Seeing a Ghost - a Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 13)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Medieval Dialogue
About Medieval Life
Glossary
Parts of a Sword
Medieval Clothing
Women’s Clothing
Dedication
About the Author
23 Free Ebooks
Namaste Aloha Servus
Seeing a Ghost
A Medieval Romance
Lisa Shea
Copyright © 2015 by Lisa Shea / All Rights Reserved.
Cover design by Lisa Shea
Book design by Lisa Shea
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Visit my website at LisaShea.com
First Printing: December 2015
ASIN: B0196PGTAE
- v4 -
Have Faith
Seeing a Ghost
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Medieval Dialogue
About Medieval Life
Glossary
Parts of a Sword
Medieval Clothing
Women’s Clothing
Dedication
About the Author
23 Free Ebooks
Namaste Aloha Servus
Preface
Welcome to my Sword of Glastonbury series. I’m thrilled you’ve joined me in this adventure! These full-length novels share my adoration for all things medieval. I’ve belonged to the Society for Creative Anachronisms for many years and delved fully into my medieval personae. I’ve researched the language, clothing, education, and outlook of medieval women. I’ve practiced swordfighting for years, too. I’m joyful to be able to share the fruits of this research with you!
Each of the novels in this series is fully standalone. While there is a sword passed from heroine to heroine to flow the stories together, each book can be read on its own and involves its own set of characters.
If you’ve read the series in order you’ve probably read this preface before : ). If you’re just joining us, then hello!
Did you know that many words like “wow” that we think of as modern are actually quite old? And that words like “hug” that we consider timeless are actually fairly recent? You can learn more about medieval language, clothing, and other related topics in my appendices in the back. Medieval people loved slang words, traded in goods from the far reaches of the Earth, and had some fairly “modern” views about what women could or could not do.
Especially during these Crusades years, when countless men were off at war, large numbers of public offices were held by women. Many keeps were ruled by women. Women fought with blades to defend their homes and keeps; some even went on the road to fight in the Crusades. Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine was a powerhouse of strength and a model for all women of these years. During this time it was wholly expected that women should be respected in positions of power and were quite capable of actively defending their lands.
It’s only later, when peace moved in, the Church solidified power, and courtly love traditions developed, that women were demoted to restrictively passive roles.
It’s good to shake off some of the misconceptions created by everyone from Errol Flynn to Game of Thrones and examine what our real-life history has to offer.
Seeing a Ghost is a sweetly romantic tale of holding on to hope and finding redemption. Seeing a Ghost is a clean romance. There is no explicit intimacy. The few swears are period-appropriate such as “God’s Teeth” or “God’s Blood.” There is swordfighting but no explicit violence. As such, it is suitable for teens and up.
If you ever have any questions or comments for me, I would love to chat! You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Google+, Pinterest, Wattpad, and most other social networks. Just check the ‘about the Author’ section or do a search for Lisa Shea in your system of choice.
So sit back, relax, and enjoy a virtual vacation in the entrancing world of medieval England!
All proceeds from this series benefit battered women’s shelters. Be the change you wish to see in the world.
Chapter 1
England, 1214
Hope is the pillar that holds up the world.
Hope is the dream of a waking man.
— Pliny the Elder
Alicia stared in disbelief past the tavern’s dense throng of laughing, shouting patrons. She rubbed at her eyes, focusing her gaze through the thick smoke and flickering darkness. It could not be him. The news of his death had arrived a full year ago. He had been slaughtered; he had tragically fallen in a bloody ambush while protecting the King’s passage through southern France. It had taken her twelve long months to climb out of the deep well of despair. She had finally made the pilgrimage to Canterbury, joined her uncle, and embarked on a fresh start of her life.
But there he was.
Alicia’s heart began beating afresh, a flurry which was the breath of spring after a long, bitter winter. In a moment her feet were in motion. She pushed hard through the crowd, edging her way between a pair of burly farmers and nearly bowling over a buxom wench balancing a trio of tankards on a thick tray.
The red-head’s voice echoed behind her, high with laughter. “Easy there, lass!”
Alicia barely heard her. He was within reach. She had known, with absolute certainty, that the message had been wrong.
&nbs
p; He was alive.
He had come back to her.
She reached the round table in the back corner where he sat with his two friends. Ales were laid out before each man, and shadows stretched heavily across the trio. All three looked battle-weary and worn down from a long road, in leather jerkins and with swords at their hips. They were in their late twenties, and one friend was fair haired, the other medium brown. But Dylan – her Dylan – had jet-black hair. As black as the wise raven. As dark as the sacred night.
He had come back.
Her voice was a mere whisper.
“Dylan?”
The sound of it was swallowed in the din that was the chaos around her. She wet her lips, opened her mouth to say it again -and he turned.
His dark eyes widened in surprise, taking in her face, then drawing down her body in a long perusal. Alicia blushed, brushing down her mint-green dress with both hands out of habit. Back home she had only worn brown; it made sense with her work in the fields of barley and with the mud-soaked pigs. But here in Canterbury she helped run her uncle’s woodworking shop, and he had gently insisted on expanding her wardrobe. He said the color brought out the glistens of copper in her blonde hair and the color in her pale cheeks.
Dylan’s eyes came back up to meet hers, and her heart thundered against her chest with the relief which coursed through her. The words tumbled out of her mouth. “Dylan, it’s me, Alicia. You’re alive. I knew you were alive. Thank Mary the Blessed, my countless prayers have been answered.”
The fair-haired friend leant over, nudging Dylan in the ribs with a smile. “Dylan, eh? Is that the name you give to these girls up north, Martinus?”
Alicia blinked at Dylan. “Martinus?”
He spoke, and for a moment the words made no sense. They were disjointed sounds, not in the musical, lilting speech of their childhood together near Wales. His voice resonated with a fuller, sharper sound, one the pilgrims from southern France carried with them. Her mind only caught up with him mid-sentence.
“ – so I’m afraid you must be mistaken, mademoiselle. I am not this Dylan that you seek.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “All’s more the pity, for it is clear he has won the heart of quite a beauty.”
She stared at him, the words still swirling in her head, not quite settling down. Not taking roost to convey meaning.
Her thoughts burst from her before she could rein them in. “But, Dylan, it’s you! I’ve been waiting so long. Everyone told me to give up hope. But I never did. I knew you would come back to me.”
Her cheeks were wet with tears. She didn’t remember when she started to cry. All that she knew was that he was there – right in front of her – so close that she could smell the richness of his scent.
But it was not the scent she knew. Not heather and fresh grass – but something earthier, more complex. Well used leather; oil for the sword. Dylan had not used a sword. He had not needed to, in their quiet farming village. The gear of the man before her was both well maintained and quite worn. He was a soldier who had seen much action.
He was not Dylan.
Madness held Alicia in a firm grip. If she could just stare at him long enough – if she could just fix him in her sights - then he would become her Dylan again. She would have him back. All of this long nightmare would become a distant memory, and he would look at her –
The man before her took a sip of his ale, then turned to smile at his friends. He said something to them in French and they all laughed.
Her cheeks burned with heat, and her ribs constricted tightly around her lungs. A cold, leaden feeling soaked into her, pulling her down with the weight of a thousand sacks of grain.
Not again.
She blinked, the tears coming faster. She was so sure this time, so positive that –
From behind, a hand gently took a hold of her upper arm. “Alicia, my dear.”
Her vision was blurred, warped through a wall of water, but she could see it now. As clear as the duck pond back on her parents’ farm. Martinus’s face was weathered, carved in granite, where Dylan’s had been fresh as a morning sunrise over a springtime meadow. Martinus’s arms beneath his jerkin were corded with muscle. Dylan had been a candlemaker’s son, his strengths more in his careful attention to detail than the rippled form of a blacksmith.
She staggered back against her uncle, all strength leaving her.
Every time, it was like this. Every time that she was sure – so absolutely sure – she had found her Dylan. Every time it was a stranger who turned to gaze at her with blank eyes. Another man who smiled with interest at her curves but whose soul lacked that spark, the one which haunted her nightly in her dreams.
Her uncle’s gentle voice came again. “Come now, Alicia, my child. Let’s go home.”
The fair-haired one leant forward to Martinus, his eyes bright with interest. “Come on, now, Martinus, buy the lass a drink. She looks like she could use one.” His gaze swept down her body, and his teeth sparkled in a leer. “Heck, if you’re not interested, I’d be happy to obl –”
Alicia could take no more. She spun on her heel and fled the tavern. As the dark night wrapped her in its cold embrace she gave way to the heart-wrenching sobs which shook the world away.
Chapter 2
Alicia yawned as she drew open the last set of curtains in the large room at the front of their neatly kept home. Upstairs were the two bedrooms along with two packed storage rooms. She shared her room with her cousin, Ethelfleda, while Benet had slept alone for the many years since his wife passed away. On this ground floor, the back area held a small, curtained nook for cooking and eating.
But this main room was where the magic happened.
She started with the shelf on the left, dusting each item in turn. One never knew which object would catch a customer’s eye; which one would be picked up and closely examined. Perhaps this wooden serving spoon with the handle carved to resemble a mermaid. Or it might be the mahogany bowl, the dense grain rich and striking. Could this small box, with its inlay of oak and birch, be a courting gift to catch a young woman’s fancy? And this large chest, with its intricate curls at each corner - it could hold a young girl’s dreams. It could shelter her bright-eyed hopes for a future full of love.
Alicia had owned a chest just like this, given to her by Benet when she was born. It had sat at the foot of her bed, greeting her with its steady presence every morning she woke. She had filled it with all manner of silly frippery over the years – dolls she was sure she’d pass down to her own girls, embroidered scarves, even a pair of candlesticks bought on a whim from a passing tinker when she was fourteen. She’d never given much thought to exactly what her future husband would look like. He was a ghost drifting through her daydreams; a fleeting wisp of some far-off future.
Alicia shook her head, moving past the chest.
Footsteps tripped down the stairs, and she turned to smile.
Ethelfleda was two years younger than her, slim, blonde, with a high forehead and clear, blue eyes. She glowed from the childlike innocence with which God had graced her. She was one of those special people who held onto their youthful mind while their body grew and changed.
Alicia loved her cousin dearly.
Ethelfleda bounced as she reached the ground floor. “Good morning!”
“A very good morning it is,” agreed Alicia. “I left you an apple on the table.”
Ethelfleda grabbed it up and took a bite, her eyes sparkling with joy.
Alicia waved a hand at the elegantly carved canes before her. “Would you like to help me polish the wood, or would you like to sit on our stoop and greet the passers-by?”
Alicia had no doubt which one Ethelfleda would choose, but Ethelfleda took such delight in having the options presented to her that Alicia enjoyed their morning ritual.
“Greet the passers-by!” called out Ethelfleda in glee, spinning in a circle. Her sunshine-yellow dress billowed with the movement, perfectly matching her sunny disposition.
Alicia win
ked at her. “I’m sure they are waiting for you. Some are probably wondering why you’re not out there already, you sleepyhead!”
Ethelfleda skipped her way across the polished wood floor, pulled open the door, and stepped out. Sure enough, a chorus of “Good Morning, Ethelfleda!” sounded out from several of the nearby shopkeeps.
Alicia chuckled as the door swung shut again. Her cousin was a marvel. True, Ethelfleda had her moments of frustration like any other person, but she found a way to rise above them and regain that fresh spirit that shone out from her. She was a true inspiration to all who met her.
Alicia turned back to her work – to the intricately crafted canes which helped the elderly maintain their dignity. The trio of widows she’d traveled with to Canterbury had used canes just like these. She remembered the seamed women giggling that the canes were their perfect husbands – there to support them when necessary and silent when not needed.