Love’s Sweet Sting

by Markland, Anna

  He patted the back of her hand, his brow furrowed. “This time ye’ll not get yer own way, Ruby. Ye’ll meet Darach at the door of the chapel and that’s that.”

  She huffed to her feet. “I’ll run away first.”

  Her father settled his foot back onto the cushions. “And where will ye run to?”

  She stuck out her tongue again, dismayed by her own petulance. Why was she being forced to marry Darach Conran when a hundred finer looking men dwelt near Kolbrand’s Path? “A long way from here. And ye’ll never see me again. And ye’ll be sorry.”

  “Good journey to ye, then, daughter,” her laird said with a trace of a smile.

  She fled the hall before her mouth took complete control of her wits.

  * * *

  Will Ragna FitzRam ever meet a man who can appreciate her independent spirit? You can read her story in Wild Viking Princess. Could this be the right fellow?

  Strand Island, Denmark,

  February, 1124 AD

  Reider Torfinnsen swayed on unsteady legs, gaping in disbelief. He clutched a half-empty tankard, his innards twisted in knots. His father lay dead at his feet, Gorm’s dagger in his back. Torfinn was dead before his body slumped to the wooden floor, but he had not uttered a sound. The simple gold circlet, symbol of his kingship, had slipped from his head to clatter on the boards.

  Reider had imbibed too much ale, but this was supposed to be his betrothal feast—a man about to wed was expected to get drunk. Belatedly, he thought to save Margit from whatever further treachery his step-brother planned. He dropped the tankard, spilling its contents, and reached for his dagger. It was wrenched away and strong arms forced him to grovel before his father’s body. A knee pressed hard into his back.

  A voice dripping sarcasm penetrated his pounding head. “Now a real man will rule here, and I will be his consort.”

  Reider looked up, narrowing his bleary eyes. Margit? He blinked, not believing the sight before him. Why was his betrothed’s arm draped over Gorm’s shoulder, her breasts rubbing against him? Gorm sneered triumphantly, tightening his grip around Margit’s waist. They shared a brazen kiss, then the usurper bent to retrieve his dagger. He turned Torfinn’s body over with his booted foot, picked up the crown and pouted when it proved to be too big.

  Reider dared not look at his father’s beloved face, now contorted in a grimace of shock. He swallowed the bitter truth that the assassins had planned carefully. He wasn’t the only one well into his cups. His father’s entire royal guard lay dead around him. The stench of blood filled Reider’s nostrils. Armed thugs—he recognized them as his step-brother’s cronies—had herded the loyal subjects of Strand against the wall of the Great Hall. Few had brought weapons to the festivities and those who were armed had been quickly disarmed. Women sobbed quietly in the protective embrace of their husbands, men whose scowling faces betrayed their outraged powerlessness.

  Sobering quickly, Reider struggled to be free of Gorm’s henchmen. Words stuck in his throat, so great was his heartbroken rage. “He was your father, Gorm. He loved you.”

  Gorm smirked, the crown of Strand perched askew atop his head, and spat out a chewed fingernail. “He was my step father. You are the son he loved. Now, I will have what was to be yours. Get him out of my hall.”

  They dragged Reider out into the frigid night and along the beach. The crunch of boots on pebbles sounded his death knell. He felt the cold bite of a dagger at his throat and swallowed hard, waiting for the end. He would not cry out. For his father’s sake he would die well.

  Suddenly, there was a scuffle. He vaguely heard voices barking urgent commands. His captors slumped to the ground beside him with a grunt. Strong arms hooked his armpits, and he was half carried, half dragged, unable to make his legs work. The wet warmth trickling down his thighs was strangely comforting. He must still be alive if he had pissed himself. Hurled into a longboat, he hit his head on the decking and succumbed to oblivion.

  * * *

  You met Gallien de Montbryce briefly. He has his own story to tell. Infidelity begins with the tale of a disastrous marriage.

  Ellesmere Castle, Salop, England, 1125 AD

  “Surely you did not think me a virgin?”

  Struck dumb, Gallien stared in uncomprehending disbelief at the rumpled but unsoiled linens of his marriage bed, shivering as gooseflesh marched over his naked body in step with a drumming in his ears.

  He had made his way in the dark to the ewer, intending to lovingly cleanse his bride after their joining. The light of the candle, lit with a spill from the dying embers of the fire, illuminated the truth of Felicité’s mockery on the pristine sheets. His gut clenched.

  It came to him that in the throes of passion he had not felt the resistance men boasted of breaching, but he had never bedded a virgin and did not know what to expect.

  His mind whirled. Was he trapped in a hideous nightmare? His eyes wandered to his sneering wife’s pouting breasts. She made no effort to cover her body, still sheened with his sweat. Twirling a finger in her hair, she lay seductively on her side, head propped on one hand.

  Since their betrothal, he had itched to put his mouth to those dark nipples. The silky hair at her mons was exactly the color and texture he had dreamed it would be. But she had constantly rebuffed his advances as if he were a naughty child. “You must wait until our wedding night, milord Montbryce.”

  An insidious dread wormed its way into his befuddled wits. His gaze fell to her belly. The thunder in his ears grew louder. His lungs refused to fill with air. He was drowning. Had his infatuation rendered him blind? He recalled too late her insistence the candles be snuffed before she disrobed.

  “You are with child,” he rasped, though the voice seemed faraway, not his own.

  Smoothing a hand over the swell, she made no reply, but the proud glint in her seductive eyes pierced his already shattered heart.

  With a trembling hand, he set down the candle. A giant shadow loomed on the wall, disappearing as he bent to search for his wedding finery, scattered earlier with reckless abandon. Desperate to cover his nakedness, he resisted the urge to put his hands over his shaft. She must deem him a fool.

  Someone had to answer for this travesty. “Is your father aware of your condition?” he asked, pulling a shirt over his head. He had insisted the tailor not make it too long. Now he wished it fell to his feet.

  Felicité grinned, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Of course not. He would have sent me to a nunnery.”

  His innards in knots, Gallien cast about for his leggings. “Then why marry me? Why not wed your lover?”

  She looked at him as if he had lost his wits. “He is already married, silly.”

  He pulled on his leggings, cursing under his breath when he lost his balance. He hopped on one foot, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. Tying the laces, he got to his feet quickly, lest the serpent in his bed bite him.

  If he could put his hand on a dagger he would plunge it into her treacherous heart, but he had not expected to need a weapon in his bridal chamber. He clenched his fists. No one would censure him for beating her.

  But Felicité had been clever. She knew he was not a man to raise his hand to a woman, no matter the provocation.

  Trembling with rage, trapped by his own nobility, Gallien sprawled into his favorite chair by the hearth, chewing his knuckles. He pressed his palm against the knee of one leg that seemed to have fallen victim to the dancing plague. He wanted to howl like a wounded beast and tear the room apart. The glowing embers of the once hearty fire did nothing to warm his chilled heart.

  His faithless wife had turned the comfortable chamber he loved into a place of torment. He had to flee, but wedding guests still made merry in the Great Hall. The lavender perfume that had enthralled him hung in the air, making his belly roil.

  Married less than a day, he had already been cuckolded.

  * * *

  Suannoch FitzRam came to be nicknamed Swan. She and her brother, Bronson, share Forbidden with th
eir Montbryce cousins, Rodrick and Grace, Gallien’s twin son and daughter.

  Good manners demanded Bronson carve the roasted chicken on the trencher placed between him and Grace, and offer her the choicest morsel. Her obvious nervousness and refusal to look him in the eye reminded him of Alys at their wedding feast. Little had he and his first bride known then their life together would be cut cruelly short.

  Grace’s soft voice jolted him back to reality. “You seem preoccupied,” she said.

  Realizing he was on the point of offering her an empty eating dagger, he forced a smile. “My apologies. I’m out of practice at this.”

  “I’ll help myself,” she replied, reaching for the chicken leg.

  He stayed her hand, startled by a spark that flared when they touched. “You should have the breast,” he declared.

  Aware his face must be as red as hers, he stabbed the best part of the fowl and held it to her lips, trying desperately but without success to keep his eyes off the décolletage of her gown.

  His arousal bucked when she grasped his hand holding the dagger, nibbled the meat and licked the grease from her lips.

  He squirmed in his seat, longing to tell her of his feelings, but fear kept him in its thrall.

  He wasn’t surprised when she stood and begged leave of her father to be excused. She swished out with a curt nod in his direction.

  Clearly, his behavior had made her uncomfortable.

  However, discomfort was preferable to the agony of professing his love and losing her to an early grave.

  But he was in for another sleepless night.

  Recipe For Mead

  (from "Tractatus de magnete et operationibus eius")

  * * *

  (Translation follows, but it’s fun to try to decipher the language first.) ffor to make mede. Tak .i. galoun of fyne hony and to þat .4. galouns of water and hete þat water til it be as lengh þanne dissolue þe hony in þe water. thanne set hem ouer þe fier & let hem boyle and ever scomme it as longe as any filthe rysith þer on. and þanne tak it doun of þe fier and let it kole in oþer vesselle til it be as kold as melk whan it komith from þe koow. than tak drestis of þe fynest ale or elles berme and kast in to þe water & þe hony. and stere al wel to gedre but ferst loke er þu put þy berme in. that þe water with þe hony be put in a fayr stonde & þanne put in þy berme or elles þi drestis for þat is best & stere wel to gedre/ and ley straw or elles clothis a bowte þe vessel & a boue gif þe wedir be kolde and so let it stande .3. dayes & .3. nygthis gif þe wedir be kold And gif it be hoot wedir .i. day and .1. nyght is a nogh at þe fulle But ever after .i. hour or .2. at þe moste a say þer of and gif þu wilt have it swete tak it þe sonere from þe drestis & gif þu wilt have it scharpe let it stand þe lenger þer with. Thanne draw it from þe drestis as cler as þu may in to an oþer vessel clene & let it stonde .1. nyght or .2. & þanne draw it in to an oþer clene vessel & serve it forth.

  * * *

  For to make mead. Take 1 gallon of fine honey and to that 4 gallons of water and heat that water till it be as long. Then dissolve the honey in the water, then set them over the fire and let them boil and ever scum it as long as any filth rises thereon.

  Then take it down off the fire and let it cool in another vessel till it be as cold as milk when it comes from the cow. Then take lees from the finest ale or else barm (yeast) and cast it into the water and honey and stir all well together, but first look before putting your yeast in that the water with the honey be put in a clean tub and then put in your yeast or else the lees for that is best and stir well together.

  Lay straw or else cloths about the vessel and above if the weather is cold and so let it stand 3 days and 3 nights if the weather is cold. And if it is hot weather, 1 day and 1 night is enough at the full. But ever after 1 hour or 2 at the most assay thereof and if you will have it sweet take it the sooner from the lees and if you will have it sharp let it stand the longer therewith.

  Then draw it from the lees as clear as you may into another vessel clean and let it stand 1 night or 2 and then draw it into another clean vessel and serve it forth.

  About Anna

  “Getting Intimate with History”

  * * *

  Thank you for reading Love’s Sweet Sting. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.

  I’d love you to visit my website and my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels.

  Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter.

  * * *

  I was born and brought up in England, but I’ve lived most of my life in Canada. I was an elementary school teacher for 25 years, a job I loved.

  After that I worked with my husband in the management of his businesses. He’s a born entrepreneur who likes to boast he’s never had a job.

  My final “career” was as Director of Administration of a global disaster relief organization.

  I then embarked on writing a romance, something I’d always wanted to do. I chose the medieval period because it’s my favorite to read.

  I have a keen interest in genealogy. This hobby has had a tremendous influence on my stories. My medieval romances are tales of family honor, ancestry, and roots. As an amateur genealogist, I cherished a dream of tracing my own English roots back to the Norman Conquest...most likely impossible since I am not descended from nobility. So I made up a family and my stories follow its members through successive generations.

  I want readers to feel happy that the heroes and heroines have found their soul mates and that the power of love has overcome every obstacle. For me, novels are an experience of another world and time. I lose myself in the characters’ lives, always knowing they will triumph in the end and find love. One of the things I enjoy most about writing historical romance is the in-depth research necessary to provide readers with an authentic medieval experience. I love ferreting out bits of historical trivia.

  I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.

  Escape with me to where romance began and get intimate with history.