She Sees Ghosts by David Fitz-Gerald

 

Fans of TV’s Ghost Whisperer and Long Island Medium will especially love She Sees Ghosts. This historical novel features memorable characters and delivers bone-tingling, spine chilling goosebumps. It stands on its own and it is the next installment in the Adirondack Spirit Series by the award-winning author of Wanders Far―An Unlikely Hero’s Journey. David Fitz-Gerald delivers a historical novel with a bittersweet ending that you won’t see coming.

Would she save the spirits’ souls, or would they save her? Only time would tell.

Watch the Trailer Here:

She Sees Ghosts is FREE on #Kindle for a Limited Time

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David Fitz-Gerald writes fiction that is grounded in history and soars with the spirits. Dave enjoys getting lost in the settings he imagines and spending time with the characters he creates. Writing historical fiction is like making paintings of the past. He loves to weave fact and fiction together, stirring in action, adventure, romance, and a heavy dose of the supernatural with the hope of transporting the reader to another time and place. He is an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked all of the highest peaks in New York State, so it should not be surprising when Dave attempts to glorify hikers as swashbuckling superheroes in his writing. She Sees Ghosts―A Story of a Woman Who Rescues Lost Souls is the next instalment in the Adirondack Spirit Series.

***

A blazing fire killed her family and devoured her home. A vengeful demon haunted her. Ghosts of the Revolutionary War needed help that only she could provide. A young woman languished, desperate to survive, and teetered on the edge of sanity.

Mehitable grew up in a freshly tamed town, carved from the primeval forest. Family, friends, and working at the mercantile filled her days and warmed her heart. For Mehitable, life was simple and safe, until tragedy struck. When her family perished in their burning home, she retreated into a world of her own making. 

As a young girl, she had seen glimmers, glimpses, and flickers of the spirit world. She closed her eyes. She turned her back. She ignored the apparitions that she never spoke of, desperately hoping they would leave her in peace. She was mistaken.

Grief-stricken, Mehitable withdrew from the human world. Ghosts were everywhere. They became bolder. She could no longer turn her back on the spirit world. Her friends feared for her survival. Nobody understood her. She would have to find her own way.

Fans of TV’s Ghost Whisperer and Long Island Medium will especially love She Sees Ghosts. This historical novel features memorable characters and delivers bone-tingling, spine chilling goosebumps. It stands on its own and it is the next installment in the Adirondack Spirit Series by the award-winning author of Wanders Far―An Unlikely Hero’s Journey. David Fitz-Gerald delivers a historical novel with a bittersweet ending that you won’t see coming.

Would she save the spirits’ souls, or would they save her? Only time would tell.

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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

Anne Boleyn’s Education and Life at the French Court

 

 

Olivia Longueville has always loved literature and fiction, and she is passionate about historical research, genealogy, and the arts.  She has several degrees in finance & general management from London Business School (LBS) and other universities.  At present, she helps her father run the family business.  

During her first trip to France at the age of ten, Olivia had a life-changing epiphany when she visited the magnificent Château de Fontainebleau and toured its library.  This truly transformed her life as she realized her passion for books and writing, foreshadowing her future career as a writer.  In childhood, she began writing stories and poems in different languages.  Loving writing more than anything else in her life, Olivia has resolved to devote her life to creating historical fiction novels.  She has a special interest in the history of France and England.  

***

In 1522, a young, sophisticated woman arrived at the English court after spending most of her life in two continental courts. Intelligent, educated, and stylish beyond the typical English lady, Anne Boleyn dazzled the court and set herself on a path that would lead to the heights of power before her life was tragically and unjustly cut short.

This article will explore Anne’s education and experiences as a young girl in service to Queen Claude, wife and cousin of the young, flamboyant King François I of France. Anne’s father, Thomas Boleyn, was a successful diplomat who strove to give his youngest daughter the best education possible, and he arranged for her to stay in France, for he likely considered the Tudor court to be behind the more progressive and more cultured continental courts. There are disagreements over Anne’s date of birth, but this debate is beyond the scope of this article. For this article and in my books, I’m assuming that Anne was born circa 1507.

When Anne entered the household of Queen Claude in 1515, the young queen was only 16 years old. Claude had a sister, Princess Renée of France, who was 3 years younger than Anne. Taking into account Anne’s young age, her responsibilities likely centered on providing companionship to Princess Renée while polishing her court manners and skills with the hope of making a respectable marriage. Anne would have also joined the deeply pious Queen Claude and the other maids of honor in prayer several times each day. It is interesting to note that during the reign of Anne’s daughter, Elizabeth I, Princess Renée confirmed to Sir Nicholas Throckmorton (the English ambassador to France) that she had personally known Anne.

Because of her almost annual pregnancies, Claude spent most of her time in confinement at Châteaux d’Amboise and de Blois. Despite the young queen’s sequestered lifestyle, Anne would have been exposed to the rich cultural milieu of the early French Renaissance. Beyond honing her skills in the French language, she would have learned court dances, been instructed in singing and musical instruments, and she would have had first hand experience in seeing and hearing the great works of contemporary artists, musicians, and authors.

Illuminated manuscripts were of particular interest to Anne. She must have seen Queen Claude’s Book of Hours. A tiny, jewel-like manuscript, it was made for Claude in 1516, and her coat-of-arms appears on 3 different folios. The diminutive size reflected the fashion of the French court at the turn of the 16th century, and it provided the perfect frame for the artist’s characteristically detailed brushstrokes. In this book, there are numerous references to Claude, including abundant royal motifs, mottos, and emblems. Anne’s own illuminated manuscripts, which she ordered years later, have some elements which we see in Claude’s book (currently housed in the Morgan Library & Museum, NYC, USA). For example, one of Anne’s Book of Hours is richly illustrated: the borders of each leaf are painted, front and back, with scenes from the lives of Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, and saints.

Queen Claude adored music, especially sacred compositions, and she often invited composers and singers to her chambers to perform for her. Anne must have heard the singing and musical performances of Claudin de Sermisy and Clément Janequin, notable composers of French chansons in the early 16th century. Clément Marot, whose many chansons were put to music by Sermisy, often visited Claude, so Anne would definitely have met him. Therefore, Anne was exposed to a wide range of sacred and secular music, as well as masses, Requiem masses, motets, magnificats (canticles or Songs of Mary), and Lamentations. One manuscript in the collection of the Royal College of Music, England, contains an early 16th-century choir book that includes 39 Latin motets and 3 French chansons by Franco-Flemish composers.  It was prepared for Anne Boleyn because one composition depicts a falcon, which Anne used as her badge. The songbook contains chansons of Sermisy, Janequin, and a few others.  

Anne’s instruction in the visual delights of fashion would have been focused on those times when she (along with the queen’s other ladies) accompanied Claude to significant events such as the journey to greet a triumphant François after his victory at the Battle of Marignano (1515), the pilgrimage to Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume (the alleged tomb of Mary Magdalene), and Claude’s coronation at the Basilica of St Denis on the 10th of May 1517.

A particularly infamous event was the Field of the Cloth of Gold in June 1520, just outside Calais. Eric Ives writes about this event: 

“She [Claude] wore cloth of silver over an underskirt of cloth of gold and rode in her coronation litter of cloth of silver decorated with friars’ knots in gold, a device which she had taken from her mother. Her ladies rode in three carriages similarly draped in silver and, no doubt, were dressed to match the queen.”

In her early teens at the time, Anne must have been among these ladies. No longer a child, yet not fully a woman, she was likely at an age when dressing in sumptuous French fashions would have not only been memorable, but also influential on the development of her personal style. Her exquisite manners, her majestic allure, and her impeccable style, which she had begun to develop in the Low Courtiers and honed in France, later helped Anne attract the attention of King Henry VIII.  Every time she accompanied Queen Claude at festivities, she danced with the grace of a swan.  King François is known to have said something that might refer to Anne:

“Venus was blonde, I’ve been told: Now I see that she’s a brunette!” 

King François loved everything Italian and aimed to make France the center of an unparalleled artistic revival. From the beginning of his reign, François patronized many illustrious artists such as Andrea del Sarto, Jean Clouet, and many others. An interesting consideration when discussing Anne’s education in France is the speculation that she would have met an elderly Leonardo de Vinci. François and Leonardo developed a close relationship.  

Leonardo da Vinci relocated to France in 1516 and spent his last years there. Leonardo brought to France some of his celebrated works such as the Mona Lisa, Saint Anne, and Saint Jean Baptiste (they are now kept in the Musée du Louvre, Paris, France). As he was an old man suffering from rheumatism, Leonardo painted little, but he still actively worked for his new patron and created elaborate decorations for celebrations and plans for new architectural projects. The Maestro was a scientist, an artist, and a man with diverse interests ahead of his time. His home in France was Château du Clos Luce located close to Château d’Amboise. 

As Amboise was one of Queen Claude’s preferred residences, it is highly likely that Anne saw Leonardo da Vinci during festivities where he presented his inventions to the courtiers. Leonardo designed decorations for the christening of the king’s eldest son and heir – Dauphin François, Duke of Brittany – at Amboise on the 25th of April 1519. As one of the queen’s ladies, Anne would have attended this event. Da Vinci’s original automation prepared for celebrations is lost, but the animal was recreated at Château du Clos Luce. 

Anne would have witnessed the growing popularity of Italian Renaissance architecture. The towns of Amboise and Blois, which benefited from the court’s presence, became drivers of new cultural and architectural developments. A substantial part of Château d’Amboise was refurbished and decorated with a series of Italian frescoes, tapestries, and paintings depicting foreign cities, courtly love, outdoor activities, mythology, and scenes from chivalrous romances. As the François loved medieval chivalry legends such as ‘Le Morte d'Arthur’ (‘The Death of Arthur’), ‘Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart’ by Chrétien de Troyes, the old Chanson de Roland, and so forth, many expensive tapestries and arrases, depicting such scenes, were either imported from Flanders or produced in France.  Anne must have been awestruck from the abundance of mythological decorations and ornaments on fireplaces and furniture.  

Beginning in 1515, François commissioned the construction of a new wing at Château de Blois in a fusion of Gothic and Renaissance styles. The ruler commanded the Italian architect Domenico da Cortona, called Boccador, to build something spectacular.  The most striking feature is the polygonal external staircase tower, decorated with gargoyles, statues in niches, and antiquity-inspired ornamentations, which is admired by modern tourists at Blois.  I can imagine Queen Claude with her ladies-in-waiting, Anne among them, climbing this monumental and well-recognizable staircase. Anne must have witnessed the construction works and admired the elegance of the new wing – ‘The François I wing’ – at Blois.  The building of Château de Chambord began in 1519 in Sologne, but the works were finished in 1527, after Anne’s departure home.  Anne would have seen many architectural changes as they were under construction and some of them were completed, up to her departure for England in 1522.

Another important factor in Anne’s French education was the vast library at Château de Blois. King François had an enthusiasm for reading and book collecting, and he located his magnificent library at Blois, one of Claude’s favorite homes. According to the inventory of 1518, 1,626 manuscripts and printed volumes belonged to the collection. Apart from religious texts, hunting manuals, and romances, many classical texts in Latin were listed. Special agents worked for the monarch across Europe, buying rare books for him, including volumes in Greek and Hebrew. The library included precious and rare manuscripts such as: ‘The Tree of Battles’ (Arbre des Batailles) by Honoré de Bouvet, who had been Charles VI’s councilor; ‘The Bible of Poets” (La Bible des poëtes) by the Picardian poet Évrard de Conty, which had been written in 1401-02; and the mystical treatise ‘The Clock of Wisdom’ (Horloge de Sapience) by Henry Suso.  There were also copies of the official Chronicles de France.  The library had the original manuscript of ‘The Hundred Tales’ (The Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles), which is a collection of stories that had been narrated by people at the court of Philippe the Good, Duke of Burgundy.  

Anne had an immeasurable passion for both reading and knowledge, and it is likely that she was given some level of access to the library at Blois, especially since Queen Claude was said to have been fond of the girl. Without a shadow of a doubt, Anne must have spent quite some time at the magnificent library at Blois when she had free time. Anne also appears to have been a member of Marguerite d’Angoulême’s intellectual circles. Marguerite was the king’s sister, and she wielded surprising influence during his reign. Supporting artists, humanists, evangelicals, and church reformers, Marguerite encouraged intellectuals to mingle and initiated discussions on various themes, for she adored Renaissance humanism and classics.

Marguerite d’Angoulême had a friendly relationship with Queen Claude, and, thus, Anne would have known Marguerite both from her personal visits with Claude and her frequent correspondence with the queen. This would have exposed Anne to new religious ideas and humanism. Thanks to François and Marguerite, Neo-Platonism thrived in France. The humanist Jacques Lefevre d’Étaples translated the works of Plato and a series of Greek treatises ‘The Pseudo-Dionysius’ and ‘Hermes Trismegistus’, dedicating them to Guillaume Briçonnet, who became a leader of the proposed church reform and the Renaissance of humanism in France.  Marguerite’s ideas were admired by the Neo-Platonists Étienne Dolet and Bonaventure des Périers, and by the Renaissance French writers Clément Marot and François Rabelais.  It was a time when Anne Boleyn had an explosion of intellectual activity. 

In 1522, Anne Boleyn left France a unique woman, one who was far more educated than the typical English noblewomen. The Renaissance blossomed in France thanks to King François, Marguerite d’Angoulême, and their mother, Louise de Savoy. England largely remained a cultural backwater at the time, although King Henry VIII’s court was transitioning to a more sophisticated atmosphere. England would eventually become a true Renaissance nation during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, Anne Boleyn’s daughter. But first, Anne’s refined manners, exotic air, continental style, stellar education, and quick, intelligent mind would make her the brightest star at the English court, dazzling a king and eventually changing the course of history.

Olivia Longueville is the author of several Historical Fiction books. Her novel about Anne Boleyn, Between Two Kings, is available on Kindle and Paperback

Buy it Now UK

Buy it Now - US

Blurb

Anne Boleyn is imprisoned in the Tower of London on false charges of adultery, high treason, and incest on the orders of her husband, King Henry VIII of England. Providence intervenes – she escapes her destined tragedy and leaves England. Unexpectedly, she saves King François I of France, who offers her a foolhardy deal, and Anne secretly marries the French monarch.

With François’ aid, she seeks vengeance against the English king and all those who betrayed her and designed her downfall in England. Henry must face the deadly intrigues of his invisible enemies, while his marital happiness with his third queen, Jane Seymour, is lost and a dreadful tragedy also strikes the king. The course of English and French history hangs in the balance.

From the gloomy Tower of London to the opulent courts of England, France, and Italy, brimming with intrigue and danger – Anne Boleyn survives, becoming stronger and wiser, and fights to prove her innocence. Her hatred of Henry is inextricably woven into her existence.

Olivia’s social media profiles:

Personal website: www.olivialongueville.com/

Project website: www.angevinworld.com/

Twitter: @O_Longueville

Facebook: www.facebook.com/OliviaLongueville/

Tumblr: www.olivia-longueville.tumblr.com/

Photos from https://commons.wikimedia.org/

A FREEBIE, an EXCERPT, and a GREAT OFFER!

DOWNLOAD YOUR FREE COPY NOW

 

The Historical Fictioneers are excited by the success of our anthology of short stories, Betrayal. It is a FREE download on all platforms from twelve accomplished writers who explore historical yet timeless challenges.

AD455 - Roman leader Ambrosius caught in a whirlpool of shifting allegiances.

AD940 - Alyeva and cleric Dunstan navigate the dangers of the Anglo Saxon court.

1185 - Knight, Stephan fights for comradeship, duty and honour. But what about love?

1330 - The powerful Edmund of Kent enters a tangled web of intrigue.

1403 - Thomas Percy must decide whether to betray his sovereign or his family.

1457 - Estelle is invite to the King of Cyprus's court, but deceptin awaits.

1483 - Has Elysabeth made the right decision to bring Prince Edward to London?

1484 - Margaret Beaufort contemplates the path to treason.

1577 - Francis Drake contends with disloyalty at sea.

1650 - Can James Hart, Royalist highwayman, stop a nemesis destroying his friend?

1718 - Pirate, Anne Bonny, her lover, Calico Jack, and a pirate hunter. Who will win?

1849 -/present - Carina must discover her ancestor's betrayer in Italy or face ruin.

***

My story, House Arrest, is set during the reign of Richard III while Margaret Beaufort was imprisoned at Lathom as punishment for treason. The three books that make up The Beaufort Chronicle follows Margaret's life as she negotiates the perils of the war of the roses. Book One, The Beaufort Bride covers her childhood and her first marriage to Edmund Tudor, up until the birth of her son, Henry Tudor. As part of our Betrayal celebration I am pleased to offer the kindle download of The Beaufort Bride at 99p for a short time.

The Beaufort Bride

Judith Arnopp

 

As King Henry VI slips into insanity and the realm of England teeters on the brink of civil war, a child is married to the mad king’s brother. Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, takes his child bride into Wales where she discovers a land of strife and strangers.

At Caldicot Castle and Lamphey Palace Margaret must put aside childhood, acquire the dignity of a Countess and, despite her tender years, produce Richmond with a son and heir.

While Edmund battles to restore the king’s peace, Margaret quietly supports his quest; but it is a quest fraught with danger.

As the friction between York and Lancaster intensifies the 14-year-old Margaret is widowed and turns for protection to her brother-in-law, Jasper Tudor.  At his stronghold in Pembroke Margaret gives birth to a son whom she names Henry, after her cousin the king.

Margaret is small of stature but her tiny frame conceals a fierce and loyal heart and a determination that will not falter until her son’s destiny as the king of England is secured.

 

mybook.to/thebeaufortbride

In the following excerpt from The Beaufort Bride, Margaret is six months pregnant and has just had word that her husband has been imprisoned in Carmarthen castle and likely to die of pestilence. She persuades Jasper to take her to him.

 

 ***

Another long road.  Another jolting, disheartening journey in the litter. Try as I might to persuade him, Jasper is unbending.

“You will ride in the litter or not at all,” he says, attempting to soften his harsh words with a quick smile. Pouting like an unruly child, I gather my cloak about me and clamber into the detested conveyance. I sit bolt upright, simmering with anger for as long as I can bear to. Myfanwy, moonstruck by Jasper’s return, smiles an apology for my behaviour and tries to soothe me.

“The journey will not be so long this time,” she says, “and Jasper is only thinking of your safety, and that of the babe.” She nods toward the dome of my belly and instinctively I put a hand on it, the contact imperceptibly softening my mood.

“I know.” Full of resentment, I look out beyond the looped-back curtain. Mercifully the weather is dry; a chilly bright day, with the sun reflecting on the puddles left by the last few weeks of rain. The blue skies are a teasing reminder of the summer so recently departed. Tomorrow, it will rain again.

Jasper rides at the head of the column. I watch his upright figure, notice how his head continually moves from left to right as he scans the horizon for signs of trouble. He is uneasy, not convinced of York’s promise of safe passage, and his discomfort unnerves me too.

Where the terrain allows, we follow the serpentine trail of the River Tywi, but every so often, to avoid marshy terrain, we are forced to higher ground. As we pass close to Grey Friars, the waterlogged fields about the river are scattered with sheep. At our approach, they throw up their heads in alarm and abandon their grazing to hurry from our path. Myfanwy laughs.

“Look at them. They look like beggars with their grubby woollen fleeces hanging from their backs.”

I smile, but I do not care about sheep. In the distance, I have spied the town gate and beyond it the towers of Carmarthen Castle standing proudly above a loop at the river crossing.

I sit up straighter and try to see ahead, as if expecting Edmund to be waving a greeting from the battlement. But he does not know I am coming; I will be the last person he expects to see.

I watch Jasper ride toward the town gate. He leans from his saddle and exchanges words with the gatekeeper. He takes off his helmet and turns toward me, the wind tussling his hair which, I notice with a sudden pang, is the exact same shade as Edmund’s. His brow is creased and, noting his dour expression, I sense more trouble. My heart sinks as, after a further exchange of words, he turns his horse and rides back to the litter.

He slides from his horse.

“Margaret …” He hesitates, pulls a face and lets out a long breath. “There is pestilence here. I cannot let you travel farther. It isn’t safe.”

 A surge of anger such as I have never known consumes me; I can feel it rushing uncontrollably through my body, gathering in my head until I feel it will burst.

“I will not be kept from him!” I hear myself shout. Tears of rage drench my cheeks; my fists are clenched tight, my ears ringing with the sudden stress. My mother would be furious if she witnessed such behaviour, but I am too afraid and too angry to care. Without ceasing my tirade, I swing my legs toward the door.

“I have travelled too far and waited too long to be kept away now. If there is pestilence here, he may need nursing. I will not allow you to keep me from my duty.”

I struggle from the litter and, shrugging Myfanwy’s hand from my shoulder, begin to hurry along the dirt track, determined to travel the rest of the way on foot. I do not get far before my ankle turns on a rut in the road.  Concealing the sudden sharp pain, I limp on.

“Margaret!” Jasper, defying all etiquette, strides after me, grabs my arm and forces me to stop. “You are acting like a child. Get back in the litter. I will take you as far as Grey Friars, but there you must wait until I discover the situation at the castle. If it is safe, you can see Edmund tomorrow. For Christ’s sake, think of your son.”

I am always being told to think of my child. I think of little else. I am thinking of him now, in my desperation to liberate Edmund. What will my son be without his father?

Myfanwy adds her argument to Jasper’s, her voice soft and silky with persuasion.

“We can freshen up and rest at the priory. You will feel better tomorrow, my lady, after a night’s sleep. Edmund will prefer to see you calm and … clean.” She casts a glance at my mired skirts.

I pass a hand over my face, knowing I am beaten, knowing they are right. With a sob of both rage and misery, I allow myself to be turned around and bundled back into the hateful litter.

As the horses lurch forward and the swaying of the litter starts up again, I refuse to look at Myfanwy. I resent her alliance with Jasper. Despite my situation, I do not miss the warm looks that pass between them, or the excuses she finds to be with him. She is glad this mischance has befallen my husband because it puts her in the company of her sweetheart.

Another religious house, this time run by the Grey Friars. They greet me cordially, offer what comfort they can and give me lodging in the abbot’s house. The room is comfortable, well furnished, and a welcome fire roars in the grate. Fuelled with resentment toward her, I cruelly send Myfanwy from my presence. It is midnight before I regret it. I pass a lonely, miserable night but I am too stubborn to summon her back, and so I lie awake, staring into the dark. 

The child is quiet, his head pressing on my bladder, so I have to get up repeatedly to use the close-stool. Each time I return to the bed, the sheets become rucked into a worse mess and by dawn the blankets look as though a wrestling match has taken place.

“Goodness,” Myfanwy exclaims in the morning when she brings me a tray of victuals to break my fast. “What have you been doing?”

She bears no malice for my hostility the night before and her cheeks are rosy, her eyes bright as if she has passed a restful night. While I stare grumpily at my morning meal, she begins to smooth the sheet and plump my pillows.

“Jasper will be leaving soon, I expect.” She moves to the window and opens the shutters, letting a stream of dirty daylight into the room.

I want to correct her, command her to use his proper title but I am tired, sick and tired of everything and cannot find the strength. I frown at the hump of my raised knees beneath the blanket. There must be something I can do, some action I can take.

I push away the tray and throw off the covers. “Help me get dressed, Myfanwy. I cannot face food this morning.”

Cup in hand, she hovers for a few moments before hurrying to do my bidding. I am mute during my toilette, but all the while she sponges my face her questions fall as swiftly as arrows.

“Why are you in such a hurry? What are you going to do? You don’t mean to defy Jasper, do you, Margaret? Please don’t do anything …”

“Give me that.” I snatch the comb rudely from her hand and begin to drag it through my hair. It catches at the knots, large clumps coming free. “There,” I say. “Now quickly braid it and tuck it under my cap.”

She has no option but to obey me, and I offer no explanation. Ten minutes later, less neat than usual, I am waiting for Jasper to appear in the hall. I hear his approach long before he arrives.

“Margaret.” He stops short, instantly wary as he notices my outdoor clothes and my mulish expression. He tucks his helmet defensively beneath his arm. “What are you doing here?”

I can tell by his voice that he knows my intention, but I raise my chin defiantly before I make an answer.

“I am coming with you. I will not be sent to my chambers like a child. My husband’s life may be in peril and I refuse to sit idly by when it is clearly my duty to be with him.”

“It is too dangerous.” He comes closer, his brow creased with concern. “I have no idea what danger we may be riding into. Do you not care about your child or your own well-being?”

“Of course I do.” I look him firmly in the eye. “I have spent most of the night in prayer asking for God’s guidance as to what I should do. He convinces me my place is at Edmund’s side. Surely, Jasper, you are not so high and mighty as to argue with God?”

Exasperated, he looks at the ceiling, and then back at me.

“By Heaven, Margaret, you could use a spanking.”

I stiffen, outraged at his discourtesy, but as I open my mouth to make a sharp retort, I think I detect a tiny spark of admiration in his eye. I close my mouth again and make no reply as I pull on my gauntlets.

“And I am not spending another moment in that litter. Have a horse made ready for me.” I speak over his shoulder to his steward, but Jasper puts up a hand.

“No, if I have any say in the matter, you will ride with me, my lady, so I can at least try to keep you from harm.”

As he ushers me from the room Ned steps forward, seemingly from nowhere. “My lady, I am coming too.”

A sigh shudders from deep within me. I do not even turn to look him in the eye.

“Don’t be tiresome, Ned. Go and walk Jay in the gardens, make yourself useful.”

I turn again but he tags after me.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I owe you my life, and if you are going into danger then I am coming with you.” He puts his hand on the dog’s head. “And so is Jay.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, you impossible child. Very well, do as you wish. I revoke all responsibility for you.”

There is no time to argue. I march swiftly away, Jasper at my side telling me I am too soft with the boy. I raise my eyebrows but forebear to comment that he might likewise be too soft with me.

The Beaufort Chronicle is available on Kindle, Paperback and also on Audible

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We at the Historical Fictioneers are very excited by the success of our anthology of short stories, Betrayal. It is a FREE download on all platforms brought to you by twelve accomplished writers who explore these historical yet timeless challenges.

AD455—Roman leader Ambrosius is caught in a whirlpool of shifting allegiances

AD940—Alyeva and cleric Dunstan navigate the dangers of the Anglo Saxon court

1185—Knight Stephan fights for comradeship, duty, and honour. But what about love?

1330—The powerful Edmund of Kent enters a tangled web of intrigue

1403—Thomas Percy must decide whether to betray his sovereign or his family

1457—Estelle is invited to the King of Cyprus’s court, but deception awaits

1483—Has Elysabeth made the right decision to bring Prince Edward to London?

1484—Margaret Beaufort contemplates the path to treason

1577—Francis Drake contends with disloyalty at sea

1650—Can James Hart, Royalist highwayman, stop a nemesis destroying his friend?

1718—Pirate Annie Bonny, her lover Calico Jack, and a pirate hunter. Who will win?

1849/present—Carina must discover her ancestor’s betrayer in Italy or face ruin.

My story, House Arrest is set in the reign of Richard III while Margaret Beaufort is imprisoned in her home for treason. Margaret's life is the original roller coaster as she negotiates the perils of the war of the roses. The Beaufort Bride covers her early years at her mother's house, Bletsoe, her time in Wales as the child bride of Edmund Tudor and the birth of her son, Henry Tudor. As part of the BETRAYAL celebrations I am offering the kindle download of The Beaufort Bride for 99p!

The Beaufort Bride - Book one of The Beaufort Chronicle

As King Henry VI slips into insanity and the realm of England teeters on the brink of civil war, a child is married to the mad king's brother. Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, takes his child bride into Wales where she discovers a land of strife and strangers.

At Caldicot Castle and Lamphey Palace Margaret must put aside childhood, acquire the dignity of a Countess and, despite her tender years, produce Richmond with a son and heir.

While Edmund battles to restore the king's peace, Margaret quietly supports his quest; but it is a quest fraught with danger.

As the friction between York and Lancaster intensifies 14-year-old Margaret, now widowed, turns for protection to her brother-in-law, Jasper Tudor. At his stronghold in Pembroke, two months after her husband's death, Margaret gives birth to a son whom she names Henry, after her cousin the king.

Margaret is small of stature but her tiny frame conceals a fierce and loyal heart and a determination that will not falter until her son's destiny as the king of England is secured.

mybook.to/thebeaufortbride

In the following excerpt from The Beaufort Bride, Margaret is six months pregnant and has just had word that her husband has been imprisoned in Carmarthen castle and likely to die of pestilence. She persuades Jasper to take her to him.

Another long road.  Another jolting, disheartening journey in the litter. Try as I might to persuade him, Jasper is unbending. 

“You will ride in the litter or not at all,” he says, attempting to soften his harsh words with a quick smile. Pouting like an unruly child, I gather my cloak about me and clamber into the detested conveyance. I sit bolt upright, simmering with anger for as long as I can bear to. Myfanwy, moonstruck by Jasper’s return, smiles an apology for my behaviour and tries to soothe me.

“The journey will not be so long this time,” she says, “and Jasper is only thinking of your safety, and that of the babe.” She nods toward the dome of my belly and instinctively I put a hand on it, the contact imperceptibly softening my mood.

“I know.” Full of resentment, I look out beyond the looped-back curtain. Mercifully the weather is dry; a chilly bright day, with the sun reflecting on the puddles left by the last few weeks of rain. The blue skies are a teasing reminder of the summer so recently departed. Tomorrow, it will rain again.

Jasper rides at the head of the column. I watch his upright figure, notice how his head continually moves from left to right as he scans the horizon for signs of trouble. He is uneasy, not convinced of York’s promise of safe passage, and his discomfort unnerves me too.

Where the terrain allows, we follow the serpentine trail of the River Tywi, but every so often, to avoid marshy terrain, we are forced to higher ground. As we pass close to Grey Friars, the waterlogged fields about the river are scattered with sheep. At our approach, they throw up their heads in alarm and abandon their grazing to hurry from our path. Myfanwy laughs.

“Look at them. They look like beggars with their grubby woollen fleeces hanging from their backs.”

I smile, but I do not care about sheep. In the distance, I have spied the town gate and beyond it the towers of Carmarthen Castle standing proudly above a loop at the river crossing.

I sit up straighter and try to see ahead, as if expecting Edmund to be waving a greeting from the battlement. But he does not know I am coming; I will be the last person he expects to see.

I watch Jasper ride toward the town gate. He leans from his saddle and exchanges words with the gatekeeper. He takes off his helmet and turns toward me, the wind tussling his hair which, I notice with a sudden pang, is the exact same shade as Edmund’s. His brow is creased and, noting his dour expression, I sense more trouble. My heart sinks as, after a further exchange of words, he turns his horse and rides back to the litter. 

He slides from his horse.

“Margaret …” He hesitates, pulls a face and lets out a long breath. “There is pestilence here. I cannot let you travel farther. It isn’t safe.”

 A surge of anger such as I have never known consumes me; I can feel it rushing uncontrollably through my body, gathering in my head until I feel it will burst.

“I will not be kept from him!” I hear myself shout. Tears of rage drench my cheeks; my fists are clenched tight, my ears ringing with the sudden stress. My mother would be furious if she witnessed such behaviour, but I am too afraid and too angry to care. Without ceasing my tirade, I swing my legs toward the door. 

“I have travelled too far and waited too long to be kept away now. If there is pestilence here, he may need nursing. I will not allow you to keep me from my duty.” 

I struggle from the litter and, shrugging Myfanwy’s hand from my shoulder, begin to hurry along the dirt track, determined to travel the rest of the way on foot. I do not get far before my ankle turns on a rut in the road.  Concealing the sudden sharp pain, I limp on. 

“Margaret!” Jasper, defying all etiquette, strides after me, grabs my arm and forces me to stop. “You are acting like a child. Get back in the litter. I will take you as far as Grey Friars, but there you must wait until I discover the situation at the castle. If it is safe, you can see Edmund tomorrow. For Christ’s sake, think of your son.”

I am always being told to think of my child. I think of little else. I am thinking of him now, in my desperation to liberate Edmund. What will my son be without his father?

Myfanwy adds her argument to Jasper’s, her voice soft and silky with persuasion.

“We can freshen up and rest at the priory. You will feel better tomorrow, my lady, after a night’s sleep. Edmund will prefer to see you calm and … clean.” She casts a glance at my mired skirts.

I pass a hand over my face, knowing I am beaten, knowing they are right. With a sob of both rage and misery, I allow myself to be turned around and bundled back into the hateful litter. 

As the horses lurch forward and the swaying of the litter starts up again, I refuse to look at Myfanwy. I resent her alliance with Jasper. Despite my situation, I do not miss the warm looks that pass between them, or the excuses she finds to be with him. She is glad this mischance has befallen my husband because it puts her in the company of her sweetheart.

Another religious house, this time run by the Grey Friars. They greet me cordially, offer what comfort they can and give me lodging in the abbot’s house. The room is comfortable, well furnished, and a welcome fire roars in the grate. Fuelled with resentment toward her, I cruelly send Myfanwy from my presence. It is midnight before I regret it. I pass a lonely, miserable night but I am too stubborn to summon her back, and so I lie awake, staring into the dark.  

The child is quiet, his head pressing on my bladder, so I have to get up repeatedly to use the close-stool. Each time I return to the bed, the sheets become rucked into a worse mess and by dawn the blankets look as though a wrestling match has taken place.

“Goodness,” Myfanwy exclaims in the morning when she brings me a tray of victuals to break my fast. “What have you been doing?” 

She bears no malice for my hostility the night before and her cheeks are rosy, her eyes bright as if she has passed a restful night. While I stare grumpily at my morning meal, she begins to smooth the sheet and plump my pillows.

“Jasper will be leaving soon, I expect.” She moves to the window and opens the shutters, letting a stream of dirty daylight into the room.

I want to correct her, command her to use his proper title but I am tired, sick and tired of everything and cannot find the strength. I frown at the hump of my raised knees beneath the blanket. There must be something I can do, some action I can take.

I push away the tray and throw off the covers. “Help me get dressed, Myfanwy. I cannot face food this morning.”

Cup in hand, she hovers for a few moments before hurrying to do my bidding. I am mute during my toilette, but all the while she sponges my face her questions fall as swiftly as arrows.

“Why are you in such a hurry? What are you going to do? You don’t mean to defy Jasper, do you, Margaret? Please don’t do anything …”

“Give me that.” I snatch the comb rudely from her hand and begin to drag it through my hair. It catches at the knots, large clumps coming free. “There,” I say. “Now quickly braid it and tuck it under my cap.”

She has no option but to obey me, and I offer no explanation. Ten minutes later, less neat than usual, I am waiting for Jasper to appear in the hall. I hear his approach long before he arrives.

“Margaret.” He stops short, instantly wary as he notices my outdoor clothes and my mulish expression. He tucks his helmet defensively beneath his arm. “What are you doing here?”

I can tell by his voice that he knows my intention, but I raise my chin defiantly before I make an answer.

“I am coming with you. I will not be sent to my chambers like a child. My husband’s life may be in peril and I refuse to sit idly by when it is clearly my duty to be with him.”

“It is too dangerous.” He comes closer, his brow creased with concern. “I have no idea what danger we may be riding into. Do you not care about your child or your own well-being?”

“Of course I do.” I look him firmly in the eye. “I have spent most of the night in prayer asking for God’s guidance as to what I should do. He convinces me my place is at Edmund’s side. Surely, Jasper, you are not so high and mighty as to argue with God?”

Exasperated, he looks at the ceiling, and then back at me.

“By Heaven, Margaret, you could use a spanking.”

I stiffen, outraged at his discourtesy, but as I open my mouth to make a sharp retort, I think I detect a tiny spark of admiration in his eye. I close my mouth again and make no reply as I pull on my gauntlets.

“And I am not spending another moment in that litter. Have a horse made ready for me.” I speak over his shoulder to his steward, but Jasper puts up a hand.

“No, if I have any say in the matter, you will ride with me, my lady, so I can at least try to keep you from harm.”

As he ushers me from the room Ned steps forward, seemingly from nowhere. “My lady, I am coming too.”

A sigh shudders from deep within me. I do not even turn to look him in the eye.

“Don’t be tiresome, Ned. Go and walk Jay in the gardens, make yourself useful.”

I turn again but he tags after me.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I owe you my life, and if you are going into danger then I am coming with you.” He puts his hand on the dog’s head. “And so is Jay.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, you impossible child. Very well, do as you wish. I revoke all responsibility for you.”

There is no time to argue. I march swiftly away, Jasper at my side telling me I am too soft with the boy. I raise my eyebrows but forebear to comment that he might likewise be too soft with me.

                     

          The Beaufort Chronicle is available on Kindle, in Paperback and also on Audible.

Announcing Betrayal - a FREE anthology of Short stories from your favourite Historical Fiction authors

Betrayal, treachery, treason, deceit, perfidy—all names for the calculated violation of trust. And it’s been rife since humans trod the earth.

A promise broken

A mission betrayed

A lover’s desertion

A parent’s deception

An unwitting act of treason

Betrayal by comrades

Betrayal by friends

https://books2read.com/BetrayalAnthology

Could you resist the forces of misplaced loyalty, power hunger, emotional blackmail, or plain greed? Is there ever redemption, or will the destruction visit future generations and even alter history? These questions are still with us today.

Twelve tales by twelve accomplished writers who explore these historical yet timeless challenges.

AD455—Roman leader Ambrosius is caught in a whirlpool of shifting allegiances

AD940—Alyeva and cleric Dunstan navigate the dangers of the Anglo Saxon court

1185—Knight Stephan fights for comradeship, duty, and honour. But what about love?

1330—The powerful Edmund of Kent enters a tangled web of intrigue

1403—Thomas Percy must decide whether to betray his sovereign or his family

1457—Estelle is invited to the King of Cyprus’s court, but deception awaits

1483—Has Elysabeth made the right decision to bring Prince Edward to London?

1484—Margaret Beaufort contemplates the path to treason

1577—Francis Drake contends with disloyalty at sea

1650—Can James Hart, Royalist highwayman, stop a nemesis destroying his friend?

1718—Pirate Annie Bonny, her lover Calico Jack, and a pirate hunter. Who will win?

1849/present—Carina must discover her ancestor’s betrayer in Italy or face ruin.

“I read this anthology from start to finish in a matter of days…. Each story is gripping.”– Discovering Diamonds Reviews

Betrayal is available as a FREE ebook on Amazon, B&N, Kobo, Apple and more FROM 17 November 2020.

Lady Estrid: A Novel of Eleventh Century Denmark

Lady Estrid: A Novel of Eleventh Century Denmark 

By M J Porter 

Daughter, Sister, Duchess, Aunt. Queen.

United by blood and marriage. Divided by seas. Torn apart by ambition.

Lady Estrid Sweinsdottir has returned from Kiev, her first husband dead after only a few months of marriage. Her future will be decided by her father, King Swein of Denmark, or will it?

A member of the ruling House of Gorm, Estrid might not be eligible to rule, as her older two brothers, but her worth is in more than her ability to marry and provide heirs for a husband, for her loyalty is beyond question. 

With a family as divided and powerful as hers, stretching from England to Norway to the land of the Svear, she must do all she can to ensure Denmark remains under the control of her father’s descendants, no matter the raging seas and boiling ambition that threatens to imperil all.

An excerpt from Lady Estrid 

My sleep is disturbed, and when I wake, I’m twisted tightly around furs and pillows, and I’m drenched from head to toe in the stale odour of my body.

My chest heaves, and I reach for and then fumble the wooden beaker kept beside my bed in the event of such awakenings, the water spilling noisily onto the wooden floor. I tense, expecting Frida to rush to my side, as so often the case, but she doesn’t. Perhaps she imbibed too much wine before sleeping. I wouldn’t blame her. She rarely lets down her guard.

This true dream is different from my usual ones, the tendrils of it seeping into me, even as I shake my head, expecting it to dispel. I almost jump from my bed, pulling my abandoned cloak around my shoulders to fight the cold that seems to permeate everything, as though the coldest of nights.

A moment ago I was hotter than a flame-forged blade, but now an iciness has enveloped me, and I almost find it impossible to put weight on to my feet because they’re so chilled as I swing from my bed.

I reach for my boots, slip them over my feet, fumbling in the small light from the brazier in the corner of the room. Only then do I turn and creep from my room, the creaking door overly loud in the depths of the night, when everyone sleeps apart from the huscarls on watch duty at the main door. I don’t pity them such a cold night. I hope the brazier is piled high beside them, and that they wear thick cloaks, gloves and hats.

I tremble again, making my way silently to where I know a water jug will be waiting. In the main hall, the gloom is less, because of the embers from the massive hearth that smoulders at its centre. A few snores greet my steps but nothing else. With a shaking hand, I pour water into yet another wooden beaker and drink it desperately, hoping the water will root me firmly in my body, entirely extricating myself from the dream. 

Only my eyes close involuntarily with the action of swallowing, and the scenes of my true dreams immediately reappear before my eyes. I’m gasping for breath as I seek a chair to steady myself, eyes fleeing open, hands outstretched, trying to banish the images that don’t want to leave me.

What is this?

Why is this?

 I crouch further into my cloak, facing the autumn-red embers as a way of holding on to the reality of the here and now. Only then do I allow the flickers of my dream to subsume me.

I need to see what’s terrified me so much that my heart beats loudly enough that I believe they might even hear it across the sea, in Skåne.

I close my eyes, my legs and booted-feet extended toward the warmth of the fire, and then I focus on one of the images that I recall clearly.

Two bowed heads, one blond, and one auburn, and behind them, an array of others. My hands rest on those heads, and yet another blond-haired head tries to force their way between them, as they kneel before me. Behind the bent heads, eyes watch me, little more than hooded flickers of blinding white from the gloom, the only colour caused by the irises.

I don’t know where I am, only that I’m the focus of attention.

I meet the first set of eyes, noting the green tinge in the strange half-dusk, half-night light where the colours of the day are polluted by what seems to be tendrils of the hottest forge, blue and white at the centre.

But the eyes draw me in. I know those eyes. 

And then another set joins those, the one pair green, the other brown. I would recognise those eyes anywhere; Cnut and Harald. Quickly, their gazes flicker to the three bowed heads before me, but my vision is filled with yet more eyes all fighting for my attention.

These I don’t know. Not at all.

There are many of them. Gazes peer from the creeping shadows, all of them focused on me. I resent the scrutiny. I don’t know all of these people. Yet I feel as though I should. 

If only I could see more of them, determine who they are, and who the three dipped heads belong to as well, their faces hidden from me.

My heart thunders in my chest as I try and focus on only one set of eyes, try to recall what so frightened me that it chased me from my dreams, brought sweat to my forehead, urging me from my bed.

The first to willingly acquiesce to my scrutiny seems to shimmer as a sudden spark of light reveals more than just eyes. I have the impression of long hair, tightly braided, and a smile appears to play on tight lips, satisfaction emanating from the body.

I see the fall of rich fabric around a curvy body, reminding me of my plain figure, and I realise that those eyes focus on the one head trying to come between the two of whom I already bestow my benedictions.

I sense, rather than see, a desperate need in that look, a desire to accomplish a great deal, and also something else that surprises me so much it casts the figure back into the shadow, and I’m left swallowing the sour taste of envy.

The next eyes to truly focus on me, wash me with their superiority and rather than seeing their clothes or hair, I see only a vision of a sea teeming with warships, the cries of two embattled sides drowning out even the sound of my breathing.

I wrench my head away from the gaze, bile in my throat and my stomach rolling with more than the gait of a ship in a storm. The grey haze of the future swallows a sanctimonious smirk, and then another figure appears.

I know what this is. It’s a vision of what will happen in the future only filled with too much for me to be able to decipher.

I’ve never dreamt of so much before. 

But one of those first sets of eyes draws me back, seeming to clamour for my attention.

Harald. My beloved brother. He stands apart from the other seething mass of scrutiny, I realise now, and I hold his green-tinged eyes, trying to understand his place in all this. But although his mouth moves, the sound of his words is lost to me, and I hear nothing, nothing at all, although his concern is easy to decipher. His soundless words are short and sharp, his mouth moving furiously through them all, a vision of his balled hands adding to the feeling of intense unease. 

And then his eyes shift toward Cnut, and abruptly I understand so much more.

Not that I’m given the time to let him know that. Far from it.

A new shape emerges, close to Cnut, and this is someone I’ve never met before, or at least, I have no recollection of having done so.

The image of laughter suddenly ripples through the air, more substantial than sound. Yet my brother welcomes this new visitor. It seems Cnut is unaware of the bleeding knife the man covers in his hand, or even his leering glance my way. And there is the suggestion that he’s just one of many, the others all cowering behind him.

Whoever this person is, I must stay away from him, and caution Cnut to do the same. The warning is clear to see. I wish I could see more, know who this figure is.

But what of Harald? He’s gone, no longer watching me.

A rattling sound in the darkness wrenches me back to the here and now. Sweat pools down my face, and then beneath my cloak, even though I shiver.

I peer into the gloaming, trying to determine if I’m in danger, or whether it’s merely the footsteps of one of the servants come to revive the fire, or the huscarls changing positions as they guard the main door.

My gaze skims the room, seeking into the secret places, the shadowed corners where someone could hide if they needed to, but I see nothing, my eyes rimmed with the light of my dreams, making it difficult to see well.

I judder, wishing I could banish the feeling of being watched as well as the lingering fatigue of my strange dream.

A breath of air passes over my face. My eyes turn to the door, where a slim figure seems to creep through the night, even though the door has neither opened nor closed. Only, the figure is insubstantial, merely a wisp and nothing more, and when the woman looks at me, I see someone I think I recognise, but I’m not sure. Her hair is white, clumps of it missing from her head, and I know what this is, and my hands clench the arms of the chair, as though I can use them to hold on to reality. 

I’m not awake. Not yet, despite what I thought.

In her wake, the wreath-like figure brings more wavering figures, all seeming to steal through the closed door.

She beckons to me, but I stay seated, wishing I could close my eyes but knowing that to do so would only bring back the other half of my dream.

What is this? Why tonight do so many visions torment me? 

Behind her, the woman brings my father, and I can suddenly see the resemblance clearly, even though I never met the woman, dead before I was born. This then is my grandmother. Swein strides as though for war, a grimace on his familiar face. His beard covers his chin as always, although now it’s shadowed with grey frost. 

I can see where blood pools from a wound in his side, and his face, although resolved, shows the strain in the white and blue that marbles his skin and touches his lips and eyelids. I gasp. I don’t want to see this. He’s dead. I don’t need to see the pain he was in before he took his last breathes.

And my grandmother brings more of the dead with her. I harbour a guess that the one man is my grandfather, his resemblance to my father too obvious not to remark on, although, again, I was born after his death. The great warrior, King Harald Bluetooth, killed by his son. He carries a wound as well, and the scent of rotting flesh suddenly envelopes me.

I blink, try and clear my sight, only for the eyes of my initial vision to seek me once more. I open my eyes wide, torn. Do I wish to see the dead or the living?

I swallow, rub my hands together, wishing daylight would break and the hall would fill with people, busy about their tasks. I need to be distracted from these strange hallucinations, and only the light will wholly banish the dead.

Marble hands seem to reach for my chin, and I move my head, keen not to feel the creeping flesh on me, and yet they seem to dig deep inside me. I turn aside, reach for my beaker of water, only to have my face turned aside.

My grandmother’s mouth opens, but no words pour forth, and the scent of her is disgusting. I want to gag, but I can’t, her hand holding me transfixed.

Where her eyes should be, there are bottomless pits, but I can’t turn away. The blackness of nothing beckons to me, a promise that if I follow it, all of this will disappear. 

But can I? This is undoubtedly a gift, isn’t it, to step aside from my future?

Or is it a curse? 

Still, the slack jaw of my grandmother tries to speak to me, but I swallow, yank my head away from her hand, trying not to hear the clatter of her dislodged finger bones falling to the floor, and I close my eyes once more.

No matter these warnings from the past, I need to see, and I need to know precisely what the future holds. I allow myself to sink back into the dream where a collection of eyes pierce me, all trying to tell me one thing, while others vie for my attention. I want to know. I need to know. 

Yet, despite my brothers being there, both of them, I now see, it is to the women that my gaze turns, time and time again.

I wish I knew who the woman was, her reaching hands floating through the air, as though she means to gather as much as possible, the one bowed head most urgent of them all. I open my mouth, as though to shout a warning to my brothers, and the three heads before them, only for the woman to laugh at me, the hint of menace intensified as her hands scoop up more and more of my vision.

But she’s not alone, another woman is there as well, and all I can detect is a huge belly, as though she holds a litter of puppies inside her, and not children at all. Her hand rubs the protruding bump, and more and more of the eyes flock to her, seemingly keen to be under her command. Amongst them is the man, with the sea teeming with warships, and another, who seems to go unwillingly. And yet another, who floats eagerly toward her.

My gaze slips downwards, and I shudder, for there are no longer three bowed heads, but rather, seven, with two others squirming between them. Who are they? What are they? I can’t tell, although it seems clear to me that I’m supposed to know who they are.

And then I blink awake, Frida before me, her face pale with the lack of sleep, the worry in her eyes making me blink back tears.

Her arms are around me, rocking me gently. All of my dreams are banished, and there’s only me, and Frida, and the light of day to oust both of my nightmares.

For all that, I wish I knew who the people who inhabited my dreams were. Without such knowledge, the horrors that I’ve endured are impossible to decipher.

All the same, I take stock of what I saw; the three bowed heads, my two brothers, and eleven others as well, a woman, a man with warships and another with a bleeding knife. I hardly know who the images represent. But I vow there and then that I’ll find them all. I’ll protect my brothers.

Even if they won’t thank me for it. 

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Author Bio: M J Porter  

I’m an author of fantasy (Viking age/dragon-themed) and historical fiction (Early English, Vikings and the British Isles as a whole before the Norman Conquest), born in the old Mercian kingdom at some point since AD1066. 

I write A LOT. You’ve been warned!

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