Dear Reader—
It is true that I acted boldly, brazenly, wantonly…and I confess, I have only myself to blame. I knew what sort of man I was dealing with, knew Gawain Lammergeier was a rogue and a thief. Yet when I schemed to seduce him and reclaim what was rightfully mine, I never imagined I would succumb to the charms of this reckless, golden-haired scoundrel.
Make no mistake, I took what I came for—the sacred relic stolen from my father that can restore the fortunes of my keep. I should have been content then, to return home with my prize. Alas, I let desire rule me. For I have dared to tempt Gawain—to best me, bewitch me and even bed me, in pursuit of my treasure.
—Lady Evangeline of Inverfyre
Genre: FICTION / Romance / Historical / MedievalThis is the second book in a series that has to be read in order: please do not offer for this title before The Rogue has been translated.
York is a muddy burg, and the dirt hides whatever charm it might possess. I suppose it is large enough and prosperous enough for those who choose to inhabit it, but one glimpse of its churning river, filled with mire, and its dingy streets, thick with another manner of mire, and I was repulsed.
I chose the tavern simply because I saw it first. It was no meaner and no cleaner than any of the others that were its neighbors.
The demanded price was exorbitant, but both steed and I would be sheltered from the rain that now drove against the shutters. I grit my teeth and paid, then tended my own horse as they seemed disinclined to offer any service in exchange for my coin.
The meat served to the guests was sinewy, the gravy thin, the bread tough enough to break a tooth. That the stew was the same hue as the muck in the streets did little to encourage a man to clean his bowl. It is oft said that hunger is the best sauce. As I was nigh starved, I ate the swill and called for more ale to rinse the taste of it from my mouth.
Ale, I say, for I know no other word to use. They make a brew in these lands that they ambitiously call ale, but which bears no resemblance to any ale of my acquaintance. By the third cup, the taste of the brew improves considerably, and so it did that night. Even the cold, which was enough to freeze a man’s marrow, began to retreat from my flesh.
It could be no coincidence that she appeared at that very moment, just as I might have taken interest in a comely wench, if only to prove I still lived.
She ducked through the portal and shook back her hood, scattering raindrops to the floor. Every soul glanced up at the gust of wind and rain she admitted, every complaint was silenced afore it was uttered.
She was a beauty, of that there could be no mistake.
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Italian
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Adele Contenti
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