by Ingrid Hahn
Table of Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note/Confession
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more Amara titles… The Highland Outlaw
The Beast of Beswick
Saving the Scot
To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Ingrid Hahn. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Rd
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
[email protected]
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Cover photography from Period Images
ISBN 978-1-68281-524-3
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition December 2019
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
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Liz Pelletier, Publisher
For Henry and Julian. If there is light in my eyes, it is because of you.
For Tom because you need something cool, even if it’s only from your sister. I admire how hard you work at your job, your dedication to goals, and your happy spirit. I fully believe she’s still out there somewhere. Don’t give up hope.
For Jonathan. From the University Village Barnes & Noble first floor information desk all those years ago to babies today, life is more fun with you in it! I am unfailingly proud that you are my husband and the father of the two beautiful, mischievous whirlwinds we are lucky enough to call our sons.
And in memory of Julie Mahnke. In September, she went to bed one night and did not wake the following morning. Her death was unexpected and left all of us in the Hahn household heartbroken. She was a feisty, no-nonsense woman who took no crap from anyone and loved to laugh. We can’t believe we’ll never get to bask in her fun-loving light again. A few months before her untimely death, Julie reported having no regrets about the way she lived her life, which is exactly what I hope for all those reading this now. Julie, we raise a glass to you.
Author’s Note/Confession
While I adore historical accuracy—in as much as it can be captured in fiction given the limitations of scholarship, personal differences in interpretation of the historical record, and the vast possibilities suggested by a rich imagination—I am not a scholar, although perhaps I should have been. What I am, for better or worse, is a writer. My first loyalty is to the story. Where I could, I avoided anachronisms, though I am certain there will be things I missed.
That said, where it suited me, I played fast and loose with historical facts. For example, what I was able to discover about the history of the Sacrament of Reconciliation (what Roman Catholics today know as individual confession) suggests it dates to the eleventh century. For another example, there is no attested funeral custom as I describe in chapter twenty-six; I made it up to suit my purposes. To my mind, because humans differ but essentially stay the same through the ages, I can work within the realm of the unlikely but possible when I step out of the realm of the probable. And, because I have little patience for the thees, thous, yays, nays wrought by an awkward hand, when I was writing, I thought of myself like a translator trying to bring an old story to life in an engaging, easy-to-read, natural way suitable to modern audiences.
Without further ado, I am proud to bring this story into the world and hope it finds readers who love it as much as I do.
Chapter One
The Nightmare Begins
Late spring, 788 A.D.
In a long-forgotten kingdom in a small corner of what is now known as the British Isles…
It started as many nightmares do…
Swallows fluttered and glided over the fields where the haze was no more than a whisper. The tide was low and the air redolent of brine in the quiet pockets of mists the sun had yet to burn away. It was a world on the brink of dawn.
Alodie carried a basket full of the eggs she’d been sent out to gather. Last night, a fox had destroyed the coop. Red soaked the earth and corpses were strewn everywhere.
After morning prayer, there would be dozens of mouths to feed. Alodie was hungry too, and the basket was heavy. But that didn’t prevent her from lingering, listening to the waves, and inhaling the sweet scent of the damp air. She never had the opportunity to drink in the dawn because dawn meant prayer. Everyone, including her, gathered in the chapel.
She never dawdled. Never missed prayers. Except today she did. The light was golden. The lush green made her feel drunk with joy for the season. It was too much to resist.
She valued the plain, simple, and practical. She was nothing but a servant, and the duties were never-ending. She worked hard, doing what was necessary for the good of all, whether or not the task directly benefited her. What use had she for beauty?
But now, in this brief sliver of the morning, beauty was everything. It washed away the gruesome memory of the unexpected slaughter in the henhouse. For all that was horrible in the world, there were moments like these that balanced the strife and heartache. She was here. She was safe. And being alive was a gift more valuable than all the gold in Christendom. The world called, singing a siren’s song. In ans
wer, her heart took wing as she wandered the shore, taking the longest way back, plodding along, as if she had no place in particular to be—in perfect peace.
Nothing more was happening than the wind fluttering her hair when a form materialized on the sea, coming into existence as if created by the haze itself.
A ship. One. Then two. At the prow, grotesque beasts were carved into polished wood.
The creatures upon the decks stared toward land. They might have called themselves men, but she called them by a different name. Demons. Godless demons. They worshiped idols and killed indiscriminately. Mercy was unknown to them. They came from the north, wanting only one thing.
Alodie dropped the eggs. And ran.
Chapter Two
Demons Arrive
Holding her skirts high, Alodie scrambled through the grassy dunes. Shore birds flung themselves to the sky ahead of her, squalling and screaming.
And so they should. The morning’s tranquil peace had been shattered. Let the whole world know it.
Panic fueled Alodie’s speed. The sprint made her spend more of herself than she had to give. But she couldn’t hold back—not with demons on the shore. The king and his best men were away on a hunt, all the better to boast of himself during his daughter’s marriage feasts in a month’s time.
His absence meant he’d left the weak to fend for themselves. They were nearly defenseless and would all die horribly if those…those creatures had their way. And there was nothing to stop them.
The sight of the timber fortress walls had never been so welcome. There was no force to defend them, but the wood represented some measure of protection. Lungs burning, she darted through the unmanned gate. She stumbled, nearly falling face-first into mud, but caught her balance in time.
At the side door of the kitchens, she ran straight into the arms of the scowling cook. “What about a few wild birds has you in such a state, girl?”
No air. Alodie gasped. “Can’t—”
The sky was just dark enough, the morning still chasing away the last traces of night. Perhaps Alodie wasn’t too late to speak to the princess before she and her retinue processed to chapel.
The cook drew her hand back and delivered a cracking slap against Alodie’s cheek. “Tell me.”
Others stopped their tasks to gape at the spectacle.
Alodie wrenched free of the other woman, twisting hard out of the iron grip with a burst of pain. Ignoring the sharp discomfort, she climbed the winding steps of the stair tower. The planks were eternally damp. Last night’s rain hadn’t helped. There were no windows, but everything leaked. On the walls, torches burned, making the twisting space forever smoky. She choked on the thick air and her feet splashed the puddles in the grooves that made everything dangerously slick. She didn’t slow down.
The image of the massacre in the henhouse wouldn’t leave her mind. Had it been a sign? A warning? Didn’t matter. Things could become far worse.
She burst into the princess’s chamber. There was no time to register the shock or impropriety of her actions. This wasn’t how things were done. This wasn’t how a person of her rank sought an audience with the princess.
But when life and death hung in the balance, what did those things mean?
There was no time to spare. The sooner they prepared themselves, the better. What hope they’d have would be desperate enough as it was.
The room went silent. Every soul present fixed her eyes upon Alodie, none of them blinking.
Alodie had but a single word. “Norsemen.”
Alarm broke out. One woman screamed and two others fell weeping into each other’s arms. Another collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Cyneburga, whom Alodie liked to keep well clear of, marched up to her and brought an open palm down upon Alodie’s cheek. Alodie cupped her face with her hand. The sting was sharper than it ought to have been, and her face was still smarting from the last measure of abuse. Simmering with years of frustration, she stared at the woman.
Outwardly beautiful, with unblemished skin and features that inspired lovesick—and slightly drunk—men to flights of poetry, Cyneburga had never given any indication that her immortal spirit matched her earthly bearing. “You stupid fool. Why didn’t you go straight to the church?”
Without the status to challenge the highborn woman, Alodie reined in the impulse to let a rush of harsh words fly out of her mouth.
“That was unnecessary, Cyneburga.” The princess herself held up a hand to silence the room. “Enough. We can’t take fright. We must think and prepare with what little time we have.”
The princess’s cool rationality was comforting. It didn’t take the dread away, but it did offer a thread of hope that they might somehow get through this alive. For the first time since catching sight of the demonic shapes materializing out of the mist, Alodie began to breathe more easily.
It was foolish, perhaps. What could the princess do? Their treasures would be taken and who knows how many of their people slaughtered? And what those men might do to the females was unthinkable.
The role of women was to emulate the Mother of God. To be obedient and yielding to men, trusting them with everything—whether men earned that trust or not. Did being born with a penis make men think they were masters of all? They would point to holy writings to justify the position they held in the world. Sometimes, it seemed merely convenient that they did so.
Far be it from Alodie to voice doubts. She’d rather live with the questions gnawing at her than die condemned and betrayed by church and people.
Maybe the reason Alodie loved the princess best was how she played on men’s presumptions about submissiveness. The princess had found a way to exploit ill-founded beliefs, quietly and ruthlessly. Men saw what they wanted, never knowing until it was too late that she was stronger, smarter, and sharper-witted than any of them.
By the time they realized she was an extraordinary woman, she’d gotten the best of them. She was intelligent and insightful when others were foolish and hot-headed. Yet she remained composed, outwardly as tranquil as a still pond on a windless day.
Those who underestimated the princess rarely did so twice.
The princess motioned to one of the nearby serving girls standing in stunned disbelief. “Go send a messenger to alert the priests at once. Tell them to hide everything. We might yet be forced to give it to them, but I’d rather thwart them if they attempt to plunder as they please.” She turned to Alodie. “You did well. Thanks to you, we won’t be caught unaware.”
Alodie blushed like a proud child under the notice of a beloved adult. She couldn’t help it. Objectively, she was far too old for such things—deeper into her third decade than a woman ought to admit to, especially a woman without a husband. She’d been foolish to refuse offers of marriage that, by rights, should never have fallen to a nobody like her. To remain close to the princess who embodied every characteristic Alodie struggled to emulate in her quick-tempered, passionate, questioning, earthy self—that was why she had refused.
The princess addressed the room. “We know what they want. Gold and silver. If we give it to them, they will leave, and none of us will be the worse for it.”
Cyneburga nodded solemnly. When the princess had turned, omitting the woman from her field of vision, Cyneburga slipped off the chain she wore about her neck, wound it in a spare bit of linen, and tucked the makeshift parcel into a nearby decorative urn.
Alodie forced herself to look away, bitterness puckering her mouth. She could only wish for an article of value to sacrifice on behalf of the princess.
Several of the ladies had fallen to their knees in fervent supplication to heaven.
A ruckus sounded from below the window. In the yard, cattle bellowed and horses whinnied as they were hastily moved. Men began to shout and an angry honk burst out of a goose as if she had been kicked in the sudden bustle.
T
he men who had stayed behind when the king went were not the most able fighters. Far from it. They might have weapons, but they had no skill, never having been selected for battle. A kind of luxury, perhaps. If travelers’ tales were to be believed, in many places, all men fought, young and old, able or not. They had to.
What the men here had, and what they shared with Alodie, was a deep and abiding love for their princess. Love meant loyalty and peace and willing workers who took pride in their accomplishments, knowing all they did reflected on her.
In times of dire need, however, whether they lived and worked or fell under barbaric threat, love meant less. Lifeless bodies lying in puddles of their own blood could not love. For the living, love gave one final and lingering gift. It gave them something to fight for.
Alodie was about to excuse herself to slip away where she might be of use, when tiny beads scattered across the floor, bouncing and rolling in every direction, as if they, too, were fleeing in terror. One of the ladies had been worrying the decorative strand she wore around her neck, and the bit of twine had snapped.
Without thinking, Alodie immediately dropped to the ground and began gathering them, half expecting a tart statement from Cyneburga, warning the other lady to count the beads lest Alodie steal any.
Another of the ladies, one with a heavy brow and kind brown eyes, spoke. “We’ll not survive this. Not without a miracle.”
Keeping her gaze firmly fixed to her work, Alodie frowned. Miracles, indeed. What they needed were weapons and strong men who knew how to use them.
She had spent a decade trying to cultivate faith. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe, per se. The consequences of not doing so in this life or the next were too grim to contemplate.
While others had no trouble believing they could sway the will of the Lord, if only they pleaded enough, Alodie could never quite accept the idea of intercession through prayer. No matter how she might have prayed—somewhat ironically—for a change of heart.
Wondrous things happened every day, true enough. Were they signs of the hand of God at work in this world? Or were they merely things that happened while their Lord and Savior watched from afar? Did the demons’ invasions signal the end of the world was nigh, as many a holy man preached?