‘There’s no more danger,’ Natalie said firmly. She took Joss’s cold hand. ‘Come on. It’s time to go in. Leave Katherine to her moonlight.’
Slowly they made their way back across the grass. On the terrace Joss stopped and looked back. The garden was silent.
The echoes were gone.
Daily Telegraph
17th July 1995
To Luke and Jocelyn Grant a daughter (Alice Laura
Katherine) a sister for Tom and Ned.
Sunday Times
September 1995
Son of the Sword by Jocelyn Grant (Hibberds)
An accomplished first novel written with wit and pace. Set largely in the author’s own house during the years of the Wars of the Roses, Richard Mortimer and Ann de Vere tread a heady tightrope of romance, adventure and near disaster which culminates in an extraordinarily satisfactory ending, leaving the reader clinging to the edge of his chair. Highly recommended. I shall look forward to seeing more from this author.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Belheddon does not exist. Nor did this branch of the de Vere family. King Edward IV had many mistresses during his lifetime. The names of the last two are unknown; the story of Katherine de Vere, woven through this tale, is entirely fictional. Accusations of witchcraft and sorcery were made at Edward’s court both against his queen and other high-born women around him, but whether these were merely political propaganda or substantiated in truth is for the reader to decide for him or herself.
As always so many people have provided me with help and information in the research of this book. I should particularly like to thank James Maitland of Lay & Wheeler in Colchester for his suggestions on the contents of the Belheddon cellar, (any spelling mistakes in the wine names are my fault entirely) Janet Hanlon for her assistance and Carole Blake for her attempts at keeping my characters’ drinking habits within bounds! Also Rachel Hore for her editorial advice during what must have been the hottest days in East Anglia since the reign of Edward IV! I should also like to thank my son Adrian for his help with research and Peter Shepherd, Dr Robert Brownell and my son Jonathan for their help in sorting out my computer crash, computer crises and computer panic! I think I prefer to use a quill pen!
A lost child in the Welsh borders;
a violent attack in London;
an epic battle between the Celts and the Romans.
What can possibly link them?
Read on for an extract from
BARBARA ERSKINE’S
thrilling new novel,
The Warrior’s Princess
The gods were with her. She managed to get a flight that same evening. Leaving most of her belongings locked in the car in the long-term car park at Heathrow, she settled into her seat with a huge sigh of relief as the plane took off and angled sharply over London.
She arrived at last at the palazzo in the early hours of the morning. When she climbed out of the taxi, paid the driver and dragged her case to the door the street was, she noticed wearily, as busy as it would be at midday at home. She had no time for any other observations. In seconds she was being enveloped in hugs and escorted up the great marble staircase which led to Kim’s front door on the first floor. Minutes after that she was seated in front of a crisp glass of Frascati and a bowl of pasta in the echoing old-fashioned kitchen.
‘So?’ Steph sat down opposite her and leaned forward on her elbows. ‘What happened?’
‘What do you mean?’ Jess took a mouthful of the fettuccine alla marinara, savouring the flavours with delight. She had not eaten since her motorway stop, so long ago it seemed like another era. A warm fuzzy sense of security was beginning to drift over her.
Kim spooned the last of the sauce onto Jess’s plate. She glanced at Steph. ‘No questions now, Steph,’ she said sternly. ‘Jess is exhausted. We’ll catch up on all her news in the morning.’
In less than an hour Jess had taken a long relaxing bath and fallen into bed. Almost before her head touched the pillow she was asleep. But her sleep was restless and it wasn’t long before she woke suddenly and lay staring into the dark. Her head had been full of music. Elgar. The voice of Rhodri Price, filling the dark spaces of her brain. Except it wasn’t Rhodri Price, it was Caratacus.
* * *
Tall, his strong weather-beaten features drawn with pain, his hair threaded now with silver amongst the thick auburn locks, he was standing in the doorway, his shoulder and upper arm still bandaged from his battle wound, his wrists shackled with heavy iron manacles, staring in towards his wife and daughter. ‘Where is he?’ he asked. ‘Where is my son?’
Cerys clasped her hands in anguish as he stepped into the room. Behind him the guard slammed the door and they heard the bolt slide across.
‘We searched. We searched everywhere. The Romans searched. They put the whole legion to the search –’ Her voice rose in anguish. ‘Eigon hid them in the wood above the battlefield. To keep them safe. But when we looked they had gone.’
Eigon had started to tremble. She stared at her father in terror, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I told them to hide. I told them not to come out.’
For a brief second his face was consumed with anger; with an enormous effort he controlled it. ‘They told me. Can we hope our own people found them? Can they be keeping them safe?’
‘That is my prayer,’ Cerys said softly. ‘I pray every day to the goddess Bride to keep them safe. You must not blame Eigon. She did what she thought was right.’ Her voice was softened by a smile as she turned towards her daughter but there was a hard edge of pain to it that Eigon heard with a small whimper of unhappiness.
Caradoc studied his wife’s face. ‘I had no intention of blaming her. Come here, child.’ He held out his arms, awkward because of the chains and Eigon ran to him, leaning against his knees, worming her way into his embrace. ‘You did what you thought was right, sweetheart, and you were very brave.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘And who knows,’ he glanced up at his wife, his face strained, ‘it may be that Togo and Glads are the ones who will survive to fight another day.’
The music faded and Jess slept again. Next time she woke she went and stood by the window looking out into the darkness, listening to the noises of the night. Her window faced away from the noisy street outside. From somewhere she could hear a tinkling of water, but behind it there was still a distant subdued hum of traffic. She smiled to herself. The Eternal City. She remembered how excited they had all been when Kim had announced her engagement to her Roman aristocrat. They had all vowed to keep in touch for ever, vowed with her, to learn Italian. Jess grimaced at the memory. Kim had become fluent over the years, of course she had. Her own and Steph’s attempts at the language had flagged almost at once. Her promises to herself that she would one day read La Commedia Divina in the original had been ignominiously shunted aside, along with her recognition that her mastery of the language would probably be limited to a few useful phrases mostly involving food.
When she woke again it was late and she lay staring with delight round the large room to which she had been shown the night before. Too tired to take much notice of the room lit only by a shaded bedside light, she had taken in very little of its detail beyond the fact that it was comfortable and had its own en suite bathroom. Now she found she was lying in a baroque four-poster bed, its curtains open, tied back against the posts with brocade swags; at the windows the threadbare damask curtains were only half-drawn and sunlight poured through onto exotic old rugs filling the room with rich warm light. Climbing to her feet she went over to look out and found she was staring down into a courtyard garden somewhere in the quiet inner heart of the palazzo. The tantalising sound of water she had heard in the night, came, she discovered, from an ornate fountain at the centre of an intricate pattern of formal beds and gravelled paths.
‘Are you awake?’ Steph appeared in the doorway behind her. She was carrying two cups of coffee.
Jess turned away from the window and faced her, pushing her hair
back from her face with both hands. ‘This is heaven! I hope Kim really doesn’t mind me turning up at such short notice.’ She realised that for the first time in ages she felt completely safe.
‘Kim is delighted. She rattles round in this apartment.’ For a second Steph frowned. ‘I think she is genuinely lonely, you know. It was fabulous when Stefano was alive but now I suspect she only has a few real friends here and most of them bugger off in the summer to go somewhere cooler. I met some of them the other night but most of them were about to leave Rome for the holidays.’ Cradling her own cup she sat down on the bed, swinging her legs. Her feet were bare. ‘I am so pleased you decided to come, Jessie. We’re going to have such fun.’
Jess eyed her sister speculatively knowing it was only a matter of time before the cross questioning started. Ruefully she was remembering her recent enthusiasm for Wales, her pleas to go to Ty Bran, her longing to paint, knowing how illogical her sudden arrival in the middle of the night must seem. One thing was certain. She was not going to tell Steph and Kim the true reason.
‘So, what changed your mind? Why did you decide to leave?’ Steph had leaned back on her elbow amongst the pillows as she sipped her coffee, noting how pale and strained her sister looked.
Jess set her own cup down on a console table by the window. She rubbed her face with her hands. The music from her dream, from the long car journey was still there, at the back of her brain. She was not going to mention Dan, but she could tell them about Eigon. ‘Did you ever hear a child’s voice at Ty Bran, Steph? Eigon’s voice.’
Steph sat up again. ‘A voice?’
‘Eigon. The daughter of Caratacus!’
Steph looked confused.
‘The ghost! The little girl who haunts your studio.’
‘Ah.’ Steph stood up. She paced slowly over to the window and stood looking out. ‘Is this why you changed your mind about staying up there alone? You got spooked.’ Her voice was casual but Jess heard the tension there.
‘I suppose I was,’ she acknowledged cautiously. Better by far for Steph to think she had been chased out by ghosts than to know the real reason.
Steph retraced her steps to the bed and climbed onto it once more, sitting cross-legged against the pillows. ‘Ty Bran is haunted. There’s no doubt about it. I’ve often heard things, sensed things. Not really seen anything.’ She picked idly at the silvery embroidery on the pillow case. ‘But it’s never frightened me. If it had, I would have warned you. I don’t mind at all being up there alone. At least – ’
‘She didn’t frighten me.’ Jess sat down on the bed next to her. ‘Not once I got used to her. But she made me sad. She is so lonely, so needy. Do you know the story? Eigon was captured by the Romans with her father and mother. And brought here. To Rome. They were prisoners in chains. But her baby brother and sister were lost in the woods at Ty Bran.’
About the Author
House of Echoes
A historian by training, Barbara Erskine is the author of ten bestselling novels that demonstrate her interest in both history and the supernatural, plus three collections of short stories. Lady of Hay was her first novel and has now sold over two million copies worldwide. She lives with her family in an ancient manor house near Colchester, and a cottage near Hay-on-Wye.
For more information about Barbara Erskine, visit her website, www.Barbara-Erskine.com.
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Also By Barbara Erskine
By the same author
LADY OF HAY
kingdom of shadows
encounters (short stories)
child of the phoenix
midnight is a lonely place
distant voices (short stories)
on the edge of darkness
whispers in the sand
hiding from the light
sands of time (short stories)
daughters of fire
the warrior’s princess
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsPublishers 1996
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 1996
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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EPub Edition © MARCH 2009 ISBN: 9780007320943
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