by Shea,Lisa
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
In A Glance Chapter 1
Medieval Dialogue
About Medieval Life
Glossary
Parts of a Sword
Medieval Clothing
Women’s Clothing
Dedication
About the Author
23 Free Ebooks
Namaste Aloha Servus
Lady in Red
A Medieval Romance
The Sword of Glastonbury Series
Book 8
Lisa Shea
Copyright © 2012 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Lisa Shea
Book design by Lisa Shea
Visit my website at LisaShea.com
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Printing: June 2012
- 10 -
Print version ISBN-13 978-0-985564-0-2
Kindle ASIN: B0084S7X14
Be patient with those you love.
Be loyal to those you care for.
Be steady in speaking out against wrongs.
Lady in Red
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
In A Glance Chapter 1
Medieval Dialogue
About Medieval Life
Glossary
Parts of a Sword
Medieval Clothing
Women’s Clothing
Dedication
About the Author
23 Free Ebooks
Namaste Aloha Servus
Preface
Welcome to my Sword of Glastonbury series. I’m thrilled you’ve joined me in this adventure! These full-length novels share my adoration for all things medieval. I’ve belonged to the Society for Creative Anachronisms for many years and delved fully into my medieval personae. I’ve researched the language, clothing, education, and outlook of medieval women. I’ve practiced swordfighting for years, too. I’m joyful to be able to share the fruits of this research with you!
Each of the novels in this series is fully standalone. While there is a sword passed from heroine to heroine to flow the stories together, each book can be read on its own and involves its own set of characters.
If you’ve read the series in order you’ve probably read this preface before : ). If you’re just joining us, then hello!
Did you know that many words like “wow” that we think of as modern are actually quite old? And that words like “hug” that we consider timeless are actually fairly recent? You can learn more about medieval language, clothing, and other related topics in my appendices in the back. Medieval people loved slang words, traded in goods from the far reaches of the Earth, and had some fairly “modern” views about what women could or could not do.
Especially during these Crusades years, when countless men were off at war, large numbers of public offices were held by women. Many keeps were ruled by women. Women fought with blades to defend their homes and keeps; some even went on the road to fight in the Crusades. Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine was a powerhouse of strength and a model for all women of these years. During this time it was wholly expected that women should be respected in positions of power and were quite capable of actively defending their lands.
It’s only later, when peace moved in, the Church solidified power, and courtly love traditions developed, that women were demoted to restrictively passive roles.
It’s good to shake off some of the misconceptions created by everyone from Errol Flynn to Game of Thrones and examine what our real-life history has to offer.
Lady In Red is a clean romance. The brief intimate scene is gently described. The few swears are period-appropriate such as “God’s Teeth” or “God’s Blood.” There is swordfighting but no explicit violence. As such, it is suitable for teens and up.
If you ever have any questions or comments for me, I would love to chat! You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Google+, Pinterest, Wattpad, and most other social networks. Just check the ‘about the Author’ section or do a search for Lisa Shea in your system of choice.
So sit back, relax, and enjoy a virtual vacation in the entrancing world of medieval England!
All proceeds from this series benefit battered women’s shelters. Be the change you wish to see in the world.
Chapter 1
England, 1198
“Time discovers truth.”
— Seneca, Roman philosopher
Jessame sauntered into the boisterous hubbub of the evening party with a wide smile. Instantly all eyes turned to her, drawing in her riotous, uncovered curls of ebony hair, her shocking exposure of décolletage, the clingingly tight cut of her hellfire-red dress, and the outright indecent exposure of her ankles above the matching red silk slippers. A trio of jack-a-dandy teenage boys nudged one another with open-mouthed delight, a young girl with blonde ringlets had eyes as wide as pound coins, and an elderly woman in widow’s garb nearly swooned, supported by a pair of scowling matrons whose eyes shot poniards.
Jessame grinned with delight and curtseyed to the crowd. The night’s festivities were beginning exactly as planned.
The noise rose around her as she strolled across the polished plank floor toward the refreshment table. Now the voices held a sharper, hushed tone, and shocked outrage rang from all sides.
She chuckled in satisfaction as she looked down the heavy oak table, perusing her options. A collection of pewter cups to her left were grouped as neatly as schoolchildren on their first day of class. A large wooden bowl held a red wine punch, apple pieces floating merrily on top. Further to the right were a juicy roast duck, a fragrant apple pie, a lush bowl of fresh raspberries, a pungent platter of minced onion, and several other treats.
Her mouth watered. It had been a long while since she had eaten this well. She would make the most of the
night’s offering, at least for as long as she was allowed to stay.
Her hand was just reaching for an elegant, wide-brimmed cup when a sharp, hissing voice drilled into her ear.
“Are you sure you are in the right place, woman? This party is for proper members of our village.”
Ah, the welcoming committee had arrived.
Jessame turned with a bright smile on her lips. Standing before her was a woman in her mid-twenties who, she had to admit, was stunningly beautiful. Her honey-gold hair cascaded around her face, and the richly woven fabrics which embraced her curvaceous figure spoke of a life of luxury.
Jessame’s eyes danced with delight. “Ah, Lady Cavendish,” she purred. “I was not aware this was your home.”
The woman’s alabaster skin pinkened and she drew her lips into a tight line, drawing herself up haughtily. “You well know that it is not,” she retorted. “However, I am sure I represent the thoughts of the entire village when I state you are not welcome here.”
Jessame’s eyes twinkled. “What, only a brief two months since you deigned to descend from London to wed our wealthiest citizen, and already you speak for our community?” Her voice dropped into a murmur of teasing reproach. “And here you call me a fast woman.”
Lady Cavendish’s mouth opened into a round O of shock, but, before she could formulate a response, her eyes shifted to look behind Jessame. Her features froze in place.
A low rumble of a voice came from behind Jessame, calm, pleasant, and openly curious.
“My dear Lady Cavendish, would you please introduce me to my newest guest?”
Every inch of Jessame’s skin tingled; time slowed down to the gentle dripping of water from a leaf after a rainstorm. She knew that voice, at least knew the echo of it from its greener days. She and Berenger had played together in the fields of her home, had fished in her trout pond on lazy spring days, and had stretched side by side on those long summer nights gazing at the stars and watching for comets. From the moment she could toddle on two feet she had chased after him, raced with him, dug for earthworms, twined reeds into chains, and carved branches into whistles. She could almost feel his eyebrow arch as he looked her over, wondering at this strange new addition to his homecoming celebration.
Ten long years. She would have known him in an instant; known the rich sound of his voice and the steady set of his dark brown eyes. But it was critical for her task, absolutely core to what she was doing, that he not recognize her. She hoped that his decade in the Crusades, amongst Saracen and Italian and Arabic cultures, had made him long since forget their simple childhood times together.
To make sure, she would do everything in her power to make a strong impression on him. She had to convince him that this wild woman before him was nothing like the sensible girl he had grown up with.
She turned slowly and gave an elaborate curtsey, head lowered, making sure his first vision was of the low cut of her body-hugging crimson dress - of the tousled curls of hair which had grown far darker since her youth. She kept her eyes lowered as Lady Cavendish was reluctantly drawn into the role demanded by custom.
“Yes, certainly Berenger,” the blonde stiffly agreed. “This woman is a relative newcomer to our cozy village; a visitor, you might almost say. I get the sense she might be moving along any time now. She is temporarily lodging at the old Sawyer house down by the stream. Her name is Besame.”
Jessame focused on the strongest London gutter accent she could draw into her mind. She’d picked it up from a traveling merchant who came through once a season with tin lanterns and boxes. She barely made any effort for most of the villagers – there was little need to try to throw them off her true identity. They rarely gave her a kind word in her Besame role and saw no further than her bright red clothes and flouncy manner. She had been isolated from village life for so many years that it never occurred to them that Besame the prostitute and Jessame of the Dwinnel family might be the same person.
But Berenger … he was no fool. He could see through people, gaze into their inner soul …
She shook off the notion. She could not falter now. His return home had been quite unexpected, but she would deal with it as she had dealt with so many other hurdles. She would see her task through.
Resolved, she drew herself up, speaking with a heavy, deep accent. She made sure he was distracted by the dress, the movements, and the voice before he saw her face.
“Ot’s fine, just fine, Sir. Oi’m settlin’ in good like a pig in fine mud,” she resounded heartily, graveling her voice. “Sure’s mighty good to meetsya.”
She steadied herself, then raised her eyes up to meet his.
Her heart thundered against her chest, and she sucked in a deep breath, willing herself to stay steady.
He was exactly as she remembered him.
The gold flecks in his tawny brown eyes; the right eyebrow nudged up in surprise and curiosity as he took in the woman before him. He was the same. The same full, dark head of hair, falling in waves to his shoulder. The same strong set to his jaw.
And yet he was changed. When he had left that abrupt July morning, he was just turning eighteen. He had been verging on thin, still more boy than man, even to her untutored young eyes. Now he was a week shy of twenty-eight and life had filled him in. His muscles were strong and supple beneath his leather jerkin. He wore a sword at his hip and its well-worn scabbard indicated he was proficient in its use. He smelled not of the fresh fields and clean waters, but a more heady mixture of leather, sweet sweat, and some exotic spice she could not name.
God’s teeth, how she had missed him.
His eyes narrowed; she turned quickly to the table, giving herself a moment to recover. On impulse she grabbed a handful of raspberries. She’d regret this in the morning, when the rash spread across her chest and drove her into an itching frenzy. But for now it would serve to drive home the idea that she was not Jessame but an entirely different creature altogether.
She turned back to face him, popping a plump berry into her mouth with a bright smile, then gushing with rumbling pleasure, “God’s blood, but your tables are groanin’, M’Lord. Margr food. Lots, I mean. Kind o’ you to open yours doors to mes.” She tossed another raspberry into her mouth, adding, “Mmm, godr!”
The door opened at the far end of the room, and Lady Cavendish had her hand on Berenger’s shoulder as quickly as a hawk pounces on a field mouse. “Ah, it is Father Stockman,” she advised Berenger with enthusiasm. “We must go and greet him at once.” In a moment the two had moved into the general throng and Jessame was left alone.
She let out a long, deep breath.
She had done it.
The worst was over. He had not seen through her disguise, and now he would get more and more used to her in this new persona as the days went on. Hopefully her deception would only have to last a few weeks longer.
She sighed, turning back to the table and ladling out some of the fruited wine into a pewter cup. She drank down the punch in one long draw. She followed it up with another raspberry, giving a wry smile. She did enjoy their flavor, and if she was going to develop a rash anyway, she might as well enjoy herself while she could. Soon she would have to return to her normal life.
Normal life. Despite the dangers of her current position, Jessame was enjoying herself immensely and did not want her masquerade to end too quickly. As much as she loved her father, remaining cooped up in the house with him for these six long years had worn down her soul. She would do anything to have him cured from his illness - to have their routine return to its former, happy times.
She let out a resigned sigh. It was but a dream to think any hope of a remedy still existed. She would have her few weeks of freedom. She would cherish her days of enjoying the pleasures of the community – what few were afforded to her in the guise she wore – before she returned to the virtual nunnery of her childhood home.
She poured herself another large helping of red wine, then glanced around the room. Most of the townspeople w
ere ignoring her now, talking amongst themselves or examining the room’s décor with hushed conversation. Jessame found herself gazing around as well. She had visited Berenger’s home only a few times during their childhood; he had come to her doorstep every morning, and in her youthful innocence she had never thought to question it. She had only been allowed to visit him the times he had encountered accidents at his home. Strange, he had always been surefooted and agile when he was with her, but somehow at home he had ended up with broken arms, twisted ankles, even a burned leg one time.
During those few visits she would play with Berenger here in the main receiving room, or sometimes in his father’s library. Those were the only two rooms she had been granted access to. She remembered them as being sumptuous, almost garish, stocked with golden knick-knacks and embroidered tapestries. She recalled a beautiful desk with inlaid wood and carved legs that she and Berenger would play beneath.
Now the son had returned home after his father’s death and the room had been redone in a much more elegant fashion. Dark burgundy tapestries hung on the walls, and the solid oak furniture had been pushed to the sides to make room for the guests. Candles shone on all walls to hold back the falling darkness.