Authors: Mairi Norris
Tags: #Medieval, #conquest, #post-conquest, #Saxon, #Knights, #castle, #norman
Rose of Hope (72 page)
“Why not? He would put a stop to this. Why do ye withhold things from him?”
“I don’t. I do not want him to worry over this. He’s verra busy, his hands are full…”
“Do not tell me he can’t handle his own nephew.”
Heather’s mouth drew into a tight line, and her back straightened. With her blonde hair secured on top of her head, she resembled their mum when she became cross and irritated. “Just let me handle it.”
Why do I even bother to voice my opinion?
Heather shields Da nay matter what the circumstances. Ever since Mum passed away, she had protected him. She stepped in where Mum left off, and like Mum, she took his side on every issue. Even over the feud with the Grahams.
Cameron searched Heather’s blue eyes, then reached for the jug of goats milk beside her sister. “I’ll not mention it, but ye need to make sure ye’re not alone with Symon. Promise ye’ll watch out for him.”
“I will.”
She poured the milk into a jug and took a sip. When she moved to leave, her sister grasped her arm.
“Cammie…thank ye.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded. She placed the mug on the table. “Remember yer promise.”
Cameron held Heather’s gaze, then slipped back down the hall. She grabbed a scone off the worktable and bit into the warm bread lightly sweetened with honey. “This is heavenly, Rena.”
The cook beamed as Cameron waved and padded into the bailey. The light meal satisfied her complaining stomach, and she picked up her pace, passed through the interior wooden gate and strolled into the outer bailey.
To her right, several men hammered a wagon wheel, their loud clanging reverberating against the bailey walls. To her left, Blake stacked cartons next to the barn. His hands, wrapped with leather strips, grabbed a barrel and set it on top of another. Sweat stained the underarms of his tan tunic and damp, blonde hair stuck to his forehead.
“Hello, Blake.”
The stable hand looked up and grinned. “Mistress Cameron.” His forearm brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “Are ye off somewhere?”
“Aye, to Mum’s gravesite.”
Blake stepped toward her and placed his hands on his lean hips. He glanced at the main bridge leading from the castle and back at her. “Ye shouldn’t go alone.”
Cameron waved in dismissal. “Och, nonsense. I visit her every day.”
He tilted his head, his eyes squinting. “Ye’re sure?”
“Do not concern yerself.” Cameron turned and rushed through the outer gate, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”
She strolled down the dusty road past the village at the base of the castle, along the narrow dirt path winding beside several cottages, and into the woods. The sun filtered through the trees, casting its light on green ferns and budding flowers.
She inhaled a deep breath. A brown-streaked skylark sailed to a great height. She shaded her eyes from the sun as the bird hovered while thrusting its melodious whistle across the sky’s vast expanse. A spotted song thrush announced its presence and fluttered about the trees as squirrels jumped from branch to branch. Although it was early May, with the warm sun, the morning felt like summer.
Cameron made her way through the thick forest recalling the manuscripts she had read the night before. Her uncle often brought the precious books to her from his travels. She cherished Ian’s gifts. However, months had passed after Mum’s death before she gathered the courage to open them again. After she had failed Mum, she questioned herself, her methods, whether she should continue to practice the healing arts. But once she opened the binder, fascination with discovering different curing methods took over. She had poured over the documents until the wee hours of the morning, reading about advancements made in treating the sick and injured.
For many years, she studied under Muire, the clan’s healer, and coveted any literature that furthered her learning. Cameron had dreamed someday of becoming a well-known healer, but when Mum’s death shook her confidence, she had a hard time treating patients again. It had taken many months to pull herself out of her self-pitying despair and find the fortitude to pick up her healing basket again.
With time, belief in herself grew, and she immersed herself in learning all she could absorb. At least Da left her to pursue her education. More like, he relished her attention away from him and his silly feud with the Grahams. However, since Da and Robert Graham sealed a truce, the past few days had been relatively calm—no more late night raids, no more pranks played on each other. Indeed, she could get used to this peacefulness.
Robert Graham.
Remembering how he had held her in his arms, his hard body pressed into hers as his earthy scent enveloped her, the corners of her mouth tugged up. She closed her eyes, and her insides tightened in an excited dither. Secretly, she relived those short moments with him over and over again. But those thoughts were only fanciful daydreams.
Her eyes fluttered open. With her quest to become a healer, she had discouraged suitors, swearing never to submit to a man. Too often, she had witnessed her mum’s pain over Da’s liaisons. No, that was not a life she intended to lead. Nevertheless, she cherished the stirring memories of being in Robert’s strong embrace.
She continued down the worn trail to a damp, shady area where ground ivy grew. The plant reduced pain and swelling around bruises and was useful when treating coughs and sore throats. Kneeling beside the vines, she cut the soft, hairy leaves and placed them in her basket.
She stood and made her way deeper into the forest, stopping along the way to collect cuttings. A patch of feathery-leaved yarrow to staunch the flow of blood from wounds, sprouted in the sunshine. She snipped the soft, dark green leaves, and then discovered a cluster of comfrey. The ointment made from crushing the large leaves and mixing them with water soothed and healed cuts and bruises. She clipped several plants and placed them alongside the others in her basket.
A twig snapped.
Her head jerked toward the noise.
Robert Graham leaned against a tree, holding broken sticks in his hands. Her heart slammed against her chest at seeing him again. He didn’t utter a word, but instead he stared at her with solemn intensity.
She stood and faced him. Why was he here? What did he want?
He dropped the sticks on the ground and pushed away from the trunk. Dark hair hung past his broad shoulders. His cream-colored shirt lay open at the neck, exposing suntanned skin and black curls. Grey woolen trews hugged his long muscular legs as he stalked toward her. His eyes no longer held the twinkle that so easily caused flitters in her stomach. In fact, his thick brows drew together, and his dark eyes narrowed.
She clutched her basket in front of her and stepped back, trying to calm her body’s trembling.
He stopped within a few feet of her. Unlike their earlier encounter, his large muscular frame loomed over her, his wide chest and broad shoulders crowded her.
He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up revealing thick forearms. His cold, dark eyes seared her with, what? Hatred? What had she done?
She drew herself up and took another step back. “What do ye want?”
“I want
ye
, lass.”
***
AUTHOR’S NOTES
The post-Conquest period was a time of brutal upheaval for the English people. In one day, through one terrible battle, their entire way of life was overthrown. But even in those dark times, there lived women and men who valued honor, compassion and decency. They looked for—and sometimes found—the simple joys of life and the blessings of peace. It is my hope I have portrayed these positive aspects in such a way as to balance the bleakness of the period.
Although I present this tale primarily from the Anglo-Saxon perspective of my heroine, Ysane, it is also the story of the Norman hero, Fallard. Through the joining of their separate lives into one, I have undertaken to blend the diverse customs of the two, just as real Norman and Saxon individuals came together to create, in time, one people.
Anglo-Saxon England was a land of vast forests dotted with fields and pastures, small villages and some few cities. Its people lived in thatch-roofed huts, and in timbered mead-halls and wood-framed manors behind wooden palisades. But as early as the 5th century, some churches were constructed of shaped stone, often garnered from Roman ruins.
By the reign of English King Harold I [Harold Harefoot, A.D. 1015-1040] Normans and Bretons were moving into England to stay. They, like the Romans, brought their architecture with them. At the time of the Conquest, a handful of stone keeps behind stone walls as wide as six to eight feet, had already been built in the land. Thus, the concept of the fictional Wulfsinraed Burh being built of that material by a wealthy, well-traveled visionary, while improbable, was not impossible.
I have endeavored to recreate the person and character of William I, the Conqueror as accurately as possible given the nature of surviving information. He began the construction of the Great Tower as mentioned in Epilog I but sadly, did not live to see its completion. The massive edifice still stands today within the Tower of London complex, and is known by its more recent name of the ‘White Tower’.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Màiri Norris lives in Hampton Roads, Virginia with her husband, a retired Coast Guard master chief, and three cats. She is a US Navy vet, loves travel, especially to Scotland, and enjoys dollhouse miniatures when not writing. She is a member of Celtic Hearts Romance Writers, a chapter of Romance Writers of America. A lover of history, she also loves to read (and write) historical romance.
Her next work,
Viking Sword
, set in 9th century England, will be available in 2014.
Visit Màiri and learn more about this book and upcoming novels by this author at:
http://www.romancingtheeras.com
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Connect with Màiri on her Facebook page at:
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http://www.amazon.com/M%C3%A0iri-Norris/e/B00FO7D4SO/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
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