Soul Magic by Karen Whiddon

only know, but he seemed to accept it as truth. 
                  This time Geoffrey did cross himself.  Several of the men, though unable to hear what was said, saw and did the same.
                  Darrick took no heed of them.  He watched only Alanna.  Geoffrey’s stomach turned.
                  “Explain why else Morfran would take him if he is unaware that Caradoc is his?”
                  “Gorsedd.”  She spat the word.  “Gorsedd is from Rune, and he believes Caradoc to be the child of legend.”
                  “Gorsedd does not know that Morfran is not descended from the Tadhgs?”
                  “No.”  Her faze softened.  “He knows not Morfran’s blood, nor yours.  He has only heard that the father must be one of your line.”
                  Turning away, Darrick made a sound.  Well might he have uttered a curse, or made a war cry to vent his anger.  These things, any warrior, Geoffrey himself included, could easily understand.
                  “What is it?”  Alanna’s tone sounded worried. 
                  Darrick spun to face her.  “`Tis this.  Every time you speak of your child, of Caradoc, I picture Morfran’s hands on your porcelain skin.”  Spoken low-voiced so that the others could not hear, the words seemed wrung from him.  His face contorted in the throes of some unknown pain.
                  Geoffrey gasped and took a step forward.  “Darrick--”
                  Alanna held up her hand to stop him.  Then she nodded, as though she understood.
                  Fury mingling with concern, Geoffrey sought words to comfort his friend, but could find none.  He made a helpless gesture, wanting to interrupt the conversation, but Alanna spoke again. 
                  “Caradoc knows nothing of how he was conceived,” Alanna said. “He is much like any boy of nearly five summers.”
                  With a stoic look of resignation, Darrick nodded.  To Geoffrey’s relief, he appeared to have regained the iron control he was known for far and wide.
                  Still, Geoffrey himself could not understand the way she spoke of the child.  When she would have walked away, he touched Alanna’s shoulder to detain her.
                  “I listen for disappointment in your voice, but hear only affection,” he said.  “That you could love a child created in such violence astounds me.  I imagine most women would cast such an offspring away.” 
                  “I am not most women.”  She shot him a glare.  With her harsh words, she too had reverted to the woman Geoffrey knew and disliked.  She continued to glare at him as she asked her next question.  “Have you a horse I might use?”
                  Geoffrey glanced from her to Darrick and back again.    “She is unchaperoned,” he said finally, seizing on the excuse with desperation.  “She cannot ride with us,
    without some sort of companion.”
                  “We can get someone from the village.” Another man piped up.  “Assuming we can find a woman willing.”
                  “And one who could keep up with us.”  One of those chosen to go, Bart glowered at Geoffrey.  “You know well there is no one like that near here.”
                  Ever since Darrick’s father had been killed and Morfran had occupied Thorncliff, most of the farms and cottages in the fields nearby had been abandoned.  Geoffrey knew Darrick meant to find out whether this had been voluntary, or some punishment Morfran had meted out.  All that remained were the elderly or the infirm.
                  “A chaperone?”  Alanna sounded disbelieving.
                  With a stubborn glare, Geoffrey nodded.  “Aye.  Unless you want to be