Falconburg Divided
Book 1 of the Falconburg Trilogy
Sarah J. Waldock
©Sarah J. Waldock 2017
Dedication & Acknowledgement
Thank you, Syltermermaid and Farconville, Renderosity & Daz Studio for enabling my artwork.
Other books by Sarah Waldock
Sarah writes predominantly Regency Romances:
The Brandon Scandals Series
The Hasty Proposal
The Reprobate’s Redemption
The Advertised Bride
The Wandering Widow
The Charity School Series
Elinor’s Endowment
Ophelia’s Opportunity
Abigail’s Adventure
Marianne’s Misanthrope
Emma’s Education/Grace’s Gift
Anne’s Achievement
One off Regencies
Vanities and Vexations [Jane Austen sequel]
Cousin Prudence [Jane Austen sequel]
Friends and Fortunes
None so Blind
The Unwilling Viscount
Belles and Bucs [short stories]
The Georgian Gambles series
The Valiant Viscount [formerly The Pugilist Peer]
Other
William Price and the ‘Thrush’, naval adventure and Jane Austen tribute
100 years of Cat Days: 365 anecdotes
Sarah also writes historical mysteries
Regency period ‘Jane, Bow Street Consultant ‘series, a Jane Austen tribute
Death of a Fop
Jane and the Bow Street Runner [3 novellas]
Jane and the Opera Dancer
Jane and the Christmas Masquerades [2 novellas]
Jane and the Hidden Hoard
Jane and the Burning Question [wip]
‘Felicia and Robin’ series set in the Renaissance
Poison for a Poison Tongue
The Mary Rose Mystery
Died True Blue
Frauds, Fools and Fairies
The Bishop of Brangling
The Hazard Chase
Heretics, Hatreds and Histories
The Midsummer Mysteries
The Colour of Murder
Falsehood most Foul
Children’s stories
Tabitha Tabs the Farm kitten
A School for Ordinary Princesses [sequel to Frances Hodgson Burnett’s ‘A Little Princess.]
Non-Fiction
Writing Regency Romances by dice
Fantasy
Falconburg Divided [book 1 of the Falconburg brothers series]
Falconburg Rising [book 2 of the Falconburg brothers series, WIP]
Falconburg Ascendant [book 3 of the Falconburg brothers series, WIP]
Sarah Waldock grew up in Suffolk and still resides there, in charge of a husband, and under the ownership of sundry cats. All Sarah’s cats are rescue cats and many of them have special needs. They like to help her write and may be found engaging in such helpful pastimes as turning the screen display upside-down, or typing random messages in kittycode into her computer.
Sarah claims to be an artist who writes. Her degree is in art, and she got her best marks writing essays for it. She writes largely historical novels, in order to retain some hold on sanity in an increasingly insane world. There are some writers who claim to write because they have some control over their fictional worlds, but Sarah admits to being thoroughly bullied by her characters who do their own thing and often refuse to comply with her ideas. It makes life more interesting, and she enjoys the surprises they spring on her. Her characters’ surprises are usually less messy [and much less noisy] than the surprises her cats spring.
Sarah has tried most of the crafts and avocations which she mentions in her books, on the principle that it is easier to write about what you know. She does not ride horses, since the Good Lord in his mercy saw fit to invent Gottleib Daimler to save her from that experience; and she has not tried blacksmithing. She would like to wave cheerily at anyone in any security services who wonder about middle aged women who read up about making gunpowder and poisonous plants.
Sarah would like to note that any typos remaining in the text after several betas, an editor and proofreader have been over it are caused by the well-known phenomenon of cat-induced editing syndrome from the help engendered by busy little bottoms on the keyboard.
This is her excuse and you are stuck with it.
You may find out more about Sarah at her blog site, at:
http://sarahs-history-place.blogspot.co.uk/
Chapter 1
A single candle flame flickered feebly past the high turret window; and was suddenly paled into invisibility as a bolt of lightning ripped across the storm-black sky outside. For an instant the castle stood outlined luridly against the angry sky; then all was profoundly black. Almost immediately a crash of thunder shook the very stones of the keep and the little candle flame guttered apologetically in the draughty corridor.
“Don’t go out on me,” muttered a low voice.
The hand of the cloaked and cowled owner of the voice sheltered the flame, coaxing it into bolder life. The stairs were steep and treacherous; it would not do to negotiate them without any light. Gradually the flame lengthened and strengthened; and the figure heaved a subdued sigh of relief, careful not to breathe too hard on the insubstantial light. The way was lit; and the candle flame bobbed as it was carried downstairs, round the twisting turret stairway into the richly decorated rooms below. Feebly its light fell on painted pilasters and gaudy tapestries designed to make the main living quarters more comfortable and draught-free than the little room where it had begun its journey. As the flame danced in the airflow in the larger rooms, lightning again shredded the sky, bringing the colours into brief, stark clarity. Again came the sharp detonation of thunder, terrifyingly loud to the fugitive whose ears were straining to hear sound of imminent discovery. It was just in time that the thunder’s angry grumble receded to permit the sound of footsteps to echo hollowly along the main corridor; and the gleam of a torch preceded the guards as they approached. Quickly the candle was blown out; the way would be easier from here anyway. The cloaked figure stepped nimbly into an alcove behind a tapestry, listening as the guards came closer, chatting idly. Their talk revealed that they had no qualms that anything was amiss, for the talk was inconsequential: though the bawdy story recounted in great detail by one of them brought a blush unbidden to the face of the fugitive.
Again the night was torn and shaken by the storm and one of the guards shuddered
“I hate this,” he declared. His companion shrugged.
“So does everyone else.” He said philosophically. “At least you can guarantee that for the first time you’ve been on night watch everyone else in the castle is also awake.”
The first laughed a little shakily. Storms frightened him.
“Except Hugh the vintner.” He attempted a feeble joke. “Nothing short of Ragnarok – uh, I mean Armageddon – would waken him. I wonder how the Lady Annis is coping up so near the sky in her turret?”
The other had shot him a reproving look at his pagan lapse, but answered the man’s question.
“I’ll wager Lady Annis doesn’t turn a hair. That young ‘un has nerves of steel. Besides, she’ll be all right. She doesn’t have to go outside as we do to check the stable block. And ‘tis no good putting it off by askin’ impertinent questions and droolin’ over the thought of the young mistress sleepin’ you craven whoreson, so move.”
They moved off, the other expostulating over his companion’s intimations about his thoughts and went reluctantly out of the p
ostern and into the stables. Still the fugitive waited, though in the confined space it seemed that a frightened heartbeat could rival the thunder for noise. After what seemed an age, the guards returned, grumbling gently about the driving rain; and went back the way they had come. The fugitive pulled a face. Rain was all that was needed!
Presently a dark figure was slipping out of the postern. Carefully the wet and slippery steps into the stable yard were negotiated, by the fitful light of a cloud-tossed moon; and the figure slid thankfully into the warmth and dryness of the stables. The horses stirred slightly at the sound of the stable door and the horse Rowan whickered gently as he caught a familiar scent; and was hushed. A concealed pack was retrieved from where it had been hidden earlier. Quickly, efficiently, slender hands saddled and bridled the horse and led him out. The outer postern was unguarded; the path to it was too precipitate for any that did not know its pitfalls intimately. The fugitive did know it, had climbed it countless times; and within half an hour was safely down on the flat, the horse Rowan following trustingly. On the flat Rowan was mounted; and the rider skilfully picked a path that would avoid most of the village that sprawled at the castle’s foot. Once beyond habitation, the rider reined in the horse and looked back. The hood fell back as the lightning flashed, revealing the pale gold aureole of Lady Annis’ hair and her serious blue eyes dark in her pale face. She smiled once, grimly, resettled the pack she had prepared; and rode off, turning her back on the castle where she had grown up.
Dawn found Annis sheltering in the Great Woodland in the hollow trunk of an ancient oak. Rowan whickered deep horsey disapproval as the leaves of the gnarled old tree shook in the morning breeze and gave up droplets of water they had shielded so well from the forest floor during the storm.
Annis emerged from her shelter and stretched out the kinks of an uncomfortable night. She unhitched her unhappy horse.
“Come now, Rowan, let us find a stream for a morning drink. You will feel better for that, and some soft grass.” She soothed the young stallion. Rowan showed her the whites of his eyes to give her to understand that midnight jaunts in the rain were not things of which he approved; but Annis merely laughed at him and patted his neck. “Now it is light I shall rub you down well,” she told him; “As soon as we have found a good place to see to our thirst.”
Annis led the beast to a clearing where soft grass carpeted the bank of a laughing brook, swelled by the storm rain. Tentative shafts of early sunlight quested their way into this little hollow, warming the wet grass and bringing it steaming into a light mist that swirled thicker about their feet as they passed through it. Spiders’ webs sparkled with diamond drops of water strung on their silken threads. Birds sang with gay celebration of a new bright dawn; it looked like being a fine late summer’s day. Annis watered Rowan and settled him to graze after a rub down with a blanket from her pack.
“There now, I imagine you are glad to have lugged the extra weight for this, mmm?” She laughed. Rowan gave her a sideways look. “I almost think you understand at least half what I say to you.” She added. “Though I’m sure someone would say it heresy to even suggest it in fun. Now, have some breakfast and stop looking hard done by. You are fat and lazy anyway.” She left the horse to his own devices as she breakfasted for herself on some of the oatcakes she had brought, sitting in her petticoats with her cloak and dress laid over a thorn bush in the sun to dry. She must wait too until the sun had risen enough to dry vegetation; for there were herbs in abundance in this woodland for the gathering. Annis planned to pay her lonely way through the world by pedalling herbs and simples, for she was skilled in the use of herbal medicines.
Sun-warmed and feeling free, Annis sought herbs that thrived in the wooded environment. Shady nooks were filled with violets, none in bloom, but with an abundance of leaves, good for coughs. Comfrey, such a versatile herb, grew on well-drained hillocks under smaller trees, loving partial shade; it was rather late in the year for the best of the leaves, a little early for the root: but Annis shrugged and made the best of it. Back down near the stream she found angelica for indigestion, and willow, the bark of which would make such a good painkiller and combat fever. Blackberry grew abundantly everywhere as did nettle for rheumatism and dandelion for bladder trouble. She had to search for eyebright, stealing the goodness from the ground-hugging plants it colonised slyly underground by suckers; yet so useful that it seemed wrong to think of it merely as a parasite. She felt lucky to find a clearing filled with feverfew, still in flower with its raggy white daisy flowers. Feverfew was rarely out of flower save in the winter months, there were usually a few flower heads right through the autumn. Annis chose leaves from those plants that were not in flower, for they would be stronger in effect, not having to go to the effort of reproduction. Headache sufferers would be glad of a tea made from them! She had put on a simple gown of unbleached wool, that it matter little if she damaged it on thorns or stain it from the picking of her herbs; and she might have passed as a peasant wench.
Annis was so engrossed in her labours, selecting the best leaves, that she did not hear the men entering the clearing.
It was the sound of a harsh, grating voice that made the girl whip round as it broke the stillness in the glade.
“See, Pierce, a pretty wench. Jus’ a-waitin’ for ussen, wouldn’ you say?”
The speaker was a hefty man with heavy jowls and greasy hair. He was dressed well enough, but there was a suggestion about his clothes of unkemptness; and Annis could smell the stale sweat on his body as he moved. His companion was little better, though his armour-clad jerkin at least seemed well cared for. Both men had serviceable looking weapons. Annis thought to herself ‘mercenaries’ and felt slightly sick.
The two men advanced on Annis. The girl’s heart was pounding; but she stood her ground. Running would be nothing but an exercise in futility; they could easily outrun her – and they stood between her and Rowan. Unseen, however, by her would-be attackers Annis held the big knife she had been using to hack back brambles. She kept it held relaxed at her side, hidden in the folds of her gown, forcing herself to breathe deeply and easily. Now the unwomanly lessons in warcraft she had pestered out of Will the Steward would show their usefulness. Still as she could make herself, Annis stood until the first was reaching out to her, chuckling.
“Look like she’m a willin’ wench too!” He crowed, his hand on the front of Annis’ robe. He bent forward towards her, and Annis tried not to blench as she smelled the foulness of his breath. Her training told her dryly that he should have chewed on liquorice and cloves; and she firmly dismissed the thought, concentrating on what had to be done.
The man screamed, once, a scream that ended on a horrid gargle as she struck; struck the way Will had showed her as she played at being a warrior in the happy days before her father returned. She had got it wrong; her knowledge of anatomy told her where the heart should be, but somehow the resistance of the body to the knife caused the blade to deflect. He should have been dead instantly; and was not. Annis stared in horror as her assailant sat down, his hands clasped to the sticky red ooze from his side, a surprised look on his face. He looked up at her reproachfully, opening his mouth to speak; but a red froth came instead of words and with awful slowness he rolled over to one side and lay still.
Waves of nausea roiled through Annis and she faltered. The other villain, the one called Pierce, recovered his wits first and leaped at her, drawing his sword. He called out, summoning companions.
“Hey, fellas, there’s a wench here an’ she’s gutted Solly!” He cried, holding his sword threateningly. Annis acted instinctively as the blade came close, swinging up her own short weapon to knock his away.
The man was heavier, better trained, the veteran of many battles. There should only have been one outcome. But suddenly the man dropped the point of his sword, stepping out of range of the girl’s knife as he did so, keeping half a watch on her but mostly staring behind her, a look of fear lurking at the back of his eyes. It
might be a trick; but Annis knew she had to look over her shoulder.
Besides, the thud of hoofbeats on the short turf told her that they had been joined by another; and Annis wondered in sudden terror whether her father had discovered her absence and come to find her. If he had, she would never have another opportunity to escape! She turned slowly, unwillingly; and heaved a sigh of relief that she knew not the newcomer.
A man on horseback had entered the clearing. The first impression Annis had was of black: his horse was black, he was garbed entirely in black, even his hands on the bridle wore soft black leather gloves. A closer look revealed the glint of steel; and his curiously wrought helmet was dark metal but looked very serviceable. The helmet was wrought to resemble a bird of prey, the eye on one side filled with some magical glass which looked like a mirror, the other side showing enough of his features to intimidate with a scowl.
Annis quailed inwardly.
Everyone had heard stories about Gyrfalon the Warlord, despoiler and spawn – so they said – of the Devil. Here on the northern marches of Alegothia, King Engilbert’s writ did not run; such law as there was came from the martial might of the individual barons and brigand lords. And both barons and brigand lords thought twice before tangling with Gyrfalon, said to once have been a nobleman, and now the most feared and ruthless brigand lord of them all.
Annis, as a healer, had little time for superstition: but she knew this was a man to be feared. The better, therefore, not to show it. This might just be as bad as falling into the hands of her father or his men.
Annis spread her skirts in a curtsey and forced a polite smile.
Falconburg Divided (The Falconburg Series Book 1) Page 1
