Widow

  Widow

  Time of Myths : Shapeshifter Sagas

  Natasha S Brown

  Future Impressions

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  More in the Time of Myths

  Chapter 1 from Scars

  Also by the Author

  Research Notes

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 Natasha Brown

  Edited by Amanda Sumner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  * * *

  www.natashasbrown.com

  To the highwaymen and women who keep the unprotected safe and to all of the dreamers out there. Do what your heart desires.

  Foreword

  Dear reader,

  I’ll share something about myself with you. I’ve always had a weakness for anthropology. As we march forward through time, we tend to forget the stories and myths that were once common knowledge. Cultures evolve, change or meet their end. But for someone like myself, when I learn about the past, I can’t help but reimagine history in a magical world where myths come to life.

  Admittedly, I began writing for a younger audience, although I didn’t want to censor my stories any longer. That is why this series is intended for adults. I hope you enjoy this romantic adventure through the middle ages in East Anglia.

  Thank you for joining me in my fantasy world,

  Natasha Brown

  Chapter 1

  Footsteps echoed through the room as Rayne’s trunk was carried out of the stone hall. Her father watched from nearby with his hands pressed to his sides. His bright tunic appeared dull, the hall was so dark. Enough light shone from the high windows for her to see the expression on his face. He was not pleased. But since the moment of her birth, when he’d discovered she was not the boy he’d prayed for, she had never brought him joy and would never be able to.

  He turned his frown her way. She kept her eyes to the floor, careful not to stir his frustration again so close to her departure. His graying mustache lifted as he sighed. “If your husband had not died, and if you had brought a son into this world, I would not have to look after you still. Lord Goldore would have you yet, I am sure—”

  Rayne had heard stories of Lord Goldore, a man who reportedly overtaxed his tenants so he could afford to have jewels sewn into his tunic. She could only surmise how such a lord would treat his wife if he could find no compassion in his heart for the people he was sworn to protect. His offer of marriage had come four years after the untimely death of her husband, a wealthy highborn trader she’d spent no more than a few weeks’ time with before his eventual demise at sea. She wouldn’t allow her father to marry her off to the highest bidder to fulfill his lofty dreams of climbing up in rank. Not when she knew of another place where she could be left to follow her interests.

  She spoke softly, so as not to agitate her father while he watched her dowry carried from the hall. “Aunt Matilda has spoken to the abbess. In her letter to me, she promises a comfortable living amongst the other nuns at the abbey.”

  “But becoming a scribe when you could bring forth the next generation—” He rubbed his mustache and grumbled toward the tapestries hanging on the walls. “I know not why I listen to your silver-tongued whisperings when women are the weaker sex, falling prey to amoral dealings.”

  Too many times before she had heard her father degrade the value of her feminine qualities. Had her mother been alive still, she might have had company while trying to ignore such old-fashioned perspectives. It was, after all, the time of chivalry, when the fine women of modern towns like Norwich were treated with a little more reverence and respect.

  Rayne pressed the flat of her hand against her stomach and her fine red woolen gown. “Then there is no better place for me than beside Mother’s sister at the abbey. Far from temptation.”

  “It is quite different in the country, daughter. I fear you do not know what sort of life you face. It is not at all like town where you may send your servants to the market to purchase your parchment and ink.”

  She knew this and looked forward to distancing herself from her father’s ever-present voice. Although she did hope the abbey would have ample supplies for book making. It was one of their most important jobs: to copy the works of others. It was what she most looked forward to. She may have been taught to read and write like many other proper ladies, but she hoped to learn more. Books were hard to come by, but monasteries and abbeys held much of the world’s knowledge.

  Simun, one of the servants, approached the decorated box that sat on the dining table and brought it to her. “Do not forget this, Lady. I would not want you to stop writing your prose.”

  Rayne took the painted wooden chest that held her parchment and ink. It was wider than two spans of her hand and as long as her arm. Animals decorated the exterior in bright colors, and a clasp held it shut. It was her most valued possession. She offered Simun a gentle smile in thanks before he turned to leave the hall.

  From behind her father yawned. “It is quite dangerous sending you out in the countryside. That is why you will be attended by three of my own trusted servants, and I have hired two wagoneers to take you there. I would go with you to ensure your safe arrival at the abbey, but I have much business to attend to here in town now that you will not be here to help me. Rest assured, I will be fine without you.”

  “To be sure,” she answered, tucking her wooden box under her arm and turning around to face him.

  One of their servants entered the hall and cleared his throat. “The wagon is ready for travel.”

  “Thank you, Walter,” Rayne answered and stepped closer to her father. He turned his cheek to her so she might place a single kiss there, signaling her departure. “Farewell, Father.”

  “Yes, well,” he muttered under his breath. “Be well and do not trouble your aunt.”

  On any other occasion she might have been annoyed with him for treating her like a child when she was a grown woman of twenty-four years, but now she only had pity for the man who would be lonely without her. He would find others to scold and belittle in her absence, she was sure. This was likely the last time she would lay eyes on him, which softened her heart.

  He patted her shoulder and shooed her toward the entrance of the hall where Walter waited. She stepped outside into the dusty courtyard. Two horses stood hitched to the covered wagon. Simun and Gerald waited with their hands out to assist her up. Two more men whose faces were unfamiliar to her held the horses still as she climbed into the wagon.

  Once she had settled onto the trunk that held her dowry, the other men clambered into the wagon behind her. Simun sat by her side, which brought her comfort, for he had been a figure in their household as long as she could remember. She noticed a dagger strapped to his belt, something she’d never seen him with before. Presumably, it was a token he’d been given to keep her safe, although she wondered if he would be skilled enough to wield it properly if the occasion arose.

  Gerald and one of the nameless men filed into the wagon before Walter and the remaining hired hand sat on the bench. The wagoneer took up the reins and bade the horses to start. Rayne rocked in place as the wagon bumped forward and away from her home, towar
d the main avenue.

  “I’m Fulbert—that’s Roger,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Have ye ridden in a wagon before?”

  Rayne was surprised by his forthright manner. Before she cast down her eyes, she looked at the man sitting on the bench. A linen hood covered most of his head, and his undyed tunic was dirty, much like his dark trousers. She shook her head in response.

  “You should address her as Lady Rayne,” Simun called up to the man.

  The wagoneer sneered, then returned his gaze to the street, directing the horses down the right avenue. “It’ll be a bumpy ride, Lady, but least we don’t have a long trip. We’ll stay in Thetford this eve, then we’re two days away from Grimsford Abbey. Travel’s fair for another few weeks till the seasons change.”

  She kept her eyes down until he struck up a conversation with Walter. Then she dared to watch the landscape move by the front of the wagon. She may have married a man who traveled to Normandy and beyond, but she had always remained at home to tend to the house. When she’d rejoined her father’s household following her husband’s death, she likewise rarely left the confines of their home and never left the city.

  Rayne gazed up at the castle fortified at the top of its mound, a sight she’d seen before. She’d hoped they would be forced to cross the River Wensum, but there was no need as they were traveling southeast. They approached the walls of the city, which were being erected along the grassy hills of Norwich. She held her breath as they passed beneath the thick stone arch.

  She had officially left the confines of the only place she’d ever known and was setting out like a true explorer for a new land she’d never laid eyes on. Well, maybe that was overly dramatic. She was merely leaving Norfolk for Cambridgeshire, but she found it thrilling. Stories of women making pilgrimages to foreign lands fueled her active imagination, and she wondered what it would be like seeing new places and having adventures.

  There was more than enough for her observe as they bumped over the landscape. She’d never seen so much of the earth untouched by buildings and stonework. Part of the day passed before she spotted sheep and cattle grazing in their fields. Blades of amber barley stalks waved in the breeze, and simple cottages hid behind hedgerows. While she watched the changing scenery, she also listened to the men’s conversation.

  “...Heard it from the tanner. Says he saw a black monstrous hound—nearly as tall as a man—with glowing red eyes. It was on the post road on his way back to Thetford, but I think he must’ve found himself some wine. I’ve traveled these roads before and never seen such thing.”

  Simun glanced at Rayne and shushed Fulbert. “Do not speak of such things with the lady present. You do not want to frighten her.”

  The wagoneer rolled his eyes and shot a private look at his companion, Roger. Fulbert sighed and answered, “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

  “Lord Henry hired you because he heard you were the good sort he could trust,” Simun said in defense. “She is a lady and should be treated as such.”

  “Ooh, a lady.” Fulbert chuckled. “You’ve been trained well. Do ye have your own mind, or are ye your master’s puppet?”

  Instead of answering the man, Simun turned to Rayne and reassured her under his breath. “Do not listen to him, Lady Rayne. Your travels will soon be over, and you will be safe at Grimsford with your aunt.”

  She could tell that he wanted it to be so, and that he was nervous around the likes of the wagoneer. His hand was pulled back to rest on the dagger at his belt while he eyed the man.

  The remainder of the bumpy ride went in silence. The sun began to droop in the sky just as farmland came into sight. A giant tower lifted above the tops of the trees, and another remained obscured by branches.

  “The priory’s an important place of pilgrimage, so the abbot should have a hospitality house,” Fulbert concluded.

  Rayne remained the in the wagon once they arrived at the large stone priory. The men didn’t get the chance to climb down before she heard a voice call out to them. It wasn’t uncommon for a stranger to find his life threatened if they wandered into a town unannounced. It was always best to travel in numbers for the safety of all.

  She held her breath as Simun left her side to join Fulbert on the ground to talk with him. Soon enough her worry was put at ease, for she recognized the intelligent words of a man of the cloth. Maybe it was the abbot himself. She adjusted her wimple, the swath of fabric that covered her head. A long chestnut braid hung over each shoulder. Silk ribbons wove through her hair, adding a flash of red. She continued to listen to the conversation, waiting for the right time to emerge.

  Simun spoke in politeness. “We need a place to lay our heads for the night, sir. We number five men and one lady, whom we are escorting to a nunnery in Cambridgeshire.”

  A man’s throat cleared. “We have two small guest houses, one open to men and the other to women. You shall not be alone, for there are other visitors at present. You are welcome to remain for the night.”

  “I could use a nip of ale and some bellytimber if you have it.”

  No sooner had Fulbert spoken then Simun said apologetically, “It was a long and bumpy ride from Norwich. If you would be so kind, I am sure Lady Rayne would be happy for a drink. Let me introduce you to her, sir.”

  Rayne hunched onto her feet, making her way out of the covered wagon with her writing box tucked under her arm. Simun awaited her with his head bowed and his hand outstretched to help her down. She adjusted her chemise beneath her gown and straightened her belt around her waist. Its woven tassels hung nearly to her knees. When she was put right, she stepped forward to meet the clergyman.

  He bowed his head and put out his hand. She slipped her fingers onto his palm and dipped her chin to her chest as a sign of respect. While she observed the top of the monk’s shaven head, Simun introduced them to each other. “Brother Gilbert, I present to you Lady Rayne.”

  The monk appeared to be at least ten years older than herself. Brown hair was trimmed around his ears, although the top of his head was shaved bald. His friendly eyes appraised her as she withdrew her hand. He folded his arms against his stomach and asked, “I understand you wish to serve as a nun, Lady Rayne?”

  She took a slow breath, feeling herself grow at ease in the clergyman’s company. He had a gentle way about him, a quality that so many men she met did not have. No matter how reserved or polite a gentleman was, she suspected it was a carefully placed mask to disguise their true nature—aggression and the need to dominate. She’d first perceived it in her father, then next in her husband. Neither had laid a hand against her, but hurt could be caused by more than beatings.

  “I go to join my aunt at Grimsford Abbey.” Rayne noticed the monk’s eyes settle on the decorated box cradled under her arm, so she dared to reveal more. “I wish to use my skills to become a scribe. I wonder, do you have a scriptorium at the abbey?”

  Brother Gilbert nodded. “It is but a small room where Brother Arnaud works. After I see to your lodging and show your men a safe place to secure your belongings, I will introduce you to our scribe.”

  “I thank you.”

  Rayne stood aside as the men unloaded her dowry from the wagon. The monk led them inside the abbey to a secured room. She stood with the man named Roger, who held onto the horses. She hadn’t heard him speak more than in a grunt to his companion, Fulbert. He was more than soft-spoken. She wondered if he was mute. That might have created a sense of compassion in her soul for one less fortunate—it should have. But for some reason, maybe it was his dark eyes and the way he watched everyone like a rodent waiting to steal a bit of bread from your hand, she wanted to be far from his gaze.

  It was not long before the men returned. The monk led her to a small wattle-and-daub building a short walk from the impressive stone abbey. The front door was opened into the dark confines. Her eyes adjusted to the low light, and she was able to make out a few bed frames sitting on the dirt floor. A blanket lay over the sleeping form of a woma
n who must have tucked in early after a long day of travel.

  Brother Gilbert whispered to her, “We can only afford to stuff our beds with bedstraw. Though it is better than lying out unprotected under the night sky. You will find room enough for the night.”

  “I thank you for your kindness and hospitality,” she answered, not at all put off by the offered lodging. As he said, it was a far better option than sleeping on a patch of earth open to the elements and to thieves.

  He looked at the abbey in the softening light. “Not many visitors request to see the scriptorium. Pilgrims come to visit us to pray in the nave, which is a beauty to behold. But you are from Norwich, a proper city. I expect you have seen a great many things.”

  “I would if I ever left the confines of my home.” She offered a half smile, something to cover her disappointment.

  Brother Gilbert tucked his hands in his sleeves against the evening chill and turned back toward the abbey. Rayne followed him past a garden tended by another monk, who nodded at them as they walked by. They made their way to the front entrance and stepped through the impressive arched doorway.

  “Our bell tower is above,” Brother Gilbert said in an undertone. “And ahead, our nave.”

  Rayne looked at the interior of the church. Wooden pews lined the arched room. A few parishioners sat facing the decorative pulpit with their heads bent in prayer. The monk led her down a corridor through the quiet hall. Their echoing footsteps were all she could hear as they walked in the darkening building. A few unlit candles sat awaiting the coming night.

  Brother Gilbert turned to see whether she was still beside him when he knocked on a wooden door before opening it up. He stepped over the threshold into a truly murky space. A single light pressed against the gloom.

  When she entered, a man dressed in a dark cassock sitting at a small tilted desk turned to face them. His body was hunched over the open parchment of a book, and he held a goose quill in his ink-spattered hand. His eyes brushed past her to her guide, who spoke in a murmur. “I pray I do not disturb you, Brother Arnaud. Lady Rayne is on her way to Grimsford Abbey to take her vows so that she may serve as you do. May I leave her with you?”