards.

The journey was interminable, but by the time she heard the driver give the order for the horses to slow, she had gained some semblance of composure. Her tears had dried and she sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap, pleased that she had donned her cleanest kirtle this morning. At least she would not be appearing before the Earl of Wolvesley in dirty rags.

The carriage rumbled to a halt and immediately the sounds of activity outside reached her ears. Scuffling footsteps, shouted commands, a horse whinnying in recognition of its stablemate. Her breath caught in her throat once more, and she regretted not taking her chances with a blind leap for freedom. Surely anything would be better than standing trial for witchcraft in the mighty castle of Wolvesley?

The carriage door was pulled unceremoniously open and Morwenna blinked in the sudden burst of dazzling sunlight. It took a few seconds for her eyes to become accustomed to the glare, and she shuffled back in alarm at the huge figure of a giant standing in the doorway.

The giant blinked in the gloom of the carriage, and she made out piercing blue eyes and a sweep of golden hair. Not a giant, a man. A man clad in the most sumptuous cloak she had ever seen.

“Well now,” he said, his voice rich and rolling. “I hear you can talk to horses?”