Viking for Hire
“Branwyn O’Tyre was no fool. Why else would her half-brother — the new Bishop of Exeter — insist on meeting her in such a remote location in the middle of the night? He claimed to be in desperate need of a healing. Why then did he not seek aid at the nearest monastery? By the saints, he could not be more disapproving of her methods. A mere fortnight ago, he’d warned her to cease practicing her craft at once or risk being arrested for witchcraft.
She tucked a stray lock of auburn hair beneath her snood, patted the coiled braid at her nape, and tried not to shiver as she stretched out her hands to the crackling hearth fires of the Silver Swan. The tavern itself was a far cry from its glorious title, consisting of little more than a pile of weatherbeaten timbers hunched between two craggy bluffs on the southernmost point of Devon.
The only other guest in the room was sprawled atop a corner table in the shadows. He was snoring away amidst a rather impressive assortment of empty mugs.
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