"An interesting, powerful beginning to a compelling new paranormal series about were-creatures."
Reviewed by Mandy Burns
Posted October 15, 2008
Romance Historical | Romance Paranormal
Many centuries ago, a brave warrior and his men slaughtered
the son of a very powerful sorceress during a bloody and
epic battle that resulted in each of them being cursed to
walk the earth for eternity living as both animal and
human. Ivar Graycloak is one of those warriors, living as
an eagle during the day and a man at night, with his hopes
and dreams of becoming a normal man far beyond his reach.
That is until King William grants him land, a title and a
wife for his recent valor giving him hope once again. Alaida, Mistress of Alnwick, understands perfectly that her
land is the spoils of war and her hand in marriage is her
excepted fate, but it does not mean she has to like it.
Especially when a knight on a powerful horse shows up at
her gate stating he's the new Baron of Alnwick. Ivar
already has plans to build a castle on the ancient lands
that hold a mystical secret in its hills, yet Alaida feels
like King William is picking apart what her Grand-pere has
protected for years. Can Alaida safeguard what is hers or
will she lose it all, including her heart. What an interesting and powerful beginning to a compelling
new series! IMMORTAL WARRIOR reminds me of the movie
Lady Hawk but with more intrigue and passion. A
great read!
SUMMARY
Ivar Graycloak is
a brave warrior, a man known for his strength and integrity.
He is also a man with a terrible secret. Long ago he was
part of a Viking crew cursed by an evil sorceress to live
for eternity as were-creatures. An eagle by day and a man by
night, Ivar has lived a solitary existence for over two
centuries. Then the king orders him to marry.
Lady
Alaida is everything a man could want in a
bride-intelligent, spirited, and beautiful--and their
wedding night is a balm to Ivar's lonely spirit. Then a
seer
brings him word of a dark vision, one that makes Ivar vow to
stay away from his lovely wife forever. But now that Ivar
has sampled Alaida's passion, her humor and warmth, he is
enthralled. His traitorous body-his very heart-longs for
that which he can never possess.
Lady Alaida may
surprise him yet, though, for she has a power of her own—a
power that will either destroy everything they hold dear or
ultimately set them free...
ExcerptTHE LEGEND In the early years of the raids upon
Britain, it came about that Håkon IronToe, a high chieftain
of the Norse, heard tales told among his Saxon thralls that
the men of Odinsbrigga, in the Kingdom of Anglia, guarded a
great treasure. Determined to have it, he sent his fiercest
warriors, led by Brand Einarsson, called Thor’s Hammer, to
take the village and bring the gold to him. But the
treasure was protected not only by the swords of men, but
by the sorcery of the witch, Cwen, who conjured warriors
from her own blood and sent her son to lead them.
When Brand saw his men being slaughtered, a great rage
came over him, and he gained the strength of ten
berserkers. He set upon the ghosts, slashing and hewing
until his blade found solid flesh, and he did kill the son
of Cwen.
In the fury of her grief, Cwen used her magic to bind
Brand and those of his men whose hearts still beat, and she
had them carried before the treasure they had come to take,
and she cursed them. She turned them into shadow beasts,
living half as animal, half as man, each taking the form of
his fylgja, the spirit companion whose image he wore on a
chain. When she had done, Cwen took their amulets and
scattered them across the face of the earth, and she drove
the men off into the forest to be hunted.
When word of Brand’s fate reached Håkon, he trembled in
fear and ordered his boats to sail, but a great wave arose
and his ship vanished from the face of the sea. He never
knew of the greater curse that befell his men, for Cwen
also made the warriors immortal, so that their torment
should go on and on. Forever.
After a time, the men of Odinsbrigga lost interest in
their sport, and Brand searched out his men to gather them
together. But those who were beasts set upon those who were
men, and were set upon in turn when the sun fell or rose,
and the vileness of the magic protected them from death but
not from pain. When it grew clear they could not live
together thus, each warrior set off to make his own way.
Before they scattered, Brand swore a vow to every man that
he would hunt Cwen until he found her, and that he would
make her pay for what she had done.
The years passed into centuries, and still Brand
hunted. One by one, his warriors learned to live among men
once more. The first of these was Ivar, son of Thorli,
called Greycloak, who spent his days in the form of an
eagle . . . .
-from the Dyrrekkr Saga of Ari Sturlusson
(E.L. Branson, trans.)
CHAPTER ONE
December 1095
Madness. That’s what it was.
Ivar stood before the keep of Salisbury castle, his
heart thudding as though he were going into battle, and
wondered what had possessed him to come to this place.
In all the long years since Odinsbrigga, he had never
been among so many men. Usually he was called to someplace
isolated-a country chapel, a small manor, a forest glade-
with only a few trusted men present to know who he was or
what he did. On the rare occasions he ventured into a town,
he kept to the edges, where the refuge of the forest was
only steps away. Now, he was here, in the ward of a mighty
castle, with an army camped in the bailey below and an
entire city just beyond the walls. Every bone in his body
screamed that this place was a trap, that he would be
caught here within these walls, that the semblance of a
life he had finally pieced together in the past three
decades would be shattered.
Yes, it was clearly madness, yet he was going to walk
into the tower, because William had ordered him to come and
he wanted to know why. Ivar took a deep breath and climbed
the stairs to the door.
"Sir Ivo de Vassy," he told the guard, using the name
by which he was known to these Normans.
"Solar," the man grunted and pushed the door open.
The sheer crush took Ivar’s breath away: nobles and
knights and servants mingling and calling to one another;
dogs fighting over the bones; a jongleur playing; and over
it all, the smell of sweat and mead and grease and smoke.
The memory of other times and other halls, full of kith and
kin now long dead, hit Ivar in the stomach like a mailed
fist, and he had to suck in air to keep his knees from
buckling. He crossed the hall without glancing to either
side and trotted up the stairs. Entering the solar, he
stopped a few paces from the ruddy, barrel-shaped man
playing at a game of tables and dropped to one knee.
"You are late, de Vassy," said William Rufus, son of
the Conqueror and king of all England. "I bade you appear
before me on Friday."
"It is yet Friday, Your Grace."
"Only just," growled William, rising. He paced a slow
circle around Ivar, his green slippers scuffing on the
stone floor, his gaze burning into the top of Ivar’s
head. "The abbey bells have already rung for Compline."
"Yes, Your Grace. But you are no monk."
The slippers came to a stop at the corner of Ivar’s
vision, and he braced himself for a blow. This game he
played with William was always dangerous and could end
badly at any moment-but not tonight. Instead, a snort of
laughter escaped the king.
"God’s truth, I am not." William thrust a beringed hand
before Ivar to kiss and then grabbed him and hauled him to
his feet with an impatient, "Rise, man. Rise. The rest of
you, out. I wish to speak to my gray knight alone."
The noble lords loitering around the table hesitated,
and Ivar knew each now assessed him to see whether this
unknown upstart would challenge his position. Small chance
of that. A man could provide little challenge to anyone
when he spent his days flapping around after pigeons.
"Out!" bellowed William when his barons failed to move
quickly enough. He jabbed a finger at a young page. "You.
Fill my bowl before you go."
The boy scrambled to comply as the lords filed out. As
the door shut behind the page, William lifted the silvered
mazer and sipped from it as he paced another circle around
Ivar, this time regarding him closely.
"How it is that you change so little from year to year?
You look the same as when you first began serving my
father."
Trapped. Ivar pushed the thought aside as he accepted
the wine William held out. He took a long draught before he
answered. "I am fortunate in that I do not have the weight
of a crown to wrinkle my brow."
"‘Tis a burden most men would carry willingly," said
William.
"Most men are fools, Your Grace."
"Including me?"
Ivar met the king’s belligerence with a smile. "You
were born to the crown, Your Grace. It fits you well, even
if it does weigh heavily."
William preened a moment, then pressed on. "And what
were you born to? My heralds found no record of your birth
in France or England."
"I assure you, I was born, Your Grace." He’d had his
heralds search? He was up to something.
"But where? And who was your father?"
"Will my answer make a difference to how well you think
I serve you, Your Grace?"
"It will not," William roared, laughing. "Thanks to
you, de Mowbray, Tyson, and the rest are in chains, and we
hold the north firmly again. Your aid gave us quick victory
and allowed me to shift my attention to the matter in
Wales. You could be the devil’s own spawn and you would
still have my gratitude."
Ivar dipped his head in acknowledgement and to hide his
smile. Devil’s spawn, indeed. The king had no idea how
close he was to the truth. He gave William what he wanted
to hear. "My father was a riddari-a knight, in our land.
Your lord father changed my name when I first became his
man. He said he wanted those I dealt with to be certain I
was not Saxon. As did I."
"And well you should. They are little more than
animals," said William. He sat back down at the board and
started pushing men idly from point to point. "Tell me how
you managed to bring me de Mowbray’s plans. Every other man
I sent either failed or died."
"Yes, Your Grace. I saw some of them die."
"There are those who claim you killed them yourself."
"Only Montrose."
William’s expression suddenly darkened, "You d-dare to
admit murder to your k-king?"
Ivo ignored the stutter that arose when William was
angry. "Murder in defense of my king. He would have
betrayed you."
Fury hoisted William up off his stool. Spittle flew as
he roared, "Aldaric M-montrose was no t-traitor!"
"No. But he was careless," said Ivar giving no ground
even though William was mere inches from his face. "I did
not do it lightly, Your Grace. He had been taken and was
being . . . questioned. A single arrow saved you
considerable trouble, and saved him from the hands of
William of Eu."
William’s rage cooled as quickly as it had arisen and
he backed off, turning to step the few paces to the hearth.
He stared into the dying flames for a long moment, his jaw
working with some emotion Ivar didn’t care to identify. The
fair Montrose, it was rumored, had been more than friend to
the king. True or not, a confession of sodomy extracted
from the man under torture might have meant the end of
William’s rule-and Eu employed a torturer of some skill.
"I will have Eu’s balls for a n-necklace," William
vowed, so softly that Ivar barely heard him.
"Would you like me to bring them to you, Your Grace?"
A long moment passed before William answered. "No. I
will tend to it myself, and take great d-delight in it."
He drew himself up and turned to face Ivar, every bit
the king once more. "You have served me well once again,
messire, even if not as I intended. What will you ask as
your reward this time?"
Gold. It was what Ivar always asked and always got, in
quantities enough to make his life tolerable and
occasionally pleasant, and it was on the tip of his tongue
to ask for it again. But a shout of bawdy laughter rang up
from the hall below, once more conjuring visions of home
and the company of friends. How long had it been since he
had laughed with other men?
"Land," he said abruptly, and once the thought was
spoken, it took form. He wanted land and a home, even if
only for a while. They would cost him, he knew. Sooner or
later he would be seen changing, or William would demand he
appear at the Curia Regis by daylight, or some other mishap
would find him out. He would have to vanish into the wilds
and start over again, in some other place and time when
memories had faded. But for a while . . . He would trade
his soul for even a month. "An estate."
To his astonishment, William simply nodded. "Then it is
good my father renamed you. The peasants will never guess
you are not one of us."
Ivar’s head throbbed as though he had downed an entire
cask of wine. "What peasants would those be, Your Grace?"
"Those of Alnwick and whatever other estates Gilbert
Tyson held in Northumberland. I had already thought of
settling part of his lands upon you before you came up the
stairs in that gray mantle of yours. Your honesty only
confirms my mind on it. To tell a king the truth even when
you know he will not like it-that is a rare courage,
messire. You shall have Alnwick, and you shall build me a
castle to hold off those bastard Scots."
"Sire, I-" A castle?
"Ah, where is that wit of yours, now?" demanded
William, laughing. He strode across the room, threw the
door wide, and bellowed into the hall below. "Attend me,
all of you. Fetch my sword and a priest. And a scribe. By
the by," he said, turning back to Ivar as the great barons
of England began filing in. "Tyson has a granddaughter, a
pretty red-haired creature, I’m told. You are to seal your
hold on his lands by marrying the girl."
A wife? By the gods, he had not considered the
possibility that William would give him a wife. Ivar’s
nails curled into his palms as he contemplated the pleasure
and the danger inherent in that word, wife. How was he to
keep the truth from a wife, even for a little? This truly
was madness.
But there was no stopping William now as he began
introducing Ivar to the men who would soon be his
peers. "Step forward, Lord Ivo of Alnwick. ‘Tis time for
you to come out of the shadows where you have hidden for so
long."
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