Lord of Falcon Ridge
English · Paperback
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Zusatztext "Adventure! love! and humor keep readers entertained." - SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL Informationen zum Autor Catherine Coulter is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the FBI Thrillers featuring husband and wife team Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock. She is also the author—with J. T. Ellison—of the Brit in the FBI series. She lives in Sausalito, California. Klappentext A classic Viking novel from the #1 New York Times bestselling author. When Chessa, the princess of Ireland, is kidnapped, Cleve rescues her to hand her over to her rightful groom, William of Normandy. But Chessa refuses to marry anyone but Cleve.Malverne farmstead Vestfold, Norway A.D. 922 CLEVE DREAMED THE dream the first time on the night of his daughter’s third natal day. It was in the middle of the night in the deepest summer, and thus it never darkened to black until it was nearly dawn again. He was sleeping deeply in that soft gray dark of the midnight summer when the dream came. He stood on a high, narrow cliff listening, sniffing the warm, wet air. Below him was a raging waterfall roiling through slick boulders only to narrow with the tightening of the banks before it shot out over a lower cliff, crashing far below beyond where he could see. A light mist fell about him. It was suddenly so cold that he shivered. He pulled his warm woolen cloak closer. All around him were thick stands of trees and bright purple and yellow flowering plants that seemed to grow out of the rocks themselves. Boulders and large stones were scattered among the low, scrubby brush. He followed the snaking path, making his way down through the narrow cut in the foliage. A pony awaited him at the bottom: black as night with a white star on its forehead. It was blowing gently. Cleve knew the pony. Although it was small, it seemed right to him. He realized that just as he knew the pony, he knew this land of crags and misting rain and air so soft and sweet it made him want to weep. There was a single wolfskin on his pony’s back which he knocked askew when he jumped onto its back. A moment later, he was racing across a meadow that was filled with bright flowers, their sweet scent filling the air. The misting rain stopped and the sun came out. It was high overhead, hot and bright. Soon he felt sweat bead on his forehead. The pony turned at the end of the meadow toward another trail that led eastward. He pulled the pony to a stop, turning it away to the opposite direction. He felt sweat stinging his eyes, wet his armpits. No, he didn’t want to go that way, just thinking of it made his belly cramp with fear. No, he wanted to ride away, far away, never to have to see . . . see what? He sat atop the pony’s back shaking his head back and forth. No, never would he go back. But then he knew he would, knew he had no choice, and suddenly, he was there, staring blankly at the huge wooden house with its sod and shingled roof. This was no simple home really, but a fortress. He realized then that he heard nothing, absolutely nothing. There was so much silence, yet men and women were working in the fields, carrying firewood, directing children. A man with huge arms was lifting a sword above his head, testing its weight and balance. There was no laughter, no arguments, just a deathly silence that filled the air itself and he knew that was the way it always was. Then he heard low voices coming from within the huge fortress. He didn’t want to go in there. The voices became louder as the immense wooden door opened. Through air that was thick with smoke from the fire pit he could see men sharpening their axes, polishing their helmets. He could see women weaving, sewing, and cooking. It all looked so normal, yet he wanted to run from this place, but he couldn’t. Then he saw her standing there, her g...
|Berkley Publishing Group
|No. of pages
|110 mm x 180 mm x 15 mm
Art and Imagination
> Narrative literature
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