Articoli correlati a The Chalice and the Blade
Set in twelfth-century Wales, an adventure yarn involving black magic, chivalry, intrigue, and romance features Ceridwen, the daughter of a Druid priestess, whose dormant powers lead her into the path of a fearsome sorcerer.
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L'autore:
Glenna McReynolds has won numerous awards for her writing. She lives with her husband and two children in the Rocky Mountain West. This is her first historical novel.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
Hours later, Dain washed the last of the girl's blood from his hands. A dozen candles blazed on the floor surrounding the pallet and in the torchŚres he'd set at his side for more light. Never had he taken so many stitches in so small a space, both on her face and her shoulder. He'd given her a portion of the sleeping draught before he'd put the needle to her flesh, knowing he was in no mood for screaming and crying.
Now a sound or two, or a tear, would be welcome. She was too quiet, and becoming more intriguing all the time. He'd found a book in the folds of her ragged cloak, bound in red leather and marked on the cover with gold, a rare thing to be carting around the wilderness.
He finished dressing her wound with his concoction of pudre ruge and sealed the whole with albumen. Ragnor had cut her deliberately; the wound followed her hairline too closely for it to have been an accident. With time, the scar would barely be noticeable, but he wouldn't be complimenting the knight on the accuracy of his torture. Damascene steel was required for truly subtle blade work. Compared to what Dain could inflict, Ragnor's neat slice looked like butchery. Mayhaps one day he would give the red beast a personal lesson with his Syrian dagger.
He returned to the foot of the pallet and removed the cold compress from her ankle. The swelling was finally down. He felt carefully along the bone, probing with his fingertips to determine which way the break lay. When he knew as much as he would, he braced himself and, taking her foot in his hands, pulled.
Her pained cry brought the flicker of a smile to his lips. He had never yet killed anyone with henbane, an omission on his list of sins he had hoped not to remedy with the maid.
After splinting and wrapping her ankle, and listening to her cry and sniffle through the whole procedure, he moved to her side. He could do nothing more for her, except wipe her tears.
He leaned across her for a cloth, and the sniffling stopped with a soft inhalation. The contact he'd made was chest to breast, a position already proven to be rare in her life.
Without moving away, he looked to her face and found her eyes open, huge and glazed from the poppy, her irises milky-blue rims of luminosity around the dark abysses of her pupils. Her lashes were long and wet and tipped in gold.
He held her gaze, curious about this woman he had labored over so mightily. To his surprise, she stared at him with equal intensity.
"ChŚrie," he murmured. The Norman term of endearment was not one he used often, but it came easily when looking at his mystery maiden.
He used his palm to smooth the hair back off her brow. She was warm, but not fevered. Her skin was soft, like a child's, but she was no child.
"Are you awake, lady?" he asked.
Awake? Ceridwen thought hazily. How did one awaken into death? And who would choose not to be awake when Death's messenger was so achingly beautiful?
She gazed up at him, taking him in piece by exquisite piece and putting him together into a dreamlike whole. She faintly remembered that she had stolen a green charm cursed with a faerie's death-sleep, stolen it from an ominous, black-cowled demon flanked by spectral hounds.
Or maybe not a demon. His charm had brought her to this new land of death, where her limbs felt heavy, but her thoughts and her heart were too light to hold; where a creature of unsurpassed comeliness beckoned to her with a gentle touch and the sweet, dark melody of his voice.
A sigh swelled in her chest. She would not have expected glittering black eyes from a faerie prince, yet his eyes were darker and brighter than a night full of the moon and stars, an onyx color to match the sleek, flowing length of hair that framed his face, streamed down his chest, and pooled on her breasts in a loose, silky confluence.
Ah, and his face. She lifted her hand and lightly traced the near perfect symmetry of his features. His was the kind of strange beauty no mortal man embodied and no mortal woman could resist. Truly, he was a magical being, for only magic could have created such an artful line from brow to chin--she caressed his cheek and let her fingers trail to the long, masculine curve of his jaw. Or create such a mouth as to make even a maid think of a kiss. Her fingertips brushed his lips.
He smiled, and she felt color suffuse her face. Amazing, that she could blush even in death. Clear as night, his eyes teased her, sparkling with an inner light like the stars sparkling around his head. Never had she seen such stars. The cosmic orbs danced both high and low in flaming shades of yellow, red, and blue, leaving trails of fire in their wakes. The sheer dazzle of him in his heavenly firmament left her breathless with awe.
"Sweet prince of the tylwyth teg," she whispered, thoroughly taken with him. Death had been the choice of wisdom, after all, and not the final act of a coward.
Dain's smile turned wry. Silly chit, to mistake him for something even half so pure and noble as a prince of the faerie folk. Though had he been elfin, he was sure he could have found salvation in the adoration shining in her eyes, for the old stories said elves lived in hope of gaining a human's love.
He had long since abandoned any such aspirations himself, but he knew he engendered lust with ease, and he saw that, too, in her eyes. Poor, untried virgin.
"What's thy name, chŚrie?" he asked in his most mellifluous voice, honey sweetening his words to draw her out.
"Ceridwen," she whispered. "Ceridwen ab Arawn. And yours?"
He hesitated for only a moment. "Dain."
"Dain." She repeated his name on a soulful sigh, and Dain couldn't help himself; he grinned. Vivienne could take lessons from this one.
"Wherever did Ragnor find you, chŚrie?" he asked, absently caressing her from her cheek to her ear and letting his fingers slide into the softness of her hair. He didn't really expect an answer to his question, and he certainly didn't expect the one she gave.
"On the Coit Wroneu." She sighed and turned her face into his hand. "Running for my veriest life."
His gaze narrowed, and his fingers stopped their aimless, sensual wanderings. "From whom?"
"Mine own cousin." Her tone became distressed and angry. She lifted her face to him. "The Thief of Cardiff, Morgan ab Kynan. May God curse his knave's soul for the hypocrisy of his sins." Her voice broke with a sob, and she closed her eyes to hold back a fresh round of tears.
Anyone with a heart or a care would not have bothered her further. Dain had neither, not when she'd spoken Morgan's name. Here was a story too rich to miss, of how a Welsh prince and thief of unsurpassed skill had lost this rare jewel, and even more intriguing, how much he'd be willing to pay to get her back.
"Aye, Morgan's a sinner." He commiserated with her, knowing his words were far from the truth. The only sin he could lay at his friend's door was that he'd never told Dain of his precious cousin, not that their meeting would have been more opportune under different circumstances. Dain had forsaken good opportunity with highborn virgins when he'd put down his sword and taken up more esoteric apparatuses.
"With no heart," she added, the tears running freely down her face.
"Aye, no heart, not a trace," he agreed, then added in an offhand tone, "What do you believe to be his most heartless deed?"
Her lips trembled, so sweetly it took an act of will not to lower his own to still their fluttering. "The deed that would leave me ground to dust between the Boar of Balor's jaws."
"Carado--"
Her eyes flashed open. "Shh," she admonished him, pressing her fingertips to his lips. "Don't speak his name. 'Tis said the sound alone is enough to call him forth."
Dain refrained from laughing aloud, even though he remembered many a morn when yelling at the top of his lungs had not been enough to call Caradoc forth from a night of drink. If the maid believed such was possible, she had heard rumors he had missed.
"Sweet Ceridwen, why would the Lord of Balor want to hurt you?" He couldn't bring himself to call his old friend "Boar."
"No bride of the Boar of Balor will survive her wedding night," she said in a hushed voice, her eyes growing even larger, if that were possible.
Dain felt his lips twitch with the makings of a grin. "Mayhaps 'tis the alliteration they cannot abide, chŚrie."
"Mayhaps," she agreed somberly.
Then it hit him, the significance of what she'd said.
"Morgan takes you to Balor as a bride?"
"Aye."
Ragnor would be dead within the month and Morgan probably soon to follow, Dain thought, after Caradoc stripped the flesh from Ragnor's bones and staked him out in the wilderness to die. One did not abuse the betrothed bride of a powerful lord without penance being paid. One did not lose a bride either--and for certes one did not go around plying rose oil between her legs.
...
Now a sound or two, or a tear, would be welcome. She was too quiet, and becoming more intriguing all the time. He'd found a book in the folds of her ragged cloak, bound in red leather and marked on the cover with gold, a rare thing to be carting around the wilderness.
He finished dressing her wound with his concoction of pudre ruge and sealed the whole with albumen. Ragnor had cut her deliberately; the wound followed her hairline too closely for it to have been an accident. With time, the scar would barely be noticeable, but he wouldn't be complimenting the knight on the accuracy of his torture. Damascene steel was required for truly subtle blade work. Compared to what Dain could inflict, Ragnor's neat slice looked like butchery. Mayhaps one day he would give the red beast a personal lesson with his Syrian dagger.
He returned to the foot of the pallet and removed the cold compress from her ankle. The swelling was finally down. He felt carefully along the bone, probing with his fingertips to determine which way the break lay. When he knew as much as he would, he braced himself and, taking her foot in his hands, pulled.
Her pained cry brought the flicker of a smile to his lips. He had never yet killed anyone with henbane, an omission on his list of sins he had hoped not to remedy with the maid.
After splinting and wrapping her ankle, and listening to her cry and sniffle through the whole procedure, he moved to her side. He could do nothing more for her, except wipe her tears.
He leaned across her for a cloth, and the sniffling stopped with a soft inhalation. The contact he'd made was chest to breast, a position already proven to be rare in her life.
Without moving away, he looked to her face and found her eyes open, huge and glazed from the poppy, her irises milky-blue rims of luminosity around the dark abysses of her pupils. Her lashes were long and wet and tipped in gold.
He held her gaze, curious about this woman he had labored over so mightily. To his surprise, she stared at him with equal intensity.
"ChŚrie," he murmured. The Norman term of endearment was not one he used often, but it came easily when looking at his mystery maiden.
He used his palm to smooth the hair back off her brow. She was warm, but not fevered. Her skin was soft, like a child's, but she was no child.
"Are you awake, lady?" he asked.
Awake? Ceridwen thought hazily. How did one awaken into death? And who would choose not to be awake when Death's messenger was so achingly beautiful?
She gazed up at him, taking him in piece by exquisite piece and putting him together into a dreamlike whole. She faintly remembered that she had stolen a green charm cursed with a faerie's death-sleep, stolen it from an ominous, black-cowled demon flanked by spectral hounds.
Or maybe not a demon. His charm had brought her to this new land of death, where her limbs felt heavy, but her thoughts and her heart were too light to hold; where a creature of unsurpassed comeliness beckoned to her with a gentle touch and the sweet, dark melody of his voice.
A sigh swelled in her chest. She would not have expected glittering black eyes from a faerie prince, yet his eyes were darker and brighter than a night full of the moon and stars, an onyx color to match the sleek, flowing length of hair that framed his face, streamed down his chest, and pooled on her breasts in a loose, silky confluence.
Ah, and his face. She lifted her hand and lightly traced the near perfect symmetry of his features. His was the kind of strange beauty no mortal man embodied and no mortal woman could resist. Truly, he was a magical being, for only magic could have created such an artful line from brow to chin--she caressed his cheek and let her fingers trail to the long, masculine curve of his jaw. Or create such a mouth as to make even a maid think of a kiss. Her fingertips brushed his lips.
He smiled, and she felt color suffuse her face. Amazing, that she could blush even in death. Clear as night, his eyes teased her, sparkling with an inner light like the stars sparkling around his head. Never had she seen such stars. The cosmic orbs danced both high and low in flaming shades of yellow, red, and blue, leaving trails of fire in their wakes. The sheer dazzle of him in his heavenly firmament left her breathless with awe.
"Sweet prince of the tylwyth teg," she whispered, thoroughly taken with him. Death had been the choice of wisdom, after all, and not the final act of a coward.
Dain's smile turned wry. Silly chit, to mistake him for something even half so pure and noble as a prince of the faerie folk. Though had he been elfin, he was sure he could have found salvation in the adoration shining in her eyes, for the old stories said elves lived in hope of gaining a human's love.
He had long since abandoned any such aspirations himself, but he knew he engendered lust with ease, and he saw that, too, in her eyes. Poor, untried virgin.
"What's thy name, chŚrie?" he asked in his most mellifluous voice, honey sweetening his words to draw her out.
"Ceridwen," she whispered. "Ceridwen ab Arawn. And yours?"
He hesitated for only a moment. "Dain."
"Dain." She repeated his name on a soulful sigh, and Dain couldn't help himself; he grinned. Vivienne could take lessons from this one.
"Wherever did Ragnor find you, chŚrie?" he asked, absently caressing her from her cheek to her ear and letting his fingers slide into the softness of her hair. He didn't really expect an answer to his question, and he certainly didn't expect the one she gave.
"On the Coit Wroneu." She sighed and turned her face into his hand. "Running for my veriest life."
His gaze narrowed, and his fingers stopped their aimless, sensual wanderings. "From whom?"
"Mine own cousin." Her tone became distressed and angry. She lifted her face to him. "The Thief of Cardiff, Morgan ab Kynan. May God curse his knave's soul for the hypocrisy of his sins." Her voice broke with a sob, and she closed her eyes to hold back a fresh round of tears.
Anyone with a heart or a care would not have bothered her further. Dain had neither, not when she'd spoken Morgan's name. Here was a story too rich to miss, of how a Welsh prince and thief of unsurpassed skill had lost this rare jewel, and even more intriguing, how much he'd be willing to pay to get her back.
"Aye, Morgan's a sinner." He commiserated with her, knowing his words were far from the truth. The only sin he could lay at his friend's door was that he'd never told Dain of his precious cousin, not that their meeting would have been more opportune under different circumstances. Dain had forsaken good opportunity with highborn virgins when he'd put down his sword and taken up more esoteric apparatuses.
"With no heart," she added, the tears running freely down her face.
"Aye, no heart, not a trace," he agreed, then added in an offhand tone, "What do you believe to be his most heartless deed?"
Her lips trembled, so sweetly it took an act of will not to lower his own to still their fluttering. "The deed that would leave me ground to dust between the Boar of Balor's jaws."
"Carado--"
Her eyes flashed open. "Shh," she admonished him, pressing her fingertips to his lips. "Don't speak his name. 'Tis said the sound alone is enough to call him forth."
Dain refrained from laughing aloud, even though he remembered many a morn when yelling at the top of his lungs had not been enough to call Caradoc forth from a night of drink. If the maid believed such was possible, she had heard rumors he had missed.
"Sweet Ceridwen, why would the Lord of Balor want to hurt you?" He couldn't bring himself to call his old friend "Boar."
"No bride of the Boar of Balor will survive her wedding night," she said in a hushed voice, her eyes growing even larger, if that were possible.
Dain felt his lips twitch with the makings of a grin. "Mayhaps 'tis the alliteration they cannot abide, chŚrie."
"Mayhaps," she agreed somberly.
Then it hit him, the significance of what she'd said.
"Morgan takes you to Balor as a bride?"
"Aye."
Ragnor would be dead within the month and Morgan probably soon to follow, Dain thought, after Caradoc stripped the flesh from Ragnor's bones and staked him out in the wilderness to die. One did not abuse the betrothed bride of a powerful lord without penance being paid. One did not lose a bride either--and for certes one did not go around plying rose oil between her legs.
...
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- EditoreBantam Dell Pub Group
- Data di pubblicazione1997
- ISBN 10 0553103849
- ISBN 13 9780553103847
- RilegaturaCopertina rigida
- Numero di pagine424
- Valutazione libreria
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