Alaina's Promise Part 22

"Here we go," Jason said. "One...two..."

Sabrina filled her lungs, wondering if it would be the last breath she ever took.

Don't fall off the mountain...don't fall off the mountain...

"Three!"

Torn between two powerful lords, pulled toward one infallible destiny...

The Songbird of Rushen Abbey 2006 Gloria Wiederhold Coming soon in digital and paperback from Samhain Publis.h.i.+ng On the hauntingly beautiful Isle of Mann, legends say that King Alban will cross paths with a maiden gifted in song who will one day be his queen. Alban finds that maiden in Estelle Percy, a young woman known as the "Songbird of Rushen Abbey" and reputedly the descendant of royalty. However, Alban isn't alone in his quest to claim the Songbird. Lord William Percy has set his sights on Estelle, too.

As these two powerful men vie for Estelle's heart, their lives become intertwined in a web of love, desire and deceit in this sweeping, romantic adventure.

Enjoy the following excerpt for The Songbird of Rushen Abbey: It was market day and King Alban was nowhere to be found at Peel Castle. He had notified only one of his whereaboutsSir Roan, his most trusted knight and confidantand thus avoid a desperate search party from venturing out to locate their missing king. Following the dishonor endured in the annulment of his marriage and the recent death of his beloved queen mother, Alban entrenched himself in his chambers occupied by matters of state but occasionally he found time.

Time to steal away and ride quietly in the surrounding wilderness. Time to ponder how often he regretted his position and the myriad duties a.s.sociated with the t.i.tle, King of Ellan Vannin. To ease his soul, he enjoyed walking amongst the peasant folk of the small fis.h.i.+ng village of Peel, wearing an old, tattered travel cloak to avoid being recognized. It was a colorful, bustling place with vendors bartering their wares in harmony with the cries of the black-tipped winged seagulls that soared aloft and the crash of the surf against the stony sh.o.r.e.

How contentedly the folk of Peel Village went about living their simple lives under simple terms. He watched in wonder as they busily prepared the stalls at market, most of them organized in neatly s.p.a.ced rows. Local farmers offered an array of spring crops, consisting primarily of legumes and a variety of herbs. Fishmongers offered their catch of the daypike, herring, eel, crabin addition to an a.s.sortment of fish preserved in salt or pickling. Alban pitied a scrawny youth caught pilfering from one fishmonger. The unfortunate lad was tied to a stake with a neckband of rotting fish, forced to endure the wrathful ravings of the fishmonger's wife and the reek of putrid fish as punishment, fortunate not have had his ears cropped.

There were bright, newly spun woolens and fine linen cloths displayed by the mercer. One of Alban's favorite stalls was the baker who offered a luscious array of crusty breads, pies and biscuits prepared by his family, all apple-cheeked redheads. Those that could not afford to set up a stall simply sold from baskets lined at their feet, or set out blankets displaying their wares. One young la.s.s held up newly whelped pups for sale whilst her brother kept a basketful of kittens from scampering away.

That morning he accounted himself especially fortunate to find a group of traveling peddlers from the Far East bartering exotic silks of vibrant colors, intoxicating perfumes and rare spices. Never had he tasted elixirs so spicy sweet or appetizers so savory. He enjoyed the market place not only for the vendors but also for the lively entertainment it provided. There were troupes of acrobats, minstrels, mimes, sword-swallowers and fire-eaters. An immense brown bear wearing a frilly collar was receiving most of the attention that morning as it balanced a ball upon the tip of its wet nose.

The crier, dressed in colorful garb, paraded amid the bustle of villagers ringing the hand bell as he announced the hour and latest local events of significance in a resonating, clear voice. As Alban listened to his declarations, a gnarled hand grasped him suddenly by the sleeve. Startled, he turned to find an old woman standing before him, her face weathered and heavily lined, her eyes horrible and glazed. One heavy eyelid remained half shut whilst the other glared errantly from beneath the tattered kerchief she wore upon a disheveled ma.s.s of white hair.

Old Fatima, the village witch. He had seen her before, begging and sc.r.a.ping together a wretched existence more from the pity of strangers than any success she might have found in her soothsaying. "Nay woman, I do not wish to have my fortune read," he refused for the hundredth time ere she had uttered a word. He recalled how many times in his youth the old crone had pestered him to allow a reading, always with the greatest urgency. Queen Rosalind would pull her son away from the gypsy, quoting scripture from Exodus with disgust: "Thou shall not suffer a witch to live."

Old Fatima, hunched over and limping, persisted in following Alban throughout the streets of Peel, ignoring his commands to leave him be. Soon he became so fl.u.s.tered with the old woman that he nudged her out of the way with his walking staff. Finally, he confronted her.

"Will you not leave me in peace, woman?" He released a heavy sigh of frustration. He reached in his pocket to produce several coins, which he offered up, hoping to rid of her via payment. Fatima merely shook her head at his ire and the coins.

"King of Vannin..." she began, recognizing him beyond the humble disguise. "Thou art doomed nevermore to know a peaceful slumber after the pa.s.sing of this Yuletide season." The sullen look upon her leathery, lined face and the fearful tone of her voice filled him with trepidation.

"What do you mean?"

"Thou shall suffer for the misdeeds committed by your father against a soul who wanders the earth until truth and justice be rightly served. The past shall be relived, so amends can be made. Once thou sees her face and hears her voice divine, nevermore shall you know peace until death in its mercy close thine eyes. So be it, King of Vannin. Thou can not escape this fate."

Alban laughed, stepping away from the foul woman. "You speak in riddles. I can make no sense of your supposed prophesies."

Fatima broke into an eerie grin revealing the few rotted teeth that remained in her mouth. Alban felt a wave of disgust and sickness rise up in him so that he gagged and turned away. The sweet sounds of the village suddenly became a cacophony of discord, above it all was Fatima laughing lightly.

"Beware, Alban, King of Vannin..." Her voice echoed repeatedly in his mind as he made haste away. "You can not escape this fate."

Suddenly left as the head of the family, Kitty McKenzie must find her inner strength to keep her family together against the odds.

Kitty McKenzie 2006 Anne Whitfield Available now in digital and paperback from Samhain Publis.h.i.+ng Evicted from their resplendent home in the fas.h.i.+onable part of York after her parents' deaths, Kitty must fight the legacy of bankruptcy and homelessness to secure a home for her and her siblings.

Through sheer willpower and determination she grabs opportunities with both hands from working on a clothes and rag stall in the market to creating a teashop for the wealthy. Her road to happiness is fraught with obstacles of hards.h.i.+p and despair, but she refuses to let her dream of a better life for her family die. She soon learns that love and loyalty brings its own reward.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Kitty McKenzie: Kitty walked over to the cooking range and picked up a few of the pots dangling on hooks above it. They'd be useful. On a shelf to the right of the range stood a few items of food. A jar of currants and a small bottle of pickles, plus a marble slab that held a chunk of dreadfully smelling cheese and some shriveled up salty beef. Indeed, it made her sad to see that a woman of Martha's age had very little to show for all those years.

She heard Connie banging about in the other room and went to investigate. In the bedroom, Connie had flipped the bed over on its side and banged on the floorboards underneath.

"What are you doing?"

Connie sat back on her haunches. "She's bound t'ave some money stashed away somewhere."

"Oh, good heavens. I feel like a grave robber. Put that bed down this minute! We are going. I've had enough." She spun on her heel.

Connie followed her out. "I'm tellin' you it's worth lookin' about a bit."

"No."

"La.s.s, you going t'need every bit of it."

Kitty spun to face Connie. "Why are you so sure she has some money hidden away? She was a woman who sold secondhand clothes on a stall all her life! What makes you think she has hordes of money somewhere?"

"Cos it mekks sense, that's why! Iris Nettlesmith has had a stall beside Martha for forty years. She knows Martha has done some good trade over the years, but it never showed that she spent much of it. She never had no family ter spend it on. So, the money must have gone somewhere."

"I doubt it."

Connie put her hand to her head and sighed. "Who knows, mebbe Kingsley's grandfather gave her money? It won't do any harm ter look now, will it?"

"Five more minutes and then we go home and forget all about it." Kitty took off her coat. She went to the other room and began to press on the floorboards. Connie pulled at the bed and then looked for secret compartments in the chest of drawers and the cabinet. After an hour of pus.h.i.+ng and prodding, turning and picking up anything not nailed down, they gave up.

"I told you so," said Kitty through the dust they'd stirred up in the room.

Connie banged her fist on the table. "It's here somewhere, I can feel it."

Kitty chuckled. "Come on, it is almost dark."

She reached for her coat and gloves resting on the back of the sofa. One of the gloves fell to the floor and, bending to pick it up, something caught her eye. The sofa material was a dark olive green, but the fabric on the back looked newer than the rest. The st.i.tching around the entire back part of the sofa was in a different shade.

Intrigued, she knelt and pulled at a loose thread. Swiftly the thread unraveled, the material fell away from the sofa. Kitty glanced up at Connie, who watched fascinated. Lifting the material flap revealed the wooden structure, and, at the bottom, a box nailed onto a small shelf on the base.

"Oh my." Kitty held her breath as she reached in and raised the box's lid. Gently, she lifted out a little velvet bag. Within it came the soft clink of coins rubbing together. Handing the bag to Connie, Kitty stretched in again and kept doing so until the box was empty.

They stood at the table and stared in wonderment at thirty-two bags.

"I...I never expected to find anything," Kitty whispered.

"The jammy old sod." Connie grunted. "She lived like a pauper an' yet had all this."

"Oh, Connie, I cannot take this money. It's not right." The pile of bags made her queasy. She looked nervously over her shoulder at the door, expecting the police to come barging through any minute and arrest her for trespa.s.sing.

Connie gave her a sharp jab with her finger. "Listen, la.s.s, I know you don't feel right about it. But when you think about it, who else is goin' ter have it? She's got no kin."

Speechless, Kitty shook her head.

Connie picked up the first bag, opened it and tipped out the coins onto the table. In a short time, the coins were stacked into small towers. Each bag contained ten gold sovereigns totaling three hundred and twenty.

"Oh, la.s.s," Connie whispered wide-eyed.

Samhain Publis.h.i.+ng, Ltd.

It's all about the story...

Action/Adventure Fantasy Historical Horror Mainstream Mystery/Suspense Non-Fiction Paranormal Red Hots!

Romance Science Fiction Western Young Adult www.samhainpublis.h.i.+ng.com