Sharon Schulze - The Shielded Heart

is a confirmed bookaholic who loves reading as much as writing. Although she has a degree in civil engineering, she’s always been fascinated by history. Writing about the past gives her a chance to experience days gone by—without also encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing!

A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, teenagers Patrick and Christina, and their miniature daschund, Samantha. She is current president of the Connecticut Chapter of RWA; in her spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.

With much love and a raised glass of Asti

to my fellow Red Flannel Ums—

Chrissy, Mom, Auntie, Mary, Patti, Becky and Ari—

for Ladies’ Weekend, and all the rest of the year, too!

He’d lingered here too long.

Heart pounding hard in his chest, Swen rolled onto his back and stared at the night-shadowed ceiling.

He could not halt the images his traitorous mind painted there.

Past, present…

Future?

He closed his eyes, yet the illusions taunted him.

He lay there, eyes open, as scenes played themselves out before his unwilling gaze. How he hated them, and himself—powerless to bring them to an end, powerless to change the cruel hand of fate.

Had he made yet another life for himself—found a place where he’d gained respect, found friends dearer to him than his own family—only to lose everything he valued once again?

The images faded. Despite the weariness and loss weighting him down, Swen climbed out of bed and began to dress.

The only way to escape this curse was to run farther, faster, never allowing his emotions to catch up.

Eyes burning, he stared into the darkness.

Alone. Running all his life.

Why had he believed he could ever stop?

Welsh Marches, Autumn 1215

Anna accepted her escort’s assistance and climbed atop the chestnut gelding, giving the earnest young man a smile despite her discomfort. It wasn’t his fault she’d come to loathe the fractious beast they’d given her for the journey. ‘Twould have been the same had they mounted her upon the most docile palfrey; over the years she’d agitated many a steed by her mere presence. It made any form of travel, save shank’s mare, a battle of wills.

If only her workshop were nearer the abbey, she could walk when Father Michael summoned her, instead of traveling nearly a day’s ride surrounded by a troop of guards. So much time lost, away from her work—time she could ill afford. Yet the abbot pressed her for more, always more, in his vain attempts to please the abbey’s most eminent patron, King John.

She took a last look from atop her lofty perch. The brilliant sunlight made the gray stones of the Abbey of St. Stephen of Murat gleam with a heavenly aura.

Though she appreciated its beauty, she also knew ’twas just the effect the order sought.

Heaven on earth…with His Eminence, Pope Innocent, as its king.

And Anna de Limoges as the Church’s faithful servant.

Her lips curled into a wry smile as she nudged her horse into motion. She knew better than most just how calculating even Father Michael, the most gentle of men, could be.

He was no different from any other man of God in that respect.

Yet how could she complain, when they allowed her to practice her craft?

Once they’d been on the road for a time, Anna and her mount reached enough of an understanding that she could focus her attention on more important things. Her design of the chasse the abbot had commissioned to hold his latest acquisition—reputedly a splinter of the True Cross—didn’t seem quite right, though she hadn’t yet decided what bothered her about it. She’d created a number of reliquaries in the past few years, but this one…She must make this one different from the others, something unique, special—the perfect frame for so holy an object.

The perfect gift for King John.

If only Father Michael had permitted her to touch it…

She sighed. ’Twas likely just as well she had not. For whether the splinter truly came from Christ’s cross, or was nothing more than a piece of wood, the abbot would have her embellish this chasse with the finest enamelwork.

Mayhap he had good reason to keep the relic from her grasp. It was not for her to decide if the object was worthy of the frame she created for it.

Anna shook off her uneasy thoughts. ’Twas unusual for her to see darkness looming about her, tainting her view of the world. With little more than bits of metal and glass, and the images that filled her mind, she created pictures of color and light. Through her vision stories of God’s love, transformed into art fit to grace any altar.

Her attention focused inward, she relaxed in the saddle and settled down to ponder her creations.

To create the enamels was her purpose in life; for as long as she could remember, her thoughts had centered about her work. She’d been blessed with a gift.

And because of it, she had become a gift to the Church.

The chill of dusk settled over Anna like a blanket, startling her from the dreamlike state she’d fallen into. The rhythmic tread of the horses, the warm sunshine upon her face, had conspired to fill her mind with the scenes she would use to create her unique designs. ’Twas ever thus when she worked. Her mother had said more than once that a team of oxen could tread right over Anna, and she’d scarce take notice of them.

Her mind still muzzy, she clambered out of the saddle on her own and gazed about her. She shook her head and stared at the men of her guard as they set up camp.

The sounds of their banter filled the air, then faded from her notice as a rush of sensation overwhelmed her.

At the sudden tingle at her nape, she turned so quickly her feet tangled in her skirts. She caught her balance and straightened. The tingle intensified to an icy chill.

Upon the hill across the clearing sat a warrior atop a mighty destrier, silhouetted dark and menacing against the last fiery glow of the setting sun. Both man and mount appeared huge. Before she could do more than gasp, he nudged the horse into motion and descended into their camp.

Four of her guards raced toward him as another grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back toward the fire. “Over here, mistress,” he rasped out. He released her, drawing his sword as they joined the others on the far side of the leaping flames.

Anna craned her neck, peering around the fire and the men who surrounded her to catch another glimpse of the warrior. Why had she felt that strange awareness of him, before she’d known he was there?

The chill of it lingered still.

Suddenly the warrior laughed, jolting her, and halting her men in their tracks. “Think you I’m so foolish as to attack you single-handed?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with mirth. He removed his helm and tucked it beneath his arm. “I mean you no harm. I’ve traveled far. I only wish to share your company—and your fire.”

William, the captain of the guard, stepped forward, shoulders back as if to emphasize the bulk of his barrellike chest. “And who might you be?” he demanded, the sword he grasped in his meaty fist held at the ready.

“Swen Siwardson, a Norseman late of Lord Ian ap Dafydd’s household.”

That set up a murmur of comment. “You serve Prince Llywelyn’s Dragon?” William asked.

Who was this Dragon, Anna wondered, to tinge William’s voice with such awe? She’d never seen him treat anyone—not even the abbot, his own master—with any more than grudging politeness.

Evidently viewing her guard as little threat, Siwardson dismounted and led his horse closer. “Aye. I left his keep at Gwal Draig not a week since.”