I love to incorporate flowers into my romances. One of my favourite scenes is from "Flavia's Secret", where Flavia discovers that Marcus has left her a bouquet and other gifts:
Marcus
had returned.
Flavia
said aloud, ‘Marcus is home,’ and felt an overwhelming fountain of delight
building within her—even a sleeping potion could not suppress that. She leapt
from her bed, her drugged limbs tottering slightly, her head swimming, and saw
a small posy of winter flowers lying on her pillow.
Suddenly,
her legs would not hold her up anymore. Flavia flopped back onto the bed and
reached with trembling fingers for the posy. The flowers blurred before her eyes
and she almost cursed Pina for that sly sleeping draught, but the instant she
felt it, her anger melted away into renewed joy. Marcus was safe, home again,
bringing others safely home and bringing her flowers.
No
one, no man, woman or child had ever brought her flowers before.
She
lifted the posy. Beneath it were three slender bracelets, which Marcus must
have bought on the way out of the city that morning, bought and given to her:
her first jewellery.
Hardly
daring to believe that any of these gifts were real, Flavia softly gathered
them up and walked quietly to the chamber door. Stealing out into the corridor,
she came to a window and opened the shutter a crack.
The
thin bracelets were of copper, very highly polished. Savouring the feel of the
cool metal against her skin, Flavia slipped them onto her wrist. She shook her
arm and smiled as she heard the bracelets clash gently together, like a tiny
sistrum.
I also explore the more exotic flowers that came into use in Britain with the Roman invasion, including one of my personal delights, the peony. This excerpt is taken from "Flavia's Secret" where Flavia takes Marcus to a secret place within the Roman city of Bath:
‘It
has hardly changed,’ she murmured. As if from far off, she caught a faint whiff
of incense wafting from the altars close to the spring shrine to Aesculapius.
Listening, she could hear nothing of the city outside the high boundary walls,
only her own breathing and the creak of the bare-branched oak tree. A raven was
perched in its branches, preening itself. She and Marcus were standing away
from the shade of the empty house, in a clear patch of warm flagstones where
the bushes had not yet encroached. The sun was warm on her skin and Marcus’
hand around hers warmer still.
‘After
the old slave showed me this place, I returned only once.’ Still haunted by the
remembrance, Flavia chewed on her lower lip. ‘It must have been two or three
years later; I know I had been a while in Lady Valeria’s service and learned
that she was as kind as she was formidable.’
‘She
was,’ Marcus agreed, squeezing her fingers.
‘Lady
Valeria had sent me to buy some new sweet wine. She loved wine.’ Flavia’s
gentle smile faded. ‘Before I reached the wine shop, I was chased in the
streets by two youths. Two well-fleshed sons of centurions, in rich black and
red tunics. They pointed at my hair and said something about blonde hair in
other places and yelled, ‘Let’s get her!’ I thought they were going to kill me.
It was only when I was older that I realized what they were after.’
Aware
of the stiffened figure beside her, Flavia suppressed a shudder. ‘No one
stopped them,’ she went on. ‘A few by-standers cheered: it was a good joke. Two
hearty boys having sport with a little slave girl—no one saw the harm. I was
running between stalls, trying to lose them, trying to keep in mind which
streets were dead-ends. I was terrified that someone would grab me and hold me
for them.
‘I
ran along the street passed the healing spring of Aesculapius—I thought that
perhaps among the worshippers I would be safe. And then it was as if I
remembered for the first time in an age; as if the memory came just as I could run
no more.
‘I
thought: the deserted villa, and set out for it. I knew where to go, as if my
feet remembered. I climbed over the wall as if I had wings on my back helping
me. I heard the two youths go blundering past in the street and I laughed,
because I knew I was safe. I had remembered the place in time.’
Flavia
pointed to a bare patch of earth close to one end of the rectangular pool. ‘It
was early summer, and there were peonies growing and flowering there. I had
never seen such vibrant, opulent flowers before—they don’t grow naturally here.
I didn't even know what they were called until I saw a drawing of one, years
later, on a medical papyrus scroll my lady had me read.’
‘The
scent of those blood-red flowers made me drowsy.’ Releasing Marcus’ hand,
Flavia walked to the patch of bare earth, sat down on her heels and trickled a
handful of dirt through her fingers. ‘I stretched out by the pool and slept.
Then I bathed in the waters. I felt as if I was washing those chasing youths
off me; I felt cleansed.
‘I
was very late, returning with the wine, but my lady never scolded. After that,
I started to dress in cook’s cast-offs, which were baggy.’
‘Shapeless,’
Marcus said.
Flavia
nodded, trickling another fistful of dry soil through her hand. Her fingers and
palms were healing quickly: she felt no pain at all. ‘Isn’t it strange, though,
how I forgot this place for so long and then thought of it in that way, exactly
when I needed a safe haven.’
Prickly flowers such as teasels and thistles can also play a part in romance, as seen in this scene from my "A Knight's Enchantment," and the byplay between Hugh and Joanna:
He hugged her again—any excuse—and reluctantly spurred
Lucifer on. The village lad had been pale and in a hurry, even refusing a bite
to eat in the kitchen in his haste to return to tell the elders of Manhill-de-Couchy
that help was coming.
And if it was what he suspected, he would need his wits
about him, not be distracted by Joanna's warmth, the scent of her hair, the
dazzling rush of inner light and weightlessness that exploded in him each time
her thighs brushed slightly against his. He tried to gather himself.
She is your lady and you are her knight. Treat her with
all courtesy.
He asked after her health. Was she warmth enough? Too hot?
Would she like a drink of mead from his flask? Did she have any questions for
him? Would she like him to do anything for her?
"Tell me the local name of that flower," she
answered, swinging about and fixing him with a steady look, as if she knew very
well what he was about.
He stared at the thistle she was pointing at, growing out
of a cart-rut like a spear from a fallen warrior, and gave a grunt of laughter.
"Shall I pick it for you, my lady?"
"Only if you wear a glove."
"When are you going to stop mentioning gloves?"
She shrugged. "When I am free."
This territory was too dark. Hugh whistled to Beowulf and
Lucifer and cantered on, giving the horse his head as they drove through a mess
of oak and lime saplings growing as weeds in the middle of the track. He heard
Joanna coughing at the raised dust and checked Lucifer, standing up on his
stirrups to check where on the winding. sunken road they were.
To me, cowslips and primroses are the perfect springtime flower. I can't resist mentioning them in my stories, such as in "Bronze Lightning", where the heroine Sarmatia undergoes a ritual trial.
Sarmatia watched on the Sacred Hill. She saw Laerimmer's
falcon, now set free, and started up, but the peregrine flew straight overhead.
Her call was for her mate. Sarmatia settled again, narrowing her eyes up and
down the smooth curves of the hill. Presently she saw the gleam and moved
towards it.
The light was constant. It ran before Sarmatia as she
scrambled onto the head of the hill. She climbed amongst cowslips, seeking gold
in gold, and came upon a spring. Beside its clear waters was a goblet. A golden
light flashed from the goblet rim as Sarmatia stretched out her hand.
The wine she drank was sweet, full-bodied. It warmed
her and piled swathes of cowslips one on another, so that she walked in a
golden cloud. Wrapped in light, Sarmatia plucked the flower stems of cowslip
and wove them into a wreath for her head. She found a plate of gold and three
narrow leaves of vervain, the plant of magic and divination, laid upon it. The
scentless, tender leaves were swiftly swallowed.
The vervain seemed to have no effect on her. She saw
the stranger beckon even without magic. Her feet were not winged, no fleeter,
as she picked a way down the hill. She came within an arm's length of the man,
who spoke without turning. 'What? Is a fisherman too poor for you now?'
Sarmatia sprang forward and was gathered into the firm
arms she had never forgotten. With her head against his thick black hair, she
smelt salt and harshness and felt living warmth. 'You're not dead!' she cried,
in joy beyond laughter or tears.
'What's death?' Her father was as abrupt as in her
childhood. He pulled back and Sarmatia looked into his face. His brows were
heavy and dark, his features those of her brother, but his eyes were her own.
'I'm your ancestor-soul. In me is all your will and
purpose.' The amber eyes looked deep into hers. 'Be wary of the end of will,
Sarmatia. Remember how your father died, stubbornly putting to sea in poor
weather.'
The arms released their grip, the sea scent drifted
off with the wind. It was as though Sarmatia was staring at a deep lake and
only her eyes were reflected. She might have watched forever, but a breeze blew
dust into her face. She had to blink it away. Opening her eyes, she was alone.
No time for sorrow: another figure had appeared on the
hill. Clutching her cowslip wreath, Sarmatia ran to meet it. Suddenly she
stopped. The figure also stopped. Under long white robes covering even hands
and feet there might be woman or man. The head was hidden by a dark blue veil.
Sarmatia bowed her head. 'Who are you, please?'
The figure gave no sign of hearing. Sarmatia walked
round it. She sensed its eyes seeking her through the dark veiling. 'Please,
let me see your face.' She grasped the blue cloth and, meeting no resistance,
lifted it.
The face was hers, as she would be in old age. The
eyes were closed, for which small mercy Sarmatia was thankful, but for the
rest— She brought her hands up to her own unwrinkled cheeks, afraid she would
find them as ugly as the features shown before her. Every line and liver spot
of age was on that face. The mouth, her mouth, drooled open to show the
remaining teeth.
Sarmatia had always feared creeping old age, hid the
fear in her heart and never looked too closely. Confronted by the certainty of
all her beauty wasted, she was almost overwhelmed by self-pity. This was how
she would be in later years, but how many? And how sad that at the end even
laughter should wear out flesh.
With that second thought came compassion. Gently,
though her fingers trembled, Sarmatia lifted a hand and closed the ancient
mouth.
At her touch, the eyes of her future self opened and
the wrinkled mouth spoke. 'I'm your self-soul. I'll always be with you.'
The face about the eyes grew younger and Sarmatia
looked upon herself. Not as in a glass, which reverses left and right, but as
Fearn could see her, as she was beyond the mirror. What she saw surprised her.
'Yes, you are softer than you think, Sarmatia.
Whatever your hopes, you weren't meant to live alone, or with the animals you
love so much. To every human being you met on your travels, you owe a part of
your life.'
'Even Carvin?' asked Sarmatia, chilled to the marrow.
'Carvin sent the bronze ring north, didn't he?' Her
self-soul smiled and there was solace for Sarmatia, though she knew it was her
own lips that moved.
'Are you old or young?' she asked.
'Is forever old or young? I'm your self-soul that will
be reborn. You and I are one.' The white-robed figure walked forward and
Sarmatia experienced the deepest embrace she would ever know, spirit over flesh
and flesh over spirit. It was sweeter than her animal-kinship, a light she
could gather in her arms and keep. The white robes fell onto the earth, melted
away.
She had faced her most hidden fear. The rest of the
test might be harder but she would meet it gladly, eager for the lessons it
would teach her. Sarmatia looked up at the sky.
It was still only noon. The sun seemed scarcely to
have moved since her discovery of the golden cup. For the first time since
moving on to the head of the hill, Sarmatia heard laughter and music and
beneath these the featureless roar of people's movement and speech. She looked
back and waved at the tiny crooked figures round the many campfires. Streams of
sacrificial smoke drifted up to her. She could have no food until she had
completed the test.
She had made a mistake in looking back. Her appetite
alerted, other scents came crowding in: rich stews of cooking mutton, crushed
spices, fresh baked bread. Yet she had to remain on the head of the hill. The
goddess would know if she cheated. I would know, thought Sarmatia, running
uphill, putting distance between herself and the cooking smells.
A stumble brought her to her knees, hair and hands
dusted with flowers. Fascinated, Sarmatia saw how the pollen had been smeared
on her in stripes, so that her hair was patterned in brown and orange. She
lifted one hair plait and tried to shake off the clinging pollen when a shadow
fell across her face.
Sarmatia raised her head, heart quickening as her eyes
met the lounging shape of her spirit animal. It lay with its back to her, head
at rest on the hidden paws. Like a beast on some fabulously woven cloth, the
yellow stripes of its long body were the nodding cowslip flowers, the darker
stripes of its coat was her hair. Now the narrow trumpets of the flower heads
were thickening into fur. The brown hair blackened and the shape grew and took
on the rounded contours of a living creature. Her spirit animal yawned, a red
tongue rolling round its fangs like meat in a huge bronze cauldron, and a
liquid eye, deeper than any sunset, slid round with the head to fall upon
Sarmatia.
Both were still. Only the wind lifted Sarmatia's hair
and stirred the shaggy facial whiskers of her animal's broad head. Then the
great beast thrust its front paws forward, raised its rear haunches and
described a graceful curve. Her spirit animal yawned a second time, rocked out
of the curve and came to push its head under Sarmatia's hands.
Bluebells and wild garlic are two British natives, perfuming the woodlands with sweet (bluebells) or pungent (wild garlic) scents in spring. When I write stories set in that season, I often try to incorporate them, as a romantic setting.This is from my sweet romance novella "Plain Harry":
Her little estate was well-ordered, Harry thought,
carefully matching his longer stride to hers. She had a kitchen garden, filled
with beans and peas and fragrant herbs, and wicker bee hives, chickens bobbing
about, and a cow and new calf grazing beneath an orchard filled by apple
blossom.
“I could read under these trees,” Harry found himself
admitting, and was rewarded by Esther gifting him a brief smile.
“I draw and sew out here, when I have time,” she
answered softly.
They had reached a log pile, the freshly hewn wood
curing under a canopy of trees, and to his surprise and delight, she scrambled
up it rather than going the long way about. Looking back at him, her face was
as red as a sweet apple. “Forgive me,” she stammered, her fingers wringing her
gown as if she were a naughty maid. “It is what I usually do. I meant no
disrespect to you, sir.”
Saddened by the “sir”, Harry shook his head. “This is
your place, Esther. I would not have you other than you are. May I join you?”
Surprise brightened her elfin face afresh and he
clambered up nimbly at her slight motion of that crooked finger, standing
beside her. “King and queen of the motte,” he said playfully and she grinned,
the first open, genuine smile he had seen.
This is how she should be,
sunlit and content, with every feeling showing on her face, without fear of
censure. Feeling the logs
steady beneath his feet and warmed by that smile, Harry took another chance. “I
need to ask one thing concerning your last marriage.”
She did not leap down from the logs, but tensed and he
sensed it was a near thing. “Yes?”
“It was bad, was it not?”
Esther looked away, back to the house, where her aged
woman-servant was hanging dripping washing over a guardian holly tree to dry.
“Very,” she said quietly.
“It will be different with me,” he promised. “May I
help you down?”
“No need.” She jumped off the logs to the ground, fast
as a kingfisher, and smiled back up at him. “Shall we go on?”
Either she dislikes being
touched or has been touched harshly. And why,
indeed, would she want to be touched by me? Clamping hard on that last
thought, Harry leapt down beside her and gave a playful bow. “Lead on, madam.”
He took care not to watch the sway of her hips and
tore his eyes away from her bottom, though not before he registered that it was
pert and nicely shaped. Feeling his blood to be on a slow sizzle, Harry
followed his lady-to-be.
Esther deserves peace and
safety and to know hands that do not strike her. Already, trailing slowly after his agile mate, he
was planning how to court and win her trust.
I know I am ugly beyond sin
but I can do this for her.
It would be a pleasure to watch her blossom.
The next day and for three weeks, while wedding banns
were read in the local church, Harry stayed with her all day until twilight
then rode off to the nearby pilgrim inn. They spoke of Outremer and the Holy
Land, of flowers and roots that were good in healing salves, of how some clouds
looked like dragons and others like fishes, of the new music and songs the
troubadours had brought with them from France—of everything, really, Esther
thought with a happy sigh.
Harry worked with her, too. Unlike Edmund, who had
done nothing outside the bounds of knightly caste or custom, no task was too
small or unknightly for her lanky, good-natured day-shadow. Grinding herbs side
by side in her still room, stirring steaming barrels of ale while she added
spices to the brew, mending fences with old Ulf, her farm-hand, checking that
the cow and calf were healthy when the milk-maid was busy making cheese and
could not, putting down wicker pallets in the yard after heavy rain, so the
place would not be churned into mud. Harry had done that task by himself and
once gone sprawling into the muck, but had only laughed.
Happy Spring and Summer to you all!
Lindsay Townsend
