Kathryn Le Veque (25 page)

The Lord of Light never used his powers again.
 
It was something that faded into family lore,
told from one generation to the next, until it became a fable and foolishness
that some reckoned. Surely no man, not even a treasured ancestor, had the
ability to shoot lightning bolts from his fingers.
 
Surely it was simply a story to make a great
man seem greater. In any case, it made for a wonderful story that became more
legend than truth.

The legend of the Lord of Light
and his lovely lady fair.

About the Author:

Lord of
Light is a story that took a long time to come to fruition.
 
It was a partial story when first submitted
to an agent about fifteen years ago, but when the agent shot down the general
premise of a knight who had been given a paranormal “gift” from a freak bolt of
lightning, the author put it aside and figured it wasn’t good enough to
finish.
 
When she was reviewing old
manuscripts in more recent times, a few beta readers told her that it WAS good
enough to finish – and here it is!

What was
Alisanne’s affliction? Pure and simple – advanced Pink Eye.
 
There are homeopathic remedies for it, but
back in the High Middle Ages, no one had ever heard of probiotics, which can be
found in fresh and unpasteurized milk – human, goat, or cow.
 
Ovier knew it because the art of healing in
Arabia (and even China) was much more advanced than it was in England, France,
and the like.
 
So a few drops of milk in
her eyes, an herbal soothing paste to help the healing process, and – voila! –
her
eyes cleared up.

And
John Adam/Joseph Ari’s problem?
A cataract that Roane miraculously cleared up
for him with his gift.
It was a miracle, pure and simple.
 
Yes, this novel relies on the belief in
miracles, but who’s to say there aren’t any? The author thinks so. But you
be
the judge.

You can find
all of Kathryn’s novels on Amazon for Kindle and in paperback, and make sure to
check out her website at
www.kathrynleveque
.com
, or follow her on Twitter @
kathrynleveque
, or on Facebook at Kathryn Le Veque, Author.

READ ON for an excerpt
from the forthcoming historical novel
SINFUL FOLK by Ned
Hayes, with cover and internal illustrations by
New York Times
bestselling illustrator and author Nikki McClure.

ENDORSEMENTS:

"
Sinful Folk
is a work of
art. I found the story fascinating, approachable, and powerful. Miriam's
story is a raw and brutal and passionate tale, but
her story touches the reader because it's a timeless story - the
struggles of parents, and of justice for their children. She makes it
all very human regardless of the time period, and it's a wonderful portrayal of
medieval life.
Highly recommended.”

–
      
Kathryn Le
Veque

bestselling
author of
The
Dark Lord
and
The Warrior Poet

 
“A pilgrim tale worthy of
Chaucer, evocative, compelling and peopled with unforgettable characters
artfully delivered by a master storyteller. Be warned: Dress warmly
before beginning this perilous journey across a winter-blasted,
medieval landscape of fire and ice. Your heart will shiver and not
just from the cold.
An excellent novel, 
Sinful Folk.
 
A wonderful book.”

–
      
Brenda Rickman
Vantrease

best-selling
author of
The
Illuminator
and
The Mercy Seller

 
“Brilliant, insightful, unflinching and wise.
Master
storyteller Ned Hayes has created a fascinating tale of a woman who finds her
voice in a brutal world determined to silence her.
Mear’s
quest on behalf of her child will capture your heart. She demands truth after
an unspeakable loss. She wins justice for innocents. Her courageous choices in
the face of evil will offer redemption, even to those dismissed as
Sinful
Folk.
This spellbinding mystery will keep readers turning pages until the
last sentence. Remarkable.”

      
–
    
Ella March Chase,
bestselling author of

      
  
The Virgin Queen’s Daughter
and
Three Maids for a Crown

READ ON FOR A FIVE
CHAPTER EXCERPT FROM

SINFUL FOLK
by Ned Hayes

CHAPTER 1

In the end, I listen to my fear. It keeps me awake, resounding
through
the frantic
beating in my breast. It is there in the dry terror in my throat, in the
pricking of the rats’ nervous feet in the darkness.

Christian has not come home all the night long.

I know, for I have lain in this darkness for hours now with my
eyes stretched wide, yearning for my son’s return.

Each night that he works late, I cannot sleep. I am tormented when
he is not here—I fear that he will never return. I lie awake, plagued by my own
fears of loss and loneliness.

But my fears have never come to pass.

So on this night, I tell myself that the sound I hear is frost
cracking, river ice breaking. I lie to my own heart, as one lies to a
frightened child, one who cannot be saved.

All the while, I know it is a fire. And I know how near it is.

First, I could hear shouts and cries. Then there was the sound of
rapid running, of men hauling buckets of water and ordering children to help.

A house burns.

Yet always I fear to venture forth, for my fright has grown into a
panic that gibbers in the dark.
What if someone started this fire to burn me
out?

What sport would they have, watching a mute moan as she turns on
the spit?

A crackle and hiss in the distance.
A heavy
thud, and then the roar of an inferno.
Where is Christian? I must go,
I—

Scrambling out of the straw, I rush to the door in my
nightclothes. Then I remember poor Nell, who died last spring.
I do not forget her agony.

I blunder in the darkness, fumbling for the fireplace soot. I
smear the smooth edge of my jaw, marking with trembling fingers a hint of beard
on my soft upper lip and my chin.

Always, I must hide my true face.

As my fingers work, I grip hope to me, a small bird quaking in the
nest of my heart. Desperately, I mumble the words of a prayer from my past.

O Alma
Redemptoris
. . .

My sooty ritual is perhaps my own strange paean to womanhood. Like
Theresa of Avignon, that spoiled heiress of the French throne, who shared my
vows at Canterbury, the world will see me only as I intend. It is a type of
vanity: if I cannot be a woman, I will be as ugly a man as I can muster.

And in this ceremony, my dread subsides. My fingers stop
trembling. I think clearly for a moment. Even now, perhaps Christian is one of
those who carry buckets of water to fight the flames. Christian will be fine.
He is strong, vital,
alive
. He is mine, and I am his.

All will be well.
I repeat it in my head like a rosary.
All will be well.

Then there are harsh shouting voices outside, men rushing toward
the burning building. “Trapped!” they shout.

Now I quake with dread, for I am not finished. I should wrap my
bosom
tightly,
bind the feminine shape of my body into
that of a eunuch. But I lunge for the door, my bosom unbound, my heart full of
fear for my son, and fear for my own flesh.

Even as my heart belies me, I pray that this fire is nothing.
Nothing to do with my life, my secrets.

Across the village square, the largest house—the home of Benedict,
the weaver—is consumed by flame. Every piece of wood smokes and bends in the
fire. The roof seems supported not by heavy timbers, but by ropy masses of
blazing smoke.

It is the home where my son is an apprentice.

The smoke chokes and claws at my nostrils and my throat. The roof
catches in a roar of flaming darkness. The crowd churns in turmoil, seek-
ing
to save their village, their children.

Not one of the villagers pays the slightest heed to me.

I am an old man to them, and a broken, mute one at that—wiry as a
starved mule, leathery with long labor. It is rare that any in this village
look beyond the wrinkles and the rat’s nest of chestnut-colored hair to see my
face.

Tonight, I force them to see me. I seize each of their faces with
my gaunt hands, turning them, staring quickly into each pair of wild, fright-
ened
eyes. Here is that
layabout
Liam’s frightened pale face and red beard. He looks for his son too. Across the
way is a boy wrapped in a cloak and hood. My heart lifts—is it Christian?

But when I meet that boy’s eyes, they are black as night. It is
only Cole, the orphan. I see my friend
Salvius
, the
blacksmith. He runs past, throwing water on the flames.

Then I see Tom, who hangs back in the crowd. I clutch at him,
want-
ing
answers, but Tom pushes me away, his
wide-set,
cowish
face full of fear.

I turn. I pull down another man’s hood, and it is bald Benedict,
the weaver who owns this house. He gives me a dark glance and pulls away, to
lift a bucket of water.

I grasp a short man next, small Geoff, the carpenter, with the
squint. “Where’s my boy?” he shouts in my face. “Where is he?”

I turn about again, I seize on every person, look into every face.
I hope for only one boy, I search for his blue eyes.
My son.

Christian
.

Is
this
really all the living folk we have? Frantically, I count on my fingers. All the
women accounted for and most of the men.

Only a few are not here: Jack, whose foot was trampled by a cow,
and Phoebe, who is about to give birth. Benedict’s wife will be with her this
night—Sophia is the closest we have to a midwife now, now that Nell is gone.

That accounts for three.
But where are the older boys?

Desperately, I search each of these villager’s faces again and
again— going over old ground—until they push me away.

Men and women shout their children’s names. “Breton! Matthew!
Stephen! Jonathon!”
The large boy who belongs to Tom.
The son of the carpenter.
Then the second
son of the weaver.
And the eldest son of Liam, the
woodsman.
But there is only one name that echoes in my mind, and no one
shouts it aloud.
My son, my only.

Christian— Christian— Christian—

The house falls half apart, split wide, a timbered carcass
steaming and cracking in the winter frost.
Salvius
is
always brave: he leaps up onto the smoldering threshold and uses a beam to
batter in the smoking door. Then Liam steps into the smoke, wrapping his arms
in a wet cloak.

I push my way through the milling villagers to see Liam and
Salvius
emerge, dragging out a charred body.
Then another, and another.
Five, in the end—all the missing
accounted for.

My tongue forms his name, but I cannot speak a word. Instead, I
give a cry—that meaningless animal groan that is my only language now.

The flames
rise
again, the west wind
gusts strong across the heath, a demon roaring as it takes the building apart.
The crackle is that of hell itself. The men run frantically with buckets of
water to save the neighboring crofts.

The five bodies lie on the ground, black as broken shadows. They
stink now of death.
Burned flesh, scorched wool.
It is
a nauseating stench, yet despite
myself
, my mouth
waters at the smell of flame-roasted meat. I am always so hungry.

A bit of metal glimmers faintly below one charred head. It is a
thin silver chain.
Is that my chain?
My boy’s neck?

I am pierced to the root then, all of my veins bathed in a liquor
of terror.