According to the Book of Kells, the first known Viking raid on the island was in AD 794, with the first Norse settlers arriving in the late eight hundreds, when my story is set.
One problem I discovered while researching, however, is that historians are surprisingly vague about the ninth century on Skye. Although evidence such as carved stones and brochs—round towers—suggests that the early people were Pictish, it seems likely that by this period they had already adopted the Gaelic language and become part of the Dal Riada confederation, having more in common with Irish Gaels than Scots. The old Irish romance Scéla Cano meic Gartnáin, for example, is based on rival families in Skye. For this reason, I’ve chosen to refer to the indigenous people as Gaels while focusing my story predominantly on the Norse population.
While Orkney remained the nominal centre of Viking power in Scotland, the 2011 discovery of a dockyard, complete with canal and stone quay, on the Rubh an Dunain peninsula suggests that Skye may have been a more important location than previously thought.
Whatever the reality, the island remained part of Viking territory for the next four hundred years, up until the Battle of Largs in 1263, which finally returned the island to the Kingdom of Scotland.
This book has been fun to write, as well as slightly intimidating, as it forms part of a series with Michelle Willingham, Harper St George, Michelle Styles and Terri Brisbin. We came up with the overall storyline together, although we developed our own books independently—the first time I’ve done this kind of collaboration.
I hope readers enjoy the series as much as we’ve enjoyed working together. A huge thank you and a hug to all of them!
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Governess’s Guide to Marriage by Liz Tyner.
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The Governess’s Guide to Marriage
by Liz Tyner
Chapter One
‘Your old gran be dying.’ The man stood at the servants’ entrance, a faded scar on his face and his hat in his hands.
Miranda gulped in a breath. She’d believed her grandmother long gone from her life. Hoped her long gone.
‘She wants to see you. To beg you to forgive her.’ He twisted the hat. ‘Please, miss...uh... Miss Manwaring. I brought a cart to take you to the gamekeeper’s house where you lived as a child.’ He plopped the hat on his head and straightened his plain coat. ‘She’s on her last breath.’
Miranda had never told anyone about the house. She hardly remembered it herself and she’d always known that it was better for her to have a forgotten ancestry than to reveal the truth.
One of the last lies her grandmother had told her was that she’d be back. Then she’d left Miranda alongside a road that smelled of wild honeysuckle and told her not to step far because there were spiders in the wood as big as horses. Eight legs to chase her and six eyes to see where she went.
Miranda had been terrified, but then a couple had happened along in a carriage and the woman had acted as if Miranda was the miracle she’d been waiting for, scooped her up and took her to a house that reached the sky.
After a few months of her new life, Miranda had stopped hoping for her grandmother to return and had prayed that she wouldn’t. She’d pushed those memories so far into the recesses of her mind that they now felt as if they belonged to someone else.
‘The old woman, she called you Child and had tears in her eyes. She said she can’t rest settled because of you.’
‘I’ll ask Mr Trevor if I can have the time off to see her...’ memories constricted her throat ‘...one last time.’
Miranda rushed to knock on her employer’s door, asking if she might take her half-day off now. His brow creased and he gave her permission to leave. He opened his mouth to say something else, but she ran out before he could ask any questions.
She searched out the maid, received a promise to watch over Dolly and Willie, then ran to kiss each of her charges on the top of the head before scurrying out the door.
But she had one last thing to do before going. She rushed to the stables.
The stable master kneeled, prying a wheel from a carriage, his grey hair splaying as he lunged. He stopped moving when he noticed her running. His weathered face showed concern. ‘What’s wrong, Miss Miranda?’ He studied her.
She reassured him. ‘Nothing, Nicky, but I must go away this evening. To see...someone.’
Nicky stared. ‘That man who raised you send for you?’
‘No.’
Her words refused to come until after she took a breath. ‘Someone I used to know is dying and they asked if I might see them one last time. I could not refuse a last wish.’
‘No, of course you couldn’t.’ He stood, compassion showing from beneath the bushy eyebrows. ‘You take care, though. I’ll get one of the lads to go with you. We’ll never miss him. And a young woman as fine as you should never be out alone.’
She feared what a companion might see and what the lad might hear from her dying grandmother’s lips.
‘No. But, thank you, Nicky.’ She reached out and, for a second, clasped his arms. Concern wrinkled his face and he opened his mouth to speak again.
‘I’ll take care,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be back before you know it.’
Moving quickly to the cart, she thrust her bonnet on, concealing her face from the sun and anyone who might be watching.
At the cart, the driver pointed to the back.
‘What is wrong with my grandmother?’ Miranda asked, settling in. ‘How does she know where I work? Is she—?’
‘I don’t know anything about her,’ the man spoke, words precise. ‘Just that she paid me to fetch you. She asked if I might deliver a message to her long lost granddaughter, who is a governess, and bring you.’ He took off his hat again and held it over his heart. ‘One last time so that she can go on to her reward peaceful like.’
Miranda suppressed the premonition that her grandmother’s eternal reward might not be a fortune.
He frowned, making the long creases on his face more prominent. ‘Right pitiful, she is. All skin and bones, and sunken eyes. It’ll take us nearly half a day to get there. Best be going. Otherwise, I’ll never be able to get you back before sunset.’
Miranda jumped into the cart.
She got no other information out of the man and the ride to the old cottage caused memories to resurface that she’d not known she had.
* * *
She was surprised to see the cottage still standing, its roof hardly taller than her head, the front window boarded over, but with openings between the boards. As she walked inside, she noticed shadows on the empty bed. Her eyes didn’t adjust to the dim light before the door slammed closed behind her. Something crashed, hitting the wood and locking her in.
In seconds, she heard her grandmother’s voice calling from the other side of the door, ‘Don’t be going nowhere, Child. I be bringing you a husband. One with a fortune like you deserve.’
Miranda stumbled, gulping in breaths. Her grandmother wasn’t at death’s door. She’d trapped Miranda in her lair.
‘As soon as you are betrothed, I’ll set you free.’
Her grandmother hadn’t changed at all.
* * *
He could not die tonight—not on his mother’s birthday.
The blow across the Duke of Chalgrove’s back knocked him to his knees. Another club slammed him from behind, shoving him face down to the ground. A body landed on his back. Ruffians jumped on him from all sides.
Chalgrove’s mouth pressed against the street. He tasted dirt. The shock of being ambushed had given the ruffians an opportunity to attack.
With both palms
splayed, he pushed himself up, shaking loose a man who had him by the arm. A flash of irony ripped through his mind. He’d meant to visit Gentleman Jackson’s.
Another attacker gripped his right shoulder—the criminal’s entire weight being used to force Chalgrove’s arm up his back. Pain seared his thoughts white hot and he lunged forward, shifting at the same time, and threw the man to the side.
One more man jumped at him.
He had no time to guess why he was being surrounded because all his resources were centred on survival.
Jagged breaths touched his hair. Chalgrove snapped his head back, towards the bulk behind him. He heard the crack as his skull connected with something which felt like a face. A pained grunt from the attacker pleased Chalgrove and the hold on his arm loosened.
He kicked and his foot connected with air. But as the man dived for him, the Duke jumped aside, causing the man to lose balance, and Chalgrove gave an elbow thrust that took the man to the ground.
Then a woman screamed.
Chalgrove spun in time to see a man holding an old woman. Lantern light shone on the club in the man’s hand and illuminated a scar on his face.
‘Stop, or she gets hurt,’ the man called out. His words were distinct and he had the arms of a sailor who didn’t have to climb the rigging, but could toss his companions up to do the work for him.
The woman shivered, her scarf askew. Her aged hands pleading. ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she cried to the man. ‘I beg you.’ Her voice shook. ‘Please...’
Chalgrove didn’t move. ‘Let her go.’
The fight left his body. Arms trapped him.
‘Tie him,’ the man who’d been securing the old woman said. ‘Hands behind his back. Once and then once again.’
The woman was released. She stumbled a few steps into the darkness. As soon as Chalgrove was tied, the old woman stepped from the shadows and took the club from the other man, throwing it to the ground, then stared at her attacker. ‘You bruised me, you big beast.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’ The man stepped backwards. ‘You know I’d never cause you a moment of grief.
‘I wasn’t jesting when I called out for you not to hurt me, you cudgel-head. You nearly choked me.’
Then the woman’s attention changed and she shuffled closer to Chalgrove, studying him.
Rage flashed inside Chalgrove. He’d fallen into a trap, yet he would never have been able to risk seeing the woman hurt.
She walked closer, peering at him. ‘I said not to hurt his face.’ She cringed. ‘His teeth?’ she gasped and her lip trembled. ‘I pray you didn’t bust out the man’s teeth.’
He could not think properly.
Were they knocking him about to take him somewhere for a portrait sitting?
His head must have hit harder than he realised.
The woman walked in front of him, inclined her head closer, eyes squinted, and he could tell she examined his mouth. He saw her shoulders relax and she straightened, relief in her face.
‘Make sure he’s comfortable,’ the old woman commanded. ‘We need to get him in the cart so Jasper can put out the lantern.’
She walked behind him. A slap against cloth sounded. ‘You have to keep him unharmed. We can’t have him hurt. There’s no time for him to heal.’
Boots thumped near him. ‘This one will take a lot of feed.’
He felt a touch to his fingertips. The old woman was examining him. The skin touching him reminded him of meat put in a grinder, then left in the sun to dry.
‘Ah...’
He heard a groan of satisfaction from the old woman.
‘Feel these.’ She spoke to one of the men as she examined Chalgrove’s fingers.
‘I ain’t holdin’ his hand,’ a male voice rasped.
The old woman chuckled and he heard a giddiness in her words. ‘Man’s not all scarred over.’
‘What’d you expect of a tailor? He’s never done an honest day of work in his life.’ The one who’d held the club spoke, his words as precise as a tutor’s.
‘Neither has you,’ the rasping voice answered.
‘I’m not a tailor,’ Chalgrove shouted. ‘I’m the Duke of Chalgrove.’
‘Told you he would spout nonsense, Jasper,’ the old woman said. ‘Just didn’t expect him to claim to be a duke. Or earl even.’ Then she laughed. ‘He’s full of imaginations. Thinking you might suppose him a duke.’
Chalgrove heard movement again, felt what he sensed was a skirt brushing his shoulder and knew the woman stood at his side. He felt his upper arm being squeezed as she checked his muscles. ‘Mmm,’ she mumbled. ‘Not bad.’
He hoped she’d realise he’d be gristly thrown in a pot and sprinkled with lemon.
‘Look at ’em boots,’ the rasping one called, close at Chalgrove’s side. ‘I bet I could wear ’em.’
‘If you’re taking his boots, I’m getting the hat you knocked off him,’ the biggest brute spoke.
Seconds later, the one with the scratchy voice mused, ‘He’s got him a big head. Hat near wipes your nose.’
‘Don’t nab those boots,’ the woman called out. ‘Makes him an eyeful. But that hat, keep it for me. He don’t need to be wearing it. I want him fine. Now, put out the light.’
The lantern wick was extinguished, leaving the scent of burning oil in its wake.
‘I’m getting the cart,’ she said. ‘Don’t let him get away.’ Her steps clunked as she left.
The one with precise words said, ‘I’ve never seen a yellow hat before. It’s different.’
‘Fer a flower pot?’ the other voice asked.
‘That hat is none of your concern.’ Chalgrove didn’t like being discussed. He expected at least the same respect as a man to be hanged. These ruffians would die.
‘This hat smells not unlike perfume,’ the careful voice said. ‘What do you think, Jasper?’
He heard a sniff at his shoulder. An object tapped his leg to get his attention.
Rage flared and he couldn’t speak.
‘You been visitin’ a lady? You prob’ly don’t even have to give ’em coin or marry ’em to get ’em to tumble you. If that ain’t criminal,’ Jasper said, not waiting for a response. ‘Poor souls like us got to pay or promise marryin’.’
‘Have you ever romanced a theatre woman?’ the precise one asked. ‘Outside?’
Chalgrove ground his teeth together and refused to answer.
‘He’s nivver been with a wench anywheres but in a proper bed,’ the man with the raspy voice informed his cohort. ‘Nob smells like him wouldn’t be able to get his twig up ’less he’s in a house. Got to have a soft bed with lacy curtains and a valet to tell him where to put his goods.’
‘She has a feather bed for him.’ The words had a chuckle in them.
‘You’re lyin’. A feather bed?’
He heard silence.
‘She’s been working on this for a season. Just finished last week.’
‘What are the plans for me?’ Chalgrove interrupted, demanding the men enlighten him.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘Do you know?’ The sound of his voice changed enough to alert Chalgrove that the man had turned his head.
‘I’d nivver put nuthin’ past that ol’ hag. She’s daft. More ’n normal-woman daft.’
‘I can pay you to release me,’ Chalgrove growled out the words.
He heard silence again, then felt his purse being taken from his waistcoat pocket. Coins jingled.
‘We’s thinkin’ ’bout it,’ the rasper boasted and Chalgrove knew the coins were gone.
‘Let me go so you won’t have to hang,’ he commanded. They’d not live long enough to walk to the gallows. He’d see to that.
Again, he heard from the one with the scratchy voice. ‘We had too much worries catchin’ you to let you wander of
f. Been eyein’ you for days. Would have given up, but the hag said we’d no choice but to do as she said.’
‘Collecting the other one was easier,’ the one with the brutish arms spoke. ‘I hope the old woman will be satisfied. I’m leaving London and going where she’ll never find me.’
The rasping one shuffled closer, and lowered his voice. ‘We didn’t have no choice. Old woman said she’d give us a curse so we’d have to stay home with our wives. Man’s got to care for his jewels and the sceptre.’
‘She bluffed.’ Chalgrove clamped his jaw tight.
A snort answered him. ‘She be a toddle on the tricky side. But, you’ll be discoverin’ soon enough.’
The man spoke to his friend. ‘I wonder if the old woman was foolin’ when she told us he was Beau Brummell’s tailor? He don’t fight like no tailor.’
‘I’m the Duke of Chalgrove.’
Silence greeted the revelation.
‘I ’spect you could be. That’s a towerin’ hat.’
Copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Tyner
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ISBN-13: 9781488065910
Redeeming Her Viking Warrior
Redeeming Her Viking Warrior Page 22