Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: E.A. Monroe, Island Grove Press
Type: Fiction
Pages: 497
Copyright: Feb. 9, 2013
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
Fortune's Hostage is book two in the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series.
Book 2 in the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series, continues weaving a fascinating story of love, intrigue, ambition, and a family curse.
“Seize every opportunity and turn it to your advantage.” — that’s Martin Fayerfield’s motto. But, how far will Martin go to manipulate people, events and circumstances to suit his ambitions?
Jarutia Fayerfield may have found love in Doriano Drake’s arms, but can she keep him or must she sacrifice all she holds dear — her hopes and dreams — to protect Doriano, their newborn son, and her twin brother, Jantz?
Who is the mysterious girl Jantz Fayerfield discovers wandering through the Abeytu? And why has she placed daffodils upon the graves of Eolande and Cymbeline? When Jantz pursues her will he find the answers he seeks and unravel long held secrets?
The struggle to break free of greed, prejudice and the emotional tentacles woven in past lives, or in this one lifetime, threatens to overturn lives. Decisions are rendered and lies told, but for what price? For what price are Fayerfields, Tourneys and Drakes willing to forfeit — or pay — for betrayal or happiness?
Or, are they all Fortune’s Hostage?
Excerpt
Jantz rode hard and fast down the tree-lined drive, through the iron gates set into high walls built of granite blocks, and onto the Greenwald Road.
Bent low in his saddle, Mead followed at a careful gallop. He did not know the terrain well enough to match Jantz’s reckless speed, but he marveled at the younger man’s agile horsemanship and his ability to meld horse and rider into a harmonious unit.
When Mead caught up with him atop a hill, Jantz was laughing, his gray dappled mount hardly winded and eager for another run. Cupped in the valley below, Kilmere’s dark waters sprawled between granite cliffs on one side and steep rolling hills on the opposite shore, and there, nestled against the hills, the village of Fayerton rose from the morning mists. The bell in the village tower peeled the hour and called merchants and vendors to their shops. A trumpet blared and a second trumpet echoed from the surrounding hills. The village had awakened.
Despite the damp, overcast weather, people clustered on the road. Animals and scampering children raised their voices. Ponies and braying mules crowded the lane pulling wagons and cartloads of goods to market.
Mead glanced at Jantz who smiled, his gaze eagerly sweeping the lanes and the crowd of folks defying the inclement weather to bring their wares for sale, trade or barter in Fayerton’s thriving marketplace.
At a tollbooth set upon the iron bridge that spanned the River Sky, the toothless gatekeeper Mead recalled from a previous excursion, raised his work-chaffed hand when they rode past. Jantz reached for a coin tucked in his jacket pocket and raised his hand to toss it to the gatekeeper.
“Nay, keep your silver this morn, young Fayerfield!” the old man bawled. The grizzled head he shook seemed too heavy for the thinness of his gaunt shoulders.
“What about your granddaughter’s dowry?”
“Lucia’s dowry is fat enough thanks to ye. The Widow Berridale’ll have more need of your silver. Her son was hanged yesterday eve.”
Upon hearing the gatekeeper’s news, Jantz’s tanned face paled. “What do you mean?”
“Master Martin pronounced the sentence.”
“I knew nothing of this!”
“All the same, it is over and done. The old woman ain’t got a livin’ soul to take care of her and she’s too proud to move in with Whit’s family. There’s too many of them and no room to take in an old woman considered past her usefulness.”
“I will see that she’s provided for with winter coming.”
“It’s not your place to set right your brother’s doings.”
“Why did the Village Council not intervene?”
“The Village Council won’t dispute Martin’s authority and everybody knows it.” The gatekeeper turned away and ambled back to his post to collect his morning tolls, business as usual.
Chiseled features honed in fierce determination, Jantz’s gaze swept the passersby. He glanced at Mead, and then spurred Gray Wind across the bridge. A block past the bridge, Jantz reined up to a three-storied tavern set back from the busy road. After the recent rains, the patch of yard offered more mud than grass. Seated on wooden benches beside the front door, several old gaffers chatted about the weather, swilled ale from tankards and watched the morning traffic stream past.
A burly man, black hair thinning upon his crown and a round belly protruding beneath a white expanse of apron, stood in the tavern’s doorway and listened to the old-timers recounting stories heard a hundred times. The hour was early for customers, although many folk passed along the road on their way to the village market, and doubtless the glint in the innkeeper’s keen eyes counted the day’s profits from the busy market day that would bring a steady crowd to the tavern for meals, drinks, and lodging.
The Blue Swan was Fayerton’s largest tavern and the best as far as decent lodging and edible food. Outlanders, merchants, clerks, and members of the Village Council, congregated in the smoke filled common room, or its private dining hall, and, as Mead had learned, Keiron Fayerfield was one of the Swan’s regular customers, regular enough that he rented for an exorbitant price, a private room at the top of the stairs.
Upon seeing the youngest Fayerfield reining into his yard, the innkeeper’s broad face puckered into a welcoming smile.
“A fine lad for a father to send fetching a wayward rogue like Keiron home, although it’s just as well since the rascal’s pockets are empty. Martin has made it well known that he’s no longer responsible for paying Keiron’s creditors.” The boom of the innkeeper’s voice drew chuckles from the old-timers and set them off in a round of recalling Kieron’s boyhood escapades.
Jantz grinned, nodded. “Somewhere in that lurks a lesson Keiron is evidently supposed to learn, Master Barleyman. Whatever Martin’s educational intentions, I believe Keiron has only learned how to charm the silver and gold from the pockets of the unsuspecting.”
“Aye, Keiron is a professional charmer better known for his luck than for his sobriety. That he is!”
Dismounting and looping his horse’s bridle reins around a hitching post, Jantz hastily introduced Mead to the innkeeper. Barleyman folded his arms across his broad belly and rubbed a pudgy hand across his set of triple chins.
“We heard a gentleman from San Bargel was visitin’ Rosenhall,” Barleyman said, announcing Mead’s identity to the old-timers and drawing a curious buzz of murmurs, nods and hellos.
“Master Barleyman, is Keiron here this morning?” Jantz said, interrupting before the innkeeper became carried away asking questions and detaining them longer.
Barleyman scratched the thinning pate of black hair that curled across his head. “He’s upstairs, but I do not think your brother’s fit company for visitors.”
“Thanks, Master Barleyman.”
At that early hour, the tavern was empty of its usual crammed-to-the-wall overflow of boisterous men, winsome barmaids, and the occasional musician singing and playing for their supper or the occasional troupe of traveling thespians.
Two yawning girls, brooms, bucket, and mops in hand, cleaned up the previous night’s mess. Another girl wiped off wooden tables with a damp towel and set upright overturned benches, chairs, and stools.
Borne upon the yeasty scent of Barleyman’s latest brew, the aromas of baking bread, broiling fish, and roasting venison wafted through the kitchen’s swinging door.
Mead followed Jantz unimpeded through the common room and into a wide hallway where a staircase led to the second floor.
Jantz climbed the stair steps and paused before the first closed door upon the second floor landing. He did not bother to knock but grinned at Mead. Pushing the door open, he strode into the room.
Mead expected to see Keiron sprawled across the bed among a tangle of sheets and impossible to rouse, if not wrapped up in the arms of his current lover, but to his surprise Keiron was awake and dressed, despite what Barleyman had said about his condition.
Keiron looked no worse than usual for his days and nights of drinking, gambling and, as Jantz phrased Keiron’s favorite method for filling his pockets with coin to pay his debts ― “He’s never actually paid a woman to sleep with him. They pay him.”
A frilly black lace robe draped the room’s single chair. Jantz tossed the flimsy piece of feminine clothing aside and offered the chair to Mead.
“Welcome!” Keiron laughed. A sleepless animation sparkled in his jet eyes. “Come to fetch me home, little brother?”
“Something like that,” Jantz said, glancing around the sparsely furnished room.
“As you can see, I am dressed and waiting. I expected you and I see you have brought Master Worthington along. Good day, Worthington! I wish I could welcome you in more style.” Keiron waved his arm in a broad, sweeping gesture. A single, wobbly legged chair, a table, washstand, water pitcher, chipped porcelain basin, and a rumpled, doublewide bed, its quilt and sheet trailing onto the oak planked floor furnished the room. A chamber pot tucked behind a woven screen in a corner added its stale urine stench.
Smiling at Jantz who shrugged, Mead settled into the chair.
“Let’s see what this hospitable tavern has to offer two early visitors who have ridden all the way from Rosenhall.” Crossing the room, Keiron stumbled over his feet, but caught his balance. He yanked open the door and stepped out on to the landing. “Master Barleyman! Master Barleyman… oh, there you are! Have you forgotten the hospitality of your grand establishment?”
“I have not!” a voice shouted from the bottom of the stairway.
“Then send up two, no, make that three flagons of your best!”
Keiron slammed the door closed on the innkeeper response ― something about coin and paying.
“How fares life at Rosenhall, little brother?” Laughing, Keiron ruffled Jantz’s hair, and parrying on his feet clipped Jantz’s jaw with a light cuff of his fist.
Amusement shone in Jantz’s eyes. He rubbed his chin. “Need you ask?”
“The same as ever! What about Jarutia and our lovely Bethana? I thought becoming a grand lady would change Bethana into the proper woman a man could enjoy. Do you know what she did? The wretched bitch slapped me! How harmless is a little kiss? I even suggested she could pay me for my kisses.”
Jantz laughed. “That will teach you to keep your hands and your kisses to yourself, Keiron.”
Amused, Mead enjoyed the interactions between the two brothers and caught the curious glances Jantz cast toward him.
“Ha! There is no love lost between Bethana and me. I thought she’d at least be lady enough to act polite.” Keiron, eyes glinting amusement, perched his hip on the table beside Jantz who had taken a stance beside the window. Fingering aside the lace curtain, Jantz looked down into the stable yard.
To Mead’s surprise, Keiron glanced at him and winked before continuing to tease Jantz. “You’ve never had that problem, eh, Jantz? You would have no trouble getting Bethana to pay for your kisses. She worships the ground you tread. She’s fond of my little brother. Did you know that, Worthington?”
Before Mead could respond, the door opened and a barmaid, crimson petticoats swishing around her brown legs, entered the room. Keiron’s darkly smudged face brightened.
“Ah, Fietta! My love!”
Indifferent to the admiration gleaming in Keiron’s eyes, Fietta tossed a sultry glance at Mead and offered a bold smile that revealed a mouthful of white teeth. With a provocative roll of her brown shoulder, the loose sleeve of her gaudily embroidered white blouse slipped down to revealed an enticing view of smooth flesh.
Fascinated, Mead studied her as she set a wooden tray carrying three tankards upon the table beside Keiron. She looked up through a dark sweep of eyelashes and offered Jantz a provocative smile that parted her ruby lips.
Jantz smiled and curiously regarded the sensuous young woman as if interested. Keiron laughed and, leaning forward, swatted Fietta’s plump ass.
“Be off, Fietta!” Keiron laughed, gaining the barmaid’s attention.
“Not until you pay me. I’ve had enough of you, Keiron!” Fietta retorted, lowering black eyelashes over sultry eyes. Not a glint of light shone within her midnight eyes. She was lovely and she knew it. The glitter of her gaze returned to Jantz and then, piqued by a stranger’s presence, shifted to Mead.
“I’ve never seen a San Bargellian before. You’re hardly the foreign devil folks expected.”
Without choking, Mead managed a smile. “Thank you. I think.”
“Jantz, pay Fietta. She stole my last coin from me as I slept.” Keiron chuckled, as if more amused than angered by Fietta’s brazen interest in other men, or at least in how much coin a man carried when bartering for her particular talents.
Fietta whirled and wagged her finger in Keiron’s face. “I did not! You won a purse full last night and I never touched one silver piece. You paid my father what you owed him, or don’t you remember?” She nudged her hip against Keiron’s leg and offered a provocative smile, a lowered sweep of eyelashes.
Keiron frowned into the tankard he grabbed from the tray, as if to recall cloudy bits hanging like suspended ale dregs in the bottom of his memory. “I remember your honey sweet taste and the thrill your lips incite in a man, even a man as drunk as I was last night.”
Fietta laughed, and turning in a swirl of petticoats, held her hand palm up to Jantz. He fished a coin from his jacket pocket. Fietta snatched the silver piece and with a teasing, revealing flourish, tucked the coin into the front of her blouse between the swell of her breasts. Fietta was not shy.
“I’m thinking you should come to the Blue Swan more often.” Fietta hooked her fingers through Jantz’s hair and brushed the strands from his eyes. “How many times have I seen the sunlight, gold and bright, flashing about you when you ride through the village? Yet, never once do you stop and partake of the pleasures I offer.”
Fietta sighed, lips parting. The sultry fire of her eyes skimmed Jantz. There was no look of softness about Jantz or the azure gleam in his eyes. Mead doubted that Fietta even remembered that she was not alone as she solicited Jantz in front of Keiron and him.
“I hear that you love each woman you bed. Is it true? Do you love them? Even if you only share their bed for one night?” Fietta leaned closer and gazed into the astonishing eyes focusing upon her face with an intense interest deserving of her beauty, seduction, and promise.
“Are you still a virgin?” she said.
A crimson stain of embarrassment suffused Jantz’s face from his neck up when the impudent Fietta trailed her finger across the contour of his upper lip and leaning closer said, “I can remedy that discomfit, you know.”
“Off with you, Fietta, and keep your hands off my little brother. Virgin or not, he’s not for you,” Keiron snapped.
Eyes gleaming carnal knowledge and reveling in having irritated Keiron, Fietta turned from Jantz and stroked Keiron’s cheek. She brushed a teasing kiss across Keiron’s lips.
“You are the only man for me!” Laughter rippling, she danced away and, sweeping the lace robe from the rumpled bed, left the room, but not without tossing a saucy wink in Mead’s direction.
Mead coughed into his fist.
“Women!” Keiron grumbled into the tankard he lifted to his mouth. “They all want the same thing from a man ― undying love, marriage and children.” Too quick to laugh, he shook his head and changed the subject. “I will repay the loan, Jantz. I know where your coin goes these days. Fietta was right, and I do not mean about you being a virgin ripe for her bed. I won at the tables last night. Fortunately, my luck still holds.”
“Father and Martin will be pleased to hear that.” Jantz grabbed a tankard from the tray and passed it to Mead without sloshing the contents over the pewter rim. He took the third tankard for himself and gulped a long, deep swallow.
“Did you hear about Whit Berridale? Poor son of a bitch!” Keiron said.
“I heard.” Jantz stared into the tankard he rolled between his palms.
“When Martin’s deeds catch up with him, I hope I’m around.” Keiron left his perch on the table, walked over to the room’s second window and pushed it open to the chilly morning breeze. Drinking from his tankard in silence and ignoring the damp chill, he stared into the yard below.
Mead glanced over at Jantz who curled one corner of his mouth and lifted his tankard to his mouth.
When Keiron turned from the window, a taut smile flickered over his lean face. A day old growth of beard muted his hawkish features. Whiskers rasped beneath the rub of his hand. “You’ve not had any trouble lately, have you, little brother?”
“None worth talking about. You know how it is, Keiron. What must Worthington think of us? That we suffer from delusions of madness?”
“No, not at all… think any one is demented,” Mead insisted, although the idea had flashed through mind. He took a hasty swallow of the amber liquid from his tankard and grimaced at the yeasty flavor of tart ale. The brew was meant for filling a man’s belly and a man’s head.
Keiron finished off his ale, belched and laughed. “One of us has the sole claim of dementia!”
Scowling at Keiron, Jantz pushed away from the window. He set the empty ale tankard upon the table. “You’ve made madness too convenient an excuse.”
“I’m damn near driven to madness. By the Great Ones! I curse the day I was born!” Striding across the room, Keiron banged his empty tankard down hard upon the wooden table.
The two brothers stared at each other. A silent challenge passed between them. The way Jantz held Keiron’s tormented gaze and steadied Keiron with an unaccommodating stare, fascinated Mead despite his awkwardness of being an intruder in a world of men at conflict with themselves and each other.
At last, Keiron pulled himself together and rummaged a hand through his tousled black hair. He slumped down upon the edge of the unmade bed, braced his elbows against his knees.
“It’s just―” Keiron muttered, staring at his hands dangling between his muscular thighs.
“Say it, Keiron,” Jantz said.
Keiron lifted his head and peered at Jantz. “Why do you have anything to do with me? Father should not send you running after me every time I go off on a drunken binge.”
“Would you rather see Martin?”
“Any one but that coldhearted bastard! How is it possible to love and hate someone?” Keiron glanced at Mead, continued. “I’m sorry to have you hear me speak bluntly of my own flesh and blood, Worthington. Had it not been for my carelessness, Auriel might be alive and with us today.”
Jantz’s features hardened. He grimaced. “Mother’s death was not your fault, Keiron. Jarutia is right. We must forget and remember Mother as she was ― before.”
Keiron scowled at Jantz. “Easy for Jarutia. She did not see… she did not know.”
“No, it’s not easy for Jarutia, but she is right. Why torment yourself? Mother is gone. No tears or prayers will bring her back. How I have wept and cursed! That is what Martin wants us to do. Our grief must please him! Mother would not want us going on like this. Let revenge come that will, when it will. Will you confront Martin and accuse him of treachery? I think not, unless you want to find yourself hanging beside Whit Berridale, or tasting the lash of Tom Longnecker’s whip, which I can assure you, is no pleasure.”
Intrigued, Mead watched Jantz roll his shoulders as if easing the fit of tunic and jacket across his back and shoulders, the gesture seemed more unconscious than conscious, and dredged more from memory than the actual physical discomfort of his clothing.
“Come winter, Widow Berridale will not starve or find herself thrown out in the cold and snow… not if I can help her,” Jantz said.
Keiron uttered a harsh, grim laugh. “Eh? What foolish talk is this? Do you want to hang beside me, Jantz? Are you eager to taste the kiss of Tom’s whip again?”
Mead caught Keiron’s gaze. The two brothers spoke of hanging and death without flinching. Suddenly, the tightness of his collar choked him. The heavy wool of his cloak was too warm and the room suffocating, despite the chilly breeze that swept through the open window.
“Do not mock me, Keiron. Widow Berridale and Whit’s family will have a home at Lilienfields, if they are not too proud to accept charity from me, a Fayerfield.”
Mead noted the glint smoldering within Jantz’s eyes when he spoke, his voice low. The square set of his broad shoulders, his straight back stiff, the angled jut of his chin, and the quiver of energy that radiated from him, portrayed anything but humility or lessons learned. Ah, Fayerfield pride! Mead’s gaze flickered from brother to brother.
“Yes, Lilienfields. You certainly displeased Martin with that choice. As for Widow Berridale, Martin would love to accuse you of harboring fugitives, although nearly all El Nath’s folk gladly follow you. That’s what Martin fears.”
“Keiron―”
“Let me finish. We can talk freely in front of Worthington. He will learn soon enough of what we speak, if he doesn’t already know or guess.”
“Do not mind me. My lips are sealed,” Mead said, eager to hear more, yet none too sure if he wanted to find himself in the middle of a dispute between the three brothers.
Jantz shook his head. “No wonder Martin believes you are mad!” he said.
Keiron laughed. “I may be mad but you are a lunatic!”
Jantz rolled his eyes, snorted. “Ha!”
Keiron continued. “Consider the friendship you share with Doriano. Do you know what our ambitious brother whispers? That you rub against the family grain, that you defy your blood and Fayerfield heritage, that you are too compassionate for a true son of James Breen.”
“Father knows me better than that.”
“Of all the Fayerfield holdings you had to choose, why did you pick Lilienfields? Humm?”
Mead sat forward in his chair. No one spoken with such reckless abandon as Keiron spoke. Despite everything he had heard concerning Keiron’s notorious reputation, he liked the careless young man even when he goaded Jantz.
“Lilienfields?” Mead interrupted when the two brothers fell silent, neither one speaking but continuing to glare at each other.
Keiron chuckled. “Lilienfields, the enchanted valley where wild lilies dwell and neither toil or spin. Jantz fancies himself harvesting lilies! Isn’t that what you told Martin, Jantz?”
“Something like that,” Jantz grumbled, displaying the discomfort Mead noticed whenever the conversation focused upon him personally or his actions, especially actions that defied Martin’s authority.
“But did you want Lilienfields for its fertile richness or because of some folktale you chanced to learn from the Brethren or Doriano? You do know that since the days of Aubourne Nerra no Fayerfield has ever set foot within that valley, much less staked a claim.”
“I have walked there many times and no harm has befallen me. Why should the land hold any threat to me, much less any fear?”
“Why should it indeed,” Keiron said. “You hold enough fear of your own, little brother. I have seen the uncertainty in Martin’s eyes. Take care and watch your back.”
“Keiron—”
Keiron waved aside Jantz’s protest. “Maybe, Worthington would enjoy hearing why Martin fears you? How you walk fearlessly in the Abeytu? How you come and go your senses intact? I have seen no swift arrows aimed at you. Why do you think that is? Wouldn’t you like to know the answer to that riddle, Worthington?”
“Indeed, I would,” Mead said. The small amount of ale he had swallowed pooled its warmth in his stomach. A few more sips and he would not be able to sit upright in his chair much less stand or follow the twists and turns of the argument unfolding between the two brothers. Both Jantz and Keiron had drained their ale tankards. His tankard was still half full, but even the small amount he had swallowed had not dulled curiosity’s keen edge.
When Jantz glanced at him, Mead lifted his ale tankard and offered a smile that felt lopsided and fuzzy around the edges of his mouth, the effects of too much ale consumption too early in the day.
“Martin’s apprehension has nothing to do with my visiting the Abeytu or Doriano’s friendship,” Jantz said.
“Maybe, it’s the way you look? Of course, gold hair and azure eyes are not common to Fayerfield bloodlines and you cannot entirely claim your mother’s Tecardian fairness. What have you discovered in those accursed woods? I am curious to know what mysteries you have gleaned, little brother.”
“This is ridiculous! I came to fetch you home, not undergo an investigation into my character, much less my appearance. Like Etta, you babble to hear yourself talk and delay going home to face Father.”
“Maybe so, but I know what I see. Whatever secrets you have harvested be wary that Martin does not ride to Lilienfields some dark, wild night and tumble you from your bed.”
Keiron laughed and stood. The wooden bed frame creaked, relieved of his weight. “Shall we ride home, the two obedient sons? Fietta needs her rest and so do I.”
Mead drained the last swallow of ale from his tankard and stood. His legs wobbled, but he managed to follow Jantz and Keiron from the room and trot down the stair steps. Neither Keiron nor Jantz displayed any effects from the strong malted brew, but then Jantz was accustomed to drinking the stuff and Keiron ― ah, most likely Keiron was immune to the ale’s intoxication. They drank Barleyman’s ale like water. Mead licked a hint of honey from his lips. A man could become accustomed to the stout brew.
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