Sacrifice

Sacrifice THE HEBRAICA TRILOGY BOOK ONE CHRISTINE JORDAN Copyright © 2023 Christine Jordan The right of Christine Jordan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8290-7 Contents Also by Christine Jordan Gloucester Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 You will also enjoy: Acknowledgements Historical Notes Love best-selling fiction? A note from the publisher Glossary Also by Christine Jordan WRITING AS CJ CLAXTON MisPer I dedicate this book to Richard Curtis, my former New York literary agent, who believed in me, my writing, and this book. “It is not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.” Ephesians 6:12 Gloucester Harold’s long, thin shadow, cast by a low pale sun, stretched out before him on the river path. A fear so primal pinned him to the spot as he watched three men on horseback bear down on him at speed. The sound of their hooves slamming into the hard ground seemed to echo the thud of Harold’s heart. After the special mass this morning for the start of Lent, the monks of Llanthony Secunda Priory had retired to their cells to begin fasting and to contemplate their transgressions. As Harold’s worst transgression was to steal the odd apple or crust of bread from the kitchen, he saw no reason to do penance. In all of Harold’s nine years, he had never ventured beyond the stone perimeter walls of the priory alone. Prior Clement kept him close by his side, a protective and watchful eye on his every move, but Prior Clement was not well and had retired with the other monks, leaving Harold to his own devices. So Harold had decided that today was his best chance to explore the outside world. The monks often talked about a place called the Cockayne, a fish weir close by on the River Severn, so he had set off in that direction thinking it might be a good place to start his adventure. Harold walked through the monk’s orchard, the bare branches of the apple trees spreading out like scuttling spider’s legs above him. The ground was carpeted with the pale-yellow flowers of wild primroses and the occasional flash of vibrant purple croci. As he weaved in and out of the spidery branches, his feet sank into the spongy, feathered moss beneath his flimsy leather sandals and the crack of fallen twigs could be heard in the stillness. Beyond the orchard, a thickly wooded forest led down to the riverbank. Once there, he made his way along a worn path until it opened out onto a clearing. It was then he heard the hooves of galloping horses thudding into the cold, frosted earth. The noise grew louder, echoing in and out of the tree trunks. He turned and saw three men riding hard towards him. They were almost upon him when the lead horseman gave a harsh tug on the reins, his horse reared up and stopped short of where Harold stood. ‘You, boy,’ he growled. Harold did not like the sound of his voice. It was deep and full of menace. He wondered what he could possibly have done to make this man angry. Perhaps he had wandered onto his land. Harold’s stomach knotted, telling him something was wrong. He looked into the steely black eyes of the horseman and began to regret leaving the priory without the permission of Prior Clement. ‘Y-yes, s-sire,’ Harold stuttered, his heart thudding in his chest. ‘Your name, boy?’ ‘Harold, sire.’ ‘Harold what?’ ‘Just Harold, sire.’ ‘What do you mean “just Harold”? Surely your parents gave you a name?’ The horsemen dismounted and came at him. Harold found himself surrounded. He took a step backwards but the man behind gave him a shove, making him stumble. ‘I asked you a question, boy.’ ‘I never knew my parents,’ Harold answered, looking around in bewilderment. ‘I was taken in by the monks at the priory as a baby. They just call me Harold.’ The men grinned at him, one of them lolling his tongue, like a wolf apprising his prey. Something in their expression unsettled Harold. His palms grew clammy, and a nervous tic thrummed in his right eye. Their manner told him all was not well, but he was at a loss to know why. ‘Do the monks know where you are?’ Harold didn’t answer. Something told him he should not let them know he had wandered off alone. He wished with all his childish heart he was back in the inviolate sanctuary of Llanthony Secunda Priory. One of the men grabbed hold of him by the hood of