Excerpt 1
In which Rohan Haftell, book-boy and pursuer, meets Herala Greenbeck, market-girl, for these are the sweet names they give each other.
Market Girl (Chapter 5 of Two Stones) begins a strong and lasting love story that lasts three books and survives all manner of opposition. And this is only a small part of that chapter, so if you want to read the rest, you can pre-order a copy. You can also become a Friend and draw the scene from the excerpt. Now that would be very exciting!
If you enjoy this, thanks! I loved writing it, and I really wanted Herala to be decisive, independent, brave and to have her own thoughts and opinions, to be a true equal partner to Rohan and not just a necessary wife (which she actually calls herself in one rather strong discussion with Rohan.)
Obviously NOT Rohan and Herala, but a sweet stock image of a red-haired girl and a young man. Now, if this is you, please let me know!
The Leighan markets smelled like muddy river water and the day was sagging. Under a slothful sky, disinclined to rain and full of grey bloat, Rohan sat on the back of the cart as his father haggled with Greenbeck. Rohan took his grandfather’s book from his lambing bag. The sky, pallorous thing that it was, mired into his dull heart so that when he saw the girl, he almost did not.
She was with her father, waiting by his cart. Rohan heard Greenbeck’s voice first, and then his father’s guarded tones as he made his first offer. Rohan heard the familiar lift in his father’s voice, and knew his father would look away, appear disinterested, would mumble and make as if to leave, then sigh when he heard the other man’s offer rise a notch; all so familiar.
Ah, but he’s good at it! Biggest landowner around Leighan, best at the haggle, merciless as a barbarian. Just get done with it so I can get home to bed.
His father and the man stood at the front of the cart, near old Bowman, patient and still in his harness. So Rohan only half heard her voice when she said, “Is that your son, Mr Haftell?”
“I’ll give you two hundred and not a penny more - hmm? What’s that, my dear? My son’s name? Yes . . . Rohan - ” His father grunted, annoyed. “And you know my offer is a good one . . . ”
His name? Who was that his father spoke to? He shoved the book in his bag, turned and saw her.
“Rohan?” she said. “Your father said - ”
A girl? he thought. And one who speaks first?
Her hair was down as he watched her approach; oh the colour of it! Autumn trees with the sunshine fully alight in blessing on them.
“Yes, Rohan,” he blurted. “Rohan Haftell, son of Peregrine, son of - ”
“Herala,” she said, and he decided that it was the most beautiful name ever spoken, a perfect moment right there with him at the centre. “Herala Greenbeck. Is that a book in your bag?”
“Yes,” he whispered, glancing about for his father. “But I don’t know what it’s about. It’s written in a strange script . . . ” His voice, the funny little creature, gambolled on without him like a spring lamb with only days of life and sense inside it . . . “where do you live?”
“A mile out of town on the Brookhall road,” she laughed. “Do you have many books?”
“Oh . . . no, no I don’t . . . my grandfather did, but he’s dead - ” You are a fool, shepherd! “No. Are you married?”
Her laugh caved in his heart. All the structure went out of it at once, a floppy, giggling mess. The world narrowed down to the moment, her laugh spreading over the landscape of his disappointments, illumining the geography of his boyhood journeydreams. This moment! There he was in it. Perfect.
She took the book out of his bag and sat on the ground under the cart. He wished as she moved in the air past him that he could live in her hair, exist only in the richness of its texture, deep in the forest of its warmth.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Come and look at it with me.”