Sneak preview of Bright Helm, Book four of The Byrthnoth Chronicles by Christine Hancock

Today, as part of The Coffee Pot Book Club Tour, I am delighted to bring you a sneak preview of Bright Helm, Book four of The Byrthnoth Chronicles  by Christine Hancock

Christine Hancock was born in Essex and moved to Rugby, Warwickshire when she married. She a husband, two sons and two lovely grandchildren.

She is a long term family historian, leader of the local history group and town guide.

Christine had never thought of becoming an author - She just wanted to write about some her ancestors. In 2013 she joined a writing class. The class turned out to be about writing fiction. Before she knew it, she was writing a novel.

Byrhtnoth was a real warrior who died in the 991 Battle of Maldon, made famous by the Anglo-Saxon poem of that name. Growing up in Essex, Christine visited Maldon often, and attended the 1000 year anniversary of the battle in 1991.

She wanted to find out what made Byrhtnoth such a famous warrior.

She finished the book but discovered it had become a series - how long, she has yet to find out.

Book Title: Bright Helm

Publication Date: 15th October 2020

Publisher: Madder Press

Series: The Byrhtnoth Chronicles

Genre: Historical Fiction

The Byrhtnoth Chronicles: Book 4

By Christine Hancock

Separated by anger and unanswered questions, Byrhtnoth and Saewynn are brought together by a tragic death.

Re-united, they set out on an epic voyage to discover the final truth about his father. 

The journey takes them far to the north, to Orkney, swathed in the mists of treachery, and to Dublin’s slave markets where Byrhtnoth faces a fateful decision.

 How far will he go, to save those he cares for? 

 First Chapter

 Last summer, I died. I remember it vividly. The exhaustion of a hard-fought battle, the despair as my axe slipped from my hand in the torrential rain. I can still feel the impact of my enemy’s weapon as it struck my helmet, but strangely no pain. I still taste the mud that filled my mouth as my body fell to the ground. I even hear the triumphant shout of victory and the screams as other men died. There is an overwhelming smell of blood, and if I close my eyes, I can see it, my blood, soaking into the sodden soil. And then? Nothing.

I woke up. Time had passed. When I died it was the height of summer; now it is the depths of winter, and I am home, lying in my own bed. How did I get here? They say I survived the battle, how? They have shown me my ruined helmet; how could anyone survive that blow? I raise my hand to my head; the hair is freshly grown, and beneath the stubble is a scar.

What happened in the time between my death and my awakening? They say that someone rescued me. Who? I entered the river which washed me far downstream. People not knowing who I was cared for me. Why? Who were they? Then my wife came with the others and rescued me, brought me back by ship. They thought I would die. I didn’t.

It is so difficult, not knowing what happened. Sometimes a memory floats just out of reach. When I try to catch it, it disappears. Was it even there?

Then there are the dreams: the dream in which I kill my father. I am there and yet I cannot see, blinded by a bright shining light. My hands are around a man’s neck. I know it is my father and that I hate him, hate him more than I have hated anyone. Because he lied to me? My hands tighten. I feel the brush of a beard and the heaving muscles of his neck. I smell his breath, sour and stinking of fish. I hate fish. Fingers tear at mine, but I am stronger. There are voices, shouting, I cannot hear the words. He fights for breath, horrible rasping gasps. I lift him, feet off the ground. He is smaller than me; I thought he would be taller. He kicks feebly and then it ceases. I drop the dead weight and wake, exhausted and sweating.

One night I woke to find my hands about my wife’s neck. Although too weak to cause harm, I have banished her from our bed. I am lonely, but I cannot risk her life. I tell them I can’t remember the dream, if it is a dream. They think it is a memory of the battle. Is it a memory? It can’t be, how could I meet my father? Why would I want to kill him? Is it a prophecy, a warning of what is to come? If I meet my father, am I fated to murder him? Always I have desired to find the truth about him; perhaps it is better not to take that risk.

I resist any talk of what will happen when I recover. I am afraid. What might I do when my strength returns? Perhaps the dream will have faded by then, and everything will be as it used to be.

Or it might get worse. There is another dream, a feeling. It comes at night and sometimes during the day. I cannot see, I cannot move. Something imprisons me, someone, and then he laughs.

Buy Links:

Amazon UK • Amazon US

Connect with Christine: 

Website: https://byrhtnoth.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/YoungByrhtnoth

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ByrhtnothAuthor