The author visiting my blog today is Sandra Jones who brings to our attention her captivating novel:
His
Captive Princess
Warren de Tracy was
assured the Welsh village of Dinefwr would be an easy conquest, as would the
widow of its fallen prince. Wedding her will appease the locals and win the
respect of his liege, the usurper King Stephen.
Instead, Warren is
ambushed, taken prisoner by a hooded Welshwoman with skin that glows like
moonlight. If he must die at her hands, at least his honorable death will
silence the whispers of disloyalty hanging over his name.
Princess Eleri has never
seen a knight as stoic—and as eager to die—as Warren. She’d love to oblige the
bastard, but something in his ocean-blue eyes stays her hand. Plus, suspicion
nags at her, for the arrows that wounded him and killed his men are Norman, not
Welsh.
A ghostly prophecy
portends danger that thrusts the enemies closer together, where hate explodes
into passion that won’t allow Eleri to surrender Warren to her vengeful clan.
But returning him to his king breaks more than it mends…and for Warren, retaliation
will be sweet, indeed.
Product
Warnings
Contains a Norman warrior with a thirst
for justice, a Welsh rebel princess with second sight and a steady bow hand,
magical prophecies, and a plot of royal proportions.
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Excerpt
Cantref Mawr, Deheubarth, Wales, Winter 1136 A.D.
Warren de Tracy had led battles on two different continents
against formidable enemies of the Church and his Norman kings, and for his efforts he’d won
spurs, a barony, more than a few scars and a complete lack of fear, which had
served him well. Ironically, of all his venerable foes, a lowly dog killed him.
He watched the speckled greyhound resting on its dead master’s
chest, growling low at him, the stranger in its territory. The mongrel had already
betrayed his Welsh owner’s hiding spot in the dense thicket by protectively snarling at one
of Warren’s mounted knights.
Then his hotheaded young soldier had wheeled back for the rebel
enemy without caution, earning him a fatal arrow to the heart.
Making perhaps the worst tactical error of his life, Warren had
followed to check on his fallen man. The dog, far from done, howled over its master’s
fate, thus calling attention to Warren’s presence, too. That was when an arrow
from God-only-knew-where in the surrounding woods took him by surprise, its
force unseating him. Quick and efficient, these archers were so stealthy he’d
never seen their faces.
Now left to travel afoot with a useless sword arm, Warren
collapsed at the base of an ancient yew a few yards away from the two bodies. He stripped off
his gloves and snapped the arrow’s wooden shaft in half, leaving the barb
lodged in his muscle. Ice-hot pain exploded through his chest.
“Sang Dieu!” He cradled his throbbing arm and waited, head
swimming and shoulder bleeding, as the voices from the skirmish went silent.
All five of his men were dead. He felt it in his bones. Soon he
would join them, but not nearly soon enough.
Ever since King Henry had died earlier that year, the Welsh
princes had led revolts trying to take back lands they had lost in the Norman invasion.
King Stephen, the new usurper, had ordered Warren to claim the Welsh Deheubarth camp of
Dinefwr for Warren’s own. All Warren had ever wanted was to gain the respect of
his liege. King Stephen had also told Warren to take one of the Welsh
princesses for a bride, which, along with promises of clemency and protection,
would surely appease the locals. Furthermore, his liege had suggested, the
widow of one of the recently fallen princes would be “receptive” to the offer.
How wrong the king had been.
If only Warren had known there would be a rebel spy waiting upon
the shore when they landed. Now the entire conroi was dead as a result.
At least none of Warren’s brothers had been with him this time. He
could die without more shame hanging over his head. His half-brother would live to
look after their little sister. With Warren dying honorably in battle, there would be no
more questions of his loyalty, no more whispers of treason.
The dead soldier’s quick end was a blessing compared to Warren’s
wound. The arrow in his shoulder wouldn’t budge, proving it was a ruthless Norman
barb, probably stolen from one of Warren’s men, and the broken shaft offered no
purchase with which to maneuver it. Each time he touched the splintered wood, a
burst of fire spread through his chest. His heavy sword was meant for hacking
bone, not useful for quickening his death, but perhaps he could knock himself
unconscious while he waited for the arms of everlasting rest.
He leaned against the tree and battered the back of his skull, but
the beating only made his head ache and his vision blur. The agony of his shoulder
remained.
He closed his eyes before the reeling made him vomit.
Despite the absence of wind, the nearby trees rustled softly.
Warren cracked an eye open. A hooded rebel stood near De Gouin’s body. As silently as
the first, another darkhooded figure dropped from the branches above. Dressed
in deerskin chausses and heavy tunics, they studied the soldier’s corpse. Bon
sang! Welsh rebels. Or Cymreig, as they called themselves. The smaller one
nudged the dead knight’s arm with a booted foot.
Bows resting casually on their backs, the pair hadn’t seemed to
notice Warren.
His left hand tightened around the sword’s hilt. One good throw
would fell one of the lightweight bastards, but he had no way of fending off the other.
As if sensing Warren’s intentions, the greyhound’s growl deepened,
and it glanced uncertainly between Warren and the rebels. The archers were still
too far away to hear, too absorbed in retrieving his soldier’s weapons, but the
dog might change that. His barking would bring them around, turning their
attention to Warren. He couldn’t let that happen.
He was ready to die but not to be shamefully taken alive as a
hostage for the local chieftain, where he would surely find unimaginable
tortures.
He adjusted his grip on the sword in his left hand. His arm shook
from the loss of blood.
The beast hunkered over his master’s body, putting more of its belly
on top of the man’s chest. Caesar, Warren’s own trained mastiff, would do the
same. Now staring into this animal’s brown eyes, he saw unwavering loyalty and
trust, so like Caesar’s.
The greyhound licked the dead Welshman’s face, and the sight put a
knot in Warren’s throat. He’d never harmed an animal before, nor would he this day.
Before the wary tension in his muscles could relax, the dog woofed
in his direction.
Damned traitor!
The enemies swiveled around. Assessing the situation, they drew
their swords.
In Warren’s foggy vision, the two swarmed toward him like sylvan
elves, multiplying as yet more rebels fell from the tree, at least a half-dozen of his
enemies.
The first pair stood over him with weapons extended, while the
newcomers surrounded their own fallen warrior and his canine.
“Gorthwr fud.” The one who’d kicked De Gouin spoke at him in a
puzzle of confusing sounds, but the sneered tone was perfectly clear. More puzzling
than the guttural language Warren had been trying to decipher since arriving on
the Glamorgan shore a few days ago was the fact that the rebel’s voice was
female, low and husky. The accented tones would be interesting, he reckoned, if
they weren’t so full of hate.
He blinked hard to clear the cobwebs in his vision. A pale oval
shape loomed before him, and soon he focused on a pair of dark golden eyes in a face
with skin that seemed to glow as if lit by moonlight. She dropped her hood for a better
look at him, revealing wild plaits of flaming red hair, which dangled around her perfect face.
“Aye. I called you a dumb Norman and now you’ve proven it,” she
drawled.
He tried to lift his sword but the weight was more than he could
wield. The red sprite above him gestured with a small pointing finger. He followed it
and found her deerskin boot firmly planted on his blade.
“I’ll finish him for you, Dywysoges. He killed Iolo ap Rhys.” The
second hooded archer was also a woman, with black hair worn in a single braid. She
grabbed his wounded shoulder with a rough hand, pushing the broken arrow deeper
with her thumb as she held her sword against his heart.
A wave of pain and nausea wrenched Warren. He thrust his chest
against the blade, grimacing as the metal pierced his skin, determined not to empty
his stomach in front of the dark-headed one and her fiery companion as he welcomed the
swift death.
“Nay. This one wants to die, Nest.” The red maid pushed the other
woman’s sword aside.
Then, crouching in front of Warren, she studied him through
narrowed eyes and stroked her full lips with the tip of her finger, thinking. The scent of
the forest and wildflowers drifted from her skin. Whether brave or stupid, she left the
weapon in his hand carelessly unattended as she watched him.
Ah, but she was right in her courage. He posed little threat to
anyone now.
Staring at her mouth, Warren felt something within him stir. It
had been a long time since he’d touched a woman’s lips, but by the rood, to lust at
such a time!
The men hailed to the women in their tongue and the dark maid
rallied them.
Red rested her sword across her thighs. “It would be wrong to kill
him this way. We’ll take him to the castell and let Lew decide what to do with him.”
She shrugged, drawing his eye to her chest and further proof she was indeed
female. Her curves tightened the leather tunic in the movement. “Besides, he
spared the life of Iolo’s dog.”
“That’s because he is a dog.” A beastly black-headed man pushed
through the newcomers and kicked Warren in the ribs. “Norman bastard!”
The blow knocked him to the ground, rattling his teeth. Warren
tasted blood and his tongue smarted from where he’d bitten it. His ribcage ached from
the impact, but it would take much worse to kill him quickly.
Red spoke rapidly in her language at the barrel-chested soldier
and the chastised man reddened, ducking his chin. He and another warrior grabbed
Warren’s arms, disarming him, and hoisted him to his feet. His head reeled with the pain of
the hasty movement.
Following the lady archers, the other men carried the body of the
one they called Iolo as the dog trailed behind. Warren concentrated on his feet,
walking obediently between his captors. If these Welsh rebels respected Red as
much as it appeared, mayhap he knew how to draw their wrath to hasten his
death.
The group marched him into the woods. Watching the exposed roots
of the forest glen below his boots, he stumbled once, twice, then a third time,
making sure they assumed him too weak to be a threat. His captors were large
men, perhaps the best warriors of their tribe, and Warren prayed they had
hostile tempers to match.
Lulled into complacency, one of the brigands’ hands loosened on
his arm, and Warren had his chance. Breaking free, he grabbed a handful of Red’s
braids and tangled his fingers in the silky plaited coils. She cried out,
flailing her arms, but he dragged her against him as he fell backward, pulling
her down on top of him.
The warriors’ retaliation was prompt—a slightly less ignoble death
than betrayal by dog.
First, Red jabbed an elbow into his groin, but he held tight. The
men responded, kicking his head and sides.
Strike, kick, strike…
He shut his eyes and slid toward unconsciousness on the tide of
agony, his senses closing with the pleasant wildflower fragrance of Red’s hair in his face
and her soft, wriggling body atop his
