How did I start winning Romance Writers of America contests? See below.
Year of our Lord 1276
“By God, drag her down here! Naked if you must! Bread and water from now to eternity if you cannot!” Sir Marcus Blackwell slammed his fist on the well-worn table and the sound echoed back from every direction. Of all the bad luck. Forced into marriage with a foul-mouthed, murderous widow.
He clenched his teeth when the next bout of high-pitched screams and curses exploded from the floor above. Crashes, clanging, and banging followed. Marcus cringed while Lady Ann’s strident screaming rang throughout the stone manor and probably into the courtyard.
“He cannot steal my lands this easily. He shall live just long enough to rue this day. I shall never, ever, turn my people over to a blood-thirsty, gold-grabbing beast. I would rather be cursed to hell. Nay verily, I would rather marry the devil himself than see myself married to him.”
Beast? He’d strangle the minstrel who’d taken his sword’s moniker and baptized him with that odious name. He was a holy crusader and deserving of respect. Crossing himself and counting to ten, he paced the dark hall lit by one weak torch. Shadows danced across dark tapestries, across a great hearth the size of several horses, and over enough tables to feed a small army. Thatch crunched under his boots releasing a perfume of lavender and grasses. He stopped for a respite of blessed silence.
2 Comments