Sunday, 13 December 2020

One Perfect Knight - 6 full-length Medieval Historical Romances. Bargain Boxed-set for under $3.00/£2.50!




Your knight in shining armor is waiting to tell his exciting story in this new boxed-set release from Prairie Rose Publications! ONE PERFECT KNIGHT is a fantastic collection of SIX full book-length tales of beautiful medieval ladies and their dangerous men as they discover the magic of love! These exciting stories are sure to capture your imagination as you travel back in time to those romantic days of knights and ladies in medieval times! Handsome warriors, valiant knights, or valorous common men of the day—all will meet their matches with the daring and unusual women they happen to fall in love with, and you won’t want to put this boxed set down until you’ve read the very last story!

Authors Deborah Macgillivray, Lindsay Townsend, Cynthia Breeding, Linda Swift, Keena Kincaid, and Livia J. Washburn spin six incredible novel-length love stories filled with danger, excitement, and romance that will keep you turning page after incredible page until the very end. What could be better than ONE PERFECT KNIGHT? How about six fabulous stories of knights, warriors, and noblemen who want nothing more than to live happily ever after—in love—with the women in their lives?


Had the music stopped, or had she just ceased to hear it? All she could do was stare into the dragon green eyes. Drown in them. This man was her destiny. Nothing else mattered. Lost in the power, Tamlyn was not aware of the hundreds of other people around them or their celebrating. To her, the world stood still, narrowed, until there was nothing but the star-filled night. And Challon.


She is Beauty but is he the Beast?

Beautiful Elfrida is the witch of the woods, and no man dares to ask for her hand in marriage until a beast comes stalking brides and steals away her sister. Desperate, Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, and is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast—or will he save her, as well as the other young women who have disappeared? Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, has finished with love, until he rescues a fourth 'bride', the red-haired Elfrida, whose touch ignites a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires.


The legend of Camelot is born and, with it, bold passions and forbidden desire. Fiery-tempered Gwenhwyfar is chosen by Arthur to be his wife and queen… Seared by the forbidden kiss of Arthur’s most-trusted warrior, Lancelot, Gwenhwyfar is swept into a world of passion, torn by loyalty and love to a husband who betrays her and a man she cannot have. But in a time where good and evil clash, where magic and chivalry reign, love will prove a weapon as powerful as any sword.


Wait for me… Malcolm Gray asks only one thing of Alice Wykeham when he goes to sea. But ten long years go by, and Alice is forced to marry an elderly lord who is eager to claim her dowry. Malcolm has been shipwrecked and severely injured, but when he heals, he remains nearby in disguise, too late to claim his true love. When Alice discovers the lord is involved in a treasonous plan to overthrow the king, she must do something—it could be the death of her, along with Malcolm, the only man she will ever love…


Abigail d'Alene has been in love with learning all her life, and she now has the means to indulge in her passion. Disguised as a boy, she heads to Paris and the abbey schools that will one day change the world. Shocked by the ineptitude of her masquerade, Alain of Huntly Woods takes Abigail under his protection until she recovers her senses. But her audacity and intelligence spark unexpected passion. When Alain discovers Abigail's uncle plots against the English king, Alain must choose between protecting his king or the woman he loves.


In the fire opals of an ancient treasure live two djinn. Once freed from the stones, these immortal spirits will serve this master's commands. But these djinn also have another purpose—to bring the wearer a true and lasting love… Can a reluctant bride find unexpected happiness with the dark knight, Sir Connor Warrick, she agrees to marry for the sake of honor and duty? The brilliant opals of the exquisite slave bracelet unlock a magic unlike any Lady Alura has ever imagined…and a love more rare than any jewel…

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Sunday, 1 November 2020

The Viking & the Pictish Princess. New Medieval/Ancient World Historical Romance novel -pre-order now, out Nov 5th



The lone figure rose silently from the loch. Emerging from the grey shimmer of a winter morning with water sheeting off his body, he glided over the submerged boulders onto the shore of her island. Bindweed scrambled into a holly tree and dropped to the parched ground. She gritted her teeth against the shout surging up her dry throat, old fears from the past made real.


He was big, this invader, big as a king stag of the forest, tanned, barrel chested and with arms thicker than her legs. His black hair, dark as December pine cones, matted itself to his skull in long streamers of shadow and eyes, the colour of storm clouds, were quick and piercing.

“Black Norse,” Bindweed muttered, not daring to stir as that fierce grey gaze swept over her hiding place. His thick gold collar and armlets flashed when he strode by, arrogant as a lord. He moved with the swift, quiet grace of a warrior, the low winter sun illuminating his leather tunic and trews, the long dagger strapped to one thigh, his sword on the other.

Spy or assassin, Bindweed wondered, watching his retreating back. He made for her cave-house as if he had walked the path a hundred times, though she doubted he sought her skill in herb-lore. Still she did not stir.

The first snare on the trail he avoided with a snort of humour, the second, set below a seeming bed of innocent pine needles, swallowed him whole. Bindweed was out of the holly and sprinting before the Viking had stopped his bellow of surprise. A quick jerk of the rope hidden by ivy had the nets and timber unravelling and the trap closed. She quickly pinned it down, panting hard as she rolled the lock-stone in place.

Thirteen feet below, in the round pit it had taken her three summers to dig and harden with fire, the black Norse prowled, thumping the sheer walls and slamming the mud-churned floor. He would not look at her. Bindweed did not care.

“No one comes here,” she lied—why tell truth to the enemy? “Yell away,” she added, when the stranger’s mighty chest swelled like organ bellows. “None shall hear.”

The Viking lunged up. She stamped his clenching fingers off the timbers and nets and he cursed and spat. “Food later,” she told him, spotting how his eyes narrowed briefly in calculation. He understands me, then.

It did not matter. Tomorrow night she would lace his portion and his ale with enough sleeping draught to fell an ox and then drag him out, to question at her leisure. Thank the stag god and the great mother that I heeded my instincts four summers ago to fashion these traps. Sometimes my senses are not only tuned to women’s healing, but to more brutal matters of survival.

She had no time to celebrate, however. Now she was exhausted, harp-string taut tension replaced by a yawning tiredness. Without troubling to undress, she stumbled into her bed and slept.

She dreamed of her past, an old horrific recollection, that began, as too often, with screaming.


She was seven summers old when her father Giric killed her mother. Nothing as quick or kind as a knife, but his selling of Kentigerna bright-hair into slavery, to a Viking, was still murder. Years later, she had never forgiven the old man, nor forgotten her mother’s screams.

She had tried to follow the Viking’s longship, running hard for the track by the loch. Mongfind, her half-sister, older and bigger than her by two summers, had grabbed her. After hearing Mongfind’s shouts, Giric himself had seized and flung the little one, flailing and punching, into the ancient black broch that gave the people their name.

She had hammered on the locked door until her knuckles were bloodied, then sprinted up the winding staircase to the roof of the broch. Seeing a flash of her Ma’s bright red hair in the longship’s bowels, she had clambered right over the thick circular walls of the broch and leapt down.

“Me, too!” she yelled in her later dreams, though she could not remember if she spoke the words. She only knew that if the ship sailed, she would never see her mother again.

Seven years old, I knew this! But then bastards have to grow up fast.       

She landed in a mess of heather, winded and broken. She scrambled to rise and a searing pain in her left foot seized her whole leg. Too shattered to scream, too shocked to move, she watched the Viking longship and her mother sail away.

Irish Maeve, old and wrinkled as a dried out leather flask, prodded her with her walking stick.

“You will do, now get up. There’s work!” Maeve ordered, laughing as she burst into tears. “Get to it, Bindweed.

“She clings,” Maeve told the whispering onlookers, who smirked or shook their heads and turned away.

From that day, the little girl was Maeve’s servant. The name her mother gave her was forgotten and all knew her as Bindweed.

Later, Bindweed learned, a travelling tinker who had a taste for young things had wanted to buy her, but Irish Maeve had refused his offer. But only because I was quick and clever. She never forgot how the old woman had laughed at her hurt and grief, how the others in her father’s fort had turned away.

She never saw her mother again.

 Six years later Irish Maeve died in her sleep. Bindweed buried her mentor on their island home and mourned for three nights, as custom demanded. On the dawn of the fourth day, she poured the ashes of a barley loaf over the new grave and squeezed a final tear from her smarting eyes.

Enough of that, as Maeve would say. I respected her as a healer, but no deeper feeling than that. She took me in for her own convenience and laughed at my grief. Though she did keep the secret of the smaller cave, so there was that.

Bindweed patted the cold earth once, in valediction, and turned back to the small cave where she and the Irish wise-woman had made a dwelling and a home of sorts She was Bindweed Silverhair, wise-woman of the loch, keeper of the island pool, the one maidens and womenfolk turned to so she might heal their hurts. Poultice their beasts. Charm the chickens into laying more eggs. No one now remembered she was the bastard get of Giric the Harsh, a warrior and giver of gold, who had sold his own mistress, her mother Kentigerna, into slavery.

Lightning strike him down for that! Why does Giric thrive? Why do his well-fed, well-dressed legitimate sons and daughters parade through this land like the blessed children of fairy. Not that I wish them ill, but still—

Revenge did not interest her, for that would merely prove she cared about Giric’s ill-nature. She had a home and skills, a name she had made respected. She ate well, even in winter and before harvest-time. No man would want to wed her, with only this scrap of a wooded islet as her land dowry, but she might take a handsome highlander as a lover, someone quick and wick and small as herself.

No boy with light blue eyes, though, no youth with a beard like Giric’s. Send me a sunny lad, nimble with his fingers—

A long, low snore from nearby brought Bindweed stark awake. It was time for her to move.

Time to spar with the Viking again. Even if the brute sleeps.



Olaf came to with a pounding mead-style headache and a sick stomach. Twitching sore limbs he found himself bound, hand and foot, and blindfolded.


A pot clashed against his teeth and he guzzled the weak ale, soothing both headache and sore jaws. “Why did you not slit my throat?” he demanded, after the cup was withdrawn.

“I heal, not kill.”

A young female. Another wise woman? Olaf risked a confession. “I was told the witch Irish Maeve was dead, her place empty. I planned to move in for the coming winter.”

“Who told you that? In truth, you cannot. I am her heir.”

“No one mentioned you.”

“No one ever does.”

When the wench said nothing more, he did not deign to respond to her question but asked, “What did you drug me with?”

“Drenched-salted the food, spiked the ale.”

He sensed her smirk and his bound fists clenched. She had admitted nothing new. “My men will find me.” And kill you. The threat went unspoken but hung like a gibbet between them.

A rustle like dry leaves made Olaf turn sharply to his left but the woman was already drawing back, leaving a whiff of lavender and a touch of the soft wool of her skirts.

“You will mend.”

True, since his headache was almost gone, though he tensed in irritation at her ignoring his warning. “And my men will still find me.”

“You have lain in my pit for two days, been sleeping hard for a day and a night, and none have come looking for you. Now there is fog. No ships in or out of the loch, y’ken?”

He breathed in deeply against her mockery, savouring her perfume afresh. “Aye.”

“No men are allowed here on Maiden’s Isle. For despoiling this sacred space I could spell you with ill luck for the rest of your life.” She paused, allowing the silence to grow, then delivered her final threat. “The curse would stick.”

Dread iced up his spine. Has my bad luck tracked me from Byzantium? Fore God, it has been evil since Karl’s death. Grief sleeted through Olaf afresh at the memory of his brother-in-arms, dead these six months and entombed in the white marble of Constantinople.

“What do you want from me?” he demanded. Anything to stop thinking of Karl, cut down in ambush in an arid city street, hundreds of miles away.

“Your name. Why you are on the run. The truth.”

“I am Olaf No-Kin.” He did not ask how the wise woman knew he had neither ship nor men, though he inwardly cursed the loss of that flimsy advantage. How can I do anything if she does not respect me? “I quit my lord Ragnar’s service and took the first passage I could to Alba to offer my sword to a laird of the Picts.”

“A mercenary. Why, if you left his war-band, does this Ragnar pursue you?” 

Published by Prairie Rose Publications, this novel is available for pre-order and will be out on November 5th.

Lindsay Townsend

Saturday, 20 June 2020

Playground Zero - Historical Fiction Novel by Sarah Relyea. Blurb, Reviews and Excerpts

historical fiction, paperback & ebook, 416 pages, $16.95 & $9.95.
A twelve-year-old girl navigates her fractured family’s move from D.C. to Berkeley in 1968.


An eerily compelling déjà vu of the free, wild and jeopardy-ridden kid scene in late-1960s Berkeley. Uncanny and powerful.
-Charles Degelman, Editor, Harvard Square Editions
Like a trip through the Looking Glass, Sarah Relyea's engrossing debut novel takes you by the hand back to the sixties, where social rules were being challenged and political upheaval was the norm. Relyea tells the absorbing story of twelve-year-old Alice and her family through a series of narrators as they each experience the kaleidoscope streets of Berkeley. But she saves her most lyrical and beautiful language for the disintegration Alice sees and the heartbreak she experiences.
          - Patricia Hurtado, Brooklyn writer and journalist with Bloomberg News

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Playground Zero by Sarah Relyea

1968. It’s the season of siren songs and loosened bonds—as well as war, campaign slogans, and assassination. When the Rayson family leaves the East Coast for the gathering anarchy of Berkeley, twelve-year-old Alice embraces the moment in a hippie paradise that’s fast becoming a cultural ground zero. As her family and school fade away in a tear gas fog, the 1960s counterculture brings ambiguous freedom. Guided only by a child’s-eye view in a tumultuous era, Alice could become another casualty—or she could come through to her new family, her developing life. But first, she must find her way in a world where the street signs hang backward and there’s a bootleg candy called Orange Sunshine.

Excerpt from Part I:  A Wandering Moon
Chapter 1
            Coming from the yard, where a willow swayed and the fence hung heavy with damp honeysuckle, a long-legged girl appeared in the doorway. Willow and honeysuckle, grass and stone bench: soon gone. She would remember them, of course, how she and a neighbor girl had overpowered the bench under the willow one school-day afternoon. They’d never imagined they could, and so they’d pushed and pushed, and then, in one impossible moment—chaos! Though alarmed by the heavy thud, she’d been enjoying the success when her mother appeared. Running for the gate, the other girl snagged a honeysuckle frond and then was gone, leaving a fragrance over Alice and her mother, willow and dismembered bench.
            She would remember the Mall and the monuments and the spring cherry blossoms from Japan.
            She’d been on peace marches. Ten and nearly grown, soon she’d be by the dock of the bay, California dreaming.
            She would remember summer lightning bugs—how she’d chased them with her brother; how fugitive they were!
            Weaving a honeysuckle frond around her head, Alice came through the door. Glancing up, she could feel the empty room eyeing her: long bangs held in place by the frond, pouting mouth and somber, almond-shaped eyes, like her mother’s—no changes there. Mornings, she resembled her mother; by noon, her brother. The long arms and legs were slender and hers alone.
            She would remember the honeysuckle frond and the empty room on moving day.
            The movers had come and gone. She should be folding her sleeping bag. Dragging the heavy bag, Alice passed through an abandoned mesh of hanging beads; as she cleared the beads, they clacked in a rush of swaying rhythm. The sound always made her imagine a caboose passing by.
            The unseen caboose rounded a bend and was gone. Under her palm the glossy door frame was cool, though the day was already muggy, June in Washington.
            They were bound for a new land. She must go knowing nothing of the place, whether good or bad.
            Her parents had gone there scouting the land. They’d gone farther than the spy who crossed through Indian country during the Revolution—she’d read about him in her brother’s book—and brought back encouraging news of a place where the weather was always warm, and the forests wild with vegetation. Her mother spoke of the new house as a castle in the shadow of the Berkeley hills—­­so large, so gloomy with heavy redwood beams in the local manner. Then in a moment of fancy, her mother had snapped up a couple of regal chairs as furnishings; she’d bought them and, eyes aglow from the buying spree, brought them home in the car on her own, no asking Tom. They were Shakespearean props for A Midsummer Night’s Dream or maybe Macbeth, her mother had laughed, as she arranged the blood-red thrones by the fireplace, where Alice and her brother were playing an idle game of King and Queen on them when the movers came.
            Her mother was calling from the yard. The moment had come. Gathering up the sleeping bag, Alice passed through the front doorway, seeing once more the layers of peeling paint, then through crocuses to the car, where her family paused under a humid sky.
            Her father approached holding a map, colored as though of the Holy Land, a heavy forefinger marking the route. They would soon be crossing dangerous lands that had lured rough men and runaways, cowboys and covered wagons, through wild grasses, deep waters, and oak-maple jungle to lonely deaths. She would reap the reward: roads and jukebox restaurants, suspension bridges and Grand Canyon overlooks, a new ocean, sandy beaches. They would journey; they would be happy.
            Folding the map, her father headed for the house.
            He was closing up the house when a baby-blue Rambler rounded the corner. Alice had wondered if they would really come: but Kathy’s mother had promised, and here they were. Kathy jumped down from the passenger seat, her eyes red. Oh, she’d been crying! They could be close, as they had been for nearly a year, if only the Raysons were staying. The anger suddenly gone, the quarrels forgotten, they approached each other by the curb as Kathy’s mother leaned from the Rambler.
            “Marian,” she purred in a deep, playful growl, waving over Alice’s mother. “Come here. I have something to tell you.”
            The mothers were close, and they’d become closer as Kathy’s father—a defenseless man, an oyster in need of a shell—was leaving. Though Kathy adored him, she bragged one day how her mother had hurled the frying pan. There were other confessions on the way home from school; and once Kathy added, in seeming condemnation, “Your parents never argue, do they.” She’d come to the Raysons’ house often enough to know. “They’re repressed,” she murmured, rubbing it in. Even so, Kathy was fun and loyal, or had been before her father made plans to go. That was when she suddenly found something else to do.
             Now those problems were gone, and for a moment they were together. Alice was fumbling for words.
            The mothers were done.
            “Kathy, hurry up!”
            “Well, goodbye. See ya.” Alice found the same phrase as always.
            Kathy fought back her tears. “See ya.”
            Soon the cars headed off together along the avenue. Then Kathy’s Rambler rounded a corner and the parade was over. The Raysons’ old Chevy Delray sped down the avenue, a hand waving from the rear window.
            “Off we go,” Marian summed up, turning and offering the children an encouraging smile below her sunglasses. Blonde and casual, she wore a sleeveless paisley dress and sandals; her shoulders were smooth and pale, her features pleasingly angular. Tom had sandy hair, heavy shoulders and a square jaw; he too wore sunglasses.
            “Well, I’m sorry to go. It’s been a good home,” Marian sighed, wiping her cheek. Then she added, “Can we go by the Lincoln Memorial, Tom?”
            “Along the Mall?”
            “Yes, we should see the Poor People’s Campaign before we go. Can we get through?”
            “We’ll see.”
            “Barbara says we should go.” Barbara was Kathy’s mother, a geyser of news. Alice had been stung to learn of the move from Kathy, who’d heard from her mother and come up on the playground, chummy and sorry she’d been mean. As usual, the Raysons had preferred to keep the plans among grown-ups. They’d informed the children only when there was no longer anything to conceal, or much chance to complain. Now there would be summer in Berkeley, a place near San Francisco; she would need new pals.
            Curt glanced over at her. Though he was two years older and a boy, they’d played together before Kathy, who was always arguing with boys.
            “How come her mother bought that Rambler?” he murmured in a confiding tone, though the eyes were teasing.
            No one responded.
            “I mean, why choose a lousy car?”
            Curt remembered car models and design features, baseball games and earned run averages; he always had something to do. But why should she care about such things? The world of cars and sports and grown-up concealment was passing, and something new was beginning.
            Her mother glanced back. “No squabbling,” she commanded. “We’re going to see the civil-rights people. No one seems to remember the message anymore, but we can honor King’s memory by keeping peace among ourselves.” Then she paused and murmured, “Tom, no going down where the trouble was.”
            Her mother was referring to the shopping corridor along 14th Street, where they’d always gone for shoes. Now the shops were closed; they’d been smashed and looted in days of outrage after the killing of King. Only her father had seen the damage as he passed through every day on the way to work and back. Surrounded by houses and lawns, the others had been far enough away for the mayhem to seem unreal.
            Curt leaned forward. “The Senators are playing Oakland at two o’clock. Frank Howard’s up against Catfish Hunter. Can we hear the game?” As everyone knew, Howard was Washington’s home-run hero, while Hunter was the up-and-coming Oakland player who’d thrown a perfect game back in May.
            Tom glanced back at Alice. “And you?” he asked blandly. “Any requests?”
            She made no response.
            “What’s that song of yours?” her father pursued. He was referring to the song he’d found her blaring in the basement playroom a few days before. The song was new to her, part of the Top 40 countdown. The Top 40 was also new to her, something other than baseball.
            Tom reached forward and sound flooded the Chevy: “White Rabbit” in full swing.
            He glanced at her in the mirror. “Loud enough?”
            Through the window she was enjoying the tangled trees of Rock Creek Park. They often passed the park, because it was on the way downtown. The song pulsed through a crescendo and ended. Tom turned off the radio.
            “Well,” she heard her mother saying, “we’ve chosen a good moment to go to San Francisco.”
            Soon they were passing Adams Morgan and P Street, where they’d gone for dinner on Saturdays. Kathy’s mother had recommended the restaurant, Luigi’s. The Washington Monument could be seen ahead, far away yet always there, as though a new heavenly body had been hung in the sky. The Chevy came through a tunnel and emerged among apartment blocks and government buildings. The facades were shadowless, since the day was cloudy. As the Chevy paused for the red light by St. John’s Church, she saw the rearing horse and rider of Lafayette Square. A dampened White House lay beyond; the monument, larger now and lower, reminded her of a chimney capping the Johnsons’ house—soon someone else’s.
            She would remember the church on Easter Sunday, though they’d gone just once.
            The Chevy rounded Lafayette Square and passed the White House and the Ellipse. Soon they were under the monument. Looming up and up, the thing could be seen mingled with cloud—a planet for the Raysons’ wandering moon.
            The Chevy neared the monument and broke away, heading west along Independence Avenue. Peering through the trees of Ash Woods, they saw a shantytown fanning out in rows. Then the Poor People’s Campaign was hidden by a leafy camouflage.
            The marble figure in the Lincoln Memorial reposed in shadow as the Chevy passed the site’s southern end. Alice had seen the statue of Lincoln up close; one summer evening, her mother and Barbara had taken the girls there after a peace rally under the Washington Monument.

            She would remember the dead man’s presence. The peace marches had been solemn, if informal—government on the grass. Now a shantytown had sprung up in the muddy park, as monuments glimmered under a cloudy noon.


Book Trailer





YouTube (trailer)


  The manuscript of this novel was semi-finalist for the Black Lawrence Press 2018 Big Moose Prize. 

Monday, 1 June 2020

Tuesday, 19 May 2020

New! The Master Cook & the Maiden. Medieval Historical Romance. Excerpts. Money off

#NEW THE MASTER COOK & THE MAIDEN Vengeance…or love? Will Alfwen have to choose between them? And what part will the handsome Master Cook, Swein, play in her life? UK #Romance #MedievalRomance #RomanceNovel

Vengeance…or love? Will Alfwen have to choose between them? And what part will the handsome Master Cook, Swein, play in her life?


Romance, MedievalRomance,  RomanceNovel

The Rose and the Sword Novel Series


The Master Cook and the Maiden
Lindsay Townsend

Third day of Lent, 1303

The small brown dog stumbled towards Alfwen as she pounded washing in the river. Without stopping her work she watched the little rough-coated creature slip through a gap in the convent boundary wall to limp her way, flopping down on the damp grass twice before it reached her.
“Hey, boy,” she whispered, glad of the honest companionship even if it was just a dog. Hearing a pitiful whine she dropped the dry crust she had been saving for her supper in front of the shivering beast. “Go on, it is yours.”
The scrap disappeared between the dog’s narrow jaws. Alfwen wiped a hunger tear from her face, glancing about. So far, she and the little dog were safe from discovery. This close to Terce, the other nuns and novitiates of the convent were busy with their own assigned labours. As Alfwen had pretended she was afraid of the river, naturally the spiteful Mother Superior had ordered the girl to do the sisters’ laundry, an outdoor task that suited Alfwen very well, even on this bitter afternoon in early spring. Tempers sharpened during Lent, when all were famished, and to be in the fresh, chill air was better than being mewed up in the sooty church or cramped, icy scriptorium.
Kneeling on the riverbank, Alfwen wrung out another section of bedsheet and dunked the next, flinching at the freezing water flowing over her reddened fingers and pale skinny arms. No possible spy was with her, no religious or lay brother or sister, and she could relax a moment. She unwound from her knees and sat on the grass, trying to ignore the burning prickling in her legs. When no shout or complaint issued from the convent she stroked the dog.
With a soft whine the beast crawled closer. So small and trembling, she thought, and she could count its ribs through that rough brown coat and the raw patches along one flank where the fur had shed. Recalling a lively, bouncing pup from long ago, she whispered, “Teazel?”
The dog weakly wagged a balding tail. As it raised its head, Alfwen spotted a filthy cloth collar, half-hidden by dirt.
“I gave you to Walter with a leather collar,” she murmured, surprised she remembered that detail. Teazel snuffled and edged even nearer, so she could see the grey in his muzzle. She wrapped the dog in the rest of the dry sheet she had yet to scrub and fought down a wave of horror.
Walter must be dead. Teazel would never have left him.
She tried to pray for her brother. Failing that, she tried to remember him. It had been seven, no eight years since Walter and his new wife had abandoned her in the convent, though Alfwen knew she had no vocation.
I was ten years old and my parents had just died. Walter was in the first flush of marriage and lordship and his wife—Alfwen shuddered, checked again for spies and admitted the truth. Enid hated me.
A growl came from the tangled sheet as if Teazel agreed with her. A quivering, questing muzzle emerged from the heavy linen and Alfwen was struck by a memory of Walter. Her older brother, whirling about the tilting yard with his new puppy in his arms, laughing as the little dog yapped and squirmed and nuzzled closer.
“He likes me!” Walter cried, pressing a sloppy kiss on the pup’s back.
“He is yours,” Alfwen agreed, and Walter had grinned at her, his hazel eyes bright with joy, the sunlight picking out the red glints in his brown curls.
Enid had soon shorn off his hair, claiming it unseemly for a young lord. Alfwen had scowled and Walter had scolded her for protesting against his wife, although she had said nothing. Two days later she was delivered to the convent, a poor, mean place. My limbo, with an entrance to hell, and my brother did not care, did not question. Eight years she had been here as a novitiate, neither lay nor nun. Postulants to a religious life were supposed to serve only a year as a novice but as a sister Alfwen would have status and Enid and the Mother Superior between them did not want that. Instead I am trapped and my close family have forgotten or dismissed me. Would I be as stupid and selfish in wedlock as Walter?
Alfwen shook her head and tried a second time to pray for her brother’s soul.
He is gone forever and I cannot even cry.
She tried to think of him, remember him, kindly memories. Save for when she had given him Teazel, and he had taught her to write her name, she drew a blank on any more joyful times. Have I forgotten or was Walter really so morose and carping? Am I unjust in how I consider him now?
In the dank grey light of early spring, the bell for Terce rang through her like a blow. Numb, Alfwen rose, ready to gather her work and stumble into the nunnery’s huddled church set close to an expanse of marsh but out of reach of the river. She reached for the part-washed, part-dry sheet and Teazel burst from its coils. Again she noted his thinness, the scrap of cloth collar.
The collar was once part of a favourite gown of mine, a yellow dress my mother made me.
The bell for Terce continued to toll and Alfwen detested its sweet intrusion.
Anger sharpened her, tempered her dull acceptance of convent life into more than resentment. In a blast of sudden added colour she saw the white and pink daisies by her feet, the blue glow of a kingfisher farther down the riverbank, the glint of gold amidst the dirty yellow of Teazel’s collar.
He has something pinned to his collar.
A shadow fell across Alfwen before she could unpin the tiny roll of parchment, but thankfully it was merely a cloud, not a nun coming to drag her to service.
No, the good sisters of Saint Hilda’s will be hastening to church. I will not be missed until after the latest holy office.
Alfwen flinched as the gold brooch scratched her fingers and then the thing was undone. Heart hammering, she smoothed out the parchment.
Two words only in her brother’s hand, but a message to her, all the same.
“Avenge me.”

Chapter 2
Swein saw the girl drop into the water from the riverbank and leapt from his waggon, sprinting to reach her before she drowned. Hearing no splash or screams he dared to hope and ran faster, forcing air into his searing lungs.
Pounding along the track and over the water-meadow he vaulted the mud brick wall of the convent. He landed clumsily but kept going, determined to save her. Never a fatal accident in my kitchen and I’ll not gave one here, either.
Scrambling to the edge of the bank he stared downstream, seeing nothing but a young trout, swung round to scour upstream—and choked on his breath. Tripping daintily over the river pebbles at the stream’s edge the girl walked steadily away from her pile of laundry.
Swein flattened himself to the grass and watched the small, skinny wench. Her skirts were sodden to the backs of her knees, he reckoned, but she moved smoothly, never looking back. Across her retreating shoulders she carried a sling, made from part of a sheet. A little old dog poked its muzzle from the bundle and seemed content with the ride.
A runaway from Saint Hilda’s. “No business of mine,” Swein muttered, but his ankle ached so he lay still and stared.
The girl disappeared round the bend in the beck—stream, Swein mentally corrected, since this was in the south, not north—her presence winking out like a small star.
She will walk to the ford and take the Roman road hence. I could drive my waggon there and wait for her.
“Why not?” Swein said aloud, flexing his toes in his boots. “I have no business with Saint Hilda’s.” The head nun in the place did not like men and detested cooks so he had never had cause to visit in his travels.
‘Tis Lent and I go home for Lent. Cooking food for fasting times does not stir me and my folk are waiting. He had the early gifts ready for them.
Still he would catch Nutmeg, his mule, and his waggon and drive to the ford. That girl needs fattening up, I reckon, fleeing from Saint Hilda’s.
The nobles I cook for do not like me curious but I am my own master and this Lent time is my holiday. He could do largely as he pleased and he wanted to see the lass’s face.
Swein rolled to his feet and set off back for the track, whistling a merry tune.
Alfwen glanced at the sinking sun and the crossroads with dismantled archery butts stacked against the oak tree. She had hoped for a hiring gather and had her story ready. I am a laundress seeking honest work.
She wanted to steal a nag and ride to her family’s seat at Ormsfeld, but she brutally dismissed the desire. She needed to know how Walter had died and who were his enemies. Teazel would never have left if Walter lived still. Yet no one had come to the convent to tell her that her brother had died. Although I am a de Harne I have been buried at Saint Hilda’s for eight years and no doubt forgotten.
“Avenge me,” Walter growled in her head, in a voice she was not sure was his, or what she remembered of him.
Again she was relieved she had not taken final vows. Nuns were not supposed to plot vengeance.
Why should I? When did Walter care for me?
Alfwen squashed such thoughts, stamping her feet in a futile bid to keep warm. Her skirts and sandals were still wet from the river and she knew she would look strange, a lone woman with no protectors. I dare not linger here past twilight. I have to find shelter, food for Teazel.
The dog slept on the damp ground in her rough bundle, weary with hunger. Enid starved him. Did she do the same cruel thing with Walter?
“Are you seeking work?”
Startled, Alfwen turned, stumbling as she took a rapid backwards step. The man looming over her was so big—
Strong arms caught her, brought her safe against a broad chest.
“Here,” said the stranger as she gulped in breath to fight, “Before you hunger faint.”
A large calloused hand pressed a warm round dumpling into her palm, a white plump dumpling straight from a pottage pot, but not so hot as to burn. The comforting heat and yeasty scent took her straight back to childhood, pottering after Simon, the old cook, who would often take her with him into the kitchen garden and let her eat fresh bread from his ovens.
Avenge me, Walter scolded, while she chewed and swallowed the dumpling treat, licking her fingers after.
“I need a washer lass,” the stranger went on, dropping a morsel of something on the earth for Teazel. “I feed my folk well. You come?”
He almost had her at feed well, but Alfwen had not sprung the trap of the convent to fall into another. She shook her head. “I cannot stay, sir.”
Now she spoke, Alfwen felt the light-headedness of hunger boil into the seethe of panic. What might this big brute make me do for his food?