Lady Of The Lake

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Author note

Copyright

“Release me at once, Viking!”

Tala commanded.

“Lady,” Edon warned her, his patience dwindling fast. “Speak to me again in that tone of voice, and I will have no choice but to teach you to respect the man you see before you.”

“Strike me and I will kill you with my bare hands, Viking.” Tala gulped, struggling for her breath.

“And how will you do that, hmm?” Edon taunted her. “With what weapon will you slay me, woman? Your viper’s tongue?”

Edon used his head as a pointer, nodding to her bared breasts—exposed in the beam of moonlight that spilled into the chamber from the open portal.

“The only success you have had thus far is in baring your breast. Continue the show. I shall enjoy seeing what other charms your struggles reveal.”

Dear Reader,

A pagan princess and a Christian warrior must form an alliance if either of their people are to survive in RITA Award nominee Elizabeth Mayne’s Lady of the Lake. Forced to surrender her heritage and marry Edon, the man responsible for her father’s death, Princess Tala fights her feelings for her new husband, afraid that she will let down her guard and reveal a secret that could tear their gentle truce apart. Don’t miss this intriguing tale.

Cally and the Sheriff, by Cassandra Austin, is a lively Western about a Kansas sheriff who falls head over heels for the feisty young woman he’s sworn to protect, even though she wants nothing to do with him. And in Judith Stacy’s The Marriage Mishap, two people who’ve just met, wake up in bed together and discover they have gotten married.

In our fourth title for the month, Lord Sin by Catherine Archer, a rakish nobleman and a vicar’s daughter, whose lack of fortune and social position make her completely unsuitable, agree to a marriage of convenience, and discover love.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all of our books, available wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

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Lady of the Lake

Elizabeth Mayne

ELIZABETH MAYNE

is a native San Antonian, who knew by the age of eleven how to spin a good yarn, according to every teacher she ever faced. She’s spent the last twenty years making up for all her transgressions on the opposite side of the teacher’s desk, and the last five working exclusively with troubled children. She particularly loves an ethnic hero and married one of her own eighteen years ago. But it wasn’t until their youngest, a daughter, was two years old, that life calmed down enough for this writer to fulfill the dream she’d always had of becoming a novelist.

With love,

Delores Maynard Cherveny

Chapter One

Summer, 889 A.D.

Eleventh year of the reign of

Alfred of Wessex

Mercia

Silently, the atheling of Leam, Venn ap Griffin, followed his sister up a trail to the Seven Sisters and their overlook of the Avon Valley. The standing stones thrust up from the earth at the edge of the forest. Neither Venn nor Tala could read the ogham symbols etched upon the stones, though both were well versed in the Latin of the abbeys and the court of their cousin and guardian, King Alfred.

Venn cupped his hands together and boosted Tala to the topmost ledge. She lay down on the hot, sun-heated stone and drew her mantle across her fiery hair to hide it from sight. Far below, the forest ended at the confluence of the shrinking Avon and the positively dusty Leam.

This time of year the Leam should be running deep and fast, feeding the river Avon. But no rain had fallen since Beltane, the first of May. The gods were unhappy, the earth in turmoil. Spirits old and new warred against one another for who would dominate the world of men. The people were confused, not knowing who to beseech for relief from the bitter drought.

“Tell me, little brother, what price did you ask for Taliesin the White at Warwick’s market?” Tala broke their silence when she was settled on the flat stone.

“He is a worthy horse, full of spirit and courage. I asked a hundred gold marks, but one Dane wanted to steal him from me for twenty and six pitiful sacks of last year’s moldy grain.”

“Six sacks of grain is a lot.” Tala studied Venn’s profile as he intently scanned their parched, dry valley.

“Knowing Vikings, it could have been six sacks of stones,” Venn replied scornfully. “I did not want to be cheated and was wary of making any trade for fear of coming up the loser.”

“Ah, I see.” Tala nodded. Venn prized the white horse and really did not want to sell him.

“It won’t be a problem. I can take Taliesin farther afield to graze.”

“Strong horses like oats and grass,” Tala replied. “So do cows and sheep. They care not for oak leaves and dried-up ferns. We can’t keep them if the drought continues.”

“I know how to make the drought end,” Venn answered.

Tala cut a sharp look at his set profile. Venn was just a boy, too easily influenced by the old ones in Arden Wood. “I don’t want you listening to Tegwin’s babbling. He speaks nonsense, Venn. Do not credit his far-fetched predictions as truth.”

“That’s men’s business,” the lad argued peremptorily. “And no concern of a woman.”

“I beg your pardon.” Tala responded with a scowl that effectively squelched her little brother’s high-and-mighty attitude. “You will do as I say, Venn ap Griffin!”

“Yes, yes,” the boy said, dismissing her concern with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Look to this side of the river Avon, Tala. That is what I brought you here to see.”

Between the sluggish river and the dried-up course of the Leam, a dozen Vikings labored, guiding oxen and plow, cutting furrows in the earth. Pairs of them stripped the bark from logs gleaned from the felled trees. Others tended a huge brush fire, burning drought-dry leaves and limbs.

The smoke from the hot fire was acrid with the scent of tannin. The black plume rose straight up to the sky, then flattened like an other worldly goshawk soaring in flight.

Venn eased himself up beside Tala on the hot stone. He didn’t bother covering his head. His brown hair, tanned skin, leather jerkin and breeks all blended into the neutral colors of the rocks. Only the vivid gold and red in Tala’s hair and the glittering torque at her slender throat needed to be hidden in this landscape.

Tala gave the valley a cursory inspection, from the high stockade dominating Warkwick Hill to the distant slopes at the limits of the fertile valley. Two ancient Roman roads bisected it, Fosse Way and Watling Street. Warwick controlled the crossroads and the bridge over the Avon River. Every scrap of land not covered by Arden Wood was taken up by fields planted by Viking usurpers.

In truth, the forest shrank by the day because Vikings constantly slashed and burned trees to till new fields, and yesterday’s oaks became the grazing pens of the next herd of cattle.

Near the fields stood their longhouses, each one spawning countless other wattle-and-daub outbuildings. They multiplied like poisonous fungi on the trunks of the sacred oaks in the wet years.

Tala saw much difference between the land today and what she had seen on the first of May. Not a drop of rain had fallen in two months, so the earth was drier, browner, the river Avon lower, its current slower. “What am I supposed to see, little brother?”

“They felled the oaks on this side of the Leam.” Venn pointed to the new cut.

“No!” she whispered. “They can’t. Watling Street, on the high ground north of the Avon, is the border. They can’t cut into our grove. It’s against two kings’ laws.”

“What heed do Danes pay to Wessex law? I see no man of King Alfred’s ordering the Vikings to keep to their side of Watling Street,” Venn sneered. “They will not stop until they reach the sea at Glamorgan.”

“Curse Embla!” Tala made a fist of her hand and slammed it against the stone. “She must be stopped! She has to be stopped.”

“Who will stop her? Not you. Nor I.”

Tala couldn’t go so far as to sit up, thereby exposing herself to the view of the Vikings working on both sides of the river. With all her heart she desired to protect this brother of hers from all the dangers that surrounded him.

“I can and I will—somehow!” she vowed.

“Wheest!” Venn whispered. Riders galloped out of the woods on Fosse Way.

“Don’t ‘wheest’ me,” Tala scolded, quieting all the same.

“Embla has taken on more airs,” Venn remarked, mindful of Tala’s long-standing hatred for her rival. “Now wherever she rides she makes a Viking boy carry her colors on a staff before her.” He slipped his bow off his shoulder and pulled an arrow from his quiver. “I’ve half a mind to pierce her silks.”

“Wait,” Tala said, putting a stilling hand on Venn’s wrist as he fitted the notch into the bowstring. Fosse Way passed close beneath them, along the valley of the Avon. Only the height of the oaks prevented the brother and sister from being spotted by Embla Silver Throat and her party of warriors as they galloped up the rise. “Let’s see who it is she rides out to greet. Look, there are many riders coming. Where do you suppose they hail from?”

“East Anglia, by the color of the dust on their horses,” Venn whispered, cautious now, for sound could travel easily over the trees.

They listened to the clop of the iron shoes of the oncoming horses. Embla and her guard rode out to meet the newcomers. Her standard refused to spread out in the still, dusty air. The day’s ferocious heat battered down cloth the same way it hammered people into exhausted lethargy. Sweat prickled Tala’s scalp and ran between her breasts. She twisted her head, straining to hear the greetings the Vikings exchanged.

“By the gold offerings at the bottom of the sacred Leam!” Venn whistled. “Look at the size of that wagon train! More settlers for sure, Tala.”

Appalled, Tala counted the wagons following the crush or riders. Behind the vanguard came a clutch of beasts of burden, pulling sleds piled with chests and bundles. When they ran out of oxen and horses, thralls pulled the remaining sleds. Tala had never seen the like in her life! Not even King Alfred brought such a massive train on his annual progress to the frontier.

Next at the hilltop appeared a jewel-bright chaise draped in shimmering silks. It was borne on the shoulders of a dozen sweating thralls. Women peeked out from behind the cloths. Jewels on their heads and throats sparkled in the dazzling sun.

Embla’s party of six riders came to a halt before the kingly procession. The oncoming Vikings had cast off their cloaks to accommodate the day’s grilling heat, presenting an almost dazzling spectacle of sun-bronzed arms and sweaty, glistening chests.

Even Embla had shed the ermine-edged cloak that she sported day and night as a badge of her rank—niece marriage to the king of the Danelaw. But she hadn’t sacrificed her plumed helmet to the heat.

As the two parties met on the open road, Embla drew her sword and clanged it against her polished shield. The words of her greeting were lost in the clamor of five other swords striking bronze.

Embla dismounted, as did the foremost rider from the east. The newcomer put out his hand in greeting. Embla clasped his arm in a familiar Viking greeting, then, wonder of wonders, put her knee to the ground, removed her helm and actually bowed her golden head before the man.

“Who is he?” Venn demanded, shocked to see proud Embla Silver Throat bow down before any man. “A king, do you suppose?”

Just as astonished, Tala shook her own head. “I don’t know.” Her eyes were riveted on the tall, dark-haired man towering over Embla. Bands of gold encircled his bare upper arms. Two glittering, bejeweled brooches held a cloth mantle fastened to the leather braces bisecting his powerful chest. He was as dark as Embla was fair, and his skin gleamed as though it were made of polished golden oak. “He is no one that I recall seeing at King Guthrum’s court.”

At his side walked a man darker than precious ebony, wrapped from head to toe in bleached linen that swept the dust on Fosse Way beneath his feet.

Tala lifted her hand to her brow and pressed against it, unable to fathom what her eyes beheld. She whispered to Venn, “Could they be Romans?” Her jaw sagged further, nearly touching the stone beneath her chest, and her blood quickened as she returned her attention to the uncommonly handsome man dressed in Viking trappings. “Who is he?”

“Let’s go find out.” Venn quickly put his arrow away and shouldered his bow. He slid down from the stone and put a hand up to catch Tala as she dropped beside him.

Just as curious, Tala nodded as she refitted her girdle to hold her short mantle close to her body. “Let’s! I’ll race you to King Offa’s oak.”

Chapter Two

Their passage out of the forest was silent and swift. Neither disturbed so much as a twig, for it was fence month— the time when does dropped their fawns. Both Tala and Venn respected all of the forest creatures and demanded their people do the same.

The short run took them to the very edge of the Leam, where a stand of silver beeches had broken the last time the river flooded, some three summers ago. The bleached trunks spanned the dry river. Only a few remaining puddles wet the caked bottom.

Tala skipped across the natural bridge and stopped at the base of a massive, ancient oak where their grandfather Offa had rested on the day of his coronation. Fed by an artesian river, the oak’s gnarled and twisted trunk supported the largest canopy to be found on a living tree beyond the Black Lake’s forest. Consequently King Offa’s oak shaded a goodly portion of Watling Street.

Nimble as a squirrel after a hoard of acorns, Tala shinnied up the tree and took her favorite position high above the road. Venn climbed up behind her. She could hear his lungs bellowing softly, the wheeze a reminder that he’d been deathly ill this winter past.

Tala spared a look at his face and found it damp with sweat. Pale blotches tempered the blush on his smooth cheeks. He settled on the limb adjacent to her and calmed himself. The sound of many horses approaching brought her attention back to the business at hand—spying on Embla Silver Throat.

A pair of greyhounds ran into the clearing, preceding the travelers. They paused beneath the great oak to sniff, jump and bark. Tala cast a quick spell that made them sit abruptly and whine in confusion, wondering where their prey had gone off to.

“As you can see, my lord Edon,” Embla boasted proudly as she rode into the shade of King Offa’s oak, “I’ve cleared the land south of Warwick to this river. The soil is agreeable here, as along the Avon. My best man, Asgart, and his thanes have applied for tenancy of the new bottomland. This time next year the valley to the south ridge will be plowed and planted. Oats and wheat and hops grow well here.”

“I see you have been most ambitious,” Jarl Edon Halfdansson replied, complimenting his nephew’s wife. All around him were signs of prosperity, save here by the Leam. He remembered the river as a wild stream, freeflowing and full. Now it had not enough water in its muddy bottom to quench the thirst of his horse.

Edon drew back on Titan’s reins, halting the black stallion in the cool shade of the oak. It was a blessing to have the hot sun off his head. He ran his forearm across his brow and squinted at the hill fort still some good five leagues to the west.

From the top of the last rise, the Avon valley had looked incredibly fertile and productive. On closer inspection, each field showed the effects of long-term drought. The heads of grain were small. The rich black earth was cracked and parched.

“How long has it been since the last rain?” Edon asked in concern. This drought was not an isolated problem. Fields in the land of the Franks were in worse shape. This was the third year of unexplainable drought.

“Too long, curse Loki’s hide,” Embla grumbled. “We’ve done everything we know of to gather clouds in the sky. We have made sacrifices to Freya, cast spells onto the winds for the four dwarfs. Nothing brings us rain.”

She shifted in her saddle and cast a hateful look at the woods beyond the dry river. Lifting her golden, muscled arm, she pointed as she spoke. “There is the root of all our troubles, my lord Edon.”

“How so?” Edon saw no malice in the woods nor felt any evil emanating from it. But he was not a superstitious man who gave credence to spells or omens.

“The headwaters of the Leam lay deep in that woodland. A witch has cursed the river and caused it to dry up as you see it now. Her charms are scattered all about yonder oaks. ‘Tis that evil incarnate that drives away every cloud that gathers in the sky.”

“And would this witch be known to Guthrum by the name of Tala ap Griffin?” Edon asked, his tone as dry as the summer day. Venn cut a sharp glance at his sister. Tala only motioned for him to remain still.

“Aye,” Embla assented. “That’s the one. Should she ever dare to cross the river onto my land, I’ll cut her into seven pieces and trap her soul inside a sealed jar.”

Edon changed his focus from the harmless woodland to his nephew’s wife. A tall, robust woman, Embla of the Silver Throat made a strong impression upon him. Her full breasts were barely concealed by her cotton tunic. Thick loops of corn-colored hair crowned her altogether elegant head. Despite her pleasing form, she was not an appealing woman. Her voice was strained and strident. Her mouth thinned to a grim, downward curve at each corner. Edon preferred women who at least tried to look pleasant tempered.

A finely crafted necklace of chased silver and amber was the only ornament she wore. Even though her breasts joggled freely, there was naught else feminine in Embla’s demeanor. She carried a shield and wore a helmet and leathern armor strapped to her forearms and legs. Edon could see that Embla considered herself a warrior first and last.

“Wait here,” he commanded.

He turned his stallion and galloped back up the dusty hill to intercept his train of possessions. The curtains of the chaise parted and Lady Eloya peered at him inquiringly, her kohl-lined eyes as exotic as her perfumes.

“Is it much farther, my lord Wolf?” Lady Eloya spoke to him in his own tongue, giving Edon a title of awe and rank.

“Not long,” Edon murmured in her native tongue, Persian. He put his hand forward to part the curtain more so that he could see into the dark and cool interior of the chaise. “How fares Rebecca?”

“She is bearing up, my lord, as all women must. The babe waits to present himself in good order. Allah wills it so,” Lady Eloya promised.

“I will do what I can to speed this infernal procession to Warwick, my ladies. You will be comfortable there.” Edon let the silk curtain fall and motioned to Rashid to stay close to the ladies’ caravan.

A woman of unique sensibilities, Rebecca of Hebron had refused Edon’s Persian physician’s assistance this morning when the water of her belly broke and the birth of her child appeared to be their next order of business. Edon had offered to delay their journey to Warwick to accommodate the laboring woman, but Rebecca had decried that suggestion, too. She wanted no part of sitting idle on the open road and insisted the gentle movement of the chaise would soothe both her and the babe. Still, Edon ordered Lady Eloya’s husband, Rashid, to remain close in case his vast skills became necessary.

Edon nodded to the bearers, who immediately lifted the chaise again, then began their steady, measured walk behind the hundred horses of Edon’s entourage.

More slaves pulled the sleds carrying Edon’s menagerie to Warwick. Horses and oxen could not be coaxed into the harnesses dragging the cages bearing Edon’s lion, crocodile and wolfhound. So men did what domesticated animals would not.

The wolfhound’s soulful eyes were as deeply intense and beautiful as Lady Eloya’s—if not more so to Edon. The black that outlined Sarina’s eyes was natural. She gave a mournful howl, unhappy in her whelping cage, crying out to Edon astride his horse. He monitored the sled’s slow progress down the dusty slope.

Caging the wolfhound was necessary. Without it, Sarina would surely have run off into the woods and reverted to the wild. Edon treasured the dog too much to risk losing her.

“Be patient, my lovely,” Edon crooned to the wolfhound, as much in love with her as he was with this land he had dreamed of returning to for so many years. “We are almost home, I promise you.”

Finally Edon watched his guards and the drovers pass beneath the ample shade of the great oak. He let the dust raised by a herd of woolly sheep and nimble goats settle before taking up his wineskin and removing the stopper.

Edon lifted his head and tilted the wineskin to his mouth. It was then his eyes located the spies in the oak’s leafy canopy. Both the boy and the girl held themselves as still as the dying Gaul’s statue on the colonnade in Rome. Leaves fluttered about them, stirred by a hot breeze fueled by the parched land.

When Edon had quenched his thirst, he lowered the wineskin and plugged it. He did not lower his eyes.

“So! You dare to spy on me, do you?” It had been a good dozen years since he’d spoken the odd language of the Britons, but Edon was certain he was understood, for the boy reacted by reaching for the knife at his belt.

“Don’t even think to try something so foolish, boy,” Edon cautioned. “I will have skinned you from ear to ear before you could strike one single blow.”

Venn stilled his hand, convinced the stranger’s words were truth. A more menacing soul Venn had never laid eyes upon. Tala’s quick gasp assured him his sister felt the same tremor of fearful respect.

“I do not take kindly to spies and sneaks. You have until sunset to present yourselves to me at Warwick, state your names and tell me who your thane and your father is.”

Edon gathered the reins in his left hand, preparing to follow his large train of people, baggage and animals to their new home at Warwick.

“Do not make me come looking for either of you. I never forget a face or forgive a slight.” He made his voice soft and low when he spoke again for the spies’ ears alone. “One word of advice to the both of you. Bathe before you present yourselves at my court. I can smell you from twenty feet away. Don’t risk insulting me again.”