Her Dangerous Journey Home by Lee Swanson (Romantic Adventure Series)

Her Dangerous Journey Home by Lee Swanson 

Synopsis: 

1310, Berwick-upon-Tweed, England – Edward II knights Frederick Kohl for his bravery fighting the Scots. But Sir Frederick is not the man the king believes him to be; instead, it is his sister, Christina, who assumes her dead brother’s identity and receives his spurs.

Still posing as Frederick, Christina escorts Lady Cecily, a young noblewoman joining Queen Isabella’s court at Westminster Palace, to London. Unexpectedly, Christina and Cecily fall in love. Their joy is short-lived, as their future together is seemingly impossible.

The wife of one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the city is Christina’s bitter enemy. Katharine Volker, whose lascivious advances Christina rejects, goads her into voyaging from her London home to the Baltic waters of her birthplace. Christina journeys not to engage in trade, as one would expect of a master merchant. She sails for a far more deadly purpose--to exact revenge on the pirates who killed her father and brother.

What will transpire in London during her absence and is there any hope for her lasting happiness with Cecily?

Christina must employ all her courage and fighting skill, as well as a secret weapon, to survive her adventure quest through pirate infested waters.

#LGBTQ

Excerpt

Chapter 1 

An Unexpected Departure

London, October, 1310

 Christina stood at her chamber window, staring down into the moonlit courtyard. Instinctively, her eyes moved across and registered each detail below, even as her mind was consumed by thoughts tumbling in her brain like flotsam on an angry sea. The frigid temperature outside created whorls of icy tracery on the inside of the thick, translucent glass; she ran her fingertips over the scars on her left forearm that the frostwork somewhat resembled. The room had steadily chilled since the fire in the hearth had burnt itself out hours before, causing gooseflesh on her naked skin. Yet, she remained so deeply engrossed in her thoughts, Christina hardly noticed the cold. 

Could it really have been only a year ago that I was a simple girl, playing games with my friends and trying my best to avoid doing chores around the house? she marveled. How much my life has changed since then. But it’s not really my own life I lead now, is it? Not since the pirates attacked us at sea and Frederick was lost; that was when Christina ceased to be. Now, I exist as Frederick, and this house, my fortune, even a knighthood, all really belong to him. So very little can I claim for myself. 

Christina’s melancholy was interrupted by the sudden sensation of soft warmth pressed firmly against her back and buttocks. A pair of arms slowly extended around her middle, ending in two delicate hands that clasped gently together. A light kiss upon her shoulder-blade next, followed by the slight pressure of the other woman’s cheek. Christina slowly turned in the embrace until she stood looking downward into the upturned eyes of Lady Cecily Baldewyne. Christina extended her arms around Cecily’s back and gripped her closer, forcing Cecily’s full breasts to press firmly against her own. Christina lowered her head until their lips nearly touched, hesitating long enough to inhale her lover’s sweet breath before giving in to their shared desire for a passionate kiss. When their mouths parted, Christina asked, “Did I wake you, my love? It is still several hours before the dawn.” “No, my rising was my own doing. I must return to my own bedchamber now.” “No. Stay with me. Please,” Christina pleaded, her mind a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts. Cecily’s full red lips parted into a wide grin, revealing her even, white teeth. She playfully pushed Christina from her, breaking their embrace. In an instant, she skipped away, gracefully scooping her white linen chemise from the floor. Before exiting through the bedroom door, she looked back at Christina with fluttering doe-eyes. “You can’t be having the household staff believing their master makes a habit of bedding every saucy wench who comes to visit him. What kind of an example would you be setting?” Although she spoke in a jocular manner, Christina perceived the other woman’s words were only said half-jokingly. She watched as Cecily sniggered and nimbly held the chemise above her head, letting it fall over her sanguine curls before it dropped down over her voluptuous body. She laughed merrily then, raising her fingers to her lips and blowing a kiss toward Christina before dancing through the doorway and

disappearing into the antechamber. A second or two later, Christina heard the outer door quietly open and close, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Her feelings of self-loss had dissipated, however. Although Frederick may claim credit for most of what I possess, Cecily’s affection is a thing that is truly mine and mine alone, she declared fiercely to herself, with a welling certainty so strong she felt as if her heart were about to explode. There was another realization that niggled at her though, this one so painful she tried to refuse its entrance into her foremost thoughts. Instead, she strode purposefully to bed and luxuriated between the sheets of Rennes linen still warm from the heat of Cecily’s body. She buried her nose into the bottom sheet and inhaled deeply, virtually intoxicated by the mixed scent of musk and rosewater she would forthwith associate with thoughts of her lover. Delaying no further, Christina pulled the fur-lined coverlet up beneath her chin and tried to will herself to sleep. After an interminable period of tossing and turning, she admitted defeat.

It is not just from my bedchamber Cecily must depart, but from my life as well. Today, I am dutybound to escort her to the Palace of Westminster as I had agreed. Once she is in service to the queen, she will have no time or opportunity for the likes of me!

Christina felt a palpable ache course through her core. 

For weeks we voyaged southward from Berwick, inseparable within the close confines of the ship. Yet, nary a word passed between us beyond the limits of polite friendship. How was I to know she had come to love me? Am I so thick-headed I could not perceive her feelings? Even more, that I could not recognize my own love for her? Now, what good is this knowledge when she is expected at Westminster this very day? 

These thoughts raced over and over in her mind, like a swift stream turning a heavy mill wheel. Yet, even after hours of consideration, she was no closer to a viable course of action to stay Cecily’s departure. Sitting up, she was surprised to notice the first vestiges of a dreary dawn creeping through her window. Christina moved to her antechamber and quickly dressed, beginning as always with the tiresome task of wrapping a length of linen repeatedly about her chest to bind the swell of her small breasts. She had nearly pulled on her boots when the door to the passageway began to open. Hoping it to be a returning Cecily, Christina was disappointed to see the slight form of Mary, one of the chambermaids, instead making her way purposefully into the room with an earthenware jug of fresh water, which she set on the dressing table before kneeling beside the fireplace to spark tinder for the morning fire.

 “I won’t be needing a fire this morning, Mary. I have plans to leave presently and to be out for the rest of the day,” Christina directed as she moved forward from the deep shadows near the wall into the feeble light.

 

 

Book trailer:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4gAXi3xWglg

 

Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/lee.swanson.315080

 

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61936493-her-dangerous-journey-home

 

Links to the other books in this series.

           Book I

https://www.amazon.com/Mans-Chattel-Man-Her-Master/dp/0578444313

Book II

https://www.amazon.com/Her-Perilous-Game-Lee-Swanson/dp/1736243608

Book III

https://www.amazon.com/Her-Dangerous-Journey-Home-Swanson/dp/1736243624

The Snow Bride. A Medieval Beauty And The Beast

The Snow Bride

 

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

 

Book One of The Knight and the Witch

 

 

England, winter, 1131

 

Elfrida, spirited, caring and beautiful, is also alone. She 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, the lovely Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, as bridal bait, and she is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast?

 

 

In the depths of a frozen midwinter, in the heart of the woodland, Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, searches ceaselessly for three missing brides, pitting his wits and weapons against a nameless stalker of the snowy forest. Disfigured and hideously scarred, Magnus has finished with love, he thinks, until he rescues a fourth 'bride', the beautiful, red-haired Elfrida, whose innocent touch ignites in him a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires.

 

 

Excerpt                                                             

 

 

Elfrida stirred sluggishly, unable to remember where she was. Her back ached, and the rest of her body burned. She opened her eyes and sat up with a jerk, thinking of Christina.

 

 

Her head felt to be bobbing like an acorn cup in a stream, and her vision swam. As she tried to swing her legs, her sense of dizzy falling increased, becoming worse as she closed her eyes. She lashed out in the darkness, her flailing hands and feet connecting with straw, dusty hay, and ancient pelts.

 

“Christina?” she hissed, listening intently and praying now that the monster had brought her to the same place it had taken her sister.

 

She heard nothing but her own breath, and when she held that, nothing at all.

 

“Christina?” Fearing to reach out in this blackness that was more than night and dreading what she might find, Elfrida forced herself to stretch her arms. She trailed her fingers out into the ghastly void, tracing the unseen world with trembling hands.

 

Her body shook more than her hands, but she ignored the shuddering of her limbs, closed her eyes like a blind man, and searched.

 

She lay on a pallet, she realized, full of crackling, dry grass. When she scented and tasted the air, there was no blood. She did not share the space with grisly corpses.

 

I am alone and unfettered. Now her heart had stopped thudding in her ears, she listened again, hearing no one else. Chanting a charm to see in the dark, she tried again to shift her feet.

 

Light spilled into her eyes like scalding milk as a door opened and a massive figure lurched across the threshold. Elfrida launched herself at freedom, hurling a fistful of straw at the looming beast and ducking out for the light.

 

She fell instead, her legs buckling, her last sight that of softly falling snow.

 

 

 She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

THE SNOW BRIDE (THE KNIGHT AND THE WITCH 1) USA https://amzn.to/2MZZan0    

UK  https://amzn.to/2H1tYzY                                    

EXCERPT https://bit.ly/2yV95Cb

REVIEW https://bit.ly/38ynFzh

Lindsay Townsend 

Brewsters - Medieval Women who made Ale. Plus an #Excerpt from my Medieval Diverse Romance, "Amice and the Mercenary"

Brewsters – The Medieval Women who made Ale.

 

 

“Brewster” used to mean a female brewer of ale. In the early 1300s brewsters were common. As water was rarely safe to drink, ale, created by a barley or oat mash, boiling water, yeast and herbs, was a staple. Everyone, men, women and children, drank it. Larger medieval houses made their own, so in 1333 Elizabeth de Burgh, Lady Clare, brewed 8 quarters each week, around 60 gallons of ale. Since a household of 5 might drink 1 ¼ gallons a day, this output needed to be ongoing, especially as ale soured quickly, within a few days. The plus side was that once made, ale was quickly ready to drink, within a day.

Brewing of ale was done at home, using everyday tools – a large tub, a brush, a ladle, forks. Women did it in tandem with other household tasks. Any excess a brewster might sell to her neighbours. Locals would be alerted that ale was available by the sign of a branch or bush pinned over the household door. Neighbour sold to neighbour and customers brought their own pails to collect the fresh ale. Another way womenfolk were employed were as Tipplers, who carried the freshly brewed ale in vessels on their backs to various household clients. Overall it was a small-scale business, with modest profits. Married women, widows and unmarried spinsters all brewed and it was a means of independence. In 1379, in Howden, 9 single women supported themselves by brewing. In Norwich, women of the chief families all brewed ale and sold it to their friends.

Barley water could be made by boiling a small quantity of fresh barley in a volume of water and then the liquid strained off. Herbs used in the ale included briar, rosemary, coltsfoot and balm. Water from different wells produced different flavours of ale. “Dredge”, a mix of oats and barley, was in as common use in the production of ale as it was of bread.

Ale was sweeter in taste than beer, since the hops in beer preserve the drink for longer but also make it more bitter.  Modern beers in the “Gruit” style, where hops are not used and herbs are used as flavouring, give an idea what such ales tasted like. An ale called “Mycria”, flavoured with sweet gale, used to be produced by Hanlons in Devon.

Hops, introduced from Europe, was used to brew beer. Beer lasts longer than ale and so can be transported greater distances and made in larger batches. After the Black Death, beer began to be drunk and produced in England as well as ale, though female brewers were gradually pushed out of the trade by men, who had greater access to capital. The Brewers’ Guild was closed to women. The laws favoured men over women in brewing, although women often had more practical experience. Brewsters began to be seen as sinful, wanton and unclean. In 1413 brewster Christine Colmere in Canterbury lost her trade when Simon Daniel falsely told her neighbours that she was leprous.

See “Ale, Beer and Brewsters In England” by Judith Bennett for more details.

 

For myself, I am sorry the more bitter beer took over from ale, and sorry that women were thrust out of a business where they had thrived for many years. One day, I may write a story where a brewster is my heroine, but in the meantime, if you are interested in learning a bit about medieval feasts, medieval sweets, cooks and menus, please see my novel “The Master Cook and the Maiden” and my novella, “Amice and the Mercenary.”

Both are published by Prairie Rose Publications and both are free to read with Kindle Unlimited.

To finish, here is an excerpt from my diverse romance medieval novella, "Amice and the Mercenary," plus the blurb.

Amice is a mistress of sugar and spices but is she always mistress of her heart?

England in the summer of 1357 is a nervous, triumphant place. The English king holds the King of France hostage—but there are plots afoot to see this French monarch assassinated. Duke Henry begs beautiful Amice, the spice seller, for her help to counter and reveal such plots. Amice is an expert in the secrets of spices and poisons. She agrees to help for her own personal reason—revenge. 

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Summer, Kent, 1357

 “I need your help,” Duke Henry said. “I need your help to guard the king of France.”

Amice said nothing. She and the duke sat together at her best friend’s wedding, drinking French wine and watching the other guests dance. Throughout the simple country marriage feast, Duke Henry had spoken of the great golden beauty of the bride Isabella, of the good fortune of Stephen, the bridegroom, and of the mild summer weather—all safe, conventional subjects. His leaning toward her now and speaking of the guardianship of kings was unexpected. She raised her dark eyebrows.

Duke Henry lowered his voice still further. “I need someone with a knowledge of plants, medicines and spices, like yourself, a woman with a knowledge of sugar. The reward for such an undertaking will be generous, very generous.”

To read more, please see my novella, #FreeRead with #KindleUnlimited. 

 Amice and the Mercenary.

A Noble Cunning: The Countess and the Tower by Patricia Bernstein (History Through Fiction, 3/7/23) #bookexcerpt #histfic

A thrilling tale, based on a true story, of one woman's tremendous courage and incomparable wit in trying to rescue her husband from the Tower of London the night before he is to be executed.

Excerpt:

https://www.patriciabernstein.com/books/historical-fiction/a-noble-cunning/excerpt-a-noble-cunning/

- Hasty Book List’s Most Anticipated Historical Novels of 2023

-Semifinalist for 2023 Chanticleer Award

-Historical Novel Society review, 2023 Spring Quarterly

 

Trailer:

https://www.patriciabernstein.com/books/historical-fiction/a-noble-cunning/#trailer-media

 

Reviews:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62363360-a-noble-cunning

 

Buy link:

https://www.amazon.com/Noble-Cunning-Countess-Tower/dp/173649905X

UK Buy Link::

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Noble-Cunning-Countess-Tower-ebook/dp/B0BBK6M4FR

Author’s URL

https://www.patriciabernstein.com

  

The Snow Bride. Medieval Historical Romance set in Northern Britain. New Excerpts

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

THE SNOW BRIDE (THE KNIGHT AND THE WITCH 1) https://amzn.to/2MZZan0    

UK  https://amzn.to/2H1tYzY

EXCERPT https://bit.ly/2yV95Cb

REVIEW https://bit.ly/38ynFzh

 

Excerpt England, winter, 1131

 

Magnus forced his aching legs to move and dismounted stiffly from his horse. The still, freezing cold made his teeth ache, and as he tethered his mount, he wondered yet again what he was doing here. It was less than a month to Christmas, and he could have been with Peter and Alice at Castle Pleasant, preparing for feasting and singing and watching his godchildren.

And then a deep, abiding ache, bedding down in the great hall alone. He would never force a woman to lie with him—he had seen too much of that in the crusades.

He limped forward through the pristine snow. Peter had his Alice now, a clever, black-haired wench who feared nothing and no one, including him. Had his friend and fellow crusader not known her first, he might have had a chance with Alice. She saw through the outer armor and shell of a man to what lay beneath.

But she loves her crusader knight, Peter of the Mount, and I have no chance or right there.

As the palfrey snorted and jangled its harness behind him, he knelt in a white heap of pitted frost and reached out with his good arm to brush snow off the small, cracked statue of a saint. This was an old, wayside shrine on a track to nowhere of note, and the wooden figure huddled in its stone niche was old, its paint peeling. This battered saint would understand him, one ugly brute to another.

“Holy one, grant me my prayer.”

He stopped, aware of the chill silence around him—the bare trees, the white landscape, the empty road. He had nothing to offer the saint, no flower or trinket to sweeten his request.

As his knees began to smart, then burn, then freeze on the unyielding, icy ground, Magnus tried to marshal his thoughts. What did he want?

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

THE SNOW BRIDE (THE KNIGHT AND THE WITCH 1) https://amzn.to/2MZZan0    

UK  https://amzn.to/2H1tYzY

EXCERPT https://bit.ly/2yV95Cb

REVIEW https://bit.ly/38ynFzh

 

Excerpt 2

 

A woman of my own. Someone to return to.

Alice cared and had urged him most ardently to stay with her and Peter, but pride had made him refuse them both with a smile. He did not begrudge the handsome couple their joy, not after their many trials. But the dark of winter and Christmas especially brought his own desolation home to him most keenly, sharper than an assassin’s blade. He was nine and twenty, a grizzled warrior, battle-scarred and wounded.

Feeling sorry for yourself, Magnus? Brace up, man! Be a Viking, as your granddad was. You have your wits and your balls, all working. The lasses in the stews make no complaint and do not charge so much. You have land, a strong house, good fellowship, and two hearty godchildren.

“Splendor in Christendom, let me have my own family! A lass who loves me!”

His voice rang out, startling a lone magpie into taking flight from a solitary elm in a blur of wings, but the drab and well-worn saint gave no sign of hearing. Peering into the calm, carved face, Magnus wondered if the saint was smiling, and then he spotted his own reflection, clear in a frozen mirror of ice by the shrine.

He scowled, knowing very well what he looked like, and spat to the left for luck. With his knees creaking, he staggered to his feet and remounted his eager horse. When he passed this way again he would leave gold, he vowed, but for now he wished only to slink away. He needed to find the village before nightfall and speak to the council of old men—it was always old men—who had sent word to his manor of Norton Mayfield, begging for help, any help, to track and to defeat a monster.

 

Lindsay Townsend

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

  

ONE PERFECT KNIGHT BOXED SET

Blurb

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?

A RESTLESS KNIGHT—DEBORAH MACGILLIVRAY

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.

THE SNOW BRIDE—LINDSAY TOWNSEND

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.

CAMELOT’S DESTINY—CYNTHIA BREEDING

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.

MISTRESS OF HUNTLEIGH HALL—LINDA SWIFT

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…

ART OF LOVE—KEENA KINCAID

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.

ALURA’S WISH—LIVIA J. WASHBURN

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…

Free to read with KindleUnlimited

Amazon Com 

Amazon Co UK

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

THE VIKING AND THE PICTISH PRINCESS https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08LTGYTHV/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i20

https://amzn.to/3jA5bDvUK

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B08LTGYTHV/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i13

https://amzn.to/3jA52Qt

Excerpt

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.

Viking!

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.

“Drink!”

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