September 1066: the northern militia has been raised to
support the new English king against Norse invaders, leaving the Welsh borderlands
dangerously unprotected. Rhodri ap Hywel sweeps down the valley to reclaim by
force stolen lands, taking the Saxon Lady Dena as a battle hostage. But who is the more barbaric: a man who protects his people by the strength of his sword-arm, or Dena’s kinfolk who swear fealty to a canon of falsehoods and refuse to pay her ransom? Betrayed as worthless, can she place her trust, and her life, in the hands of a warrior-knight shielding dark secrets of his own?
~~
The door burst open and more men
appeared, some carrying heavy buckets, some pushing barrels. There was a good
deal of excited chatter, and the doleful Welshmen quickly began to change their
humour. Dena sank back against the wall with a sigh. The brewing-house must
have been plundered. Contemptuous Welshmen were bad enough; drunken Welshmen
would be unbearable.
A man came to Rhodri, spoke a few
unintelligible words, and left two rawhide mugs on the table.
‘I’m told there’s not a morsel of
food to be found,’ Rhodri said to her. ‘It’s shameful that Wybert does not think
highly of his lord’s niece.’
Dena risked a glance in his
direction, and found him grinning at her through bared teeth.
‘Ah! The lady is not dead! Sitting
so still with your head bowed, your face hidden beneath that square of cloth —
you look like a toadstool under a tree!’
Glowering at him, she did not rise
to the goad. The man was bored and wanted a plaything. She wouldn’t give him
the pleasure, or any excuse for more.
‘Your face looks pinched, my fair
Lady Dena. Does the sound of my voice fill you with such dread?’
My fair Lady Dena…? What was this a trail to?
‘I have no cloak. I feel the
cold,’ she replied.
‘Do you wish to sit closer to the
fire?’
Dena looked down the length of the
hall to the hearth where the majority of the Welshmen were taking their ease
amid the open casks.
‘I prefer to remain cold.’
Rhodri chuckled, more softly than
she’d expected.
‘If I were a true nobleman, I’d
give you the clothes off my back. But I’m not, am I? I am Welshman — a barbarian. That’s what you call us, isn’t it? That’s
what those prancing fools at Edward’s court called me— "our captive
barbarian".’
Dena looked up at him in surprise,
and he mocked her expression. ‘Are you shocked that such as I have sat with a
king of England?’
He pushed himself from his seat on the table and stood tall and proud so that
she might admire him. Dena drew her lips into a thin line at his conceit.
‘You’re not impressed?’ He sounded
truly astounded, and she realised that she’d been drawn into a game. And they
called Wybert wily, she reflected.
Turning her scornful gaze aside,
she hoped to end the contest of wills on a winning note, but he pounced on her,
trapping her between arms of flowing metal as he leaned his weight against the
wall. The more she tried to back into the logging, the more he lowered his face
to hers.
‘No? The whores of Edward’s court
liked the barbarian in me. They vied with each other to buy me with gifts.’ He
paused as he looked down at her, the taut muscles of his neck relaxing. ‘But
you aren’t such a woman. From you, a man would have to steal his kisses.’
He made the slightest of
movements, but enough to convince her of his intentions. Her chest heaving with
fear and anger, she turned her head and glared at him.
‘Do so, and I’ll scratch out your
eyes!’
He faltered, a temple braid
tracing an arc across her cheek. A smile crept across his face, one of genuine
pleasure rather than of teasing, and his dark eyes searched her face for… for
what, Dena didn’t know.
‘My cowering maid has a fire in
her belly. Envied will be the man who beds you,’ he tweaked an eyebrow.
‘Perhaps it will be me.’
She filled her lungs ready to
curse him to Hell, her colour rising with her fury, but her tongue was stayed
by the curious silence of their surroundings. She inclined her head to look
beneath his mailed arm, and to her distaste found every Welshman intent on the
proceedings. She groaned her shame, wishing the ground would open up and
swallow her. Rhodri played to his audience, bantering with them in his own
tongue and gaining uproarious laughter.
‘What did you say to them?’ Dena
demanded almost beneath her breath.
‘That the lady does not appreciate
my advances — more or less.’ But she could see by the sparkle in his eye and
the gestures of his men that the truth of it was far more than less.
Pushing his weight off the wall,
he turned to the table behind him and picked up the mugs to hand one to her.
‘Here, with no food, no cloak and
no fire, it is all the warmth you’ll feel this night.’ He drained his mug in
one draught, tilting his head like some coarse pedlar so that he might not miss
a drop. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he smacked his lips
appreciatively.
‘At least you Saxons know how to
make ale!’ He turned to the men, calling for more.
Although Dena thought hard for
some cutting reply, the image which flickered into her mind froze the breath in
her lungs. She could see them working in the brewing-house as clearly as if she
were standing again in the doorway — Wybert and Mildthryth. Gwylan had told her
that Edwulf had taken this hall by sending a diseased beggar among them.
Wybert, Edwulf’s steward, his second man, hadn’t been leading the people to
safety. He and Mildthryth had been in the brewing-house pounding herbs with
pestle and mortar. They’d been poisoning the ale. That was why Wybert was so
adamant about taking all the food: the poison would work faster on empty
stomachs.
Dena looked at the mug cradled in
her hands, into the ominously dark liquid within. She couldn’t drink it, she
couldn’t! But she had to, she knew she had to, or the Welshman would suspect
and Wybert’s plans would fail. Edwulf’s people, her people, would be caught in
the forest and murdered.
‘What’s wrong with your ale?’
At Rhodri’s question, she sprang
upright as though she’d been pierced by an arrow.
‘Nothing,’ she snapped back.
‘Then drink.’
‘I—’ Her voice quaked. With an
inner heave, she pulled her scattered wits together. ‘I have a weak stomach.
I’ve had it since birth. Ale makes me ill. I can drink only mead or clear
spring water.’
Rhodri threw back his head and
guffawed. Dena took heart and strengthened her jaw as though she were merely
rebuffing another of his gibes. He could laugh all he liked, as long as he believed
her.
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B003MNH4BA
iPad, Nook, Kobo, Sony: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/14120
Hostage
of the Heart is also available as an mp3 download from http://www.audiolark.com/books/hostage-of-the-heart/
Linda Acaster has
written short fiction across genres as disparate as Crime and Fantasy, Romance
and Horror. Ten have been collected into an instructional ebook “Reading A
Writer’s Mind: Exploring Short Fiction – First Thought to Finished Story”. As
well as Historical novels, she writes contemporary Fantasy with a strong
historical thread.
Catch up with Linda at
3 comments:
Great excerpt, Linda. I love your writing
Hope it does well for you!
Jen
Thank you Jenny and Jen. Good of you to drop by.
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