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Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: Booksurge
ISBN-10: 1439202702
Type: Fiction
Pages: 384
ISBN-13: 9781439202708
A pawn in the game of 11th century power politics, Gwaina finds her own desires overlooked in her role as heir to Cornwall. Torn between the need to seize control of her own fate and desire for the one man she believes strong enough to rule alongside her, Gwaina tests the limitations of her female nature. Yet, in choosing the wrong partner, Gwaina faces losing everything, even her own identity ... until she meets her husband’s cousin, Mac Bethadh, a seasoned warrior with his own dynastic ambtions ...
Explores the murderous motives of Shakespeare's heroine
Excerpt
... raped by my stepmother’s lover on the feast of Lammas ... when he came to me fresh from the betrayal of my father ...
I read what they’ve written. Raped. The word glints its menace like my captor’s sword. And other phrases stab at me: ... treasonable acts, foul and treacherous ...
‘Make your mark or it’ll be worse for you, girl!’ Penryn threatens.
‘Gwaina can sign well enough.’ Cawdor intervenes coolly, handing me the quill. But when I try to write, my hand shakes. The men stare hard over my shoulder, trying to make out my name from the scrawl of letters ... the trembling vowels and quaking consonants. Nonetheless, it’s a signature. The reason they’ve braved mist and bogs. For this alone they would have ridden to Valhalla.
Cawdor rolls up the parchment, sliding it into the leather pouch slung across his chest. His arm rests briefly on my shoulder and I shiver ... standing here in my bloodied shift.
‘My Donal is of your age ...’ he begins.
I turn my face to the wall. But there are no tapestries to blunt the chill of limestone. Only a wooden crucifix carved with its skin and bones Jesus.
Sweet Jesu, I pray though prayers don’t come easy in this godforsaken bogland.
Cawdor’s voice goes on rushing in my ears until at last I recover my wits sufficiently to gather the Scottish thane isn’t about to forge a new dynasty. I’m to be spared the fumblings of his son’s bed; he is simply remembering to be kind, now that he’s got what he came for. Striding across the room, he seizes hold of some goatskins that serve for an arras screen before wrapping them round me with a clumsy gesture of tenderness. The pelts are sutured with catgut, a raised scar of stitches, as if the skins weren’t flayed, just wounded.
But now the signing’s done with, I’m faint with nausea because for the past week - a queasy blur of days and endless nights on horseback, followed by a sea journey that was like the end of everything - I’ve been unwilling or unable to eat.
I look past Cawdor’s red beard and pigskin pouch. Squeezing my eyes against the hard light of triumph in Penryn’s eyes.
‘I feel sick,’ I murmur.
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