Creating Memories - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 6) 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

  Sworn Loyalty Chapter 1

  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

  Creating Memories

  A Medieval Romance

  The Sword of Glastonbury Series

  Book 6

  Lisa Shea

  Copyright © 2012 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

  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 book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at LisaShea.com

  First Printing: February 2012

  ~ 14 ~

  Print ISBN-13 978-0-9798377-2-2

  Amazon Kindle ASIN: B00791A3DW

  We can create a world

  Where women act with honor,

  Where men stand loyally by their side,

  Where truth is all-important.

  All we have to do

  Is believe.

  Creating Memories

  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

  Sworn Loyalty Chapter 1

  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.

  Creating Memories is a clean romance. There are no 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, 1192

  Laura spun smoothly through her counter-block, swinging her short sword in a high arc, relishing the bone-jarring frisson of contact as her opponent’s weapon skittered down the length of her own and barely missed her left shoulder. She lunged forward at once, pressing her advantage to lay a hail of blows that her opponent, a lanky, brown-haired teen, blocked with effort. The echoes of the strikes reverberated hollowly on his worn wooden shield. The lad grinned as he stepped back, and she flashed a smile in return as she swung again, immersed in bliss from the exertions of the autumn afternoon.

  The blue skies seemed a cavernous dome above them, traces of white clouds dancing with the sounds of training which rang out from all sides. Laura breathed in the crisp air, taking in the scents of her well-oiled leather gear, the freshly turned dirt beneath their feet, and the musky stables nearby. She pursued her attack for a few more minutes, testing his weaknesses, smiling in appreciation as he reacted to her twists and jabs. Satisfied, she eased off, allowing him to take the lead.

  Her opponent sensed the shift and dove in with vigor, using his greater strength to his advantage. Still, his blows rarely found their mark.
Laura deftly twisted under one sweep, then jumped nimbly to dodge a move aimed at her ankle.

  A church bell rang out strong and clear from the chapel down the hill, the sound echoing around the courtyard. Laura drew to a stop, and the teen lowered his own sword, resting it point down in the deeply churned dirt.

  “Stuart, that was excellent,” praised Laura with a smile, looking up fondly at the lad before her. He might be a few years younger than her, but this past year’s sunshine had exuberantly shot him up several inches over her height.

  She continued, “Your shield skills are improving at an impressive rate. We can pick this up again tomorrow, after -”

  She glanced behind her as a scrawny, eggshell-blond boy of twelve dashed through the pairs of fighting men, wending his way deftly to her side. In a raspy voice which spoke of approaching manhood he called out in sharp staccato, “Your father demands your presence immediately. See to him.”

  Laura slid her sword into her scabbard, pushing the escaped strands of auburn hair from her face with a distracted grimace. Her eyes automatically went to the large, three story stone keep which lined one side of the courtyard, to the bank of windows on the second floor which gave a commanding view of the bustling activity below. The warm afternoon sun came from behind it, leaving the courtyard in the shadow of the keep. The windows were dark, unfathomable depths, but she knew he was there. Watching. Judging.

  She took in a deep breath to marshal her energies, then turned to follow the lad toward the heavy, wooden doors banded with iron strips. As she strode across the courtyard, a few of the men she passed gave her a fortifying look, their knowing gazes helping to steel her for whatever new punishment her father might have in store. She acknowledged their concern with a nod, but her step never faltered. She had faced his rages and tempers before and had survived. One more would do no worse.

  The messenger abandoned her when she reached the main doors; her footsteps echoed hollowly as she crossed the deserted central hall alone. Reaching the narrow spiral staircase at the far end, Laura took the stone steps two at a time. She had just reached the top when the door to her father’s study burst open and a slim, red-haired girl came racing down the hall toward her, tears streaming from her swollen eyes.

  Laura’s heart dropped. Sally had been a sweet maid, friendly and helpful, and now undoubtedly her father had used and discarded her as one more casualty in his line of conquests. The girl did not slow as she passed Laura, racing down the stairs and out of sight.

  Laura let out a long breath. So it was going to be one of those days. She ran her left thumb idly along the silver circle which had been on her ring finger since she hit puberty. The blue enameled forget-me-nots were half worn away from her constant rubbing, but she did not need to see them to know what they signified to her. She had vowed to herself, having watched her father work his way through every female within reach, that she would never give her heart to any man. She would not allow herself to end up in the heartbroken, miserable state she had seen far too often. Life held enough pain without inviting more.

  Her hand fell to the fine sword at her hip; the one presented to her by Sarah just about a year ago. Laura smiled. This was what she could rely on. The strength of steel and the discipline in her muscles.

  She forced herself into motion, taking the length of the hall in a few strides, resisting the urge to slow as she stepped through the open doorway and into the shadowed room beyond.

  Like most of her father’s chambers the room was a precise combination of Spartan efficiency and high quality craftsmanship. She glanced around at the plain stone walls, at the one sword which hung on the back wall, encrusted with rubies. The desk at the center of the room was intricately carved out of oak and ebony. The rug beneath had been imported from Persia.

  Laura knew her father was a man of intriguing contrasts. The youngest son of an impoverished noble family, it had been something of a local scandal when her well-to-do mother had consented to marry him. Since their union, he had poured most of the family’s money and resources into expanding his properties.

  Her eyes scanned the room, but she knew where he would be. Her father was standing by the windows, looking out over the soldiers training in the courtyard. He was a muscular, stocky man, handsome in a bullish sort of way. His dark hair was short cropped and starting to fade to grey on the sides. His sense of simplicity did not extend to his own dress; today’s outfit was an ornate tunic with red and gold embroidery.

  He turned as she entered the room, then nodded at the two guards who stood by the door. In a moment they closed the door behind her with a soft click. A shiver ran down her spine at the familiar sound, but she steeled herself so no flicker of emotion showed on her face. She walked forward to stand at parade rest before the desk.

  Her father ran a steady eye up and down her frame as she stood before him. Laura glanced down at herself self-consciously. She was wearing doe-brown leather armor and pants with high leather boots, the uniform worn by all of his guards. The outfit was in good repair and only slightly dusty from the afternoon’s activities.

  She brought her eyes back up to her father, meeting his gaze with a steady look. He would hardly be upset at her gear. He had treated her more as a guard-in-training than a daughter for as long as she could remember.

  He nodded. “You have done well for yourself,” he commented frankly, done with his perusal. “The regimen agrees with you.”

  Laura shrugged. “It was the path you set me on as a child,” she responded evenly, reciting her words as if by rote. “If I was going to wield a sword, I might as well learn to do it well.”

  A smile creased her father’s face, and he chuckled quietly as he stepped forward. “Indeed you did. Barely twenty-one, and you are one of our lieutenants. The men respect your talents.” His grin widened. “You may not be strong, but you certainly are quick.”

  Laura shrugged, watching her father with a sharp eye. She felt a nagging suspicion at his unusual praise. He was manipulating her for some reason … but why?

  She had little patience for games. Despite her control, she found herself snapping at his unusual posturing.

  “What is it you want?”

  He frowned slightly, then strode to loom in front of her.

  “You are going to marry James Falcon.”

  Laura’s composure threatened to burst; waves of shock and appalled fury overtook her. She had been prepared for blows and insults, but this? A defensive strength infused her muscles, her hackles rose in alert, her spine shimmered into steel. She had complied with her father’s every wish, had endured grueling labor for years. This was the final straw.

  “No!” she shot back, resistance flaming within her. She relished the sound of the challenge in her own voice.

  Her father’s face roiled like a thunderstorm preparing to unleash hellish torrents. “You dare to countermand me?” he raged, his face flushing crimson, his jaw clenching.

  In the next moment, his hand shot out in a well-aimed punch at her chin. Even though Laura knew it was coming, a part of her marveled at how quickly he moved. Her years of training served her well. She automatically ducked beneath the blow, rolling to the right and coming up in a defensive crouch.

  The nearby guards, men she had sparred and drank with for many years, watched the activity with a neutral gaze. She would find no assistance there. She might be a valued comrade in arms, but her father was lord of the land and not to be gainsaid.

  Her father took another step toward her, and Laura tensed for action. If he thought she was going to go down without a fight …

  Apparently her father had no desire to injure goods which he was preparing for sale. A tic at the side of his jaw twitched as he reined himself in, staring down at his daughter. Without turning, he barked an order to his guards. “Take her to her room. Now.”

  The two men rolled off of the wall, complying instantly. Laura did not resist as they each took an arm and led her from the study. Within moments they had hauled her
up the stone stairs to her room, gently but firmly tossing her within. It was her father who then personally slammed the door on her. The solid thwak of the bar driving home was clearly audible in the silence.

  Her father’s voice thundered through the thick door, his anger resonating through the oaken beams. “You will stay in there until you are prepared to comply with my wishes!” There was a pause, and then his footsteps echoed as they retreated down the stairs.

  Laura stared at the door for a few moments, taking in long, shuddering, deep breaths. To force her to marry that monster! She was deluged by the temptation to rail, to scream, to cry in exasperated futility. The power of her frustrations threatened to overwhelm her.

  She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. With a control built on years of experience, she let her emotions flow through her and away. Slowly, ever so slowly, her shoulders eased of their tension. Her father had finally crossed a line which her sense of self-preservation utterly refused to accept. She found to her surprise that rather than fear, she felt only a growing sense of peace.

  He had a right to choose her husband, of course. Had it been any other man, she would have fought down dislike and disdain to do her duty.

  But not James Falcon.

  She would not – she could not – allow herself to be partnered with that ruthless barbarian. That her father would even suggest such a match was the final proof that he cared little if she lived or died.

  Opening her eyes again, she took a long look around her. Her room’s only item of decoration was a small, carved oak chest, about two feet long. Within were her most prized possessions. There was the periwinkle-blue shawl of her mother’s. Next to it lay a small codex of poetry from her maternal grandmother; she had memorized the contents long ago. Finally, there was a sapphire-fronted locket. Her mother had given the necklace to her when she was young, to adorn her on her wedding day.