Bright Helm Book by Christine Hancock Blog Tour

 

Bright Helm is the fourth book is Christine Hancock's Byrhtnoth Chronicles set in the 10th Century and featuring a real life Anglo Saxon warrior who died at The Battle of Maldon. The Essex born author has been fascinated by The Battle and the famous poem based on it for a number of years and her fascination led to her starting to write about the famous warrior. 

So what's the book all about.....

Separated by anger and unanswered questions, Byrhtnoth and Saewynn are brought together by a tragic death.

Re-united, they set out on an epic voyage to discover the final truth about his father. 

The journey takes them far to the north, to Orkney, swathed in the mists of treachery, and to Dublin’s slave markets where Byrhtnoth faces a fateful decision. 

 How far will he go, to save those he cares for? 

This is an ideal choice for fans of Tim Hodkinson, Theodore Brun and Bernard Cornwall. 

For my stop on The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour I'm delighted to have an extract of the book. 

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 Last summer, I died. I remember it vividly. The exhaustion of a hard-fought battle, the despair as my axe slipped from my hand in the torrential rain. I can still feel the impact of my enemy’s weapon as it struck my helmet, but strangely no pain. I still taste the mud that filled my mouth as my body fell to the ground. I even hear the triumphant shout of victory and the screams as other men died. There is an overwhelming smell of blood, and if I close my eyes, I can see it, my blood, soaking into the sodden soil. And then? Nothing.

I woke up. Time had passed. When I died it was the height of summer; now it is the depths of winter, and I am home, lying in my own bed. How did I get here? They say I survived the battle, how? They have shown me my ruined helmet; how could anyone survive that blow? I raise my hand to my head; the hair is freshly grown, and beneath the stubble is a scar.

What happened in the time between my death and my awakening? They say that someone rescued me. Who? I entered the river which washed me far downstream. People not knowing who I was cared for me. Why? Who were they? Then my wife came with the others and rescued me, brought me back by ship. They thought I would die. I didn’t.

It is so difficult, not knowing what happened. Sometimes a memory floats just out of reach. When I try to catch it, it disappears. Was it even there?

Then there are the dreams: the dream in which I kill my father. I am there and yet I cannot see, blinded by a bright shining light. My hands are around a man’s neck. I know it is my father and that I hate him, hate him more than I have hated anyone. Because he lied to me? My hands tighten. I feel the brush of a beard and the heaving muscles of his neck. I smell his breath, sour and stinking of fish. I hate fish. Fingers tear at mine, but I am stronger. There are voices, shouting, I cannot hear the words. He fights for breath, horrible rasping gasps. I lift him, feet off the ground. He is smaller than me; I thought he would be taller. He kicks feebly and then it ceases. I drop the dead weight and wake, exhausted and sweating.

One night I woke to find my hands about my wife’s neck. Although too weak to cause harm, I have banished her from our bed. I am lonely, but I cannot risk her life. I tell them I can’t remember the dream, if it is a dream. They think it is a memory of the battle. Is it a memory? It can’t be, how could I meet my father? Why would I want to kill him? Is it a prophecy, a warning of what is to come? If I meet my father, am I fated to murder him? Always I have desired to find the truth about him; perhaps it is better not to take that risk.

I resist any talk of what will happen when I recover. I am afraid. What might I do when my strength returns? Perhaps the dream will have faded by then, and everything will be as it used to be.

Or it might get worse. There is another dream, a feeling. It comes at night and sometimes during the day. I cannot see, I cannot move. Something imprisons me, someone, and then he laughs.

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