Trafford Publishing: The Castle

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The Castle

by Brent Maxwell

410 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0315; ISBN 1-55212-913-6; US$31.50, C$36.00, EUR26.00, £18.50

A medieval castle lies in the heart of the mythical land of Scotia. During a bitter winter of war the inhabitants of this fortress must face their worst fears and work together for their survival, or perish.

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About the Book

The mythical Dukedom of Dornoch lies in the heart of the medieval kingdom of Scotia. Behind the walls of an immense castle the Duke of Dornoch and his people are confronted with an early winter, more bitter than any in living memory. At the same time, they are faced with a sudden turn of events that spirals them down into the turmoil of invasion and war with two of their most ancient enemies, England and the dreaded Vikings. Duke Brian must rally his people and protect them and Castle Dornoch, the impregnable fortress that is their succour and their prison during that fearful winter.
When the disappearance of a young prince complicates matters, the castle is rife with rumour and political intrigue. The Duke and his beautiful wife Margaret are at the centre of the maelstrom, their deep love tested by the strains of their country's needs. A story of heroes, villains and ordinary people caught up in the privation of war, The Castle is a suspenseful and sweeping saga of one people's trial and triumph.

About the Author

Brent Maxwell has written for a number of newsletters, newspapers and magazines as well as written a science fiction novel, The Imprint, published electronically. Trafford Publishing has recently released his thriller A Dangerous Garden. He currently resides in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Excerpt

From Chapter One: The Vikings
Brian Scott-Dornoch, Duke of Dornoch, watched the evening sun dip beyond the western cliffs above the still waters of the lake far below him. He stood quietly, contemplating the day's events and the supper ahead. The lookout from which he gazed was the highest point of his home, Dornoch Castle. The far northwestern tower and its top balcony provided a magnificent and far ranging view of Loch Dornoch and the mountains north of the Maxwell Valley. From here he could look in all directions, south towards Maxwelton House and the Maxwell Mountains, east up the valley where the Cairngorm River flowed strong and swift from the eastern highlands, and west towards the setting sun and placid Loch Dornoch. At this time of day, just before darkness, the atmosphere was hushed. Everything was at a standstill, the day's activities only just completed and the night's yet to begin. The Duke of Dornoch relished the stillness of this hour, and religiously found his way to this same spot every night he was in residence at the Castle. Most times he was alone, but occasionally his wife, Margaret, or one of his small boys would accompany him.
The chill was brisk against his face. His short reddish-blonde beard protected most of his cheeks and chin, but the exposed parts flushed from the moistness of the frigid lake air. Tonight it might snow, he thought, winter's arrival was close. The harvest moon had passed and the new moon traditionally was the harbinger of soft white snowfalls. A high cloud filled most of the sky and the thickening cover would most likely turn to moisture by morning. Yes, they would wake to snow, he thought, turning and striding purposefully in the fading light towards the winding stairway and exit. He nodded to the young fair-haired Captain of the guard, Kenneth, who was waiting discreetly for him a few feet down the stairs where he had been maintaining a lookout from an aperture cut in the tower wall. The young man bowed and stepped aside as the Duke gripped his shoulder in an amiable clasp.
"Have a good watch tonight, Kenneth. It will snow before you find your bed. It's good to see you have dressed well." The Duke smiled, his voice strong and even, a true reflection of his character.
"Thank you Lord, and be well." Kenneth Maxwell smiled in return, his admiration and near adoration apparent. The Duke continued on down the bare stone steps that wound their way to the bottom of the tower and exited to the open walkway of the Western Wall. The wide pathway, almost twenty yards side to side led him to another stairway which he descended along the inner face of that same Wall. Darkness had fallen swiftly, but he could see the glow of torches and fires one hundred feet below in the immense inner courtyard that the people of the Castle called The Park. His descent was brief before he entered a doorway and the warmer air of one of the inner hallways. It was only a short distance to another doorway where he halted before entering and surveyed the scene before him.
He stood at the northern entrance to the Great Cougar Hall of the Duchess of Dornoch. The room was cavernous, the beamed roof twenty feet overhead, lost in the dimness of the torchlight that illuminated the hall. The rectangular room measured one hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, all the walls lined with either torches or mirrored candles and oil lamps. Two massive fireplaces roared at the north and south walls, casting a hot, flickering light on everything within twenty feet of either of them. A low wooden table ran half the length of the floor, a wooden bench padded with embroidered pillows surrounding it. Lamps illuminated the table, and seated around it were close to fifty people, conversing gaily and obviously preparing to dine. At one end a slightly higher table formed a tee, and it was to that spot Brian Scott-Dornoch made his way.
As the group seated and standing about the room took notice of him, they either rose or if already standing, bowed reverentially. They fell silent out of respect so that by the time he reached his destination most of the Cougar Hall was hushed, the crackling of the burning fires loud in the stillness. At the head of the table, a young woman rose to greet him, her smile resplendent in the warmth of its welcoming loveliness.
"Your Lordship, at last," she laughed, reaching out to take his large hand in her own tiny palm.
"Margaret, Your Ladyship." Brian smiled, pressing the small hand into his chest. Two young boys crowded close, the smallest, barely three years old, clinging impulsively to his leg and laughing.
"Dada, when can we eat?" the child giggled.
The other lad beside him, eight and the picture of maturity chided his tiny brother, "Conan, be polite and don't grab at Father in front of everyone! We're in the Great Cougar Hall of the Duchess of Dornoch and you're 'dressing the Duke of Dornoch as Dada!"
Margaret and Brian laughed together and smiled down at their sons. "It's all right, Donald, give your brother some room to play yet a while," Margaret remarked mildly in her soft voice. Donald smiled up at her, unable to ever argue or find fault with his beautiful mother.
The Duke of Dornoch turned away from his family and towards his guests, all of whom were standing and awaiting his word. He stood tall and muscular of build before them. A smile was on his comely face, his presence commanding in a simple rich green cloak, with matching tunic and breeches. A plain gold torque clasped his cloak and a thin gold band held his shoulder length blonde hair from his arresting and unusual green eyes. The flickering light of the room caught at the gold of his hair, crown and torque, while casting a fiery glint to the emerald of his eyes. He raised a strong arm and saluted the gathering, his voice ringing in the silence of the Hall.
"Brethren, welcome and be merry. Tonight we celebrate the arrival of my wife's brother, Earl Ian MacLean of Dundee, and his retinue of the Clan MacLean. The family of the Duchess of Dornoch is my family, and I bid them be at home in Castle Dornoch and enjoy the warm fires of our hearths as if their very own!"

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