Swan Maiden

By Sharon Margolis

800 A.D.
Rescued by her half-brother from enforced confinement by Charlemagne in the convent in Verden, Kara is brought to the safe haven of the Harz Mountains, and to the care of Bertagard the Priestess. There she learns that she was marked by the pagan gods at birth to fulfill a prophecy. Her destiny to help her conquered Saxon people lies in the valley blow, on the estate where she grew up, now occupied by the enemy Franks.
Count Gerin the Faithful is the newly appointed count of the region, and hes tasked to enforce the law of Christian conversion. He arrives with the intent to conquer by force until an enchanting earthbound Valkyrie teaches him to love. Kara is coerced to wed the hated Frankish lord. She is torn between loyalty to her people and a growing love for her husband. Together, through compromise, compassion, and increased understanding, they work to bring peace to the war-torn region.

A lavishly detailed historical epic with well-drawn characters, Margoliss novel contains an enjoyable balance of action and romance.
Kirkus Review
[Margolis] offers a lively writing style rich with dialogue and descriptive narrative.
Blueink Review
Margoliss two nuanced protagonists hold fast to their beliefs in this historically accurate, thought provoking romance.
Clarion Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477233412

Sharon Margolis

Sharon Margolis is a born intuitive, empath, and light-worker, interpreting and channeling metaphysical energy. Much of her psychic training was done at The Learning Light Foundation, which is the premier metaphysical center in Orange County, California. Also, Buddhism has played a major part in showing her how to use the universal force in her daily life, and helped her to understand her place in creation. She took part as well In a Shamanic drum circle for six years, and was a professional trance channel and medium, working in a spiritual center called Visions and Dreams. Currently, Ms. Margolis belongs to a group of healing drummers, and practices medium work and psychometry in a spirit circle at the Learning Light. Her over forty years of learning and experience in the field of metaphysics is expressed in this book.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Saxony, 794 AD

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The lingering toll of the bronze hand-bell rose and faded as the nun passed the dormitory door. Kara stirred at the call to matins prayer. She opened her eyes to the gloomy chamber, her sight soon growing accustomed to the light of the solitary candle. An acrid smell, emanating from the smoking tallow, tickled her nose. With her usual lethargy at being awakened for midnight mass, she sat up on her straw-filled pallet.

The forms of the other fifteen women who shared the room appeared as shadows against flickering amber light while they slipped into their black robes. Golden hairs on her arms stood up, caused by the chill that floated from the peat bogs of the moor through the high, narrow window. Coarse wool brushed her palm as she reached beneath the mat to drag out her threadbare, brown monk’s robe. Languidly, she rose and wrestled the voluminous garment over her head and down, covering the short shift in which she slept.

At thirteen years of age, Kara was far taller than any woman she knew. She was as tall as most men and still growing. No nun’s garment was long enough for her and the robe had been grudgingly procured from the monks at the neighboring abbey. Special considerations were allowed highborn guests of the convent whose families were wealthy and generous enough to become patrons. Unfortunately, those members left of her noble family were unable to help her, financially or otherwise.

Listlessly, she tied the rope with the wooden cross on one end around her waist and pulled up the material into shapeless folds. This successfully hid the ripening curves of her young breasts and slender flanks. Wisdom lay in concealing womanly assets from visiting clergymen. Most of the priests who stayed for a few days to instruct the women were trustworthy, but it required only one devil-spawned Frankish clerk to destroy a maiden’s virtue. Kara swallowed hard against the tears that threatened when she recalled the outcome of one such priest’s lust. Her sister, dainty, soft-natured Rapana, had died miscarrying a monk’s babe when she had been no older than Kara was now.

After straightening the loose wrappings she always wore around her feet, she stepped into her leather sandals. Never did she bare her feet in the presence of others lest they discover her deformity and shun her. The irregularity of Kara’s left foot did not hinder walking, but had been a source of shame since early childhood.

As a result of her sleepy state, she was last to file out of the room onto the stone path leading toward the chapel. The cool dampness of the late August night played on her face, awakening her fully. Kara heard the single-pitched song of a nightingale and turned her head in the direction from which it came. In spite of the illumination of a full moon, she could see no bird in the bush from which the song emanated. She shook her head at the strange occurrence. Nightingales were often heard at this hour during their mating season, but never this late in the summer.

The sweet call of the bird reminded Kara of her half-brother Osbern. He had lived with his peasant mother in the village of her father’s estate. Her own mother had not permitted her husband’s bastard son into the manor house, but her adoring brother would call to her through the window with the nightingale’s song. She would then join him in the fields to play. They had both inherited the frame of their father, Hergar the Giant, except that Kara tended toward long muscled grace while Osbern resembled a burly bear.

Tears flooded her eyes at the thought of never seeing him or her father again. As of her knowledge two years ago, they were the only two members of her family left alive. Both had been in mortal danger for refusing to kneel to King Charles, Frankish ruler of Saxony. After his capture, her father had been imprisoned at Fulda Abbey to the south. Kara, along with her sister Rapana, had been sent to the convent at Verden in the northern marshland. Only Osbern had remained free because he had not lived in the manor and the Franks knew naught of his existence. Her brother had been sixteen at the time, showing the sparse beginnings of a beard. She wondered how he had fared since their separation.

Footsteps on the stones behind her intruded upon Kara’s thoughts. Knowing that she had been the last to leave the dormitory, the identity of the person piqued her curiosity. Slowly, she turned her head to catch a glimpse of a huge, shadowy figure in a monk’s robe. She had not known there was a visiting priest. He drew nearer, as if to speak. Conversation was forbidden while in procession to devotions and she faced forward again in the hope that she had been mistaken. The abbess was already displeased with her for stubborn adherence to Saxon beliefs. Breach of silence might earn her a birching.

Kara. ’Tis Osbern.

His voice was deep and so low it was barely audible, but the thrill of recognition started her heart thumping at a frantic pace. Kara glanced back to confirm that it was truly her brother near enough to touch. He drew back the hood that hid his features in shadow and she pressed her fingers against her lips to suppress the small cry of happy surprise threatening to escape. She reached out to touch his face. The soft, golden beard was thicker now. Quickly, she pulled the hood forward to cover him again. Priests did not have facial hair.

What do you here? ’Tis dangerous for us both, she whispered, facing forward again.

You must leave here this night. Where is Rapana?

Dead.

He responded by placing his hand on her shoulder. When you leave the church, follow the nightingale, he said urgently.

Where shall you be?

There was no answer and she turned to find Osbern gone. Emotions thundered through her and she fought for equilibrium. During the first difficult months of her imprisonment, she had dreamed of returning to her home among the Lower Saxon Hills, in the shadow of the Harz Mountains. Now that her rescue was at hand, Kara realized she had no home. The estate had been confiscated by the Franks upon her father’s capture. And what of Hergar? Had he managed to escape from behind the walls of Fulda?

Her thoughts still in turmoil, she approached the wooden church and passed through the high-arched doorway into the serenity of the sanctuary. She dipped her fingertips into the font, made the sign of the cross and genuflected before following the nuns to a place at the end of a bench.

The soothing subtlety of the Roman chant was one of the beauties of Christian ritual that touched Kara’s Saxon heart. Even in her agitated state, she succumbed to its strangely hypnotic appeal. Although tutored from birth in the religion of her ancestors, the worship of Wotan and his host of gods, she was beckoned by the mercy and gentleness of Christ’s teachings. Unfortunately, many of those who forcibly spread the words of the Bible showed neither mercy nor gentleness. The ways of her heritage would not be replaced through coercion. Charlemagne, as King Charles was called in the north, had decreed that those who refused baptism were subject to the penalty of death. Kara subjected herself to the holy immersion, but stubbornly retained her loyalty to the pantheon of gods she had always relied upon. More than occasional breaches in her pious demeanor were swiftly dealt with by stinging strokes of a birch rod across her back.

Eerie images danced on the wooden walls. Candles flickered and flared, throwing off a mellow light against the forms of the robed devotees. She glanced up at the altar with its cloth of silk, silver candelabra and the most prized possession of the convent, the elaborately covered prayer book that had been copied by scribes at a monastery in Lombardy. Behind the altar stood the Abbess, her white robe oddly luminescent in the dim light.

A sour taste flooded her mouth at the sight of the Frankish woman who, upon Kara’s arrival at the nunnery, had taken cruel satisfaction in chopping off her buttercup hued tresses. This unyielding woman was imbued with all of the hate Kara had learned to identify with the conquerors. They had killed two of her uncles at the Verden Massacre and two brothers had died at the hands of the king’s soldiers during a skirmish five years ago. Kara found it abhorrent to bend her knees to the killers of her family.

Midnight service seemed to drag on even longer than usual in anticipation of her imminent escape. As matins drew to a close with the familiar intonation of the Lord’s Prayer, she realized that her position on the bench meant she would be first to leave the chapel. Therefore, she would lead the procession back to the dormitory, making her escape impossible. Frantically, Kara searched her mind for an excuse to stay behind.

Prayers were ended and the Abbess nodded in signal for the nuns to leave the church. Kara sent a silent prayer for her protection to the goddess Holda before making her way to the niche with the statue of the Virgin. Nimbly, she knelt before it and crossed herself as though preparing to pray. This impromptu devotion was not uncommon among the more pious nuns, but was an oddity for Kara. She peered sideways at her white-robed superior to gauge her reaction. The abbess eyed her pensively, then headed for a rear door. Air gushed from Kara’s lungs in relief.

When the last sister to leave the church turned to wait for Kara, she decided to follow the others at a distance. Someone might become suspicious if she feigned a vigil. None of the nuns would pay particular attention if she fell behind. Friendships had been rare for her during her stay at the convent. The nuns seemed to fear the wrath of the abbess that frequently befell her would extend to her friends. As Kara rose, the nun scurried to catch up with the others.

During the hour she was inside the chapel, a chill mist had settled on the yard. She snuggled inside the heavy robe while stepping onto the stone path to the sleeping quarters. Her hearing was alert for the signal that would bring her to Osbern and freedom.

The sweet notes of the nightingale’s song floated from the direction of the fruit trees near the wall. After glancing in all directions to be certain that she was not observed, Kara stepped off the path and hurried toward the signal. She found her brother waiting beneath low hanging branches. Her arms entwined around his neck, she buried her face in the cowl of his robe and shed tears of joy. For a few short moments they clung to one another before Osbern spoke with urgency.

We must flee. Morning must find us far from here. Quickly now.

Osbern agilely boosted himself into the fork of the tree trunk and balanced his way onto a sturdy branch. He stopped and turned, stretching out his arm to assist Kara. Hurriedly, she gathered the bottom of her full robe and tucked it out of the way into the rope girdle at her waist. Taking his hand, she climbed up behind him. Together they made their way to an outer limb, which swung over the wall separating the convent from the open moor. He latched onto the top of a wooden piling and let himself hang by his arms for an instant before dropping onto the ground. She followed him onto the wall, but hesitated when she saw the intimidating distance she would have to fall. Realizing that her only alternative was to return to the vile prison, Kara shut her eyes, dangled her legs over the palisade and pushed herself free. Her brother’s strong arms seized her with a jolt just before she would have hit the ground.

A horse nickered and she opened her eyes to see three mounted men holding three riderless horses. She realized one of the horses was meant for Rapana. Osbern swung her onto the back of a dun mare then mounted his own horse. Immediately, all the riders took off across the heath.

Kara’s group traveled through the moonlit night at a rapid pace, keeping to the east of the Weser River and away from the king’s road. The open moor with its spattering of slim-trunked trees offered poor protection from the eyes of those who would pursue them. Used to the physical exertion of scrubbing and gardening she had been compelled to do at the convent, Kara easily kept up with the four men who escorted her through the hauntingly desolate land.

Many questions swirled through her mind. Where was she being taken and why? Her family had not contacted her during the two years of her confinement. Why was it suddenly imperative that she be rescued? If she was in danger, then it was a certainty her father’s confiscated land had not been restored to him. There was no opportunity to speak with Osbern while they concentrated on riding across the scrub-dotted moor.

When they slowed to give the winded horses a chance to catch their breaths, Kara maneuvered her mount to ride beside her brother. Her hands atremble with great foreboding, she spoke.

Many seasons have passed since I’ve had news of family. How fares our father?

Osbern’s silence stretched, while only the sounds of horses’ hooves stomping the earth and the twitter and drone of insects could be heard. Finally, his huge, strong hand reached out and covered her long fingers in a comforting gesture.

You must be brave, Buttercup. Father continued to work from the monastery against the Frankish king. A fortnight ago, they caught one of his messengers and he was executed for treason. I feared the wrath of Charlemagne would extend to the rest of our family and you and Rapana would share his fate.

A black cloud of despair settled around Kara, threatening to choke her. Silently, tears spilled onto her cheeks. She tasted the salt as they made their way to the corners of her mouth. Her father had been an indifferent parent, leaving her to the care of his concubines and servants after her mother died of a plague six years ago. Yet, she mourned his loss. His loud and overbearing presence in the manor seemed a source of security throughout her childhood. Now that he was dead, she must exist on the fringes of society. She would be unable to marry within her station, if marry at all. At her age, most parents would consider a betrothal for her, had they not done so already. Although she had escaped from the convent, Kara’s prospects for the future remained bleak.

Tell me of Rapana. Osbern’s voice was subdued.

She passed the broad sleeve of the monk’s robe across her wet face and sniffled to clear away the heaviness of her emotions. Kara was only partially successful. Haltingly, she told of their sister’s unhappy fate and shared her own tribulations at the hands of the enemy. When she was through there was a long silence until her brother spoke.

I am sorry for your distress, but it seemed safer for you hidden among their women than among us rebels or our friends. Fighting is fierce and even those who wish peace are subject to murderous raids at any time. ’Tis a dark hour for Saxony and grows gloomier still.

Where do you take me now? Shall I stay with you? Hope buoyed her words.

We head for the Harz.

Her shoulders stiffened with fright. The smoothly curved domes of the Harz Mountains, rising behind her father’s estate, were known to be haunted.

Surely you jest. Witches and black elves live there, not to mention the norns and wights.

Fear not. They shall not work their spells on you while you are under the protection of one of their own. I bring you to Bertagard the Priestess.

That information did little to calm Kara’s fears. She had a hazy memory of the ancient priestess standing at the sacrificial altar, a hart’s blood dripping from the hag’s hands onto the purity of the white ceremonial gown. A demented light blazed in the wizened woman’s eyes. To Kara’s thinking, her brother had an odd notion of protection.

Is there not refuge for me elsewhere? This arrangement pleases me not.

Bertagard demanded that you be brought to her. I shall not disappoint her lest she weave a spell against me. She guarantees your safekeeping and I trust her pledge.

A shudder passed through her at the thought of living amongst the magical beings of the Harz, but there seemed no recourse. Osbern’s well-being was at stake. Half-heartedly, she acquiesced.

’Tis as you say. We shall not thwart the priestess.

Do not worry, Buttercup. Bertagard may have extraordinary powers, but she uses them only for the good of our people. Put her from your mind now and let us speak of other things.

Contrary to her brother’s suggestion, Kara could think of little besides her impending sojourn among the spirits. Their conversation soon dwindled to silence.

The rebel band rode at an exhausting pace until they reached the cover of a beech forest. They rested for a few hours before continuing toward the Lower Saxon Hills. After fording the Leine River they left the waterway to avoid other travelers.

Five days they traveled before Kara looked up from an open glade and saw the rolling outline of the Harz Mountains. As they drew near their destination, her apprehension was such that only loyalty to Osbern kept her from fleeing back to the convent. Gradually, the surroundings became more familiar to her. She knew they were within a few miles of Thunar’s Hall, the manor in which she was born.

The three men who accompanied Kara and Osbern left them to take another path leading into the hills. She and her brother followed a nearly invisible trail into a thick stand of oaks. Late afternoon sunlight trickled through the leaves, casting gilt spotlights on lacy ferns and white-flowered wood sorrel. A cuckoo’s shrill call reverberated through the forest and dormice skittered off the path, avoiding the horses’ hooves. Slowly, they ascended the mountain into the realm of legendary creatures.

All of Kara’s senses heightened in preparation to confront the fearsome priestess. At any moment, she expected to catch a glimpse of the gray beard and red hat of an enchanted dwarf or a tiny elf in search of mischief. The dark woods gave way to a sunny clearing where a thatch hut, half-hidden behind thickly entwined flowering vines, sat bathing in the sunlight. Olive-gray thrushes hopped among the herbs that grew in the sod roof while a black and red bullfinch flew in sweeping loops overhead. In front of a window that was just a hole in the wall, two red squirrels rested beside a small rust-hued roe deer. To Kara’s surprise, the animals did not stir as she and her brother approached.

Osbern reined in his horse at the edge of the clearing and dismounted. Kara trembled with anxiety as her brother helped her down from her mount. Her strange eyes that changed colors with her moods had turned a deep blue with fear. She was going to meet a Saxon priestess and she was still clothed in the brown robe of a Christian monk. Would the woman take offense?

Steady yourself, Buttercup. The old one shall not harm you. Osbern gently took her hand.

Rustling sounds emanated from the hut’s doorway, which consisted of an animal hide covering an archway in the thatch wall. From behind the tanned skin, a stooped and wizened form appeared, the gnarled limbs jutting from the simple robe she wore. The woman reminded Kara of a twisted old tree, bare of leaves in winter. Yet she sensed a compelling warmth surrounding the grotesquely bent figure. Like a withered apple, the wrinkled face had turned dark from the sun; white, wispy hair flowed like a veil around the small head and down to the frail waist. Mesmerized by the light eyes that seemed to expose her deepest secrets, Kara was not repelled by the milky white membrane that covered one orb while the other glinted blue ice.

Welcome, son of Hergar. You have done well. ’Tis less than a fortnight since you left to do my bidding. Bertagard’s voice was high and hollow, like a wooden flute. She turned to Kara. Do not fear old Bertagard, child. My powers are as your own. You have been brought here to fulfill the prophesy. We shall begin. Come.

The priestess extended her knotty hand and Kara reluctantly placed her fingers into the palm. She was surprised to find the flesh warm and supple, not chill as a witch’s body was reported to be. Confused by the riddles spoken by the wrinkled crone, but no longer afraid, she allowed herself to be led into the forest. She heard Osbern trampling the leaves behind them as he followed.

To Kara’s amazement, hares and squirrels emerged from the foliage to accompany them, occasionally coming close enough for her to touch. Soon a red fox and a prickly hedgehog joined the procession, the predator and prey disregarding their instincts to bask in the presence of a creature who emanated a divine power. Nuthatches and sparrows trilled and cheeped in increasing numbers and volume as the people progressed through the woods.

When they came to a steep incline, the woman halted and drew Kara near the edge of the slope.

Look below, child, and tell me what you see, the priestess commanded.

With curiosity, Kara peered down and was startled to see an estate nestled in the valley. Familiarity tickled at her memory until full recognition flooded her eyes with tears of yearning. Her throat nearly strangled with emotion, she found it difficult to speak.

’Tis Thunar’s Hall, where I was a child. Cruel you are to bring me so near when I can never again dwell within its walls.

Not so, spoke Bertagard. Visions appeared to me that the valley shall come under your protection. You shall be mistress of the manor and blessed with children to settle there for many generations. I have foreseen for you the love of a giant with a smooth face. He speaks in a strange tongue.

The white veil over the hag’s eye took on an opalescent glow and she staggered before clutching Kara’s arm to steady herself. Scorching heat flowed from the crooked fingers.

What foreboding appears to you, holy woman?

Blood. Blood of a loved one stains the rushes on the floor of the great hall. A goddess accompanies the soul on its journey to Hel.

Whose death do you see? Kara was afraid to ask, but could not stop the words from tumbling out.

The light receded from the blind eye and the wrinkled hand dropped from the sleeve of Kara’s robe.

There is no more to see. ’Tis best not to know of death beforehand; sorrow shall come soon enough. Let us return to the hut. You must be tired from your long journey and Osbern has yet a distance to travel.

As they retraced their steps to the clearing, the animals followed, their numbers growing to include a gray-backed badger and two beady-eyed weasels. Bertagard’s attraction for animals fascinated Kara, but her mind was too full of the strange prophesies for her to consider the four-legged escort. The vision of the smooth-faced man who spoke a strange language could be none other than a Frank. Saxon men wore full beards. Was she to join forces with a Frankish usurper and murderer of her people? That could not be. And what of the loved one dead in the great hall? None of her family remained except Osbern. Could the old woman have foreseen her brother’s death?

They entered the clearing and followed the priestess into her hut. Bunches of drying arnica flowers and pink-purple foxglove hung from the ceiling, their scents mingling with the pungent odor of dried herbs stored in skin pouches in a corner. Unfinished wood planks composed a crude table and bench near the gaping hole of the window. Sparrows hopped about on the table, pecking at crumbs, undisturbed by the new arrivals. One corner held a lumpy sleeping pallet and the center of the room displayed a fire ring for cooking and winter heat. Against one wall sat an intricately carved idol with a dish of honey offered at its feet. High-pitched twitters brought Kara’s attention to a brown mouse nesting in the thatch wall.

Do not begrudge the beasties the shelter of your home, child. The gods love them as they do us. Sit by the table, both of you, and I shall prepare a potage of roots and barley bread. Bertagard bent to light a fire to the twigs in the stone ring.

Thank you for your kindness, holy woman. Osbern’s deep voice rang through the cottage.

’Tis you who do me a kindness by bringing Kara to me. She is marked by the gods from birth and the time has come for her training.

What mark do you speak of? Kara was puzzled.

Turning away from her cooking, the priestess knelt before her.

Your foot, of course. You bear the sacred sign of Holy Bertha and the Valkyries, the servants of Wotan who choose the heroes in battle and accompany them to the great halls of Valhol.

As she spoke, the aged woman placed Kara’s left foot before her and removed the sandal. Slowly, she unwrapped the binding that hid the irregularity, which had caused its owner much shame. Kara tried to pull away, but the priestess was persistent. Bertagard unwound the linen to reveal a well-formed foot. Her deft, wrinkled fingers pushed the pink toes apart, exposing a thick skin that spanned the digits, linking them together up to the first joint, much like a water fowl.

You are named for Kara, the swan-footed Valkyrie and cupbearer to Wotan, Bertagard continued in her fluting voice. Like her, you are favored of the gods and possess the powers of the Swan Maiden.

CHAPTER I

Saxony, August, 797 A. D.

The undulating hills were covered with a matting of oak and beech trees, occasionally interrupted by crudely cultivated fields of grain, hemp or flax. As afternoon wore on the summer heat peaked, withering the delicate blossoms of the wild flowers. Dust motes stirred by the breeze rose and settled again onto the king’s coach road, which bore the deep ruts of disrepair.

Gerin the Faithful passed the sleeve of his linen tunic over his face to mop at the sweat seeping down his clean-shaven cheeks toward his collar and into his mustache. Having learned from nearly a decade of military campaigns to disregard the effects of physical discomfort, the movement was more reflexive than an attempt at making himself comfortable. His only concession to the heat was the absence from his thickly muscled frame of the heavy armor he usually wore while traveling through enemy territory. He rode easily in the saddle, the smooth gait of his horse a familiar rhythm. A whining voice brought his attention to the dark haired young woman accompanying him.

How much farther must we ride before reaching this Saxon hovel of yours? My seat is rubbed raw and I’m tired of living in a tent. Guntrada stroked her bottom.

Quit your mewling, woman, or ride to the rear in a baggage wagon. The men shall be glad for the sight of your ripe bosoms. I doubt they’d mind your sour tongue for the chance of a pinch. Mayhap, a day with the serving wenches would remind you from whence you came.

Her full lips formed a pout, but she held her silence. At eighteen years of age, Guntrada’s vivid beauty evident in her dark hair and eyes set off against a fair complexion, drew many a lustful glance.

After two months of bedding the girl, Gerin was growing bored with her pendulous breasts and vulgar sexual appetite. In past days, he had lowered his hungry gaze to the few peasant girls who traveled with his armed force of thirty-five men. He had cast his seed liberally among those flowers and not one of them sparked his interest enough to warrant another tumble. As the newly appointed Count of the region just north of the Harz Mountains, Gerin looked forward to having his pick of the local females. Women seemed attracted to him and he had never needed to resort to force in order to bed a wench. Rape of an enemy’s women was a common practice, but he saw no honor in defiling a female unable to defend herself.

A rider approached from behind Gerin. He recognized the light hair and slim form of Fulrad, his second in command and long time comrade on the battlefield. His loyalty to Gerin was unshakable.

According to our guide Thunar’s Hall lies but a short distance hence, the Viscount reported. We’ve been riding on that estate’s land since shortly past noon.

Let me not hear that heathen name again, Fulrad. The manor is now called Harzbruk and I’ll thank you to remember it.

Gerin was not so annoyed with his friend as he was with the guide who continued to call the estate after the pagan god Thunar. Twenty years ago, King Charles had had the men of the Saxon clans baptized in the Lippe River at Paderborn. Yet, many continued to venerate their ancient gods even when the fines levied for the offense could pauperize them.

Pardon me, Milord. ’Twas but a slip of the tongue. Freiderich has just returned from scouting the woods. He has found something that you would be interested in seeing. Shall you accompany us? I trust ’twill not take overlong.

Although Gerin was eager to reach Harzbruk, he knew his lieutenant would not have disturbed him had the matter not seemed important. Aye. Bring Thibaud forward to lead in our absence and summon Freiderich.

Soon his orders were obeyed. The short, red-haired Seneschal rode at the head of the procession while Gerin and his two companions entered the woods. Leading them, was the brawny young soldier who had stumbled upon the strange sight.

They made their way through the thickly grown forest until entering a sun-drenched clearing ringed by ancient oaks. First to catch Gerin’s attention were the animal heads in different stages of decay that hung from the branches as offerings to pagan deities. Flies swarmed the rotting remains of the heads of a wild boar and a roe deer that had been hanging at least a week. White maggots crawled through the nostrils and pulpy eye sockets. Gerin nearly gagged from the stench of the putrefying flesh. A waist-high stone altar used in sacrifices stood near the center of the clearing, an indentation in its top half filled with fresh blood, the sides dark red turning to brown as the liquid slowly dripped to the bottom and soaked into the ground. The hearth at the center of the clearing smoked with the remains of a fire.

Turning in his saddle for a better view, he caught sight of the animal’s head that had been severed that day. Across the clearing, attached to the swaying branches of an oak tree, hung the staring remains of a horse. He guessed the body had been butchered for a feast. How odd, he thought. Horses were rarely eaten even by Saxons who were known to be barbarians. These animals were worth a fortune and, though there was famine this summer, a meal such as this was unthinkable. He kneed his horse closer to the sacrifice’s remains and saw from its teeth the roan had been young and in fine health, clearly not the property of a common farmer.

Damn the heathens to use such a beautiful beast so vilely! he raged.

The rebellious Saxons were a constant irritation to him, but this soul-damning abomination was too disgusting to be borne. Drawing his broadsword from its scabbard, he hacked viciously at the branches until the remains of the horse fell to the ground. Still furious, he cut free the rotting boar’s head and watched with satisfaction as it hit the ground, flies scattering. A carved wooden statue with a dish of blood at its feet snared his attention. Gerin nudged his mount forward, lifting his sword to deal the idol a splitting blow.

He was caught off guard when a tall figure darted from the shadows of the forest. Bloodstains darkened the front of the runner’s white robe, his features hidden behind a hood. After scooping up the symbol of the pagan god the stranger headed for the safety of the concealing underbrush. Gerin guessed this was a priest. Who else would risk capture or death for the safety of a wooden statue?

He urged his horse after the heathen, but the mount lacked the agility to follow the evading runner. Almost losing his quarry, Gerin called to Freiderich for help. With his horse the soldier cut off the intruder’s escape. Gerin approached them to prevent flight in a second direction and Fulrad moved in to complete the prison.

Curious to see the face hidden behind the hood, Gerin caught the material with the tip of his sword and flipped it back to fall to the heathen’s shoulders. Sunshine-hued tresses formed a silky veil behind a fine-boned profile. The sight of undoubtedly female features and fetching ones at that sent shocks through his senses. Anger and fear flashed from her ice blue eyes above high cheekbones and a strong square chin.

Her willingness to face three armed enemies in order to protect the idol said much for the woman’s courage and determination. A grudging respect for this Saxon emerged amid his contempt for her having taken part in the loathsome ritual.

An eerie feeling traveled along Gerin’s nerves when the prisoner