A simply fantastic series that is getting better and better with each new book.
The more I read of this series, the more I want.
I love this book and I love Tracy Cooper-Posey!
I am a long time fan of Tracy Cooper-Posey and love her writing.
Pendragon Rises is an incredible story of two "invisible" people (Anwen and Stefan) who find unexpected love. Their story is woven into the amazing tapestry of the Arthurian Legend.
I am in love with this series. It’s hard not to become emotionally invested in any Cooper-Posey character, but I found that especially true with Stefan and Anwen. A mighty warrior struck blind and the overlooked mouse in the corner. My heart ached for them.
I absolutely love this book! We're pulled into this fantastic world by Tracy Cooper-Posey's vivid storytelling and deft handling of the personalities created within it. I can't say enough good things about Pendragon Rises or the series it's a part of!
Pendragon Rises is the best novel yet of this wonderful series, The Once and Future Hearts. Once I started this one, I couldn’t put it down.
Tracy puts together a wonderful story that parallels the Arthurian legends and history of that time while keeping the characters relatable and realistic. A definite read!
I really liked Anwen’s happily ever after. Superb writing, I say.
The romance between Steffan and Anwen is absolutely perfect! If you're afraid to give Historical romances a try due to authors not adhering to how you feel the past WAS, trust me, you won't be disappointed!
Tracy Cooper-Posey just has a way with her writing that draws a reader into her world. Especially with the characters, there is such depth.
Thanks Tracy for yet another brilliantly written story, with the whole history side included.
Silly, Flippant Inspiration
I had been patiently waiting to write Igraine and Uther’s story. It is one I have loved since I first read Mary Stewart’s wild, stormy rendition. I had grown to like Uther a great deal while writing Dragon Kin, too.
But the taking of Tintagel is a domestic story, during a time of war when the men were away fighting battles and tending their High King…how could I retell the tale within the framework of a romance, if all the potential warrior heroes were not to hand?
While I was researching and building concepts for the series, I was also tapping into previous tellings of King Arthur. One of those stories was the animated The Quest for Camelot. I remembered watching it many, many years ago, but all I could remember of the story was that the hero was blind (and the voice was Cary Elwes’). Other than that, it seemed to me, the story was another of the silly tongue-in-cheek renditions of the mythology. (A two-headed dragon is part of the story, for example.)
However, blindness was an interesting idea. I dug into it a little deeper—more research!—and learned that there are two general types of blindness.
One type (the more common type) is when the eyes themselves are injured or ill-formed, or succumb to disease, and can no longer receive the light signals and pass them on to the brain to interpret.
The other type, a more rare form of blindness, is when the section of the brain where sight is processed is injured. A person with this form of blindness has functioning eyes, and depending upon the brain injury, can often receive tantalizing flickers of vision, or even whole moments of perfectly normal sight before it is snatched away once more.
How awful that must be!
I knew I had found the core of my hero, which also neatly explained why he was not fighting with the other warriors.
As a small bonus, his head injury was easy to explain, for the area of the brain where sight is processed is at the back of the head and Saxons favor war hammers.
A suitable heroine for my blind hero simply had to be someone overlooked by everyone else. The romance formed itself after that…
Part One
Chapter One
Dimilioc Fortress, Duchy of Cornwall, 464 C.E.
Both Daveth and Cador were absent for the evening, which should have been warning enough, except Steffan couldn’t see the empty places at the head table.
He found the small table at the back of the room, ran his staff along the bench and learned it was unoccupied. He rested the staff against the edge of the table, then slid onto the end of the bench, as was his custom.
The chatter in the stone room was louder than usual, disguising the sound of the evening meal being served by the slaves and servants. Perhaps that was why he missed the other signs.
From the odors, he judged that mutton was tonight’s meal. And…something with warmed honey. Parsnips, possibly. Through the high open windows, he could smell the sea. It was a fresh scent, pleasant among the aged and sour smells in the hall. Dimilioc was five miles from Tintagel and three miles from the ocean. Everyone called Steffan a liar when he said he could detect the salt and the weeds which clung to the rocks and dried in the sun. Yet the scents were undeniable.
Someone thumped a mug in front of Steffan. He heard the wine slosh and felt the splatter on his hand. He reached out to locate the mug and raised it to his face and sniffed. It smelled like the sour wine Cornwall produced. He sipped cautiously.
He had discovered all sorts of additions in his mug on previous evenings. Soil was common. Food, too. Gobs of spit were frequent. On one memorable occasion, there had been urine.
It was just wine, tonight. He took a deeper mouthful and put the mug where he could find it again.
Another clatter told him a plate had been put in front of him. He waited and heard the wet slap of meat. “Thank you,” he said, his voice dry.
No answer. That was also customary.
Steffan pulled out his knife and thumbed the edge. The blade was satisfyingly sharp. He put his left hand on the table, then brushed it sideways, looking for the edge of the plate.
Nothing. His hand swept all the way to the right. His fingertips touched the wine mug.
Someone had removed the plate.
A snigger from nearby told him what had happened. It was Maurgh’s soft laugh. The high note was unmistakable. He or one of his faction had pulled the plate away while Steffan had been checking his knife.
“Awww…the priest can’t find his dinner.” That was one of the others. Steffan wondered how many of Maurgh’s men were watching the by-play, enjoying what they thought was Steffan’s humiliation.
Steffan brought the knife point down upon the table and rested his hand on the hilt. “Tutor,” he corrected them. “Give me the plate.”
“All tutors are priests,” Maurgh said. He paused. “Or eunuchs. You’re sure you’re not a eunuch? You just said you are not a priest.”
More laughter.
Steffan squashed the anger which wanted to rise. He was hungry. The more he argued with Maurgh over his lack of reasoning abilities, the longer it would take to get the plate back. He gritted his teeth and waited, instead.
Everyone nearby was chomping their food and drinking. Steffan’s belly cramped.
“Let the sod have his meat,” Maurgh said. “He’s too good to sit with us Cornish men. He was in the High King’s favor, remember.”
Someone clapped Steffan on the shoulder. He hid his twitch of surprise. He had not seen the slap coming.
A metallic scrape sounded as the plate was returned to him.
“Enjoy your meal, eunuch,” the breathy, low voice murmured in his ear.
Steffan traced the edges of the plate, then ran his fingers over the meal itself. The meat was still warm and felt as it should. He found the lumps of parsnip, sitting in a honey sauce to offset the peppery flavor. There was nothing inedible among them as far as he could tell.
He sawed off a lump of the mutton and chewed, wishing as he often did that he had a room of his own where he could take his meals. It would halt the pranks which Maurgh and other soldiers of the same quality found to be a worthy night’s entertainment. It would also allow Steffan to eat without everyone watching him play with his
food like a child.
The men at Maurgh’s table also ate. He could hear them grind their food between their teeth as they spoke.
If all he must put up with tonight was the stealing of his plate, then it would be a normal, almost pleasant evening. It just didn’t feel normal. For a moment, while gripping his knife and waiting for the return of the plate, Steffan wanted to lash out. Slice arms open and finger tips off.
Maurgh was being no more belligerent than usual. Steffan forced himself to consider the real cause for the knot of tension in his chest.
At the end of their lessons today, Cador had touched Steffan’s arm to gain his attention. “My father has spoken of me joining him at the High King’s side.”
Steffan hid the jolt Cador’s confession delivered. Once, it had been Steffan by the High King’s side, one of Duke Gorlois’ most favored captains. Steffan made himself nod. “You are seventeen. It is reasonable that you finish your education now and take up your responsibilities as your father’s heir.”
“I like my education,” Cador said. Steffan could hear the smile in his voice. “You make Latin make sense.”
“You don’t need Latin on the battlefield,” Steffan replied. “You are a good warrior, Cador. You will grace yourself on the field and make your father proud.”
“How would you know I am a good warrior?” Cador asked, with a soft laugh.
Steffan did not mind Cador’s teasing. It was never cruel. “I listen to the other men. They watch you closely.”
“They measure,” Cador said, his tone dry. He sounded like a much older man. “Every day I am examined.”
It was true, so Steffan said, instead, “When does he want you to join him?”
“He said ‘soon’. I don’t know what that means.” Cador sounded pensive.
Steffan considered. “Ambrosius is still camped outside Ellisbury—”
“Amesbury,” Cador corrected. “Remember?”
“Amesbury,” Steffan amended. The town had changed its name to celebrate its status as the birth place of the High King. The massive stonework being rebuilt on the plains a few miles from the town had elevated it to one of the busiest places in Britain. “Amesbury is only three days’ ride from here and these are times of peace. The work on the monument is likely to take many days yet. Months, even. There is time.”
“They have been at it for nearly a year,” Cador pointed out. “If Merlin is the all-powerful magician they say he is, then why does he not cast a spell and have the stones just raise themselves into position?”
“They say he is using magic,” Steffan said. “The magic of music and mathematics…which are not your strengths at all.”
“Then I will never be a magician,” Cador said lightly. “What will you do when I go to my father, Steffan? Dimilioc is a military fort. There is no one else here to teach.”
“No one worthy, at least,” Steffan told him, the tension in his chest tightening just a little more. “I don’t know what I will do,” he admitted. “The Duke was kind enough to find me a place here. I cannot demand he find another.”
“I don’t think kindness had much to do with it,” Cador said. “Your magic is with languages, Steffan. Also, I have learned to appreciate logic and reasoning because of you.”
“You are kind to say so, Master Cador,” Steffan replied. “Shall we meet again tomorrow? There is still time to acquaint you with Scipio.”
“Another Greek?”
“A Roman general who knew much more about military strategy than you.”
“I suppose, yes, we should, then. Tomorrow at noon. Thank you, Steffan.”
Steffan listened to Cador bounce to his feet and hurry from the room, eager to stretch his body with riding and hunting, now that Steffan had thoroughly stretched his mind.
The conversation lingered in Steffan’s mind through the rest of the afternoon, as he made his way to the stables and brushed and fed Avalloc. He took three times longer to complete the simple tasks these days. The pitchfork to shovel hay and the brush to tend to Avalloc’s hide, and the sack of oats were never where they were the day before. Each day he was forced to hunt for them throughout the large stable.
As Steffan finished the last bites of his supper, the memory of the conversation returned to him, accompanied by the frustration which had been growing all afternoon. Uncertainty breeds fear… Who had said that?
He wasn’t fearful. Yet the uncertainty gnawed.
“Watch out, Steffan!” came the cry.
Steffan turned his head, searching for the direction of the warning.
The tankard which hit him in the shoulder was still half-full of wine, which splashed onto Steffan’s face and spilled down his front and back. The tankard itself was a heavy thing which sent a flare of pain through his shoulder.
Steffan hissed and grabbed at his shoulder. The tankard clattered on the flagstones beneath him. Wine dripped from his hand and thigh.
The laughter which broke out around him was from more than just Maurgh’s table. It was a raucous sound. Fists and mugs thumped upon the table tops, signifying their great amusement.
For the first time Steffan wondered why Daveth did not shout for order. Daveth liked an orderly meal, even if it was loud with chatter. He sent men from the room if he didn’t like their behavior, whether or not they had finished their meal. The custom contained the inclinations of men like Maurgh and his brethren.
“Look at the eunuch. He’s wet himself!”
That earned even more laughter, as if it was the height of wit.
Steffan clenched his hand, weighing up whether it was worth responding. He was already frustrated. Reacting as he wanted to would not be fair.
He shook off the wine from his hand and the worst of it from his jerkin and trousers. The jerkin was leather and would not be harmed. He would have to coax one of the kitchen servants into washing the trousers for him, which meant finding something else to wear in the meantime.
That would take up most of his spare time tomorrow and he already faced the challenge of finding another position in another household somewhere…
No, he would not lash out at these men. They were just the last of a day’s worth of irritations.
He turned back to his plate and felt the edge carefully. Then he cautiously ran his fingertips over the contents. It was as he had left it. The mug had not been a distraction for further mischief.
His shoulder throbbing where the mug impacted the heaviest, Steffan finished his meal. The parsnips tasted of wine, now.
He was close enough to done that he could have abandoned his meal and left the hall. Only, the temper stirring in his gut and chest made him stay where he was and eat, even though the parsnips did not go well with wine.
When he was completely finished, he cautiously sipped his wine once more, then drained the mug. He got to his feet and reached for the staff. It had been moved an extra foot along the table, too.
He gripped the staff and headed for the door. He always sat at the back of the hall. From here, he knew the way to the door and that there was nothing between the last of the tables and the wall which might trip him. If a man stood in his way, the tip of the staff would warn Steffan of it.
It had taken many weeks to learn to constantly sweep the staff from side to side to check for obstructions. After he had struck his shins and knees and his nose and elbows enough times, the lesson sunk in.
Steffan moved forward, the staff painting in his mind a picture of clear floor. When something snagged his ankle and pulled it out from under him, he was taken by surprise.
The yank was powerful enough to take him off his feet. Steffan landed on his back on the stones, the wind driving out of him. His head rapped sharply against the floor, creating sparks in his mind.
The laughter, this time, seemed to sweep through the whole room. All background conversation stopped.
Fury swept through Steffan. He gripped his staff and jumped back to his feet. He pushed his left hand farther down the staff and gripp
ed it, listening, while his temper throbbed in his head, driving out wise thought.
There. There was the closest laughing man.
Steffan rammed the end of the staff into the laughing man’s chest, hard enough to steal the air from his lungs. A coughing sound confirmed he had hit squarely.
“Hey!” someone protested, from behind him. Steffan reversed the staff and shoved it backward, aiming for the protestor. Another square strike.
The laughter halted as the man wheezed and groaned.
“Get the bastard!” someone shouted.
Steffan shifted his grip on the staff, waiting. Every man in this room was a warrior and not one of them had read a book. None of them knew—or they had forgotten, if they had known—that one of the most effective weapons in the world was the quarter staff.
Idiots. Fools.
As they surged toward Steffan, he raised the staff. Their sour breath and heavy steps told him exactly where they were. He didn’t need his sight to deal with them.
Chapter Two
Tintagel, Duchy of Cornwall, 464 C.E.—the next morning.
Cador’s arrival at the gates shortly after prayers sent a ripple of whispers through the stone corridors. Everyone hurried to the Duchess’ rooms to attend Igraine while she received Cador, driven more by curiosity than because their attendance was expected. Cador had not set foot inside the high stone walls of Tintagel for years.
A woman passing the door of Anwen’s room hissed, “Hurry! The Duchess has called for us!”
Morguase and Morgan looked up from their slates. Morguase, who was twelve and just showing the first signs of adulthood in her small frame, frowned. “Why would Mother call for us?”
Morgan pursed her perfectly bowed, full lips. “I heard our brother comes to speak to her.” Morgan was six, yet often spoke like a much older child. The doting and favors her perfect beauty engendered had not spoiled her at all. Instead, they had imparted a cynical maturity.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 42