Wearing a Mask - a Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Book 14) 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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  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

  Wearing a Mask

  A Medieval Romance

  The Sword of Glastonbury Series

  Book 14

  Lisa Shea

  Copyright © 2016 by Lisa Shea

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lisa Shea

  Book design by Lisa Shea

  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 is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ~ v2 ~

  ASIN: B01LZUTNON

  First printing – October 2016

  Visit my website at www.LisaShea.com

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  Wearing a Mask

  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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  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.

  Wearing a Mask is a sweetly romantic tale of holding on to hope and finding redemption. There are no explicit scenes of intimacy. 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.

  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, 1215

  You don’t develop courage

  by being happy in your relationships every day.

  You develop it by surviving difficult times

  and challenging adversity.

  -- Epicurus (341bc – 275bc)

  Isabel shook her head in disbelief, easing shut the heavy muslin curtain which separated her motley fellow passengers from the first class hold. She had met some haughty nobles in her time, but the commandeering woman in the elegant crimson dress was beyond belief. The way the woman tossed her auburn hair while ordering the captain and crew around, one would think she owned the shuddering, splinter-ridden ship.

  The worn planks beneath Isabel lurched hard to the right; she grabbed onto a rough beam to steady herself. The summer storm was intensifying by the moment. The passengers around her huddled against the curved beams of the hull, eyes wide with nervous concern.
They were still a good hour or more from landing in Dover. It should have been midday out there, past the closed hatch to the decks, but the flickering lamp bolted to the ceiling barely glimmered against the dense darkness of the hold. The steady pounding of rain thrummed from above.

  The beams groaned as the ship shakily righted itself again.

  She swept her eyes across the flotsam of life which cowered in the shadows. A rug merchant murmured soothing platitudes to his two young daughters – identical red-heads, it would seem - who curled up tightly against him. An elderly couple from Germany held hands in quiet acceptance of whatever was to come. A quintet of middle-aged nuns slid wooden beads through their fingers, their mouths working silently. And against the opposite wall …

  He was sitting with one leg drawn up, his eyes holding hers evenly, his short, tawny hair almost curling at the edges. His build was lean, the muscles seemingly carved from marble. A soldier returning home, perhaps. The three men at his side, similar in cut and build, had remained by him ever since she first spotted the group on the docks. They wore matching leather tunic and leggings; they bore similar swords at their hips. Their eyes, when they drew in to themselves, held the same dark, somber shadows.

  But for now his gaze was warm, almost intrigued, and the corner of his mouth turned up into a smile.

  She blushed, looking down, putting a hand to tuck her long, glossy auburn curls behind her ear. It still felt wrong to even look at another man. But Diggory could no longer scold her for accidentally meeting the eyes of a passer-by. He could no longer remind her, continually, that she had pledged her loyalty to him and only him. He could no longer find and burn every message she tried to get to her father. For Diggory’s cold body now laid deep beneath the soil in a weed-filled cemetery in Nantes.

  And she was free.

  She slid her hand down her oak-brown dress, smoothing it into place. She had done her best to be a good wife. She had loyally followed Diggory from London to Paris. She had kept their small apartment neat and clean while he poured himself into his transcriptions during the day and his taverns at night. She had watched the days tick by, and then the months, praying that God would give a sign.

  And then, on a moonlit night fraught with shadows, she’d heard the sound …

  The ship heaved, and she barely caught herself on a pocked wooden post.

  From behind her, in the depths of the first class section, there came a sharp sound, and she spun.

  Click.

  Whoosh.

  Thud.

  Her years of training kicked in. She dropped to a crouch, her hand sweeping her hip, passing through open air where, until two weeks ago, a sword had always hung. Her mind instantly ticked off the categories.

  Crossbow.

  Small.

  Twenty feet.

  She glanced behind her to the soldiers.

  The man with gray eyes had risen to a crouch, his gaze intent on hers.

  There were two more sharp retorts from behind the curtain, identical to the first. Another heavy thud followed. Her hand moved up against her chest, giving the signs she had learned at childhood, once a playful game the soldiers had amused her with. The language had become second nature to her. She had long since learned its more practical uses.

  Three.

  Crossbow.

  He nodded at once. Relief coursed through her as he made a low, sweeping motion to the three men at his side. The group set in motion toward her across the dark, tilting hull. She turned, remaining low, peering around the edge of the thick fabric through to the first class section. There was more light in this part of the hold; a trio of glass lanterns were hung at various junctures of beam and hull, throwing flickering light across the area.

  Perhaps ten passengers were cringing against the port side, a mixture of elegantly dressed men, women, and children. In the center of the floor were sprawled two middle-aged men, face up, their fawn-brown outfits splattered with blood. Dark, viscous liquid burbled and oozed from around the crossbow bolts impaled in their chests.

  To one side stood the woman in crimson. Her lush, auburn curls and elegantly embroidered dress stood at odds with the crossbow she held easily in one hand. The weapon was steadily pointed at a quivering, portly gentleman. Behind her, three sailors were sliding fresh bolts into their crossbows.

  The woman leant her head to one side without taking her eyes off the first class passengers. Her voice was sharp, with the curling accent of the London elite. “Chop chop, you two! Twenty minutes!” she called toward half-open door of the captain’s cabin. There was a surly shout in response and the door was kicked shut from within. The snick of a lock followed.

  Strong fingers gently pressed on Isabel’s arm. She turned, her gaze meeting smoky gray eyes. His look was serious and attentive.

  Her hand came back to her chest, her fingers flashing the message.

  Six.

  Enemies.

  Armed.

  Stay.

  Cover me.

  He gave his head a quick shake, his eyes shadowing with concern.

  She held his gaze, knowing with all her heart that this was the only way.

  Children.

  Cover me.

  He pressed his lips together in hesitation, then reluctantly nodded, his hand dropping to the sword at his hip. She gave him a half smile, moving her hand to his shoulder, gently holding him for a moment. Then she turned, stood, took in a deep breath, and eased around the edge of the fabric.

  Her eyes flickered to the young children huddled by their parents and her heart went out to them. She had to be as precise as a King’s carpenter to ensure no shots went astray.

  She held her eyes lowered, her movements slow and hesitant, striving to present a harmless image. She stumbled forward in the dim light, holding her stomach.

  The woman in crimson’s voice came sharp with exasperation. “You, there – get back into the steerage. You do not belong here.”

  Isabel groaned, keeping her eyes on the worn boards at her feet. “Ohhhh, my stomach. My dear husband warned me, he did. Isabel, he said, if you travel by ship while with child the voyage will do you in.”

  “I told you –”

  Isabel gave another deep, agonized groan. She moved forward at a shuffle. “Surely you have some ginger in your ship’s stores,” she pleaded. “Just a tiny taste and I swear I will go back to my place.”

  “God’s teeth, woman –”

  “Ohhhh,” groaned Isabel, stumbling forward, coming to rest on her knees by the prone body, shaking her head as if she did not see it. “Please, I promise I will go back if you could just -”

  “Oh get her the stuff,” snapped the woman to the sailors in exasperation. “Thank God we are getting off this tub soon.”

  Isabel turned sideways, shielding her hands with her dress. Her eyes moved quickly down the fallen man’s body. His sword was of fine quality, but she would not risk a fight in these close quarters, not with so many innocents around. But perhaps he had …

  Her eyes lit up with delight. There, on his hip - a pair of throwing daggers. She slid her hand along to ease them out of his belt and then gave one of them a heft. Her smile grew wide. Absolutely perfect. The man, whoever he had been, certainly knew his weaponry.

  She hazarded a glance forward. The woman and one sailor had their crossbows firmly pointed at her. The other two men were at the ship’s bow rummaging through the supplies. She pursed her lips. Even with only two of them facing her, there was still no way she could possibly throw both knives before her own chest was impaled with a bolt. She would end up on the floor along with the two hapless victims. If only -

  There was a noise behind her, a stumbling of feet, and the woman rolled her eyes. “God’s blood,” she snarled. “Now what?”

  A man’s voice slurred from behind Isabel. “My dearest Isabel, where have you gone? It is your husband, Philip. You know better than to worry me by wandering off.”

  The woman drew her crossbow off Isabel and aimed it s
quarely at Philip’s chest. “I have had quite enough of this,” she snapped to the sailor. “They are all going to drown soon enough anyway. Kill him and get it over with.”

  The sailor’s aim began to rise.

  Isabel drew her arm back and with a quick motion she flung the blade directly into the triangle of flesh above his collar. Even as he was flailing, reaching desperately for the hilt, she turned and sent the second one skewering into the woman’s throat. Isabel sprinted forward, Philip alongside her. They pulled the blades from the pair in unison, looking forward, remaining in a crouch.

  The two sailors in the forward compartment spun around toward the curtain, their crossbows aimed high. Finding nothing, they glanced down in surprise. Two knives flashed in the lamplight; the blades struck in unison, taking down the two men.

  Again Isabel and Philip moved forward, regaining their weapons.

  She nodded to him as they rose to standing. He gave a small smile, then his eyes moved forward to the closed door to the captain’s quarters. Concern drew his brows together as he took in the solid wood construction.

  Isabel patted him on the arm, giving him a reassuring nod. She stepped forward to the wooden surface and heavily rapped on the worn oak. She pitched her voice to have the fallen woman’s sharp, dismissive tone.

  “Twenty minutes! Chop chop!”

  A muttered oath came from within and there was the sound of footsteps. A rough voice growled, “Damn that Marianne. If I knew that wench would be this much trouble, I never would have accepted the assignment, Eric’s wrath be damned.”

  The snick of the lock being undone.

  The door pulled open.

  The captain was sturdy, nearly thirty, and his eyes went from weary resignation to shocked surprise as he took in the sight before him. Philip stepped forward into the space, dragging his dagger hard against the man’s throat.

  Isabel swept her eyes across the interior of the room.

  The captain had been talking to someone. Where was the second man?

  There was a blur of motion.

  All at once she was throwing her knife, a sharp, whistling sound filled the small room, and a burst of fire exploded in her right thigh. She cried out as her leg buckled beneath her. Philip’s arm swept around her waist, his dagger held protectively out before them both.