by Lisa Shea
Elizabeth waved them over. “Please, join us. Your generosity deserves equal treatment. You are welcome here as long as you wish to stay.”
Lucia stepped forward, the guards maintaining their positions at her side. She gave a short bow. “I appreciate the offer, and we will indulge in a night’s rest. But we must be off first thing in the morning. Winter is upon us and my father will be hard pressed by the bandits. I’m afraid they’re getting worse with every passing year. As Captain of the Guard, it’s my duty to be up on those walls.”
Elizabeth looked over the young woman before her. “Congratulations on your position. Your father must have quite a high estimation of your skills to trust you with that responsibility.”
One of the guards at her side nodded. “She earned it. She’s the best archer in the land.”
The other guard chuckled. “And not a slouch with that sword, either.”
Lucia’s eyes shadowed. “It will take more than one sword or one bow to keep our lands safe, if these tensions continue.”
Elizabeth’s hip hummed, and she looked down at the green-leather-hilt sword which hung at her side. Kay’s words came back to her, from that distant meeting two long years ago.
Do not become too fond of Andetnes. When you have at last found contentment, there will be another whose fate balances on the point of a pin. You will know when it is right. And the sword will have a new mistress.
Elizabeth’s throat closed up. For a moment she was beyond words. Her home was warm and comforting, the man she adored was at her side, and their precious child was smiling up at her with moss-green eyes.
Tears came to her eyes, and she knew that, at last, her world was absolutely right.
She smiled at Lucia. “Come, have a seat. Tell me all about your troubles. And I will see if I might be able to help, in some small way.”
*
The Sword of Glastonbury series continues with Book 3, Believing Your Eyes –
http://www.amazon.com/Believing-Your-Eyes-Medieval-Romance-ebook/dp/B008RIBYTI/
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As a special treat, as a warm thank-you for reading this book and supporting the cause of battered women, here’s a sneak peek at the first chapter of Believing Your Eyes.
Believing Your Eyes Chapter 1
England, 1180
“Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.”
The Monkes Tale
Geoffrey Chaucer
The forest landscape undulated innocent and pristine beneath the frosted white of a fresh blanket of snow. Sunlight glinted mischievously through bare branches of oak and chestnut. Stephen drew in a lungful of the crisp late-January air, riding with lighthearted ease along the narrow path, keeping just in front of his younger companion.
Ian pulled ahead suddenly, his blonde hair shining in the sun. The wintry air made his breath puff in clouds of glittering lace as he cheerfully shouted out, “A pound says I beat you to the clearing!” He kicked his sleek, alabaster horse into a gallop.
Laughing, Stephen spurred his black mount and raced after him, his horse ploughing up the snowy trail with its hooves. It was only a matter of moments before he had caught and passed his friend.
The woods stretched on in a sea of twisting branches and sparkling icicles. Long streaks of clouds drifted far above, wafting across a pale-blue sky. The steeds flew across fallen logs and narrow streams. The distance between the two horses grew until Ian’s horse had fallen far behind. Ian’s challenges echoed distantly from the hollow depths of the woods.
The opening drew into view, and Stephen smiled. His younger friend was improving, but it would be a while before Ian could keep up with him through the twists and turns of the wooded path. He slowed the horse – and then as he drew in closer to the clearing he pulled harder, sliding to a stop in the dense snow. Every sense went on high alert as he scanned the area before him. He held up a hand, hearing Ian approach, and his friend was soon cascading to a stop beside him.
The horses snorted softly as they caught their breath. Echoes of the chase faded into silence. The pause lengthened as the men surveyed the woods with alert eyes. The two waited, watching, hearing only the distant sound of snow sloughing off branches.
The forest seemed, suddenly, very quiet.
Ian’s voice came in a soft whisper. “What is it, Stephen?” He ran a hand through his short blond hair, then wrapped his brown traveling cloak tightly against a gust of crisp wind. Ahead to his left the sun was streaming through a gap in the trees, and the silence seemed almost palpable.
Ian shivered and looked around again. Gulping, his left hand lowered to the hilt of his sword, loosening the leather clasp on the scabbard with a deft twist of the thumb. “Do you think the Grays are finally turning south? Is that why you recommended we patrol the far north borders?”
Stephen’s voice was soft. “Steady, Ian.” Stephen motioned for Ian to be patient and listened intently again for a moment. He pointed to himself, and to the west side of the clearing. Then Stephen indicated for Ian to move to the east. Ian nodded, slipped off his horse and tied the reins securely to a nearby birch. He turned to Stephen, but dropped his eyes. Stephen saw in a glance the nervousness that added a tremor to Ian’s movements.
Stephen looked with fondness at his friend. Ian had been trained well in the ways of arms, but although he was nearly twenty-five, he’d not been in many actual combat situations. Stephen gave him a nod of encouragement. The lad was long past ready for patrol. He reached out an arm, firmly clasping Ian’s forearm, offering a smile. “Courage,” he whispered.
Ian stood a moment to regain his composure, glancing over the sturdy, elegantly decorated breastplate and bracers he wore as if to steel himself. Then, taking a deep breath, he drew his sword and approached the clearing from the right.
Stephen watched him for a minute before slipping noiselessly to the left. Ian was Stephen’s junior by five years, and Ian’s father had routinely shielded his son from danger. Stephen knew the older man was nervous about risking the life of his only child. Still, surely the Lord knew it was critical for Ian to gain practical knowledge of how to defend his lands and home. When Stephen had been tasked with the training of the keep’s forces, he had insisted that Ian join the patrols and put in his time on the wall.
The winter sun was bright against the open field of snow; Stephen gave his eyes a moment to adjust from the relative shadows of the forest. The cold seeped in through the leather armor he wore, but he preferred its flexibility and lightness over the heavy bulk that Ian gravitated toward.
Easing carefully through the deep drifts along the edge of the clearing, Stephen’s eyes were drawn to a clutter of objects. He froze as their nature became clear. Sharp tension drew across his shoulders, and his grip tightened on his hilt. Ten snow-coated, rough looking men lay sprawled on the ground, their darkened blood marbleizing the pure white around them. To one side, hidden by trees until now, a cairn of ash sent wispy tendrils of smoke upwards, the melted snow around it languidly extinguishing the edges of the low flame.
Stephen’s every sense went on high alert, attentive to the slightest movement, the faintest sound. The woods obliviously went on with its raspy sweep of branch on branch, the delicate flutter of snow easing from a passing breeze. At last he gave a calling wave to Ian, and the two moved into the clearing proper.
Stephen’s brow creased as he drew close, taking in the gear on the fallen men. “Bandits by the look of it. All long dead. A few survivors ran off north.” He glanced at a swath of tracks leading out of the clear
ing. “Those belong to the fleeing wolves’ heads.” He took in the signs of their lack of discipline; it was one of the few advantages they held against the bandits. He glanced up past the tracks with concern; a new wave of the storm was darkening the edges of the sky overhead, and a light flurry gently drifted down, slowly swirling into their prints.
Stephen motioned toward the glowing embers. “Whoever took them on, at least one person remained alive,” he added quietly, walking toward the low mound of ash and stone. “Grays would leave their dead for the wolves. These bodies have been given a decent sending off.” His eyes scanned the dead bandits for a moment, then moved again with curiosity to the cairn of ash. “I wonder who …”
His voice trailed off as he gazed into the reddish glow. Something within gleamed and caught his eye. He picked up a stick and pushed the object out of the coals with it.
Ian’s eyes lit up. “A bronze bracer!” He jumped forward and reached for the glowing object. The metal band was finely worked and glinted brightly as the clouds opened for a moment.
“Wait!” shouted Stephen in alarm, knocking Ian off balance enough that the blond fell sideways into a heavy drift under an oak. Stephen sighed and smiled fondly at his friend. “It is red hot - you would have burned your hand!” He shook his head as Ian ruefully climbed out of the snowbank and brushed himself off. “Still, do look at it,” Stephen remarked, kneeling near the bracer to get a better look. “I have not seen lettering like this for years. An old language, but the engraving is new.” He sat quietly for several moments, examining the markings.
A far-off horse’s whinny snapped Stephen’s head up, and he grabbed Ian by the arm. Together they sprinted toward the trees, coming alongside their own mounts to steady them, loosing their ties. A hush fell over the woods again; Stephen concentrated to hear any noise that seemed out of place.
Several full minutes went by without a sound. The light snow continued to fill their prints, melding them with the landscape.
Then, growing in intensity, the distinctive crash of hooves on dead branches approached from the north. Stephen drew back, pulling deeper into the shadows. The noise grew louder until two bearded men with wolfskin capes galloped thunderously into the clearing, broadswords held high. The redheaded man in front trampled through the edge of the cairn as he twisted the reins forcefully to slow his mount. He turned to snarl angrily at the second, who quickly spoke up.
“See, she ain’t here,” whined the smaller man, a greasy, unkempt redhead in a makeshift uniform. “We killed off her escorts, we did. Just like you ordered. Then Barney, yeah - it was Barney! He tried to wing her horse with an arrow, see, to make sure she didn’t get away. But she was near the beast and the arrow got her in the side.” His eyes furtively slid from side to side as he related his tale in a quick staccato. “It was poison dipped. It was an accident! He panicked and ran. I came back to tell you what happened. You wanted me to face her alone? Anyway, she didn’t get far, it’s sure. She’s gone to her maker by now. What a tigress she was. Yeah, she put up a fight!” He licked his drooling lips, and his eyes glowed with some obscene thought.
The leader’s face glowed crimson with fury at this news. “Your orders were to bring her in alive, fool,” stormed the heavyset man. He cuffed the smaller man across the head, sending him tumbling off his horse.
“It was Barney!” pleaded the man, cringing in the snow.
“But you were in charge,” shot back the larger man, “and Master was adamant about wanting her alive.” A wolfish smile twisted his face. “I’ll send you in to give him the news. Maybe you’ll die more quickly than Barney did.” He chuckled to himself. “You’d better hope so,” he added with a sneer.
He looked around the clearing for a moment, then up at the sky. His brow furrowed. “With the storm, she won’t last long, if she is even alive. We’ll come back later to fetch her corpse.” He glanced up at the gathering clouds again, then nodded. “That will have to do.” Wheeling his shaggy mount, he galloped out of the clearing.
Gulping, the other scrambled onto his horse and spurred it on after his leader.
The hoofbeat echoed, faded, and then was lost in the valleys of the deep forest.
Ian let out a shuddering breath, creating a cloud of frost. “We had better get back to town,” he whispered nervously, his hands shaking as he smoothed down his hair. “There could be more of them searching for the woman.” He jumped as snow tumbled from a heavy branch.
Stephen retied his horse to a limb and circled the edge of the clearing, examining the ground. “This woman, whoever she is, is obviously wanted for a reason. She could provide valuable information on the Grays’ movements. Search around to the west - see if you can pick up her tracks.”
Ian made as if to protest, but seeing the set look on Stephen’s face, he instead turned and set off hunting for any sign of the wounded woman.
Stephen moved with careful attention, his eyes scanning every drift of snow, every stray bent branch. His gaze moved past a shadow – and then swept back again.
There. Scattered drops of dark crimson – and the faintest of scratches, made by the sweep of a pine branch.
He kept his voice low, but pitched it to carry. “Here, to the east.”
Ian ran to join him, and Stephen pointed out the signs. “Whoever she is, she has talent at covering her trail,” he murmured as he eased forward. “Get our horses and follow behind me.”
Soon they were tracking the tracing path through the wilderness, a light snow falling about their shoulders.
After an hour, they had traversed quite a distance. Many times the trail seemed to disappear in a stream or rocky area, but, with diligence, one of them was able to spot a broken branch or a smear of dried blood clinging to a sapling. Still, as twilight settled a violet cape over the forest, Stephen worried in earnest that they might lose all view of the faint signs under the gently falling snow.
Then, all at once, the way became clear. The pair came over the crest of a hill to find quite distinct footprints heading down the slope and ending under an ancient willow tree by a frozen stream.
Stephen stopped to survey the scene. Beneath the tree lay a roan stallion that turned his head protectively at their approach. Curled up against his flanks was a sleeping woman wrapped in a thick, black cloak, the hood pulled close around her face. She had apparently been there for a while; the snow had covered much of her body with a fine layer of white. The sun was setting behind them, and shadows were stretching across the hollow.
Stephen motioned Ian to stand guard and handed his own horse’s reins over. He glanced around the clearing with a sharp eye, then he carefully worked his way down the snowy slope. The horse watched him steadily, but there was no other sound or movement. Stopping for a moment at the foot of the hill, Stephen then slowly moved toward the tree, careful to keep his hands away from his weapons so as not to frighten the woman. He grew concerned when she didn’t stir at his approach, and, reaching her, he dropped easily to a knee at her side. He gently brushed off the snow to find a sign of the arrow the Grays spoke of.
In a flash, Stephen felt cold metal at his throat. The woman’s eyes flew open; a pair of fever-bright green eyes burned into Stephen’s own. He kept his body perfectly still despite the decidedly wicked edge on the dagger pressing into his neck. He looked steadily into that desperate gleam.
“I am here to help,” he told her quietly. “We come from the keep at Penrith. We can take you there; you will be safe and cared for.” He didn’t move a muscle, willing her to trust him.
The woman seemed undecided, but her arm did not waver.
Stephen gently placed his fingers over the hand she held the dagger with. “You must know that you have been poisoned. If you kill me, it will not matter if I am telling the truth or not. You will die here in the snow.”
This seemed to penetrate the fog behind her eyes; she nodded her acquiescence and reluctantly allowed him to take the dagger from her hand. He reached behind her and put the dagg
er in the leather saddlebag on her steed. Stephen then lifted the edge of her cloak to see the damage. Her blue tunic was ripped open and soaked through with blood. The scarlet rash flaring around a jagged wound on her lower ribs showed that some sort of poison - probably dwale - was already working its way into her system.
“We have got to get you back quickly,” he explained as he worked. Examining the injury more closely, Stephen swore beneath his breath. The wound in her side was bad enough, but the poison was already taking hold of her. He could see how dilated her eyes were, and her body was trembling, although that could be the cold doing its own harm. Stephen looked back up the hill. “Bring the horses,” he called to Ian. “She needs treatment as soon as possible.” Ian led the steeds down the hill as Stephen lifted her in his arms. Her horse stood immediately beside them.
“Who are we rescuing? The lost daughter of a nearby Lord?” Ian asked in breathless wonder as he drew near. Stephen could almost see the puff in Ian’s chest, the stories spinning in the man’s mind with which he would boast to the serving wenches in the local taverns.
Stephen shook his head. Taking care not to jostle her, Stephen gathered the woman securely in his arms. He gently placed her onto his horse sidesaddle, then climbed up behind to steady her. Her roan moved close in, apparently prepared to follow. Ian reached for the horse’s tack, but the horse only had a leather saddle and bags - no bridle or reins. He glanced around, shrugged, then mounted and turned his horse to follow Stephen.
Night fell quickly, and soon the winds were swirling the light snow into their faces, stinging their eyes. Stephen guided their horses back through the woods, moving with speed now that they could follow their own trail back. He held the woman tightly against him with one arm and tried to keep her warm despite of the dropping temperatures. Behind them, Stephen could hear Ian following close with the riderless roan.
Blinded by thick falling snow on this moonless night, Stephen struggled to see the path before him. Yet, when they drew near the clearing, the woman straightened against him and turned her face up to his. She tried to speak, but was unable to make any sound.