Seeking The Truth - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 11)
Page 1
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
Looking Back - Prologue
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
Seeking the Truth
A Medieval Romance
The Sword of Glastonbury Series
Book 11
Lisa Shea
Copyright © 2011 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Lisa Shea
Book design by Lisa Shea
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.
Visit my website at LisaShea.com
First Printing: December 2011
- 12 -
Print version - ISBN 978-0-9798377-5-3
Kindle ASIN B006GIYE5W
Cultivate a passion for truth.
Pursue a life of charity.
Enjoy the beauty found in every day.
Seeking the Truth
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
Looking Back - Prologue
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.
Seeking the Truth is a clean romance – a page-turning story of adventure and intrigue, with a band of enthusiastic, fiercely loyal soldiers, in the style of a medieval Battlestar Galactica. It does not feature any strong language nor explicit scenes of intimacy - but this particular book is very flirtatious. The characters are flirting quite often and sometimes quite heavily. There is also a fair amount of period-appropriate drinking in this book, as part of the discussion of moderation. It is suitable for teens and older.
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, 1213
Happiness depends upon ourselves.
— Aristotle
Morgan wriggled her way through the bar’s noisy throng, a feisty salmon struggling against the almost overpowering current, heading always upstream, driven by her instincts. She paused a moment to take a long draw from the tankard of ale in her hand, balancing the other two mugs close against her waist, her hand strung through their handles. A boisterous farmer bumped into her as she weaved past a heavy oaken table, and she laughed as she hip-checked him back into place. The rowdy crowd was certainly enjoying the harvest celebration. The sun had barely slipped past the horizon and already half of the pub seemed well on its way toward drunken abandon.
She plunked herself down on a worn stool, sliding the tankards out across the small round table with practiced ease to her two friends. The men called out their thanks, grabbing at their ales and each downing half the mug in a smooth motion.
Christian grinned up to her. “You are a saint, Morgan,” announced the red-head, a twinkle in his eye.
“Sure, and you get the next round,” she joked merrily, pushing her long, jet black hair back from her face with one hand. The men were still wearing their guard uniforms, having come righ
t from watch duty to join in the festivities. Morgan knew Lady Donna’s keep was well enough protected – there were plenty of guards still left on the walls. Her friends deserved some time off. It was harvest, after all. A season to relax, to have some fun.
She rolled her head, loosening the ache from her shoulders and neck, taking another long draw on her ale as the chaos of the place washed over her with comfortable familiarity. The pub was normally ample for its patrons, but tonight it was overflowing with the crowd, both with the farmers celebrating their crops and the soldiers in from London. It made for a tightly-packed night.
“And just why are those outsiders here?” she asked Christian, looking over at the soldiers. She’d grown up in Shamley Green, knew every man, woman, and child here. The trio of well-built men stood out like hawks in a flock of sparrows.
“Something about a funeral for a friend of theirs,” responded Christian, barely sparing a glance for the newcomers, his eyes warm on her face. “Felix said they should be in town for another few days, perhaps. They are staying down at the inn.”
“Was there bandit action in the area?” Morgan pressed, her interest sparking. Maybe she could talk with Lady Donna, get some time off from her bodyguard duties.
Christian was shaking his head, sending his red curls dancing. “Nothing so exciting,” he calmed his friend, his eyes twinkling. “Rumor has it that the man got on the wrong side of a loan shark and was put out of his misery.”
Morgan sighed. It was always the same; nothing exciting ever happened around here. She put the strangers out of her mind, rolling her shoulders again; that stubborn ache in her neck just would not ease. She turned to her right, to the man who leant back in watchful relaxation. She swatted playfully across the top of his brush-cut blond hair, riffling the gently greying tips. “So, Oliver, what about putting that medical training of yours to some good use?” she teased him with a smile.
He arched an eyebrow, then slid a hand behind her back, unerringly kneading at the knot immediately above her shoulder blade. She sighed softly in pleasure.
God’s teeth, but he was a good man to have handy at the end of a long, wearying day.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. She looked up with a toss of her head, protest on her lips.
Oliver was staring over at the bar, his eyes sharp. Morgan glanced over and saw that Felix, the portly barkeep, was waving one hand toward their table with a wry grin. His red nose practically shone in the dusk as he nodded his head to the right. Morgan followed the look and spotted one of the elderly farmers tottering to his feet, a look of outrage on his face.
Morgan could barely hear his curse over the din of the room. “How dare you say your turnips are better than mine!”
Morgan felt Christian begin to rise beside her and patted him playfully on the arm. “You two hold tight; I will be right back,” she promised, draining her ale. “Sometimes a woman’s touch is what is called for.”
“You certainly have that touch,” agreed Christian with a smile, his eyes sweeping her curvaceous form with appreciation. Morgan leant over the table for a moment, dipping the front of her scarlet dress lower than necessary as she swept up the empty tankards, winking at Christian as his grin grew wider. Then she was turning, dropping the mugs off for refills as she swept past the bar on the way to the corner table.
“Come now, Jonas,” she called out to the balding farmer as she came up alongside him, “I think it is time for you to head on home.” Offering a friendly smile, she tucked her arm in against his. Jonas seemed caught between his pride in his produce and the well-built woman who was insinuating herself against his side. The latter won out, and he turned, his face glowing.
Morgan chuckled. “Let us get you home to your wife,” she suggested, walking him to the door. She dropped her voice down a notch. “Besides, I am sure everyone here knows that your turnips are the best in the county. Let that braggart make a fool of himself if he wishes.”
Jonas’ face shone with pride, and he nodded blearily in agreement. Morgan released him as they got out into the dark street, watching fondly as he ambled his way down the dirt road toward his small cottage. The noise rang out behind her, but the houses were peacefully quiet as they spread out in three directions, lights from candles and fires glowing softly in several windows.
Morgan glanced toward the end of the street, toward the two-story building which housed her parents. The forge would be quiet now, but she knew it would not be silent in the home. Her father and mother were undoubtedly at it again, raging over some perceived slight, some invented ill. No, she would not be heading home until well near dawn. Thank all that was holy that she was due back at the keep tomorrow afternoon and her short visit was nearly at an end.
Pushing her family out of her mind with well-practiced effort, she turned and dove head-first in the roiling chaos of the mob. She saw the fresh tankards waiting for her on the scuffed bar top and began weaving her way through to retrieve them.
She was jostled hard to the left by the tumultuous crowd, staggered, and a spray of liquid misted her arm. She looked down at her stained dress with a wry smile, wiping herself down as she turned.
It was the soldiers from London, their dark green uniforms crisp and neat, an island of order in the stormy sea of muddy turmoil. The man she had hit was shaking drops off his hand, a small metal cup on the table now only three-fourths full. She sized him up in a long glance. He seemed perhaps thirty, his body long and rangy, well-muscled beneath his tunic. His chestnut hair was cut relatively short, brushed back from his face, emphasizing his strong cheekbones, his grey eyes flecked with gold.
One of his companions looked over. “Hey, lass, fetch us another round of ale,” he called out, his speech slightly slurred. Morgan turned her gaze with mild annoyance. This soldier was more muscular, about the same age as the first man, his birch-brown hair cut close to his head. He stared with hazy interest at her buxom form spilling out of the close-fitting dress she wore, then slid his look back up to her face. “Be quick about it and there might be a nice bonus in it for you,” he added suggestively. He glanced over at the well-built man she had hit. His voice became slightly more formal “Did you want a refill on your mead, Sean?” he asked the man.
“No thanks, Roger” replied Sean, wiping the back of his hand on his leg, not looking up. “Take it if you want.” He gave his leg a final swipe. “I wonder how the locals can tolerate the brew - it is foul enough to drop a horse,” he added with a shake of the head.
Morgan’s eyes flashed in outrage. It was bad enough for strangers to take up space in an already crowded pub, but for them to badmouth the homemade liquor Felix took such pride in pricked her to the core. She swept up the cup and without hesitation tossed the entire drink back down her throat, the raw liquid slithering into the depths of her being with the familiar warm sensation. Her world stopped for a moment as the mead sent its curling tendrils into every corner of her body.
Oh, but that felt good.
She slammed the cup back down onto the table with a firm ring. All three soldiers were now staring up at her, their mouths open in shock.
Morgan was not done. “Felix!” she called out, her voice ringing in command. The bar’s patrons turned instantly at the shout, and the place hushed to a murmur, all eyes focused on her with bright interest.
“I think this soldier here would like some milk,” she announced to her audience with a deliberate smirk. “It seems he cannot handle the harder stuff.”
There was a rolling cascade of mirth from the crowd in response. Sean looked up at her in amusement, a ready smile playing on his lips. “I promise I can drink anything you choose to put before me,” he answered in challenge.
A voice rang out behind her. “Two pounds on Morgan!” Christian had come up alongside her, his face split in a wide smile.
Oliver tossed coins on the table. “Make that three,” he added evenly.
The room became a hubbub of bets and offers, and the center of the area was cleared out t
o make room for the spectators. Morgan sat to one side of the soldier’s table, settling her red skirts around her with practiced ease, getting her feet set up sturdily beneath her. Sean took the chair opposite her, swinging his sword out of the way as he sat.
Roger patted Sean on the shoulder. “You pace yourself,” he advised his friend with a teasing wink. “These village girls can be feisty.”
“I suppose you have some advice, Peter?” asked Sean, looking up at the other man. “You are nearly forty now; you are our senior man here.”
“Never make assumptions,” responded Peter thoughtfully, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he looked over the scene. “Still, I think you have this one easily.” He leant forward. “Four pounds on Sean.”
Sean turned back toward the table. He gave a long look down Morgan’s healthy build, her lush curves. His eyes brightened with anticipation as he sized up his opponent.
“I would hate to cause any real harm to such a lovely creature,” he commented with an appreciative smile.
Morgan watched as his eyes moved from her body toward the pair of men standing just behind her. She could almost read his thoughts in the narrowing of his eyes. Swords on their hips, protective stances, well-toned builds. Not simple farmers, these two.