Believing Your Eyes - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  A Sense of Duty Chapter 1

  Medieval Dialogue

  About Medieval Life

  Glossary

  Parts of a Sword

  Medieval Clothing

  Women’s Clothing

  Dedication

  About the Author

  23 Free Ebooks

  Namaste Aloha Servus

  Believing Your Eyes

  A Medieval Romance

  The Sword of Glastonbury Series

  Book 3

  Lisa Shea

  Copyright © 2012 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lisa Shea

  Book design by Lisa Shea

  Visit my website at LisaShea.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Printing: July 2012

  - 11 -

  Print ISBN-13 978-0-9798377-1-5

  Kindle ASIN: B008RIBYTI

  Each night I dream of a world

  Where people live with honor,

  Where the truth is what matters,

  Where it is important to stand up

  For what is right.

  I hope these books help share my dreams

  With those who connect with my visions.

  Believing Your Eyes

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  A Sense of Duty Chapter 1

  Medieval Dialogue

  About Medieval Life

  Glossary

  Parts of a Sword

  Medieval Clothing

  Women’s Clothing

  Dedication

  About the Author

  23 Free Ebooks

  Namaste Aloha Servus

  Preface

  Welcome to my Sword of Glastonbury series. I’m thrilled you’ve joined me in this adventure! These full-length novels share my adoration for all things medieval. I’ve belonged to the Society for Creative Anachronisms for many years and delved fully into my medieval personae. I’ve researched the language, clothing, education, and outlook of medieval women. I’ve practiced swordfighting for years, too. I’m joyful to be able to share the fruits of this research with you!

  Each of the novels in this series is fully standalone. While there is a sword passed from heroine to heroine to flow the stories together, each book can be read on its own and involves its own set of characters.

  If you’ve read the series in order you’ve probably read this preface before : ). If you’re just joining us, then hello!

  Did you know that many words like “wow” that we think of as modern are actually quite old? And that words like “hug” that we consider timeless are actually fairly recent? You can learn more about medieval language, clothing, and other related topics in my appendices in the back. Medieval people loved slang words, traded in goods from the far reaches of the Earth, and had some fairly “modern” views about what women could or could not do.

  Especially during these Crusades years, when countless men were off at war, large numbers of public offices were held by women. Many keeps were ruled by women. Women fought with blades to defend their homes and keeps; some even went on the road to fight in the Crusades. Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine was a powerhouse of strength and a model for all women of these years. During this time it was wholly expected that women should be respected in positions of power and were quite capable of actively defending their lands.

  It’s only later, when peace moved in, the Church solidified power, and courtly love traditions developed, that women were demoted to restrictively passive roles.

  It’s good to shake off some of the misconceptions created by everyone from Errol Flynn to Game of Thrones and examine what our real-life history has to offer.

  Believing Your Eyes is a clean romance. The one brief intimate scene is gently described. The few swears are period-appropriate such as “God’s Teeth” or “God’s Blood.” There is sword-fighting but no explicit violence. As such, it is suitable for teens and up.

  I do have a special comment for this book. My cause of supporting battered women is extremely important to me. This specific book is focused in that quest. It features a woman who is assaulted and who finds the strength to continue on and rise above it. Readers who might find that scene triggering – even as briefly and gently as it is described – can skip it without missing any important plot points. I wanted to ensure all could progress through the book, especially those who might benefit from it the most.

  If you ever have any questions or comments for me, I would love to chat! You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Google+, Pinterest, Wattpad, and most other social networks. Just check the ‘about the Author’ section or do a search for Lisa Shea in your system of choice.

  So sit back, relax, and enjoy a virtual vacation in the entrancing world of medieval England!

  All proceeds from this series benefit battered women’s shelters. Be the change you wish to see in the world.

  Chapter 1

  England, 1180

  “Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.”

  The Monkes Tale

  Geoffrey Chaucer

  The forest landscape undulated innocent and pristine beneath the frosted white of a fresh blanket of snow. Sunlight glinted mischievously through bare branches of oak and chestnut. Stephen drew in a lungful of the crisp late-January air, riding with lighthearted ease along the narrow path, keeping just in front of his younger companion.

  Ian pulled ahead suddenly, his blonde hair shining in the s
un. The wintry air made his breath puff in clouds of glittering lace as he cheerfully shouted out, “A pound says I beat you to the clearing!” He kicked his sleek, alabaster horse into a gallop.

  Laughing, Stephen spurred his black mount and raced after him, his horse ploughing up the snowy trail with its hooves. It was only a matter of moments before he had caught and passed his friend.

  The woods stretched on in a sea of twisting branches and sparkling icicles. Long streaks of clouds drifted far above, wafting across a pale-blue sky. The steeds flew across fallen logs and narrow streams. The distance between the two horses grew until Ian’s horse had fallen far behind. Ian’s challenges echoed distantly from the hollow depths of the woods.

  The opening drew into view, and Stephen smiled. His younger friend was improving, but it would be a while before Ian could keep up with him through the twists and turns of the wooded path. He slowed the horse – and then as he drew in closer to the clearing he pulled harder, sliding to a stop in the dense snow. Every sense went on high alert as he scanned the area before him. He held up a hand, hearing Ian approach, and his friend was soon cascading to a stop beside him.

  The horses snorted softly as they caught their breath. Echoes of the chase faded into silence. The pause lengthened as the men surveyed the woods with alert eyes. The two waited, watching, hearing only the distant sound of snow sloughing off branches.

  The forest seemed, suddenly, very quiet.

  Ian’s voice came in a soft whisper. “What is it, Stephen?” He ran a hand through his short blond hair, then wrapped his brown traveling cloak tightly against a gust of crisp wind. Ahead to his left the sun was streaming through a gap in the trees, and the silence seemed almost palpable.

  Ian shivered and looked around again. Gulping, his left hand lowered to the hilt of his sword, loosening the leather clasp on the scabbard with a deft twist of the thumb. “Do you think the Grays are finally turning south? Is that why you recommended we patrol the far north borders?”

  Stephen’s voice was soft. “Steady, Ian.” Stephen motioned for Ian to be patient and listened intently again for a moment. He pointed to himself, and to the west side of the clearing. Then Stephen indicated for Ian to move to the east. Ian nodded, slipped off his horse and tied the reins securely to a nearby birch. He turned to Stephen, but dropped his eyes. Stephen saw in a glance the nervousness that added a tremor to Ian’s movements.

  Stephen looked with fondness at his friend. Ian had been trained well in the ways of arms, but although he was nearly twenty-five, he’d not been in many actual combat situations. Stephen gave him a nod of encouragement. The lad was long past ready for patrol. He reached out an arm, firmly clasping Ian’s forearm, offering a smile. “Courage,” he whispered.

  Ian stood a moment to regain his composure, glancing over the sturdy, elegantly decorated breastplate and bracers he wore as if to steel himself. Then, taking a deep breath, he drew his sword and approached the clearing from the right.

  Stephen watched him for a minute before slipping noiselessly to the left. Ian was Stephen’s junior by five years, and Ian’s father had routinely shielded his son from danger. Stephen knew the older man was nervous about risking the life of his only child. Still, surely the Lord knew it was critical for Ian to gain practical knowledge of how to defend his lands and home. When Stephen had been tasked with the training of the keep’s forces, he had insisted that Ian join the patrols and put in his time on the wall.

  The winter sun was bright against the open field of snow; Stephen gave his eyes a moment to adjust from the relative shadows of the forest. The cold seeped in through the leather armor he wore, but he preferred its flexibility and lightness over the heavy bulk that Ian gravitated toward.

  Easing carefully through the deep drifts along the edge of the clearing, Stephen’s eyes were drawn to a clutter of objects. He froze as their nature became clear. Sharp tension drew across his shoulders, and his grip tightened on his hilt. Ten snow-coated, rough looking men lay sprawled on the ground, their darkened blood marbleizing the pure white around them. To one side, hidden by trees until now, a cairn of ash sent wispy tendrils of smoke upwards, the melted snow around it languidly extinguishing the edges of the low flame.

  Stephen’s every sense went on high alert, attentive to the slightest movement, the faintest sound. The woods obliviously went on with its raspy sweep of branch on branch, the delicate flutter of snow easing from a passing breeze. At last he gave a calling wave to Ian, and the two moved into the clearing proper.

  Stephen’s brow creased as he drew close, taking in the gear on the fallen men. “Bandits by the look of it. All long dead. A few survivors ran off north.” He glanced at a swath of tracks leading out of the clearing. “Those belong to the fleeing wolves’ heads.” He took in the signs of their lack of discipline; it was one of the few advantages they held against the bandits. He glanced up past the tracks with concern; a new wave of the storm was darkening the edges of the sky overhead, and a light flurry gently drifted down, slowly swirling into their prints.

  Stephen motioned toward the glowing embers. “Whoever took them on, at least one person remained alive,” he added quietly, walking toward the low mound of ash and stone. “Grays would leave their dead for the wolves. These bodies have been given a decent sending off.” His eyes scanned the dead bandits for a moment, then moved again with curiosity to the cairn of ash. “I wonder who ...”

  His voice trailed off as he gazed into the reddish glow. Something within gleamed and caught his eye. He picked up a stick and pushed the object out of the coals with it.

  Ian’s eyes lit up. “A bronze bracer!” He jumped forward and reached for the glowing object. The metal band was finely worked and glinted brightly as the clouds opened for a moment.

  “Wait!” shouted Stephen in alarm, knocking Ian off balance enough that the blond fell sideways into a heavy drift under an oak. Stephen sighed and smiled fondly at his friend. “It is red hot - you would have burned your hand!” He shook his head as Ian ruefully climbed out of the snowbank and brushed himself off. “Still, do look at it,” Stephen remarked, kneeling near the bracer to get a better look. “I have not seen lettering like this for years. An old language, but the engraving is new.” He sat quietly for several moments, examining the markings.

  A far-off horse’s whinny snapped Stephen’s head up, and he grabbed Ian by the arm. Together they sprinted toward the trees, coming alongside their own mounts to steady them, loosing their ties. A hush fell over the woods again; Stephen concentrated to hear any noise that seemed out of place.

  Several full minutes went by without a sound. The light snow continued to fill their prints, melding them with the landscape.

  Then, growing in intensity, the distinctive crash of hooves on dead branches approached from the north. Stephen drew back, pulling deeper into the shadows. The noise grew louder until two bearded men with wolfskin capes galloped thunderously into the clearing, broadswords held high. The redheaded man in front trampled through the edge of the cairn as he twisted the reins forcefully to slow his mount. He turned to snarl angrily at the second, who quickly spoke up.

  “See, she ain’t here,” whined the smaller man, a greasy, unkempt redhead in a makeshift uniform. “We killed off her escorts, we did. Just like you ordered. Then Barney, yeah - it was Barney! He tried to wing her horse with an arrow, see, to make sure she didn’t get away. But she was near the beast and the arrow got her in the side.” His eyes furtively slid from side to side as he related his tale in a quick staccato. “It was poison dipped. It was an accident! He panicked and ran. I came back to tell you what happened. You wanted me to face her alone? Anyway, she didn’t get far, it’s sure. She’s gone to her maker by now. What a tigress she was. Yeah, she put up a fight!” He licked his drooling lips, and his eyes glowed with some obscene thought.

  The leader’s face glowed crimson with fury at this news. “Your orders were to bring her in alive, fool,” stormed the heavyset man. He cuffed the sma
ller man across the head, sending him tumbling off his horse.

  “It was Barney!” pleaded the man, cringing in the snow.

  “But you were in charge,” shot back the larger man, “and Master was adamant about wanting her alive.” A wolfish smile twisted his face. “I’ll send you in to give him the news. Maybe you’ll die more quickly than Barney did.” He chuckled to himself. “You’d better hope so,” he added with a sneer.

  He looked around the clearing for a moment, then up at the sky. His brow furrowed. “With the storm, she won’t last long, if she is even alive. We’ll come back later to fetch her corpse.” He glanced up at the gathering clouds again, then nodded. “That will have to do.” Wheeling his shaggy mount, he galloped out of the clearing.

  Gulping, the other scrambled onto his horse and spurred it on after his leader.

  The hoofbeat echoed, faded, and then was lost in the valleys of the deep forest.

  Ian let out a shuddering breath, creating a cloud of frost. “We had better get back to town,” he whispered nervously, his hands shaking as he smoothed down his hair. “There could be more of them searching for the woman.” He jumped as snow tumbled from a heavy branch.

  Stephen retied his horse to a limb and circled the edge of the clearing, examining the ground. “This woman, whoever she is, is obviously wanted for a reason. She could provide valuable information on the Grays’ movements. Search around to the west - see if you can pick up her tracks.”

  Ian made as if to protest, but seeing the set look on Stephen’s face, he instead turned and set off hunting for any sign of the wounded woman.

  Stephen moved with careful attention, his eyes scanning every drift of snow, every stray bent branch. His gaze moved past a shadow – and then swept back again.

  There. Scattered drops of dark crimson – and the faintest of scratches, made by the sweep of a pine branch.