“Aye.” A feeling of impending doom settled over her shoulders.
“There was more to your vision and you chose to keep it secret. Now, tell me,” he demanded, his eyes narrowing as he grabbed her upper arms and drew her to her feet. The rage in his soul was mirrored in his eyes.
He clutched the scrap of silk in a death grip, as if in so doing he could conjure up his son. “This” —he held up he soiled fabric in his hands— “was first Clare’s. It is from a belt that Clare gave to Jocelyn because the girl fancied it. Clare had a fondness in her heart because Jocelyn was so good with Logan.” Garrick’s voice nearly broke and his anger disappeared as he thought of his son. He twisted the wet rag in his hands, and water dripped through his fingers. “What does this mean, witch?” he asked, his face taut with torment.
“I don’t know.”
“But you saw the vision. Can you not interpret it?”
She averted her eyes, wishing she could hold her tongue, yet knowing he deserved the truth. “ I saw this and more — the sword and triangle of death as I told you before.”
“For Logan?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I know no more than you.”
He gripped her so hard she thought she might faint. “Tell me, woman! I need the truth.”
Her heart ached that he would think so little of her. Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she said evenly, “I would tell you all, Garrick, if I knew more. I swear it. I would never, never trifle with a child’s life. As soon as I learn more of Logan, I’ll tell you.”
His eyes searched her face, as if expecting deception to show in the curve of her chin or the tilt of her head or within her steady gaze. “I swear to you, Morgana, by all the saints and God himself, if you do not tell me everything—”
“Lord Garrick! Over here!” Randolph called through the brush.
Garrick released her. Quickly he followed the sound of Randolph’s voice, moving upstream along the bank, holding back the branches for Morgana until they saw a small group of Garrick’s men clustered near the creek.
“What is it? Why are you all…” His voice drifted off as he looked at the stream. The blood drained from his face. Morgana followed his gaze and suppressed the urge to scream, for there, face down in the water, lay th
e bloated body of a woman. Her blond hair billowed around her, and her tunic, too, swayed with the current, though the body didn’t move; it had been wedged between the tangled roots of a willow tree.
“M’lord, I’m sorry,” Hunter said, but Garrick’s jaw tightened and he motioned to one of his men.
“Get her out of there.”
Randolph, his bony face twisted in disgust, dragged the woman from the stream and turned her face up.
Garrick grew rigid, and the men murmured sounds of dismay. Fulton, usually a clown, dropped to the ground and, kneeling, offered a prayer over the blond woman’s body.
“It’s Jocelyn?” Morgana guessed, and Garrick, grim-faced, nodded stiffly.
All the hope soaring in Garrick’s chest was suddenly hurled back to earth and dashed against cold, hard stones. He examined Jocelyn, and a terrible anguish filled him as he noticed the black-and-blue wounds on her back and legs and the scratches on her face. Though the water had washed her wounds, he guessed she’d been raped and beaten before she drowned — whether by her own hand or that of another, he could only speculate.
But there was no sign of Logan. Garrick’s heart was as black as the clouds that gathered steadily overhead. Where was his child? Was he safe? And who was the bastard who had done this treachery? He vowed to avenge Jocelyn’s murder — for what was done to her had either killed her or driven her to take her own life — and when he caught the beasts, he’d see to it that they suffered as she had. A quick death would be much too easy.
He ordered his men to bury Jocelyn, and then, leaving Morgana and two knights to make camp, he and a small band rode in ever-widening circles around the campground, looking for any sign of Logan or his captors.
Garrick rode alone. Astride his war-horse he mourned the woman who had raised his son as if Logan were her very own. He remembered Jocelyn’s easy laughter, her lighthearted spirit, the joy she received when Logan ran to her and buried his head in her skirts.
A pain, deep and raw, tormented his soul. His body ached from the inside out, and his mind was vivid with horrible scenes of the torture of the woman. And what of Logan? What horrible fate did the boy face? With a blinding pain he realized that he was but a man, a mortal, and his son’s safety was not in his hands. “Please, Lord, keep him safe,” he said over and over, chanting the words as a litany and knowing that only the power of God could protect his boy.
As the men continued their search, Garrick reined in his horse by a giant oak tree. He climbed from the saddle and bowed his head. Laying his sword on the ground in front of him, he knelt, and thus, unarmed and repentant, he whispered, “I’ve been prideful and stubborn, Lord, refusing to accept you and your mercy. Please be with Logan. I offer you my kingdom, my soul, and my life for the sake of my son. Please, God, hear my prayer. If anyone should suffer, it is I, not the boy. He is but a child.” Garrick felt the unfamiliar sting of tears, hot against the back of his eyes, thick in his throat. He sucked in a ragged breath and refused to cry, for there was still a godless streak of pride within him that would not allow him, even alone in the presence of the Almighty, to weep. “Please take Jocelyn’s soul and protect my boy.”
With that singular prayer, he stood, stared up at the darkening heavens, and finally mounted his steed. Jaw clamped tight, he jerked on the reins and urged his horse forward.
He searched until dusk and finally returned to camp. Morgana was by the fire, her face illuminated by the golden flames, and for the first time that day, he felt a whisper of joy. The woman was beautiful and headstrong and often at odds with him, but he was beginning to love her, and right now, as desperately as he needed God’s forgiveness, he needed her love. The comfort of her body would ease his, and though he knew it was a sin and that God was watching he couldn’t help but think of the wonder of lying with her, of melding his hard body to hers, of claiming her with a primitive force that would bind them forever.
He smiled bitterly as he handed the reins to Sir Randolph and gratefully took a cup of mead. It seemed that no matter how good his intentions, he was destined to sin.
Chapter Nineteen