Power of Surrender

By Joelle

Bridget Hale, after burying her father, realises her life will never be the same again. When her oldest sister, Eleanor does not return from her usual trip to the village, Bridget takes her younger sister, Isabelle and goes in search of her.
On the quest, Bridget finds instead a man badly beaten and in desperate need of aid. Fear for the man’s life and despite the dangers, Bridget decides to pray for protection and risk his rescue. The decision takes her on an adventure that will not only change her life but the lives of those she meets.
Set in Medieval England at the time of King John. This book is a real delight to read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joelle
• Release date: Mar 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310542152

Joelle

My name is Annie though I write under my middle name Joelle. I was born in England and immigrated to Australia before I turned two. My English blood has remained in that I have a love for English history and have read extensively about it. So it is no surprise that I also write putting my characters in a medieval setting.I have been a Christian most of my life and I am happily married to a Pastor so those passions all come together in my writing.I love a happy ending and see my books as light entertainment which I hope also inspires us to smile, especially with each other.

Book preview

Power of Surrender

By Joelle

First published 2014 by

www.zacchaeus.com.au

Power of Surrender

Copyright 2014 Joelle

Cover Image: Diana Hirsch Creative Photography

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, a fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review), no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, communicated or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. All inquiries should be made to Zacchaeus Publishing www.zacchaeus.com.au.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother. My greatest fan.

Scripture

Bless the Lord, O my soul;

And all that is within me,

bless His holy name!

Bless the Lord, O my soul,

And forget not all His benefits:

Who forgives all your

iniquities,

Who heals all your diseases,

Who redeems your life from

destruction,

Who crowns you with

lovingkindness and tender

mercies,

Who satisfies your mouth with

good things,

So that your youth is renewed

like the eagle’s.

Psalm 103: 1-5

Contents

Power of Surrender

Dedication

Scripture

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Author

PROLOGUE

BEVERLY, ENGLAND, 1211

The deed was set, perfectly planned and manoeuvred. Crouching in the thick foliage, he wiped his hand over his face. He would do what he had to. He gritted his teeth and threw his head back. The far faint sound of pounding hooves of a lone rider, made his eyes squeeze tightly shut and his face distort. It must be done, he thought, as he blinked and watched the band of seven hired men edge the road, waiting. Their horses’ movements tainted the tranquil night air, breaking the small comfort of stillness around him. The pounding drew closer, until he knew the moment had arrived.

The rope stretched tight across the road, sending the rider backward. He was unseated and thudded heavily to the ground. The group surrounded, one charging forward rearing his stallion. The moon caught the reflection of metal hung against the stallion’s stalwart chest. It snorted in obedience as its hooves pawed the air then landed with anticipated aim, finding its mark.

Watching from the bushes, he turned his head away sickened; gripping the bag that held the coin for payment of the night’s work. He stood. If only . . . he had asked a thousand times. He removed the pin brooch from his cloak and looked at the crest skilfully etched, his hand closed around it.

Edmund waited until his attackers had left, before daring to move. He lifted his hand to his face and felt the torn flesh. Slowly he lifted his fingers to his lips, sending a piercing whistle through the night air. Pain sliced through him and he fought to remain conscious. Again he whistled.

Lifting his head, he pulled from his cloak the veil his betrothed had given him and wrapped it tightly around his injured face. Laying back he drew in deep heavy gulps of air. He tried to focus, to stay alert and block out the agonizing pain that shot through every portion of his body. Blinking several times he looked up to see his stallion standing quietly beside him. He had not heard its approach. With careful limited movement, Edmund rolled and pushed himself to his knees. Stretching out his hand, he grabbed the reins that hung loosely from his horse. Taking pause, he waited until waves of nausea passed.

Using his stallion as anchorage, he staggered to his feet, leaning heavily against the animal’s flank. He willed himself on. He knew if he could mount, his steed would see him home. Blood continued to flow covering his face and blinding the vision from his left eye. He tilted his head, fixing his sight on his saddle. Lifting his leg, he aimed for the stirrup. A hissing sound escaped through his clenched teeth when he missed. After several moments he attempted again. This time he swung awkwardly into the saddle. Laying forward, and bracing himself, he urged his mount on.

Harbert Galton, Earl of Beverly paced before his two sons, his brow creased, and his lips drawn thin. For a man of his age he counted well, with only greying at his temples and few scars to proclaim the many battles that had set him as the fierce warrior of Beverly. Now those memories were far from his mind as he considered the safety of his eldest son and heir.

Father as I have stated ‘tis long past time for action. I think we should search for him, Kenelm said in earnest, looking to his younger brother for support.

Marcus nodded in agreement. There is nay harm even if we find all well and Edmund sleeping in some inn between here and Rutland castle.

Harbert frowned concerned for his first-born.

I am fancying finding him on his knees singing love sonnets to his beloved betrothed Matilda, Marcus said in an attempt to lighten the heavy mood.

Harbert turned a grim face to his youngest son. I pray ‘tis what you find…go. Then turning to Kenelm he added. You are fit to ride, having only just arrived home?

Kenelm nodded.

Go then, Harbert bid gravely.

Upon their father’s consent, Kenelm and Marcus wasted little time. Leaving the room, they headed for the outer bailey, calling to the groom to ready two horses. Within minutes they were mounted, riding the north road in search of their brother.

Despite their anxiety and keen desire, their pace was slow and tedious as they scanned every section of the dusty worn road, leaving no mark or sign unobserved. They had little light, except the streaks of roadway brightened by the half moon. Pushing on, they were fuelled by the love of their brother and the fierce family fortitude, ingrained by their grandfather and father. It could not be brushed aside lightly and the Galton family wore it proudly, the unity of kinship and tradition.

They moved in the darkness, hopeful and expectant. A rhythm of activity coloured the calm night, with frogs, owls, and beetles filling the air with their own distinctive sounds. It was an eerie nocturnal symphony. Random decaying trees displayed a beautiful blue-green glow. Sometimes, when they were younger, they had used the threads to magically light their way, though little of the night splendour was appreciated as they pressed forward.

There, Marcus pointed spotting his brother’s horse, relief and satisfaction rushed through his body.

As they rode closer they could see something was amiss, and concern quickly replaced their feelings of cheer.

Marcus bounded from his mare, running towards his brother. Help me Kenelm, he yelled as he carefully pulled Edmund into his arms. He gently laid him on the ground, his arm about Edmund’s shoulders, cradling him close. Oh Edmund what have they done to you.

Kenelm catching the reins of Edmund’s steed, crouched beside his brother looking in stunned disbelief. Slowly Marcus lifted his gaze, tears swimming in his eyes as he looked at Kenelm. He shook his head and whispered. He has lost half his face.

Kenelm’s lip curled in anger. Aye. He could not believe his brother was still alive.

CHAPTER 1

HUNT, ENGLAND, 1214

Rolling onto her back, Bridget twitched the piece of straw she held between her teeth, enjoying the feel of the sun. Her skirts were shamefully pulled to her bent knees and her toes curled in the soft, downy grass. Throwing her arm over her eyes, she sighed deeply.

Do you think we should go home? Isabelle asked, as she counted the small white flowers she had gathered. She moved them around her lap studying each one and choosing the most perfect for a posy.

Bridget looked at her younger sister and smiled. Nay there is plenty of time to hear Eleanor’s commands. Besides it takes time to see there is nay mushrooms to pick.

Isabelle giggled.

They are weeds you know, Bridget informed. Turning her head, she looked at the blooms in Isabelle’s lap.

Aye I know . . . but I like them. Lifting the small bunch, Isabelle examined the arrangement then catching a movement she lowered the flowers. Rylan is coming, she warned, watching her sister scramble to sit up and throw her skirts down to her ankles.

Pushing her hair from her face, Bridget tossed the straw from her mouth. They watched as the young man approached.

Afternoon Rylan, Bridget greeted him, smiling. She was aware of the closeness building between them and she was slowly becoming aware of how her feelings were changing. It was not totally un-enjoyable. She knew that had her father not been ailing, she and her older sister Eleanor would have been wed, and knowing her father’s partialities, she was more than grateful it had not occurred.

Afternoon Bridget, Isabelle. He nodded to both. How is your father? he asked as he shifted the sack of corn he carried to the other shoulder attempting to ease the weight.

Worsening. Another winter will see him six foot under I’d say, Bridget said, quoting her sister Eleanor. Standing, she brushed off the back of her skirts then turned and offered a hand to Isabelle.

Sorry to hear that. Mama says you are welcome to sup with us anytime, he offered smiling.

Bridget grinned. ’Tis kind of your mama, Rylan.

Rylan looked away, a red flush staining his cheeks. Well I had best be going before papa takes to me with a strap for being slow-moving.

Bridget watched as he crested then disappeared over the hill. Sighing, she picked up her basket. Come on Belle let’s go home.

Do you like him? Isabelle asked as they walked. She discarded each flower she did not want and watched them land on the dirt path.

Bridget shrugged. I don’t know.

Why does he always go like a raspberry in the face when you are around? Isabelle questioned, frowning at the flowers that were left.

Bridget looked down at her sister and shook her head confused. Like a raspberry?

Aye you know, all red and blotchy?

Bridget laughed then pointed. Look a hare . . . what I would give to have a bow and arrow right now. We would have more to eat than dried bread and watered pottage. She lifted her arms and imitated the draw of a bow. Still, then we would be hung for hunting on the lord’s land.

Isabelle squinted, still looking in the direction Bridget had pointed to. I can see nay hare.

It has gone now.

Isabelle scurried to catch her sister who had continued on. I think you have the eyes of a cat.

Mayhap, Bridget agreed. And mayhap I better have the speed of one, for I fear Eleanor will be chasing me with that large stick she wheels, for coming home empty handed. Though how I am supposed to find mushrooms when there has been nay rain is beyond my understanding.

She never uses it, only threatens, Isabelle said, as their cottage came into view.

Bridget ruffled her sister’s hair. Aye I know. Pushing open the door, she winced at the sound of her sister’s voice.

And where have you two been? Eleanor all but screeched, straightening from beside their father’s bed. The usual odour of herbs and human suffering greeted them.

Bridget’s eyes moved to the still figure of her father. His form was barely distinguishable from the blankets covering him. In the several weeks he had taken ill, he had not moved from his bed. The weight he had carried with slight excess, had fallen pitifully from his now thin frame. She believed the reason for his ailing was due to years of bad living, but kept that opinion to herself.

Isabelle quickly held out the posy she gripped in her hand as a gift. ’Tis for you Eleanor. We thought you would like them.

Eleanor rolled her eyes taking the wilting weeds and sighed with exasperation. Thank you, she said, laying them on the table. Giving Bridget a hard stare she spoke firmly. Belle, go and collect as much wood as you can find but do not go far it will be dark soon.

As the door closed Eleanor let her temper fly. I cannot believe your selfishness Bridget. You know I need help with father, yet you continue to shirk your duties. If you are not lolling about wasting time, you are babbling with the priest. If father is to ever get well, he needs constant care. I cannot see to that and everything else and ‘tis the truth I should not have to. Besides if I am ever to wed, you would have the responsibility wholly, do you understand?

Handing Bridget a ragged frayed cloth she added. ’Tis your turn to wash father. Best you get it done before dark.

Bridget took the cloth and collected the bowl, filling it with water. Sinking to her knees beside her father she wondered how Eleanor thought the way she did. She knew it would do little good to remind Eleanor that she tended their father as frequently as she did. She shared half the chores, except for the trip to the village for their stores and even that was not something she would have refused to do. Eleanor had insisted that only she make the journey, declaring it too dangerous. Bridget sighed as she reached for a drying cloth…

Do you not know Bridget that people should be like ants, the priest said as he bent to pull the weeds from the herb garden. He examined the quality of his latest crop and smiled with satisfaction.

In what way father? she asked handing him a cloth bag for the herbs he had gleaned.

Have you ever watched them scurrying about . . . they never take ease but work steadily and in order. That way they achieve much. Humans start this and that never finishing, or take more time for pleasure than the holy principal of labour.

Bridget watched as he patted his forehead with the sleeve of his cloak then moved onto the next row. Dropping her eyes, she searched for some ants. Does God not like it when we rest then father?

Nay child I think He minds not that we rest, but I fear he minds much when we are idle.

Finishing her father’s care, she gently drew the blanket to his chin wondering why she seemed a constant irritation to her sister. Standing she kissed his forehead and took the bowl outside tossing the water. She held the door open as Isabelle stepped in with a meagre load of small branches and twigs.

You have done well, Bridget praised.

Eleanor held out her hands for the wood. I will be going to the village on the morrow, she said as she placed the wood on the dead hearth. Striking a flint she watched as the flames engulfed the kindling. She waited till they settled then moved the pot closer.

But you do not usually go so early in the week? Bridget questioned, as she ladled a small bowl of the watered pottage, ready to feed their father.

Nay, though we are low on food.

Bridget settled herself and lifted a spoonful. We are nay lower than usual? She frowned as she scraped her father’s chin, most of the food spilling from his mouth.

Eleanor stood abruptly. Why do you have to question all Bridget? Is it not enough I work myself into an early grave as mother, and now you query my every decision?

Nay I do not query but was curious ‘tis all, Bridget explained. She sighed, relieved when her father swallowed a little of the food.

Glad I am of that, Eleanor stated with emphasis. Taking the candle from the shelf above the hearth, she held the wick to the fire then lifting her hand she shielded its flame, placing it in the holder on the table.

You light our last candle? Bridget asked, confused as twilight still bathed the room with sufficient light to eat.

Aye, Eleanor stated as she lifted a mouthful of food to her lips.

Isabelle looked from Eleanor to Bridget silently questioning the tension that built. Bridget shook her head; she did not understand it herself. When she had given her father all he would eat, she stood and scooped a bowl for herself.

Would you like me to tell you a story before you sleep, Bridget offered. Eating she smiled at Isabelle’s eager expression. Bridget scooped the last of her meal into her mouth and cleared the table of the dishes. Wiping her hands on her apron, she looked about making sure all was in order.

When she was satisfied, she lay beside Isabelle on the pallet they shared, ignoring Eleanor’s groan as she began.

Which one will you tell tonight, Isabelle asked as she wriggled into a comfortable position. The one about the rich handsome knight, who saves the villager from starving when she has all but eaten the rats that nip her when she sleeps. Or do you tell the one of the brave knight that saves her from being attacked by a band of filthy men that raid in the dark hours, stealing from the villagers?

Neither, Bridget declared, watching the flame from the candle throw various shades and shapes across the walls. She pillowed her head with her arm and re-settled herself into a more comfortable position. Her mind began to run through the story she had been mentally building through the day. This is one I have not told you yet.

Isabelle smiled, anxious to hear more. Is the knight handsome?

Of course, Bridget said grinning. He must be of a fine appearance Belle. Could you imagine an ugly knight as a hero? Nay, now close your eyes and listen. Once there was a fiercely handsome knight…

The morning was well advanced when Eleanor finally took the basket and headed for town and Bridget had to admit, with a small measure of guilt, she felt somewhat relieved. The mood lightened considerably when Eleanor went to the village, and Bridget looked forward to the limited and brief reprieves.

With cheerfulness, she continued with the list of chores Eleanor had left her and was pleased when she had them almost complete. She laid a hand on her father’s forehead checking all was well but frowned, experiencing a surge of uncertainty when she felt the heat. His face was overly warm and she could now hear an unfamiliar but distinct rattle in his chest with each breath. She sat beside him, and began to pray, in earnest.

It was easy to pray. Father Levi had taught her how to share her thoughts with God, and she was consistent, mostly. The thought that someone, more knowledgeable than herself, could help her with her burdens was a deliverance she could barely describe.

When she had run out of words, Bridget rose and opened the cottage door, looking out towards the village. The sun was low and the hour was later than she had realised. Eleanor should have long since returned.

Pausing hopefully in the doorway, Bridget saw no sign of her, despite fervently willing her sister home. Bridget resumed her place beside her father, laying the back of her hand against his cheek. She grimaced. He was worsening. She tried to feed him some pottage, telling herself that he would soon be well, but her attempt to get him to take any sustenance, or convince herself of his certain path to health, was unsuccessful.

Isabelle entered with an armful of wood and deposited it in the basket by the hearth. She looked surprised. Eleanor is not home yet?

Nay, but I dare say before long she will be marching down the road with orders for us rushing forcefully from her lips.

Isabelle giggled.

As the room began to fill with the shadows of night, Bridget felt panic