âYou say you know how to use your dagger? Then defend yourself, my lady,â William said, his voice deathly quiet.
He took a step away from Eleanor and turned his back on her. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but with a speed that took her by surprise William twisted the sword about his wrist and spun round.
Before Eleanor could react William had the sword held full at armâs length, pointing at her breast. The tip was barely a handâs breadth from touching her dress. The words died on Eleanorâs lips and the only sound that came out of her mouth was a soft whimper. Her head jerked up in shock and she discovered William watching her intently, his face fiercer and more determined than she had ever seen him look.
AUTHOR NOTE
A widow in the Middle Ages was in a better position than most women. While there was pressureâeither to remarry or enter a conventâa widow had a degree of independence unavailable to wives and daughters and was able to run her own affairs, often carrying on with the businesses left by her husband and acting as guardian of his estate until any children came of age.
The only real person mentioned in this story is John Fortin, a merchant who traded with Bordeaux in the late 1290s. He might have been generous enough to allow others to invest in his ventures, but whether he did or not the wine trade out of Bristol flourished from this period onwards and was a great opportunity for those with the finances available to make their fortunes.
A few inspirations helped me get into Will and Eleanorâs minds. This quote by Giacomo Casanova was one: âA girl who is pretty and good, and as virtuous as you please, ought not to take it ill that a man, carried away by her charms, should set himself to the task of making their conquest.â
âThunder Roadâ by Bruce Springsteen was also playing in the background when I wrote, and on the journey to and from work while I did a lot of my thinking.
For readers wishing to search online for locations, or visit them, Eleanorâs house is heavily modelled on St Michaelâs Mount, but also owes some influence to Lindisfarne Castle on Holy Island. Sir Edgarâs fortified house is based on Ightham Mote in Kent and Stokesay Castle in Shropshire.
ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabethâs hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencingânone of which has made it into a story yet. When she isnât writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children, and three cats with ridiculous names.
To my mum, who inspired a love of reading and history and who took me round castles as a child.
Chapter One
Eleanor Peyton was never certain what was worse: the dreams where her husband died, or the ones where he was still alive. The former were always the same: Eleanor would stand and watch as though she was carved from granite, unable to move while Sir Baldwin clawed helplessly at his throat, sliding to the floor of the feasting hall. The screams of their wedding guests would ring in Eleanorâs ears and she would wake sobbing and shaking.
Tonightâs dream was the latter type. Eleanor could almost feel Baldwinâs breath on her face as he drew her close for a kiss, his brown eyes filled with a warmth and hunger that he had never exhibited while he had lived.
Though three years had passed since his death, Eleanor woke with her heart racing, aching for something she could not name. They had never shared this bed, yet she felt his presence surrounding her like a shroud.
Wiping a sleeve across her damp eyes, Eleanor untangled the sheets from around her legs and drew back the bed curtains. Soft grey light was beginning to find its way through the gaps in the heavy curtains covering the windows. Slipping a fur-trimmed surcoat over her linen shift, Eleanor hurried across the chilly stone floor to the window seat. A biting squall was blowing in from the sea, tossing fishing boats around the jetty at the shoreline. Eleanor settled herself on to the thick cushions, curling her bare feet beneath her, and waited for the sun to rise.
She was perfectly placed, therefore, to spot the rider on horseback as he galloped down the road from the nearby village, coming to an abrupt halt at the waterâs edge. He dismounted and paced back and forth, searching for something. At this time of year the arrival of a message from her father was neither unexpected nor welcome and Eleanor frowned to herself. Soon the tide would go out, revealing the causeway and the messenger would find his way across the narrow path that separated the islet from the mainland. The man lowered his hood, revealing a shock of hair the exact copper shade of Eleanorâs own. At the sight her heart leapt and she broke into a smile.