by Lisa Shea
Her eyes came to the worn wooden doors, to the entryway of the quiet chapel she loved and adored. There stood Reese, his tawny mane glowing in the autumn light, his green-grey eyes holding hers with love, pride, and deep respect. He reached his hand out to her, and Kay’s father gently placed her hand in Reese’s, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek before stepping back to take his place in the front of the gathered crowd.
Kay found she could not draw her eyes away from Reese’s. Her fingers twined into his, so warm and alive, and she drew them to her chest, to the heart that lay there, to the center of her being.
He smiled tenderly at that. “I think you should see something,” he offered in a hoarse voice. His fingers gave a gentle twist. She looking down and saw that the heart had opened into a locket. Within was inscribed a delicate sword.
“When my brother and I were very young,” explained Reese, “my mother was returning from a faire with us, and we were attacked by a pair of bandits. My mother was well versed in self-defense, and she held them off with her sword until help could come. My father gave her this necklace to commemorate her bravery and skill. She wore it until she died.”
Kay’s breath caught. “But when the others would talk about female swordswomen …”
The corner of Reese’s mouth quirked. “I was amused by their ignorance,” he gently reassured her. “I was thinking how little they knew of the real world, of the value in a woman of strength and honor.”
With infinite care he resealed the locket, settling it down against her chest and looking back up into her eyes.
Kay felt as if a golden light were streaming out from the core of her being, filling every last corner of her. He was everything she could want, was all she had ever dreamt of.
“I love you,” she whispered, putting every last drop of her soul and being into those simple words. She released all she had into his tender care.
The edge of his finger gently traced against the golden heart which adorned her, and when he smiled, Kay felt as if her soul would explode from joy and fullness.
“I love you, adore you, and treasure you, now, and forever,” he vowed, his voice ringing with the simple truth of it.
Together they turned toward the priest, their hands never parting, their souls forever joined.
Epilogue
Kay twined her fingers into Reese’s, looking out into the moonlit night to where, only a day ago, an overwhelming force had stood. Now the grasses rippled in the breeze, an owl called from a nearby tree, and behind them the sounds of celebration rang out from the keep.
Reese pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
She leaned into him. “Happy. Tired, exhausted, sore, but happy.” Her eyes went up to his. “I never dreamt that it could be like this. That contentment could be so powerful.”
He traced his hand down her cheek.
A shooting star arced high above them. As Kay followed its movements, her eyes were caught by something. A shadow staggered across the field, its head down. Long, dark hair lifted in the breeze.
Her voice caught. “A woman’s out there.”
She moved quickly down the steps, Reese right behind her. In a moment the drawbridge had been lowered and they were striding, side by side, toward the figure.
The woman’s head snapped up as they drew near, and her hand swept her side, as if reaching for a sword. But there was nothing there, and a low curse sprung from her lips.
Kay could see now that the woman was about her age, with toned muscles as if she led an active life. Her brown eyes matched her auburn hair, and there was a hint of a brown dress showing beneath her dark cloak.
The woman faced them with wary attention. “If you are bandits, it’s too late. Someone came across me last night while I slept and stole everything of value.” Her brow darkened. “Including my sword.”
Kay glanced at Reese. “Might have been the MacDouglas, as they left our lands.” She turned back to the woman. “I am so sorry to hear that. My name is Kay, and this is Reese. We own Serenor - the keep behind us.”
We. The word sang through her heart with joy.
The woman nodded. “My name is Elizabeth. And it is not your fault. I should not have slept as deeply. I knew better than that.”
Reese’s voice held compassion. “Why are you out here on your own?”
She gave a low laugh. “My father was disappointed in me when I failed to win a tournament. He expressed his disappointment by locking me in the dungeon until I showed remorse for my faults.” She gave a tense shrug. “I decided on another option.”
Kay’s heart went out to Elizabeth. “Don’t you have any other family you could turn to?”
For a moment, Elizabeth’s eyes grew distant, and they shimmered with deep emotion. When she spoke again, her voice was rough. “My brother is dead.”
Kay’s throat tightened. “I am so sorry.”
Elizabeth ran a hand through her hair. “If I had only … but it does not matter. I have decided to head east. A friend of mine heads a nunnery there, and she has asked for my help. It seems I might be useful in keeping them safe.”
She looked down at the empty spot at her hip, and shadows came across her face. “Well, I would have been.”
A tingle shimmered at Kay’s hip.
She looked down at her sword.
Suddenly, the mysterious woman’s words came back to her, from when Kay was given the sword, all those nights ago in her chapel.
Do not become too fond of Andetnes. When you have at last found contentment, there will be another whose fate balances on the point of a pin. You will know when it is right. And the sword will have a new mistress.
She smiled. “Elizabeth, come in and join us. There is plenty of room at the celebration for all. And I think we can find a way to ensure your path goes the way you wish.
Reese looked to Kay, his gaze shining with respect. He twined his fingers into hers.
And Kay knew everything would be all right.
*
The Sword of Glastonbury series continues with Book 2, Finding Peace –
http://www.amazon.com/Finding-Peace-Medieval-Lisa-Shea-ebook/dp/B008FQZ8JY/
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As a special treat, as a warm thank-you for reading this book and supporting the cause of battered women, here’s a sneak peek at the first chapter of Finding Peace.
Finding Peace Chapter 1
England, 1174
“Anger is short-lived madness.”
— Horace
“God’s Teeth, next the badgers and wolves will march by two-by-two,” scowled Elizabeth with vehemence as she lugged the soaked saddle off her roan and dropped it in a sodden heap on the cracked bench. The fierce November storm crashed down all around her, hammering off the thin roof, reverberating through the small stable’s walls. The lantern hanging in the corner guttered out dense smoke, barely holding off the deep gloom of the late hour.
She worked quickly in the flickering dark to bed down her horse, the familiar routine doing little to soothe her foul mood. She was drenched to the bone – her heavy cloak and hood had done little to shield her after the first ten minutes in the torrent. Her stomach was twisting into knots with hunger. Exhaustion and cold caused her fingers to fumble as she finished with the bridle. She hung it on the wooden peg, then turned to walk the few short steps toward the stable entrance.
The small inn’s door was only ten steps away, but it seemed like ten miles through the deluge. Elizabeth took in a deep breath, pulled her hood up over her head, t
ucked in her glossy auburn curls, then sprinted across the dark cobblestones. It felt as if she were diving into a frigid stream, struggling against its strong current, and she reached out a hand for the thick, wooden door. In another second she had pulled open the latch, spun through the door, and slammed it heavily behind her.
The inn looked like every other hell hole she had stayed in during this long, tiring trip. Six or seven food-strewn oak tables filled the small space, about half occupied by aging farmers and rheumatic merchants. A doddering, wispy-haired barkeep poured ale behind a wood plank counter. The only two women in the room were a pair of buxom barmaids, one blonde, one redhead, laughing at a round table in the back with a trio of men. Two of the men appeared to be in their early twenties and were alike enough to be twins. Their dusty brown hair was the exact same color, the same periwinkle blue eyes gazed out from square faces. Like every other pair in the room, they swept up to stare at her the moment she came to rest, dripping from every seam, against the interior side of the door. After a moment of halfhearted interest, the farmers, merchants, and twins turned back to their pints of ale and their conversations on turnips and wool prices.
All except one. The third man, sitting somewhat apart from the preening twins and the flirtatious waitresses, held her gaze with steady interest. Her world slowed down, her skin tingled as a drip of water slid its way down her neck, tracing along every inch of her spine.
He was in his late twenties, a dark brown mane of hair curling just at his shoulders. He was well built, with the toned shoulders of a man who led an active life. It was his eyes that caught her and held her pinned against the wall. They were a rich moss green, a verdant color she remembered so strongly that her breath caught, her left hand almost swung down toward her hilt of its own accord.
She shook herself, turning to the row of wooden pegs running in an uneven line next to the door. That man was in the past, and by God, he would stay there. Why did she have to keep seeing that foul bastard’s eyes everywhere, in every tavern, in every stranger she passed on the road? She pushed the hood of her cloak back, then shook its damp embrace off her body, revealing the simple, burnt-orange dress she wore beneath and the well-used sword hanging on her right hip.
Now, to get some stew, or gruel, or whatever mystery meat this cook had to offer, and get some sleep.
“You, woman!” came the growled order, plunging the room into immediate silence.
Elizabeth blew out her breath in an exasperated huff. Just for once she would like to have her food and rest without going through this ordeal. Sometimes it was just a snide comment, a mention of the dangers of a young woman traveling alone, or a sly joke about the “oldest profession”. Sometimes the greeting cut with its chill edge. One solemn innkeeper had served her meal brusquely, informing her that she would have to find somewhere else to sleep.
All she wanted was food and a bed. She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. If she could just rein in her temper she could get through this and snatch a few hours’ reprieve from the torrential deluge.
She turned around slowly, holding her features in what she hoped was a neutral gaze. The twins were on their feet, their eyes sharp on her, their faces twisted in anger. They wore matching outfits of fine leather jerkins. Behind them the green-eyed man stood more slowly, his eyes scanning her with careful attention.
Twin number one shouted in rage. “You! Woman! I cannot believe you simply strolled in here and expect to be fed and cared for!” His eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. “What, did you expect a pint of ale?”
Elizabeth blinked in surprise. She had certainly encountered people in rural towns who thought little of her traveling alone – but she had reached new lows in hospitality with this outpost from Hades. Still, the hammering of the torrential downpour just outside the door encouraged her to press her case.
“Please,” she bit out, her rising anger sharpening the edges of her attempted civility, “all I want is something hot to eat and a place to sleep. In the morning I will be out of your town and on my way.”
Twin number two took a step forward. “Maybe you did not hear my brother, John,” he snarled, his voice perhaps even a few notes higher than his double. “I think we should step outside.”
His brother’s voice was almost like hearing an echo. “Absolutely, Ron,” agreed the clone with heat.
Elizabeth couldn’t help herself. John and Ron. Twins. The rhyming duo. Her laughter bubbled up within her, emerging from her exhaustion, her frustration, her hunger and weariness with the world. It was the final straw in the long carnival which had made up these past few weeks.
The brothers glanced at each other, fury boiled their faces crimson, and her left hand dropped to her hip, doing the twist – latch – release to free her sword hilt from its clasp in one smooth movement. She had her weapon sliding smoothly from its sheath in the same moment that the pair launched themselves across the spellbound tavern toward her. Her steel rose in an arcing block as John brought a haymaker drive down toward her skull. She deflected his blow easily, sliding it off to her left, turning and whipping the sword – flat first – against his kidney with the full force of her momentum. He screamed in pain and sprawled back on the rough wooden floor, his face contorted in agony.
She continued her spin, remaining low, the whistle of Ron’s blade skimming over her head. She kicked her boot hard against his kneecap. He buckled backwards, screaming in fury, and she rose, whirling her sword in a circular motion, preparing to give him a welt to remember her by.
There was a dark figure before her. Her moving blade slammed into a block, was held, and she looked up into moss green eyes. Her breath caught, and she leant her sword against the tension. Her blade pressed in an X against his, their hands nearly touching, his body presenting a barrier now between her and the two young men.
“My name is Richard.” His voice rumbled out deep, steady, serious. He gazed at her face for a long minute. “I would call your eyes a deep brown, would you agree?”
Elizabeth shook her head in confusion. “What? I suppose,” she ground out, continuing her press against his sword. The man had excellent balance; his arm did not move one breath.
Richard turned his head slightly, calling down to the two at his feet. “Certainly not ice blue,” he informed them calmly.
His focus came back to her. “I apologize for these two impetuous ones, and would ask that you choose to stay at the Traveler’s Inn, a scant mile east. To be truthful, they are much cleaner than this location.”
A hot flare of fury burst through her. She was attacked, and now she was the one who had to leave? It was the second coming of the Flood out there! She snapped her sword free of his and sidestepped to the right, determined to finish what she had started.
Richard moved easily with her, brought his sword hilt back against his hip, and pointed the tip between her eyes. His body remained evenly between hers and the sprawled men. “I will defend them,” he added in a cool, steady voice. Elizabeth could see the steel settle into his gaze. She remembered being sheltered by that same style of fierce protectiveness, remembered being sprawled, herself, on a cold floor, her guardian angel standing resolutely between her and danger.
God’s teeth, she missed her brother.
The burning flame of fury ebbed within her, and she sighed. It was not worth it, not for a flea-bitten mat in this God forsaken hole in the ground.
She took a step back, slid her sword smoothly back into its sheath, then turned on her heel. She pulled the soaking wet cloak over her shoulders, shivering as its damp caress sucked the warmth out of her body. She half kicked the door open. Outside the rain pummeled the ground as if to beat it into submission, and she nearly turned back, nearly took on all three.
“Here,” came a call behind her. She turned, and Richard tossed her two golden coins. She caught them easily as they came near her, and the corner of his mouth twitched up in appreciation.
Now she was being paid to leave. She turned
back toward the rain, took a deep breath, and walked steadfastly into the torrent, leaving the door wide open behind her.
Here’s where to read Elizabeth’s full story!
http://www.amazon.com/Finding-Peace-Medieval-Lisa-Shea-ebook/dp/B008FQZ8JY/
Medieval Dialogue
I’ve been fascinated by medieval languages since I was quite young. I grew up studying Spanish, English, and Latin, and loved the sound of reading Beowulf and the Canterbury Tales in their original languages. I adore the richness of medieval languages. How did medieval English people speak?
There are three aspects to this. The first is the difference between written records and spoken language. The second is the rich, multi-cultural aspect of medieval life. And the third is how to convey this to a modern-language audience.
Let’s take the first. Sometimes modern people equate the way medieval folk would talk, hanging around a rustic tavern, with the way Chaucer wrote his famous Canterbury Tales. Something along the lines of this (note this is a modern translation, not the original Middle English version):
“Of weeping and wailing, care and other sorrow
I know enough, at eventide and morrow,”
The merchant said, “and so do many more
Of married folk, I think, who this deplore,
For well I know that it is so with me.
I have a wife, the worst one that can be;
For though the foul Fiend to her wedded were,
She’d overmatch him, this I dare to swear.”
Sure, it seems elegant and rich. But did worn-down farmers sitting around a fireplace with mugs of ale really talk like this?
Do we think the London street-dwellers in the 1600s skulked down the dark alleys emoting like Shakespeare –
Two households, both alike in dignity
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
And, in the 1920s in Vermont, did farmers really wander down their snowy lanes murmuring to their farming friends, a la Robert Frost:
