THE VIKING AND THE PICTISH PRINCESS
Eithne’s cruel father sold her mother into slavery and gave her away. Despised by her siblings as a bastard, beautiful Eithne has lost everything, including her name.
Now called Bindweed, the illegitimate daughter of King Giric has made a life for herself on Maiden Isle as a respected wise-woman. She is determined to hold fast to that position and her little home, no matter what—or who—may come to try to steal it.
But when a fleeing Norseman appears dripping from the loch to seek shelter on Maiden Isle, Bindweed traps him – is he friend or foe? What is his purpose here on her isle? When ruthless raiding Gaels invade, Bindweed and Olaf must unite and fight together, if they plan to survive.
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Excerpt
The lone figure rose silently from the loch. Emerging from the grey shimmer of a winter morning with water sheeting off his body, he glided over the submerged boulders onto the shore of her island. Bindweed scrambled into a holly tree and dropped to the parched ground. She gritted her teeth against the shout surging up her dry throat, old fears from the past made real.
Viking!
He was big, this invader, big as a king stag of the forest, tanned, barrel chested and with arms thicker than her legs. His black hair, dark as December pine cones, matted itself to his skull in long streamers of shadow and eyes, the colour of storm clouds, were quick and piercing.
“Black Norse,” Bindweed muttered, not daring to stir as that fierce grey gaze swept over her hiding place. His thick gold collar and armlets flashed when he strode by, arrogant as a lord. He moved with the swift, quiet grace of a warrior, the low winter sun illuminating his leather tunic and trews, the long dagger strapped to one thigh, his sword on the other.
Spy or assassin, Bindweed wondered, watching his retreating back. He made for her cave-house as if he had walked the path a hundred times, though she doubted he sought her skill in herb-lore. Still she did not stir.
The first snare on the trail he avoided with a snort of humour, the second, set below a seeming bed of innocent pine needles, swallowed him whole. Bindweed was out of the holly and sprinting before the Viking had stopped his bellow of surprise. A quick jerk of the rope hidden by ivy had the nets and timber unravelling and the trap closed. She quickly pinned it down, panting hard as she rolled the lock-stone in place.
Thirteen feet below, in the round pit it had taken her three summers to dig and harden with fire, the black Norse prowled, thumping the sheer walls and slamming the mud-churned floor. He would not look at her. Bindweed did not care.
“No one comes here,” she lied—why tell truth to the enemy? “Yell away,” she added, when the stranger’s mighty chest swelled like organ bellows. “None shall hear.”
The Viking lunged up. She stamped his clenching fingers off the timbers and nets and he cursed and spat. “Food later,” she told him, spotting how his eyes narrowed briefly in calculation. He understands me, then.
It did not matter. Tomorrow night she would lace his portion and his ale with enough sleeping draught to fell an ox and then drag him out, to question at her leisure. Thank the stag god and the great mother that I heeded my instincts four summers ago to fashion these traps. Sometimes my senses are not only tuned to women’s healing, but to more brutal matters of survival.
She had no time to celebrate, however. Now she was exhausted, harp-string taut tension replaced by a yawning tiredness. Without troubling to undress, she stumbled into her bed and slept.
She dreamed of her past, an old horrific recollection, that began, as too often, with screaming.
****
She was seven summers old when her father Giric killed her mother. Nothing as quick or kind as a knife, but his selling of Kentigerna bright-hair into slavery, to a Viking, was still murder. Years later, she had never forgiven the old man, nor forgotten her mother’s screams.
Medieval Romance -THE SNOW BRIDE by Lindsay Townsend. New ExcerptShe is Beauty, but is he the Beast?
Elfrida, spirited, caring, and beautiful, is also alone. She is the "witch of the woods," and no man dares to ask for her hand in marriage until a beast comes stalking brides and steals away her sister. Desperate, the lovely Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, as bridal bait, and she is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast?
In the depths of a frozen midwinter, in the heart of the woodland, Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, searches ceaselessly for three missing brides, pitting his wits and weapons against a nameless stalker of the snowy forest. Disfigured and hideously scarred, Magnus has finished with love, he thinks, until he rescues a fourth "bride," the beautiful, red-haired Elfrida, whose innocent touch ignites in him a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires.
Genre: Historical
Length: 92,037 words
Chapter 5
As they rode within sight of the thatched roofs of Lower Yarr, Magnus squeezed Elfrida’s waist. “You know what to do?” he whispered against her ear.
“We have been over this plan a score of times,” Elfrida replied, quelling the waspish tone in her voice so that Mark, riding alongside, could not accuse her of scolding. “You are right, it should work.”
She and Magnus had talked at length at first light, over a breakfast of thick porridge that even now sat in her stomach like a stone. Magnus had seemed shy then, looking at the monster’s blue cup instead of her, but during the long ride over, he had put her before him on his horse and then clamped his body behind her like moss on a boulder.
Riding for her was strange and new, but she sensed that even with a missing hand and foot Magnus was an excellent horseman. Once she had asked if they need sit so closely, but he had merely grunted and said the saddle made it so. After that he had urged the bay to a burst of speed, plowing through the fresh snow and scattering great clouds of white chill flakes everywhere so that speech became impossible.
Now they were here, at a village she knew but had rarely visited. Those seeking her cures or help came to her, instead. Elfrida pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair so she could stare unchallenged, and she looked about.
It was not as pretty as Top Yarr, she decided, satisfied that the village’s great house, wells, homes and snow-covered gardens were no better than those of her village. As they galloped down the track, a few faces she knew peered out from window shutters, and several old men hobbled on sticks out of doors.
She and Magnus and a troop of other horsemen swept on to the village’s meeting house, home of the headman Adam de Shaghe, whose wife she had once helped in a matter of love magic.
And I have other spells and charms to set, other villagers to help, if not here, then at Selton and Great Yarr. But they must wait. Christina comes first.
“You understand their speech?” Magnus asked for the sixth time.
“Very well. And you know to back me, whatever I demand?”
His long thighs stroked briefly against hers as he hugged her. “To the hilts.”
Warmed by his vow, she touched his hand in return, then gave her full attention to Adam de Shaghe and his council, who were gathering by the village cross to meet them.
As they had agreed, Magnus and his men dismounted, but Elfrida remained on horseback. Sitting straight and proudly in the saddle, she tossed back the hood of her cloak. Her red hair was the brightest thing in the village clearing, and her itching spots had faded to red blemishes so that she seemed a thing of fury. She sounded it, too, her clear voice ringing to the treetops.
* * * *
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DARK MAIDEN:
Ghosts, revenants, incubi , vampires and demons haunt medieval England, as Yolande and Geraint must use their love to survive.
Beautiful Yolande comes from an exotic line of exorcists—a talent she considers a gift—and a curse. In fourteenth century England, a female exorcist who is also black is an oddity. She is sought after and trusted to quiet the restless dead and to send revenants to their final rest.
Geraint the Welshman captures Yolande’s heart with his ready smile and easy ways, and the passionate fire of his spirit. An entertainer, he juggles and tumbles his way through life—but there is a serious side to him that runs deep. He offers Yolande an added strength in her work and opens his heart to her with a love such as she’s never known.
But Yolande is not free to offer Geraint her love completely—not until her “time of seven” has passed.
Can the powerful attraction between them withstand the powers of evil who mean to separate them forever? Yolande’s conscience and conviction force her to face this evil head-on—but can Geraint save his Dark Maiden…
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Here's a new excerpt, from the point of view of Yolande, my exorcist, when she meets the dangerous Geraint, my anti-hero.
The following morning, passing the bread and cheese that the sisters had generously given her to a beggar outside the convent walls, Yolande sensed someone watching. She turned, forced to take a rapid backward step as a stranger trod on her shadow. She had not heard his approach.
“Mistress Yolande?”
“You have the advantage, mister. You know my name.” She smiled to take any sting from her words. “May I know yours?”
Greetings and courtesy were important to her. Each gave clues as to character and wishes. She had once known a demon, beautifully polite, who would have ripped the flesh from her bones had she not bound him by his own rules of manners.
The stranger bowed, a good sign. He muttered something in a language she did not know, which was not good. She moved a little closer, ready to boot him in the balls if he did anything unsavory.
“Geraint Welshman, at your service.” He crouched then looked straight at her. “I am just taking something from my pack, if it please you.”
She grinned at him to prove she was unafraid, her body heavy and languid as she itched to go onto the balls of her feet, ready to scrap. A quick stab to those astonishing black-blue eyes, a swipe at his knee and Geraint the Welshman would be groveling in the hard-packed mud.
Which would be a shame for such a glorious face. He bent his head, showing his trust of her, to rummage in his pack. He was a good-looking brute, not too muscled but as lean and wiry as herself. There was a soft jangle of bells within his patched shoulder-pack, revealing him as a wandering entertainer, a less deadly mirror of herself. They were even about the same height.
I entertain the restless dead before I send them on. What must it be like to work for living laughter?
Hard, she guessed, noting his less-than-clean black hair, the scars on his knuckles, his drab motley, missing bits of ribbons and coins. He was darker that she was, tanned by many suns, and with excellent teeth.
Strong, rangy and in no hurry to stick to one place, but a honeyman all the same. She felt a flicker of interest, a few youthful, girlish hopes. She was ten-and-eight these days, young for an exorcist but ripe for marriage. Her father, a remarkable man, had managed both. She missed him, but her time would surely come—maybe with this Welshman.
“The pardoner said you would understand the message with this.” Geraint interrupted her reverie as he laid a crucifix down on the rutted road, on top of his pack to keep it from the dirt.
Yolande stared at it, all hopes forgotten in an instant. She sensed the earth shifting beneath her feet as the blood pounded within her temples, making her convinced the top of her skull might shatter. “Oh, great Maria, already?” she said, unaware she had spoken aloud, crossing herself, making the sign of the cross above the crouching Geraint. The great bow across her shoulders creaked as if in warning.
So soon! I must prepare with care. If this sign is right, there can be no mistakes. Pray that I am ready. It is so soon, so soon…
Sequel to "The Snow Bride". Medieval Romance Novel "A Summer Bewitchment".
Genre HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Publisher PRAIRIE ROSE PUBLICATIONS
Date of Publication NOV 14th 2019ASIN: B07ZTMNWZ9 Free with Kindle UnlimitedBuy Links Amazon USA Amazon UK Amazon Canada Amazon Australia
Blurb
Can a knight and his witch save seven kidnapped maidens? Sir Magnus and Elfrida strive to find the girls, but at what cost to their marriage?
Here is an excerpt from the opening chapter:
England, summer, 1132
“I am the troll king of this land and you owe me a forfeit.”
Elfrida glanced behind the shadowed figure who barred her way. He was alone, but then so was she.
Do I turn and run along the track? Should I flee into the woods or back to the river? He is close, less than the distance of the cast of a spear. Can I make it hard for him to catch me? Yes.
But catch her he would.
Play for time.
“Indeed?” she asked, using one of her husband’s favorite expressions, then sharpened her tone. “Why must I pay anything?”
“You have trespassed in these woods. In my woods.”
The nagging ache in her shoulders and hands vanished in a tingling rush of anticipation. Elfrida dropped her basket of washed, dried clothes onto the dusty pathway, the better to fight. “King Henry is lord of England.”
“I am king here.”
A point to him. “I kept to the path, and then the river.”
“That may be so, but I claim a kiss.”
He had not moved yet, nor shown his face. The summer evening made his shadow huge, bloody. Her heart beating harder as she anticipated their final, delicious encounter, Elfrida asked, “Are you so bold? My husband is a mighty warrior, the greatest in all Christendom.”
“That is a large claim.” He sounded amused. “All Christendom? He must be a splendid fellow. The harpers should sing of him.”
Elfrida raised her chin, determined to have her say. “I am proud of my lord. He is a crusader. He has seen Jerusalem and he has learning. He can whistle any tune. He defends all those weaker than himself.” Should I say what I next want to say? Tease him as he has teased me? Why not? Are we are not playing? “Go back to your woods, troll king.”
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