She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?
Excerpt 2
A woman of my own. Someone to return to.
Feeling sorry for yourself, Magnus? Brace up, man! Be a
Viking, as your granddad was. You have your wits and your balls, all working.
The lasses in the stews make no complaint and do not charge so much. You have
land, a strong house, good fellowship, and two hearty godchildren.
“Splendor in Christendom, let me have my own family! A lass
who loves me!”
His voice rang out, startling a lone magpie into taking
flight from a solitary elm in a blur of wings, but the drab and well-worn saint
gave no sign of hearing. Peering into the calm, carved face, Magnus wondered if
the saint was smiling, and then he spotted his own reflection, clear in a
frozen mirror of ice by the shrine.
He scowled, knowing very well what he looked like, and spat
to the left for luck. With his knees creaking, he staggered to his feet and
remounted his eager horse. When he passed this way again he would leave gold,
he vowed, but for now he wished only to slink away. He needed to find the
village before nightfall and speak to the council of old men—it was always old
men—who had sent word to his manor of Norton Mayfield, begging for help, any help,
to track and to defeat a monster.
Lindsay Townsend
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