Medieval Mistletoe - One Magical Christmas Season

by Laurel O'Donnell

Still smiling, she danced out into the hall. Lina and Bertha were at the hearth, setting a large pot into the flames to keep the morning’s pottage warm. Both woman watched their lady exit their lord’s chamber. Bertha blushed, but Lina laughed out loud.

  “There you are! Bertha was worried when she couldn’t find you this morning. I told her you’d turn up,” the cook cried. “Didn’t I tell you that, Bertha?”

  Avice grinned at Lina. “I fell asleep keeping Lord Jocelyn company after his dream awakened him.”

  “Is that so?” Lina gave a lewd wink. “So I was right to add that Mistletoe to your posset last night.”

  Avice stopped where she stood, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces. None of what had happened last night was real. Instead, everything that Jos—Jocelyn had said to her last night and this morning was the result of a love potion. He didn’t love her. He had been tricked into caring for her.

  “Tell me you didn’t,” she cried out, distraught.

  Worry replaced the lewdness in Lina’s expression. “I thought that’s what you expected me to do. When you sent the boy to the healer and he came back with the dried berries of Mistletoe among the others, then you didn’t use the berries, I thought that’s what you wanted me to do with them.”

  Avice gasped, then covered her mouth with her hands to stop her heartbroken cry. Tears stung at her eyes. Mistletoe had been but one of a number of herbs she’d requested, but she hadn’t used it, not after she found herbs better suited to treat Jocelyn’s pain. Whirling, she raced back to Jocelyn’s chamber, entering without knocking. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his shirt.

  He smiled at her as she came to a stop before him. “You’re back. Can it be you’ve changed your mind and decided to marry me today after all?”

  A tear escaped Avice’s control and trickled down her cheek. “You don’t love me,” she told him. “Nor do you want to marry me. You’ve been poisoned by a love potion.”

  He frowned at her. “What love potion?”

  “There was Mistletoe in the posset last night,” Avice told him, fighting the urge to bury her face in her hands and sob, knowing her honesty would cost her everything she wanted in life. “That’s why it had that bitter taste. That’s why you are asking me to wed you this morning. It’s not because you want to marry me, it’s the love potion forcing you to do it.”

  All the amusement drained from Jocelyn’s expression. He eyed her for a long moment. “Do you still wish to marry me?”

  “Aye, of course I want to wed you,” Avice cried out, her heart breaking, “but I have wanted to marry you from the moment we spoke our betrothal vows. It’s you who hasn’t wanted to marry me. Now, the potion is changing you against your will. If I marry you now, while the Mistletoe holds sway, will you come to hate me for it? I couldn’t bear that, Jocelyn,” she finished on a ragged breath, then dropped to her knees before him.

  “I beg your pardon a thousand times over. I didn’t know what Lina planned,” she told him.

  In that instant Jos knew that if he wished to be shed of Avice of Lavendon, all he need do was offer the pretense of anger over this. Within the hour she’d be gone from Freyne never to return, even if she had to make her way home on foot, dressed in nothing but her chemise and her cloak.

  He caught her hand in his. She tried to free her fingers from his grasp. “You must let me go,” she whispered. “Your thoughts are poisoned by the potion and you don’t know what you do.”

  “I know very well what I’m doing and I won’t let you go,” Jos replied just as quietly. “I can’t. I need you, Avice.”

  Although she didn’t move, her hand softened in his. He raised her fingers to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Then he brought his right arm out, using it carefully for, just as she had warned, the pain was returning. He forced her to rise from her knees.

  “Sit with me,” he commanded.

  As she settled next to him, he leaned down and touched his mouth to the corner of her jaw. She gasped and shivered.

  “Jocelyn,” she protested at a whisper, “you mustn’t. It’s only trickery making you want me.”

  He almost laughed. He loved her for her honesty. He loved that she was truly distraught over this, believing she had betrayed him in some way, when nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Hardly so, Avice. It matters not what was in that posset, for my intention toward you was set long before last night.”

  Wrapping his arm around her, he eased her closer to him on the mattress. “You were my last thought in August past as I lay bleeding on the ground, thinking that death came for me,” he said quietly. “I found my only regret was that we weren’t wed.”

  He paused, slowly raising his right arm to crook his finger beneath her chin and lift her face to his. The kiss was intended to be gentle, but his longing to make her his and his alone returned. She gasped against his mouth at the depths of his desire for her.

  “But until you came to Freyne,” he whispered, kissing her cheeks and tasting the salt of her tears, “I didn’t realize how much I wanted to marry you or how quickly I would come to love you. I need you. You will make this hall into my home. With you at my side, I can be Freyne’s lord.”

  He eased back so he could study her face as he spoke the rest, telling her what he had told no other. “After last night, I also know that you will be my comfort and in your arms I will cease to dream of that day. That worries me, my love. If I cease to dream of those who died at my side, do I dishonor their sacrifice?”

  The words came more easily than he had imagined possible. As he spoke them, something inside him relaxed, and he sighed against the sensation. Avice studied him in return as another set of tears made their way down her face.

  “Never,” she told him. “I won’t let you forget. Tell me of them, who they were and how they died, and I will help you honor their memories for the rest of our days.”

  Jos leaned forward to brace his brow against hers. He had known his purpose in life even before Gilliam had told him to find it. He had seen it in that moment when he believed he was dying. It was Avice. It had always been Avice.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “Marry me today.”

  She smiled. “As you will, my lord.”

  Thank you for reading Perfect Poison, the first of what I hope will be a number of novellas based on the children connected to the FitzHenry brothers of my Seasons Series.

  Jocelyn and Avice made their appearances in two different books—Spring’s Fury and Autumn’s Flame. In Spring Jocelyn became Gilliam’s very reluctant squire, then, backtracking in time, you meet him before that event in Autumn as the son of my heroine, Elyssa of Freyne. Avice shows up briefly at the end of Autumn as Jocelyn’s soon-to-be betrothed.

  Next up will be another story with its roots in Autumn. I’ve known for a very long time now that Geoffrey FitzHenry’s daughter Cecilia is using her mother’s madness to avoid getting married or being confined to a convent. I also know she’s about to come face-to-face with the only man that this doesn’t bother. Sparks will fly.

  By the way, I’ll note here that I am title defective. For the first five books, my fabulous stepdaughter Amberly Neese came up with the original and very clever idea of using the seasons, and the publisher ran with it. Up until this novella, named by my dear friend Barbara Dimperio, I have had to count on the kindness of editors and others.

  If you want to keep up with me or send me a note, please feel free to email me at denise@denisedomning.com or visit my website at DeniseDomning.com where you can read the sporadic entries on my blog. I have trouble keeping up with blogging now that I’m trying to balance writing with farming on a place that seriously resembles the old “Green Acres” TV series. (Turkeys! Get off the porch now!) Wish me luck! I think I’ll need it.

  If this is the first of my works you’ve read and you think you’d like to try another, here’s the whole list:

  Servant of the Crown Mysteries

  Seaso
n of the Raven

  The Seasons Series (sometimes known as The Graistan Chronicles)

  Winter’s Heat

  Summer’s Storm

  Spring’s Fury

  Autumn’s Flame

  A Love for All Seasons

  The Lady Series,

  (Although two doesn’t quite a series make. There were supposed to be more. Hmm, I wonder….)

  Lady in Waiting

  Lady in White

  The Warrior Series

  The Warrior’s Wife

  The Warrior’s Maiden

  The Warrior’s Game

  My only Regency era book

  I’m afraid it will be my only one, too. It was too modern for me. I’m better off back when guys just bashed each other with hunks of steel.

  Almost Perfect

  Or, for something a little different try a Regency 3-pack, which includes Almost Perfect along with two other Regency novels by “real” Regency authors.

  Regency Rebels

  Men-ipulation, Monica Sarli’s Memoir (which I co-wrote) Men-ipulation is a memoir of addiction and recovery. After fifteen years abusing Cocaine, Crack and (her personal favorite) Heroin, Monica chose on August 4, 1986 to clean up and hasn’t looked back-even though cleaning up cost her everything she valued in life. For anyone struggling with addiction or who loves someone suffering with addiction, this is a book you won’t want to miss. (And, yes she really talks like that all the time.)

  COPYRIGHT

  Perfect Poison, Copyright(©) Denise Domning 2014

  All right reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any way.

  This is a work of fiction; everyone in the book is created out of whole cloth (although I did my best to portray them and their times as accurately as possible).

  Cover Art by Denise Domning some stock photos Prometeus and 123RF Stock Photo

  A Stolen Brides Holiday Novella

  By

  Eliza Knight

  Dunrobin Castle

  Sutherland, Scotland

  December 15, 1302

  LADY ARBELLA, Countess of Sutherland, dropped to the floor in front of her children with a satisfied smile at her handiwork. The hearth was decorated with fir roping, holly branches, mistletoe and candles scented with pinecones and spices. They were lit now, emitting the same special scent she created every winter solstice for the coming Yule celebration. Earlier today, she’d finalized the menu for the feast they’d be sharing with the rest of the Sutherland family and even some of their extended family. Everyone would be gathering the following week at Dunrobin Castle. She just hoped the weather held out. So far they’d only had a light dusting of snow. No storms yet, but each day the air grew more frigid.

  “Here ye go, Mama.”

  Arbella accepted the pair of die from her eldest son, Wee Magnus, his warm, sticky hand grazing her palm. He was the spitting image of her husband, dark hair and brooding green eyes. She shook the die in her palm. Her youngest daughter, Bella, stared at her hands intently, waiting for the moment she’d release the pieces. Finally, she tossed them to the ground, laughing when her roll beat out theirs. They’d been begging her to play dice all morning, and she was certain they’d not expected her to win. Her youngest son William toddled forward to poke at a die discarded on the floor.

  Magnus’ footsteps sounded behind her. She’d know him anywhere. A steady, assured gait. One of the many things she loved about her husband was his confidence.

  “Arbella.” His voice was gruff, strangled almost. She’d only heard him speak that way a few times, and it was always bad news.

  She stilled, flashing what she hoped was a comforting smile at her children who now looked up at their father with concern. Miniatures of her and Magnus.

  “Heather has been captured. And so has her husband.”

  Arbella’s heart stopped and she turned from her children to stare wide-eyed at her husband. The die shook in her hand, and seemingly from somewhere far off, she heard them clunk against the floor of the great hall. Heather was the youngest of Magnus’ siblings. The youngest, the most stubborn, and the most filled with spirit.

  “What?” A chill beyond the winter draft in the castle filled her bones, and the fire she sat before did little to deter it. If anything, the chill slithered its way over her whole body. She pressed her lips together to keep her teeth from chattering.

  Laird Magnus Sutherland stood tall and proud, the sharp angles of his face just as handsome as he’d been when they’d married over five years before. Wisps of his dark hair fell forward giving him an air of mischief that she normally envied. But not this time. Not with what he’d just said. His lips formed a grim line. Heather was a feisty lass, but her husband, Duncan MacKay, was a formidable mercenary, known as The Priest, and there was no doubt in her mind that he would have put up a fight against whoever had taken them. Duncan could be scarier than Magnus, and that was saying something, which meant… Which meant that they could both be gravely injured—or worse.

  “I just received this missive.” In his hand he held a parchment that looked to have been crumpled. Shadows from the fire played over the yellowed scroll.

  “May I read it?” Arbella asked before turning a sweet smile to her children and whispering that she’d be back in a moment.

  When she stood, Magnus nodded. She reached forward with trembling fingers, envious of his steady grip. Even in the direst of times, he managed to keep his nerves and emotions in check. Arbella took the missive and watched her husband hang his head, hands on his hips as if he were deep in thought. Her heart went out to him. Magnus had been in charge of his clan since the tender age of fourteen and they’d only ever triumphed—even when enemies knocked down their door. But this was a blow. This was bad.

  The missive stated that Heather, Duncan and their wagons full of supplies for the rebels had gone missing. They were ambushed along the road by the Sassenachs and half their guards brutally murdered. Longshanks must have gotten wind of their travel routes and dispatched four times more infantry than usual to grab Heather and Duncan. It appeared that for the time being, both of them were still alive. Julianna, wife of Magnus’ brother Ronan and the half-sister of Robert the Bruce, signed the missive. Heather and Duncan had been captured along the English border as they’d gone to deliver supplies to rebel forces—a duty they’d taken on some two years before when asked by William Wallace. Even after Wallace had gone to the continent, they still continued to do the work he’d asked of them.

  As she read, Arbella felt her face paling. She could hardly catch her breath. The parchment crinkled mercilessly with each shake of her fingers.

  “Mama, are ye sick?” Little Magnus, only four summers, tugged at the side of her gown.

  Seeing her brother’s concern, three-year-old Bella jumped from her spot on the floor and came over to examine her mother.

  “I’m perfectly well, little ones. Run along to the kitchens and tell Cook I said you could each have a honeyed bannock. Take wee William with you.” She managed to keep her voice from shaking as she instructed her children, though she feared they’d see right through the tender smile she displayed.

  Whooping their excitement, the children ran off toward the kitchens, little William toddling after them, shouting in his garbled language for them to wait. Arbella gazed at her husband. The man she was desperately in love with. The man whom she’d had three children with and whom she laid beside every night. The man she couldn’t live without. He looked terrified.

  Heather had long been the bane of his existence. A stubborn lass as a child, he’d seen her reared until she’d snuck off and married Duncan MacKay, but even after she’d been married, he’d had to run to the rescue—most recently when her husband had asked for Magnus’ help. It seemed the stubborn lass—well, a woman now—had insisted on continuing her duties for the rebels even though she was enceinte with their first child. And apparently, the conversation Magnus and Duncan had with her to stop supplying the rebels, at l
east until she’d delivered of her child, had gone unheeded.

  “Why the hell did MacKay let her go? Why did he go with her?” Magnus growled, scraping his hands through his hair as he stared up at the ceiling.

  “What would you have had him do? Tie her up? Heather has always been headstrong. No doubt she ran off and Duncan had to chase after her to make sure she was safe.” Arbella stepped forward, hoping a closer proximity could calm her husband as it had done in the past.

  Magnus swiped a hand over his face and let out a low, irritated groan. “I swear to the heavens, when I find her, I might turn her over my knee as I should have done when she was a child.”

  Arbella would have laughed but she was too scared for Heather to even crack a smile.

  The entire family was due to return to Dunrobin for the Winter Solstice and Yule, they would stay for at least a sennight, some for a fortnight, and Aliah and Blane through the winter. It appeared their gathering would have to be put off, for there was no way any of them could celebrate the season when Heather and Duncan were in trouble.

  “I have to go after them,” Magnus said.

  “Go after who?” Blane walked into the great hall, Aliah beside him. They were both flushed and Arbella did smile secretly then.

  The two of them had just had their third child, and the day before had been Aliah’s six-week churching. Judging from the way they grinned at each other, Arbella had a good idea of how they’d just spent their morning—and it wasn’t in prayer.

  “Heather and MacKay have been taken by the English.” Magnus thrust the missive into his brother’s hands.

  Aliah rushed over to Arbella, hooking her arm around hers. “Oh my,” she whispered. Arbella nodded, nervously.

  “Who else knows?” Blane asked.