The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) Read Free

arm – the arm of this dearest, most favourite son.
    ‘Horse thieves, Mother, if you ask me. They’re from the fair at Appleby I doubt not. I told George that he should lock his new yearlings up and not have them loose in the field, but of course George knows everything and I nothing. First rouse the servants for me, Mother, and George and I will hasten down before they escape with all the stock.’
    ‘Oh, Brent ...’ eyes full of love followed him. So gentle and gallant and like his father; so warm and passionate, such a good friend. If only Brent had been born first instead of George ... ‘Take care,’ she didn’t want to let him go, ‘they might have weapons.’
    ‘Mother, I’ll take care; that’s one thing I can do. Even George says that.’ And he kissed her lightly on the cheek, squeezed her arm and sped down the steps of the great majestic staircase that led into the long gallery. The moonlight was bright enough to show the way, though Brent could have found it blindfold in this beloved place. Every inch of Delamain Castle was dear and familiar to him.
    He strode through the kitchens, the cockroaches scurrying away from him on the stone floor, and let himself through an outhouse into the yard where he paused and listened, his nose sniffing the air for the scent of disturbance. Brent was a countryman and knew you could smell danger before you could see it. But no, the air told him nothing. Had it, after all, been merely shadows?
    Quickly he ran across the yard to the stables. Ah, yes. Here he did sense danger; he could hear the sounds of restlessness within, a few snorts and whinnies. But it would not be the thoroughbreds, the hunting mares, that the thieves would be after. It would be the young yearlings in the field, half-tamed, unshown, unknown.
    Brent listened for sounds from the castle that George and the servants had stirred; but there was nothing. He would have to act himself. He grasped a stout staff that stood against a shed and opened the door of the stall of his own stallion Marcus, who had brought him home only the week before. He made a gentle familiar noise so that Marcus should recognize him and not alert the thieves on this still night. There was no time for a bridle but Brent was an expert rider and, clasping the horse’s mane, sprung lightly on its back and gently urged it forward into the yard. He turned towards the field and, jumping over the gate, thundered across it.
    Then it was as though hell had erupted. Simultaneously from the house came cries and the sound of many feet, whereas from the edge of the forest shadows materialized into running people, and riderless horses tethered together or single were driven into the direction of the far gate which was open. The running figures sprang onto the horses and urged them at a gallop across the field.
    Pandemonium reigned. Some horses threatened to trip over the rest and the leader, who was near the gate, was cutting the riderless horses loose and urging the others to do the same.
    ‘Break loose! Break loose!’
    But already several were beyond the gate, having cut loose already. The released horses shot back towards Brent and he had to avoid cannoning into them himself.
    ‘Hurry!’ shouted Brent over his shoulder, but already he knew it to be too late and cursed when he saw the useless gaggle of servants rush into the field waving staves and sticks.
    A fierce hatred of the horse-thieves possessed Brent and he dug his heels into Marcus’s flanks. Although it was not his property they had been after, it was certainly not theirs.
    Now all the riders were away, and Brent after them, but the riderless horses still tethered together got in his way. He pulled Marcus to a halt, dismounted and tried to seize the rope that hung from the neck of the leader of a riderless group when suddenly a mounted figure swept up to him and tried to snatch the rein from his hand. Helpless as he was, and disadvantaged, being on the ground, Brent caught at the