Grace, Lady of Cassio Chapter One.
My
classic medieval novel, Grace, Lady of Cassio, set in the reign of Edward II
has received excellent reviews. I hope you will enjoy this chapter.
Cassio Castle Southeast England.
After the herald announced her beloved twin brother, Fulk, Baron de Valcoln would arrive before supper, dread overwhelmed Grace. Without a second’s hesitation, she had raced up the steep, circular stone stairs to the hundred-foot-high battlement.
Grace stared up at slate-coloured clouds gathered overhead dark as the imaginary one which threatened to suffocate her. She dragged in a deep breath and fingered her coral rosary beads. No need to be frightened, she reassured herself, while she waited for a fanfare of trumpets to announce Fulk’s imminent arrival at the island fortress.
She gazed at their favourite place beneath a
willow tree where she and her twin would share happy days again. Concealed by
branches dipping toward the Cassio River, when they were mischievous children,
they watched boats, with unfurled sails billowing in the wind, beat their way
against the turn of the tide. Gytha, their nurse, scolded them for hiding, when
they escaped from her on hot summer days to splash each other with water from
the ornamental pond in the pleasance. Moreover, she lectured them in autumn, when
they munched on stolen juicy apples and pears in the orchard or plucked
succulent grapes from the vineyard.
Two years ago, when she was fourteen years old,
she cried for weeks because they were parted for the first time after Fulk went
to court to serve as one of the young king’s squires. Since then, she prayed
for his safety every day. This evening, her hands raised, rosary beads dangling
from palms pressed together, she entreated the blessed Virgin Mary, and Saint
Christopher, patron saint of travellers, to safeguard Fulk. The dark clouds
dispersed. White-gold sunlight shone on the surface of the dove-grey river
which rippled and sparkled as though sprinkled with diamonds.
Despite the warm summer sunshine, an unnatural cold which preceded vague
premonitions, enveloped Grace. Slowly, two unsubstantial figures appeared.
First, the shade of her mother’s brother faced her. By his side stood her
father, who died during the battle at Bannockburn. They did not speak, but their
presence reinforced her fear that someone, or something, endangered her twin.
Both apparitions faded away like early morning mist before she could question
them.
Her legs
trembled violently. Grace clutched a parapet for support. “Don’t panic,” she
muttered, breathing deeply to force herself be alert and calm. Perhaps the
danger could be averted. Second sight was a blessing if used to help others, a
curse when foreknowledge was obscure.
During early childhood, Grace assumed everyone
saw ghostly apparitions and possessed second sight. Eight years ago, she discovered
she was mistaken after she told her mother, Yvonne, Countess of Cassio, she had
chatted in the pleasance to Demoiselle Clarice, who drowned in the river on the
previous day.
“Hush, Daughter!” Yvonne had said fiercely. Her
brilliant blue eyes wary, she had scanned the solar where her gently born
demoiselles and ladies worked at the loom or plied their needles, while one of
them played the lute and sang The Cuckoo, a round song, which others
joined in.
Maman had stooped towards her. “Thank the Lord child
because I doubt you were overheard,” she murmured, her mouth close to Grace’s
ear. She straightened, gripped Grace’s wrist as tightly as a manacle with her
right hand. “Come.” At a leisurely pace, as though naught was amiss, Maman led
her to the bedchamber she shared with Papa.
They sat on a padded window seat below a window
fitted with glass so expensive that only the king and his wealthiest magnates
could afford it.
Perched on the edge of the seat, Grace rubbed
her sore wrist while she scrutinised her mother’s costly azure samite gown, the
silk material interwoven with gold thread. While she waited for her to speak,
she observed every detail of her Maman’s fair hair in plaits decorated with
jewels arranged on either side of her beautiful face and admired a gold fillet
studded with sapphires around her head. Until then, she was never fully aware
of her lady mother’s prestige, rank, and wealth. Struck hard by the realisation,
she could not breathe. Alarmed by her mother’s stern face, Grace looked away.
She gasped afraid she would receive a rare punishment for having admitted she spoke
to a shade. Grace took another deep breath and took solace in the fact that the
countess never allowed any child in her care to be beaten with a rod.
Slowly, gently, Maman questioned her and
concluded, “Few people share your -” she hesitated, then continued, “your rare power,
which I believe can work for good. But it is a secret you must never speak
about because most people believe it is evil.”
Since then, whenever Grace heard the first line
of the Cuckoo Song, Summer is icumen in, she remembered those
words.
Now,
waiting for Fulk to arrive, she fully understood how terrified Maman was for
her safety. She shuddered. Even wise women such as Gytha, who never harmed
anyone, could be accused of heresy, and be burned at the stake.
No, surely, I will never be accused of being a
witch, but if I were my judges would hesitate to convict me because my powerful
mother would fight to prevent my life being forfeited. Grace forced her tense muscles to relax. Since birth, Maman
protected her. For certes, Fulk and I are fortunate because she refused to
follow the custom of sending very young sons and daughters away to be bred up
by other noble families. Maman also refused to allow her to be betrothed as
a child to a stranger whom she might dislike when they married. Despite her
fear for her twin, she should thank God for His mercy and pray for Fulk’s
well-being with the fervent hope that danger could be averted.
* * *
With a firmly-closed bedroom door, the reader is able to relish in the details of an emerging love story between two people who agree to an arranged marriage.
To read the next two chapters please visit my website. www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
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