Blow

by Demelza Carlton

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Free books

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7

  Part 8

  Part 9

  Part 10

  Part 11

  Part 12

  Part 13

  Part 14

  Part 15

  Part 16

  Part 17

  Part 18

  Part 19

  Part 20

  Part 21

  Part 22

  Part 23

  Part 24

  Part 25

  Part 26

  Part 27

  Part 28

  Part 29

  Part 30

  Part 31

  Part 32

  Part 33

  Part 34

  Part 35

  Part 36

  Part 37

  More fairytales

  Free books

  About the Author

  Blow:

  Three Little Pigs Retold

  Demelza Carlton

  A tale in the Romance a Medieval Fairy Tale series

  Three sisters. An absent prince who promised to protect them. And the wolf is at the door...

  Once upon a time...

  When war breaks out, Rudolf promises Portia and her sisters he will protect them. But his father falls in battle, and Rudolf is forced to return home to command his father's armies.

  Shifting alliances turn Portia and her family from friends to sworn enemies. To win the war, Rudolf must conquer her home, and risk losing her forever.

  When the wolf is at the door, who will win - love or war?

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my husband. For who knew some Polish moonshine, followed by a week-long whisky tour would result in something like this?

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Demelza Carlton

  Lost Plot Press

  All rights reserved.

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  ONE

  Midsummer festival fever had caught them all in her heathen coils. The higher born boys fought with practice swords in the yard, their bouts descending into pitched battle with no guard or master at arms to break it up. Rudolf found himself stunned in the dust, unnoticed by the others as they pursued longer held grudges against boys they knew, and he scrambled to his feet. Retreating from the yard seemed the most chivalrous thing to do, for he had more training than most of them, though not enough to stop the fight like his cousin Reidar might have.

  Outside the walls, pine had been piled up for the bonfires, huge as haystacks, that would be set alight after dark to feed some ancient, beastly god. Now, the fresh, life-giving scent of the pine lay sharp over the bed of long-dead peat from the bogs, reminding him of the inevitability of death, even in the bright summer sun.

  His thick furs itched in the unaccustomed heat that was so little like home, but he did not dare take them off. They marked him for what he was, a Viken prince among these Islanders, who wore linen and leather that was surely more suitable for summer.

  Peat smoke spiralled in a dark prayer to heaven as it roasted pork to what he hoped would be perfection. The rich smell took him back home, to his farewell feast and the roasted beast that had been Reidar's first kill. Oh, now that had been a feast. Could these foreigners match it?

  The crack of what sounded like a spitting cat forced his eyes open. No, it was just the beast's flesh spitting at the coals that roasted it, like its last act of courage before the old gods took it to Valhalla. Did pigs go to heaven, though, he wondered. The men of the new faith said no, but he didn't know enough about the old to be sure.

  Hogs probably went up to the great feasting table in the sky, much like their bodies had here. Such was their fate, as this exile was his. At least he was not a pig, however much he roasted in his northern clothes.

  He headed away from the clamour, toward the cliffs.

  "Boy, boy!" an imperious, elderly voice called.

  Rudolf turned. He'd learned the hard way not to ignore an old woman's commands. If he hadn't sat on that throne for a moment and Queen Regina hadn't caught him, then he wouldn't be here, exiled at the other end of the world. Better alive than dead, though, and alive, he could train more so that one day, he could better serve his king. The man whose backside belonged on that cursed throne.

  If the approaching woman was Queen Regina, Rudolf would have run. As it was, he forced himself to hold his ground.

  The woman everyone called Nurse limped up to him. "Have you seen them? Wee devils, they are. Their father insists they must attend the feast dressed in their best, and I cannot find them anywhere!"

  The Lord Angus's daughters were missing? Rudolf's heart turned to ice, as he remembered the day he'd lost his little sister to the ice on the fjords.

  But there was no ice here, and little water, either, for the burns that had flowed only yesterday were little more than mud now after days without rain. It truly was a different world to Viken.

  If he had a choice, today he would be in the swimming hole the other boys had spoken of. A pool they said never dried up.

  A place deep enough for a little girl to drown.

  Panic gave his feet wings as he crested the rise, following the dried up burn. If he could get there in time, perhaps he could save them. Perhaps...

  A shrill scream stopped his heart, but not his feet. Still he ran. If a girl could scream, she could breathe, and he could still save her. By all the saints in heaven, please let him save her.

  Low hanging branches sliced at his face, but still Rudolf ran on until he almost fell over the lip of the pool, or what had been the pool. Perhaps even this morning, it had still held water, but now...now it held three wriggling, shrieking girls as they played in liquid mud. Alive. Safe. All three. Portia, Lina and Arlie, so covered in mud he couldn't tell them apart – not that it was an easy matter anyway, given the girls looked identical.

  Rudolf's heart dared to beat again and he took a deep breath. "Nurse!" he shouted. "I have found your three little pigs!"

  TWO

  "You fought well today, and you have a knack for commanding men. I know several men owe you their lives after today, for it was your quick thinking in the heat of battle that saved them."

  Rudolf's chest puffed at Angus's praise.

  Angus continued, "You'll need new armour soon. You're not a boy any more, and your shoulders are too wide for that breastplate. Where there's gaps, an arrow will find them," Angus said, throwing the reins of his horse to a groom.

  Rudolf did the same, but he lingered to stroke Hector's side as he was led off. He'd never owned a finer horse. Not back in Viken, or since he arrived here. How many years had it been now? At least six. Maybe seven.

  "You like him, don't you? See, I told Lewis he couldn't sell him off the islands. Valuable breeding stock, he'll be, when you're not riding him."

  Rudolf remembered his manners. "Thank you again, Lord Angus. He's a princely gift indeed."

  Angus waved away his thanks. "No more than you deserve. My own father gave me my first warhorse when I reached manhood. My first ride, the bastard reared up and threw me on my arse. My brother laughed himself sick. You have a much better seat than did at your age. Better than Portia, though better not tell her I said that."<
br />
  Rudolf laughed. "No, I won't, as long as you know that's what I'll be thinking about when I'm staring at her bottom next time we go riding."

  "Man your age should be looking for a wife. I know I was. Or will your father be sending one from Viken?"

  Viken? Why would he send a girl after him? This was home. Rudolf would likely never see Viken again. "Viken girls choose their husbands, just like the ones here," Rudolf managed to say. "I left no sweetheart behind me, so no girl will be coming to find me."

  An explosion of red blasted through the door to the longhouse. "There they are! I found them," Portia cried, tossing her hair off her face. She'd forgotten her shoes again, and with no Nurse to remind her any more, she'd probably been wearing holes in her stockings the whole time they'd been away.

  "I brought you a gift," Rudolf said, pulling the feather from under his breastplate. He'd kept it in the pocket over his heart. "At the end of the battle, when those rank cowards were running away, a golden eagle circled the field and dropped it. Landed right at my feet. I thought you might like a new quill."

  Portia dashed up to him and plucked the feather from his hand. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him. Rudolf laughed as he returned her hug, conscious of Angus's thoughtful eyes on him.

  Angus was planning something, to be sure.

  "Can we go riding now?" Portia demanded. The woman-child had all the impatience of a child, while her body grew more and more into a woman's form.

  Rudolf laughed again. "I have been riding all day, and Hector, too. I am starving. I hope you have a good dinner ordered."

  Portia would not be put off. "Tomorrow, then? If we leave early, we might be able to make it up to Loch Findlugan, and search for its secret. While you were away, I went through Mother's things and found a scroll about the history of Isla. It said the standing stones – "

  Angus interrupted, "Tomorrow, Rudolf needs to be measured for new armour. He's outgrown his."

  Portia laughed. "Must be all the food he eats. And people call me and my sisters pigs!" This earned Rudolf a glare.

  Rudolf hung his head. The tale of him finding the three little sisters, wallowing in the mud like pigs, had spread rapidly through the Southern Isles, as all good stories did. Even if seven years had passed since that day, Portia still had not forgiven him. She might never.

  He glanced at Angus. "I'm sure I won't be needed all day for new armour. There will be time for a ride tomorrow. Perhaps not to Loch Findlugan, but we can take the horses for a ride on the beach."

  Portia enveloped him in another hug, tighter and longer than the first. "I love you, Dolf!"

  Rudolf patted her back awkwardly, his eyes offering an apology to Angus.

  Angus nodded, unconcerned. "Enough talk of tomorrow. I'm famished. I fancy a fine leg of mutton for dinner, and I'm sure Rudolf does, too. Release your prisoner, Portia." He headed inside.

  Portia let go, then tucked her hand into Rudolf's. "I'll release you on one condition. You must tell me all about the battle over dinner. How many men you killed, whether you were close enough to hear their last words...or did you shoot them with your bow?"

  She was the same age as he'd been when he arrived on Isla, Rudolf realised, and just as bloodthirsty. "I did not use my bow this time. Angus had archers enough."

  "I want my own bow. Viken women sometimes go to war with their men, you said. I could be one of the archers and kill those cowardly, thieving Albans before they could step ashore!"

  Rudolf laughed. "Are you strong enough to draw a bow yet?"

  Portia pouted. "No."

  "When you are full grown, like me, you may practice with mine. If you can hit the target, I promise you I will see that you have your own bow."

  Her eyes lit with the fire that seemed to burn without cease within her. "Really?"

  Rudolf could refuse her nothing. He prayed that Angus would agree. "Really."

  THREE

  Portia reacted to the king's demands the way she always did when something vexed her: she went shooting.

  Her bow was a comforting weight in her hand as she marched to the practice field. The smooth wood was exactly the right size for someone of her stature – as Rudolf must have known, for he'd given it to her on her last name day. Much easier to shoot with than his own monster bow, easily taller than he was. It had taken her years before she'd had the strength to fire anything from his bow, but when a lucky shot clipped the target, Rudolf had made good on his promise – a bow of her own, and archery lessons to keep her from shooting him instead of the target.

  Not that she'd meant to do that. The arrow had accidentally gone through his boot, and she'd told him so. She wasn't sure he believed her, though. She sighed and took aim.

  She emptied her quiver in record speed, wishing the plain wood target had a picture of the king's face painted on it. She did not even know what the bastard looked like. She imagined King Donald as old and fat with thinning hair, a petulant fool who demanded things that were not his like the spoiled child he'd once been.

  She fitted an arrow to the bowstring.

  How dare he try to claim her lands. Her father's lands, truly, but hers, too, for she was his firstborn.

  She drew the arrow back.

  How dare he insist they pay him tribute. A man who had no right to their lands, or the fruit from it.

  She sighted along the arrow, blowing out her breath in a rush.

  How dare he call their people foreigners. How dare he!

  She released, and the arrow flew toward the target. It lodged in the side, so close to the edge that it only hung there for a moment before it fell to earth.

  Earth that sorry excuse for a king had no claim on!

  Portia stomped her foot for emphasis.

  "Looking at the target, I wondered if Arlie had picked up a bow for her annual archery practice. But Arlie doesn't stamp her foot like that." Rudolf gestured at the target across the field. "Are you feeling sorry for the target, Portia? Trying not to hit it because hitting it would be cruel?"

  Portia's face turned as red as her hair. Trust Rudolf to bring that up. No one else remembered something that happened ten years ago, except him. "I still think butchering pigs is cruel, but nothing I can say or do will stop it, for the rest of your will still eat it. So will I, and be properly thankful to the animal that gave its life so that we may eat its flesh." She sounded like the priest at last Sunday's mass, and she knew it. Before Rudolf could tease her for that, too, she continued, "It won't matter if I miss my target, anyway. Men all bunch up in an army, so if I miss one man, I'm bound to hit the one beside him."

  He laughed. "Since when are you riding to war? Your father is not so short of men he'll need you to fight." His gaze travelled from her feet up to her face. "Unless you plan on wearing a man's garb. There's many a man on the island who's dreamed of seeing you without your gown, but I'm sure none of them imagined you'd be wearing armour."

  Just as her blush faded, it flamed into life once more. Only Rudolf could say these things with such brutal honesty, without apology. Not for the first time, she wondered if he'd been one of those dreaming men. Men who would soon be off to war, with no time to dream of anyone, she told herself sternly. "I have no need to ride to war. Raiders come in boats when they see fit, and if the menfolk are not at home, then it falls to us women to defend our homes."

  Rudolf inclined his head. "So it does. Here in the south, right up to Viken in the north. But your father will never leave you here unprotected, and you will always have me." He drew a dagger from his belt and sent it flying toward the target. He hit the centre. "I will defend you with my life, Portia."

  That serious look in his eyes heated her all over again, but not just her face this time. There was something about Rudolf that lit a fire inside her. The kind of fire she liked, but could never stoke. "I'm sure my father will be very grateful for your service," she said sweetly.

  He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Then he shook his head, as if to rid it o
f ideas that had no place there, a feeling Portia understood well. Finally, he said, "But it would be lax of me to stop you from practising, when you so sorely need it."

  "Why you – " Portia began, then stopped as Rudolf grinned. When he smiled, the man was charming enough to coax a honeycomb from an angry bear. Not even she was immune to him. Perhaps that's why she felt so hot inside. "Help me retrieve my arrows, then."

  Rudolf pulled the lucky few from the target while she hunted through the grass for the rest. When the quiver was more than half full once more, she marched back to where she'd left her bow. Rudolf with his longer strides got there first, lifting the weapon in readiness, though he didn't hand it to her.

  "First, I must check your stance, Portia," he said. "Show me how you stand."

  Never one to like being ordered about, Portia set her hand on her hip and waved an arrow. "You'd better hope I don't decide to make you my target instead."

  "You wouldn't do that," he said easily. "You like me."

  No matter how much he irritated her and make her feel other unwelcome feelings she had to ruthlessly suppress, Portia had to admit she did. Not aloud, though. "I might also like to see you hopping around with an arrow in your foot again."

  "You have your dreams and I have mine. I like mine better. Now, do you wish to practise, or no?"

  Portia relented and stepped up to the bow, angling herself so that she faced Rudolf and not the target. She fitted her arrow to the string. "There. Good enough for you?"

  Rudolf inspected her, even going as far as to march right the way around her, before he nudged her foot with his. "Your stance needs to be a little wider, pointed to where you wish the arrow to go." His arms came around her, lifting the bow so that the arrow no longer pointed at the ground.

  Portia wanted to relax into his embrace, and surrender to the promise of protection he offered. It would be so easy, and yet it was something she could never do. Rudolf was a foreigner, a ward sent from Viken to learn to fight in her father's house. One day, he would be summoned home to fight for whatever Viken lord his family owed fealty to. Portia was her father's eldest daughter, and heir to Isla. The man she married would follow her father as Lord of Isla, the largest and most powerful of the Southern Isles. She could never marry a mere household knight. It would take a lord at least, or a lord's son, to hold Father's place in council. Rudolf knew this as well as she did, which was why he never took liberties, though he made it very clear he would like to. But that was an invitation she could never offer.