The Children Of Gods And Fighting Men 992 AD. Gormflaith, widowed queen of Dublin (and secretly one of the magical race of Fomorians), takes drastic action to secure her ambitions for her son – and herself.

A GRIPPING NEW HISTORICAL FANTASY THAT INTERTWINES IRISH MYTHOLOGY WITH REAL-LIFE HISTORY

The dying firepit suddenly burned hot, and a fire-bolt shot out from the coals to collide with his face

It was cold inside my squalid little house. I closed the door tight and wrapped myself up in my furs – the ones that Gluniairn’s wife hadn’t stolen before I returned from Iona – and held my hand over the kindling sitting in the firepit. A flame ran down my fingers and the kindling burst into flames. I didn’t need to light it for I never felt the cold. Mother told me it was our Fomorian blood that kept us warm. The rain and wind irked me as it did the mortals, but I did not shiver and wilt like them when the winter air blew in. Fire, though, oh, I loved the feeling of flames close to my skin. Smiling, I lay on the bed and lit a candle. I should have been tired, and yet now a fire was dancing beside me, I felt more awake than ever. I watched it move, mesmerised by the shapes made by the flames and smoke, and let half the candle burn before I stood and opened the door. The noise from the great hall had vanished, though the shouts of the men by the firepits now replaced it. I heard Sitric’s voice often. Someone had started a wrestling competition. These were always popular, and from the sounds of it, a great deal of gold was being wagered on the outcome. Tiptoeing out of my front door, I wrapped a scarf over my face and stared at the great hall. The doors were open, and it appeared empty, aside from the outline of Egil still slumped over the table. I weaved my way past the houses built around it, using them to shield me from the eyes of the men by the firepits. When the next fight finished, they erupted into cheers, and I ran from the shadows, up the steps and through the open doors. The fire in the centre of the hall was almost out, and the only light came from the torches attached to the wall. As expected, the room was empty, save for Egil who snored into the wooden table. Deciding it would be best that no one saw me helping him to my house, I closed the doors. I didn’t want another to offer him a bed in their house. That wouldn’t do at all. “Ah, Gormflaith,” a deep voice murmured. “I was wondering if you would show up.” I glanced at the far end of the room to find Gluniairn walking out of the passageway that led to the bedrooms in the back. Damn it. Why was he awake? Had he found out? He ambled over to the throne, and sat, grinning at me all the while. “Were you?” I strolled over to him. “I can’t think why.” He put a finger on my lip. “I am glad you are here, though not for the reason you think.” “Intriguing.” I sat beside him and poured myself a cup of wine. I offered him one, but he declined. A large leg of lamb still lay on the table, and I pointed to it. Gluniairn gave me a small nod, and I picked up the sharp knife beside it to cut a slice of meat away from the bone. “I have a marriage proposal for you,” he said. The succulent cut fell away, and I stabbed it with the tip of the knife then placed it in Gluniairn’s mouth. A line of pink juice dripped from his lips and into his beard. I hadn’t expected this to be the topic of our conversation. He’d asked me to marry him once, many years ago. A drunken mess, he’d forgotten all about it the next day, and I’d had no intention of reminding him. But what to say now? It might suit me to keep him in my pocket until Sitric had more experience. Gluniairn swallowed. “Torna, uncle to the King of Ulaid, has asked if he can marry you. I’ve said yes.” Marriage? To an outsider? I buried my scream. It would be a mistake to give him that reaction. And more likely than not, Gluniairn was toying with me. “Oh, I couldn’t marry Torna of Ulaid. I’d miss Sitric too much.” “Sitric is a man now. He needs a wife. Not a mother.” I grinned as I raised my eyebrows. “So, you have a marriage in mind for my son too? Who is the lucky girl?” “Sigrid, daughter of Vidar.” “Vidar, the fur trader?” Gluniairn nodded. “It is a good match.”

It was a terrible match, so terrible I didn’t know how Gluniairn had kept a straight face when he said it. Vidar was a trader, but a poor one, with one ship to his name and an ageing crew. He knew then. He knew what Sitric had done and wanted me out of the city before he killed him. I cut another slice of meat. I stabbed it once again with the tip of the knife and, this time, placed the meat in my own mouth. Gluniairn smiled as I chewed and swallowed. “What about your needs?” I asked. “I can’t believe you’d give me away so easily?” Gluniairn laughed. “You are pretty, Gormflaith. I have enjoyed you, but I must make more alliances to prevent the King of Munster raiding our lands. I expect Torna to arrive here tomorrow, and the wedding will take place the day after.” His voice had sharpened, enough for me to know he was being serious. Bastard. He wanted to separate me from my boy. Without me here to protect him, Sitric would be dead by the end of the year, and I wouldn’t let that happen. “Tell me,” I said sweetly. “Is this Torna rich?” I cut another chunk of meat and, using the knife, fed it to him. “It won’t do, if he can’t keep me in the luxury I became accustomed to with your father. Poverty doesn’t suit me.” Gluniairn laughed as he took the meat into his mouth and ground it with his teeth. “You amuse me, Gormflaith. That’s why I like you so much. You’re as greedy as me.” I set the knife on the table then swept my lips against his neck. “Oh, I think not. I’m much, much greedier.” His right hand slid along my calf, rising slowly until it reached my thigh. A raucous bout of cheering erupted from outside as his hand brushed the hair between my legs. The men were calling for a fight to start. “Sitric,” they called, their shouts demanding that my son enter the square. I moved my lips from Gluniairn’s neck to his lips, kissing him over and over. His free hand reached to tug my scarf away from my neck and unfasten my pinafore. I pushed it away, placing it on my other leg, while I loosened the scarf for him. He nodded, understanding what I wanted, and watched me until the fabric came free. I clambered over the seat, spreading my legs so I could sit on his lap. His eyes closed as our lips met. Taking a deep breath, I rolled the freed scarf into a ball and silently picked up the meat knife with my right hand. He panted, waiting, anticipating. Eyes still closed. I lunged forward and thrust the blade through his neck. Then I pierced his eye. Then his throat. With my left hand, I held the scarf over his mouth. Stabbing over and over. I pressed my body against his, using the thick wool to dampen the sounds of his screams, until there was nothing but silence. “What have you done?” I spun around. Stumbling towards me was Egil, his sleepy eyes widening as he stared at the bloodied corpse of his uncle. “You fucking bitch.” He staggered toward the doors of the hall, tumbling over his own feet. I held my hand out. The dying firepit suddenly burned hot, and a fire-bolt shot out from the coals to collide with his face. Disorientated, he fell onto his hands and knees. Yanking Gluniairn’s sword from its sheath, I ran, and thrust it into Egil’s side, twisting upward. He thudded to the ground, blood pouring from his wound and mouth. Life seeped away from him before he even understood what had happened. “I’m sorry, Egil,” I whispered, shakily pressing the bloodied meat knife into his hand. “But if you want something, you must take it before somebody else does.” His body slumped forward, relaxing like a sail with no wind. I was glad the knife did not slide from his hand. His father would greet him in Valhalla now, for Amlav had always been fond of Ragnall’s bastard children, and Egil, out of them all, had been his favourite. I stepped back and pressed my hand against my chest. What had I done? The king was dead. So was his half-brother. But I had saved my son. “Dada,” a sleepy voice called out from the bedrooms behind the hall. Quickly, I examined the dead bodies. A fight had broken out between them… Yes… Egil was angry and jealous… Gluniairn, rash and hot-tempered. There was no one else around to say otherwise. And Sitric had been fighting outside for hours. Not even a fool would think of blaming him. Throwing my blood-soaked scarf and pinafore into the fireplace, I watched them catch fire as I fastened my cloak and ran towards the doors. “Dada,” the voice called out again, this time louder. As I slipped outside, another cheer broke out. The men were calling Sitric’s name. My son had won his fight. And now, his life was his own once more. No more knives in the back to worry about. Smiling, I crept down the great hall steps and made my way home. Discover what’s next for Gormflaith in The Children Of Gods And Fighting Men. Ebook and UK hardback out now, US hardback out 1 November.