Marie: The Curse of Lanval: Book II
by Rebekah Dodson
Genre- Historical Romance and Fantasy/Sci-Fi
~approx. 25K words
Release Date- February 3, 2017
Blog Tour- February 4- February 10, 2017
You probably won’t like my story. Heck, I’m not sure if I even like it myself. It’s 1154 A.D., and my sister Jules and I are trapped in medieval France. Even worse, I’m about to be crowned king. It can’t be all bad, because I’ve met someone, my lady in red, and this part of my story is all about her. My name is Guillaume, but you can call me Gill, and despite what you hear, this story might be my sister’s fault.
Then, I saw her.
My lady in red.
Just before the archway where Becket had disappeared, the crowd dispersed and revealed a young woman, sitting at a slanted make shift desk that was build into the side of the wall; it more closely resembled an easel. Even the seat of her chair, plain and wooden, was slanted. Both certainly stood out in the room of royal fashion, and didn’t match the brightly painted, squared, simple chairs around the table. Her desk faced the raised dias set behind the table, the one where a throne would normally sit, I thought. Her face was turned away from me, so as we approached, all I could see was the crimson gown she wore, much darker than Becket’s, but somehow more glorious than any of the women in the room. The sleeves were attached with leather thongs, and a white headdress covered every inch of her hair – a wimple, my brain screamed at me, which startled the fuck out of me.
“Hello,” I greeted her in French, stopping and curtsying in front of the lady as we turned towards the arch. What the fuck? I had done a lot of bowing lately. I never bowed. The world was my goddamn oyster. Yet surrounded by relatives of the king and queen, or barons or dukes or some shit, I found myself acting a complete fool. “I am Sir Guillaume, at your service.” I hoped she understood my awkward attempt at old French.
She blinked up at me, and I saw the ragged quill in her left hand paused about the parchment in front of her. The letters she had been scribbling were most decided Latin, I saw. Latin? In the French court?
“Marie,” she said, ducking her head and picking up her quill again.
“Marie,” I repeated back, rolling the name around my tongue. The delicate almost ethereal name didn’t match her face.