The Braeswood Tapestry

By Robyn Carr

The enemy of your enemy is…your lover?

A peasant farm girl has no place consorting with feuding lords, yet that’s exactly what Jocelyn Cutler sets out to do. Now Jocelyn finds herself trapped between the tyrannical Lord Kerr, and the dangerous rogue, Sir Trent Wescott.

When her younger brother is sentenced to death for rebelling against Lord Kerr, Jocelyn in desperation appeals to his rival, Sir Trent Wescott. Rumors mark Trent a highwayman, a murderer, and—worse for Jocelyn—a heartbreaker. But he’s the only one who can save her brother’s life. The price? The only thing a beautiful peasant girl has to offer—herself.

Unaccustomed to his new role as protector, Trent is shocked to find Jocelyn closer to a dutiful wife than a greedy mistress. But the life they’re building together hangs in the balance when an ancient crime resurrects from the past. Jocelyn and Trent must decide what to forgive, what to fight for, and how far they’re willing to go for the sake of duty, family, and love.

Set in the rolling hillsides of England during the Restoration, BRAESWOOD TAPESTRY is one of Robyn Carr's historical novels.

"Rich in event and period detail...Recommended."
—New York Daily News

"Political intriguing among King Charles's courtiers, battling, land-hungry barons and lusty sexual trading allow for few lulls in this spirited romance."
—Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liza Dawson Associates
• Release date: Apr 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781452469355

Robyn Carr

Robyn Carr is an award-winning, No.1 New York Times bestselling author of more than sixty novels, including highly praised women's fiction such as Four Friends and The View From Alameda Island and the critically acclaimed Virgin River, Thunder Point and Sullivan's Crossing series. Virgin River is now a Netflix Original series. Robyn lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.

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www.robyncarr.com.

Prologue 

London

May 29, 1660

For nearly twenty years, England had been wracked with war; its people were emotionally ragged from religious and political unrest. There proved no method to unseat the Protectorate and restore England’s monarchy. And then Oliver Cromwell passed into a quiet and untroubled death, and simultaneously the country, exhausted by constant strife, lost the energy for war. There was a lethargy among the people and the politics that was a still, quiet bay of hope for exiled Royalists.

The mood for revolution died.

Charles Stuart II first fled from England as the Prince of Wales to keep separate from his father, the king, so that their enemies would not have the advantage of killing the king and heir with one swift blow; he remained in exile after his father’s execution to build armies to reclaim his kingdom. After fifteen years of war, deprivation, and constant travel either to form new alliances or to flee useless ones, Charles was home. And he was king.

It was his thirtieth birthday, and there was barely a resemblance to the young fellow who had gone abroad with great energy and a dream of regaining the kingdom he was born to rule. He returned fully a man and had developed strong political experience and a reputation for wisdom in ruling, even though his chief adviser, Sir Edward Hyde, chided him often for a certain lack of industry. Charles knew he would oft face criticism from this man and perhaps others, for his character was unworried, unhurried, and jovial.

It was his unique gift of tact and diplomacy that had delivered him home. In his declaration to Parliament from Breda, he promised to forgive those who had conspired against either himself or his father should they seek pardon within forty days, with the exception of only a few, who had taken a direct hand in the execution of his father King Charles. Further, the erstwhile conspirators would be allowed to retain the properties they had gained during the Revolution, again with only a few exceptions. And more, a lesson no doubt learned by Charles in his exhaustive travels, no man should be persecuted for his religious preferences, so that peace within the kingdom might finally reach all its peoples.

His tolerance on these issues was remarkable yet welcome to a tired and overburdened people. Whereas the country was torn by war that began when the king and the Parliament could not agree on their respective powers, Charles quietly but boldly pointed out that Parliament would protect the king as the king protects them, since quite obviously one faction of government without the other produced disastrous results. After years of weary fighting, it came to that simple matter.

Through days of celebration, with cannon fire, bonfires, public dining, parades, religious ceremony, speeches, and endless protocol, Charles carried the heavy raiment of state as if they were weightless, and the glitter in his eye, the smile upon his lips, his relaxed mien seemed perpetual. His tall and majestic physique was further complemented by his gracious acceptance of sovereignty and natural good humor. He was the perfect king.

He entered his bedchamber at Whitehall on the night of his thirtieth birthday now finally and divinely ruler of three kingdoms. The noise outside was still deafening and the activity in the streets of London was unceasing. Yet Charles had reached his limit and begged off further ceremony to go to bed. He retired, giving all but one of his courtiers leave to do the same.

In the company of only one young man who could aid him in undressing, he allowed his pleased expression to vanish and his features showed fatigue.

I promised to address the good of these people, Charles said, as much to himself as to his companion. I promised to let an earl keep the manor and lands he acquired in the war, and promised to return the same to a soldier, nobly bred and from a long ancestry of lords, who fought for me in Worcester. Over and over, I have sworn the same pie to two lords, neither of whom will be happy with half the pie.

They are all overjoyed to have you home, Sire, the young man returned, dragging off the heavy robes and storing them with great care.

Charles was not relieved by that obvious truth. When the leases and titles are being doled out, they may not feel such joy. And to the last, all of those who kept loyal in the lean years deserve great reward. This king must pacify the government and leaders who remained in England, yet provide reward for those who fled. It will take a clever man to cut the pie into so many equal pieces. His voice dropped to a low, throaty whisper. And I think they don’t realize how small the pie.

And you are a clever man, Sire, the man replied, although he knew Charles was thinking out loud more than speaking to him. Listen to the noise in the streets. Is that the sound of a discontented city?

The sounds without were not made by the same lords and ladies who would be petitioning for their rewards, but by the commoners whose lives and needs Charles felt were yet more difficult to know. They’d have been pleased with any king willing to forget the savage past and form a tolerant government.

Sire, there was no other who could.

But they think it does not pain me to leave my enemies unpunished. And they think I have forgotten the begging and futility of my years abroad.

Nay, Sire...only they will not encourage your remembrance. I think mayhaps they are as tired as you.

Charles sat wearily on his bed and hefted a foot so that his shoe could be pulled off. While the people rejoiced in his homecoming, he began to feel a certain bitterness and regret. After so many years of fighting, negotiating, moving, and pledging alliances wherever it would aid his goal, he had simply ridden into town to take his crown. As if that destiny had always existed.

I will never forget it, I assure you. And since I can’t change any of it, I will live with it as graciously as I can allow. But damn God’s bones, I shall never see any reason it was all necessary.

Pulling off the second shoe, the young man took a great liberty. But you’ve said, Sire, your trials have made you a better king in the end.

Charles laughed quite suddenly, his natural, cynical wit coming to his aid without fail. "Of a certain, son, but I maintain, I needn’t have been quite so good. He stood, in stocking feet, breeches, and a linen shirt, before the window of his suite and looked down on the city, chuckling. And I’ll be most pleased if I am not forced to be greatly improved."

The young man, having stored the shoes and sovereign articles, smiled at his king. Should you like now to be left alone, Sire?

Charles nodded, looking less like a king and more like a handsome middle-aged merchant when reduced to his simpler clothing. But for one small exception. I had hoped for a special visitor. Will you see if she waits?

The doors closed behind the departing courtier and Charles looked again at his city, mentally promising he would not leave England again. A melancholy question that had touched him during the long day was what his father had been thinking as he crossed the courtyard of his own home to be killed by his own subjects. Knowing how quickly and critically political tides could change, he vowed to be a reasonable king and not necessarily a trusting one.

His father’s demise, his own exile, and this magnificent restoration had brought one concept into glaring boldness: Life was always unpredictable and simply too valuable not to be lived fully, remorselessly, and pleasurably. He would not invite any deprivation or suffering. And he believed that if he had nothing else, he had a strong will to live.

The door to his bedchamber opened and he turned from the window to behold the visitor he had been awaiting. It was foolish, he decided, to fear she wouldn’t come. She, like so many others, was most certainly his loyal subject tonight.

Barbara Palmer, cousin to his best friend, George Villiers, stood just inside the closed chamber doors. Her beauty and wild sensuality caused the bitter lines around his mouth to vanish and he smiled in genuine pleasure. She was a tall and bold beauty with rich auburn hair and ivory skin. Most men would be intimidated by her powerful height and figure, but most men were not kings.

She let her cape fall to the floor so that he might look at more of her, and her eyes glistened with mischief and anticipation.

The celebration was not complete without you, Barbara.

Then let us complete it, Sire. It all belongs to you now.

He opened his arms to her and she went to him instantly. Before they begin to plague me with favors, Barbara, show me some small comfort that I would not have to be king to enjoy. On the morrow I trust the petitions will begin again.

She kissed him passionately, locking her hands into his thick dark hair. Then, Sire, she teased, "I will make one petition this night that you should be pleased to grant.’’

One

Go back to Dearborn, Stephen Kerr directed his men. Two of the three riders who had accompanied him mounted immediately; the third seemed reluctant. He looked with a strained expression toward the young lass Kerr had cornered along the road. Go," Kerr demanded. The man slowly mounted, looked one last time in the direction of the girl, and, clicking his tongue, turned his horse with the others to ride away.

Jocelyn stood rooted to her spot, clutching her basket and watching the young upstart lord.

Bringing your brother food? Kerr asked, a sinister half-smile working around his mouth. How did you propose to help him eat?

Jocelyn flinched. Has he been beaten badly, milord?

It’s the least of what he’ll get. Kerr shrugged. He deserves to hang.

No, she gasped. Oh, milord, have mercy. He’s just a boy, a clumsy boy. He only thought to avenge our father when he was afraid. Please...

Stephen’s thin lips parted to expose his teeth. He loved the sound of begging peasants; he loved their subservience and fear. In due time—not too much longer—he would be lord here and the people would sell their very souls to meet his mood. Gifts and punishments would be his to dole out, not his father’s.

He looked over the maid with greedy eyes. He had traveled through her village a hundred times and had not seen her until the very day her younger brother attacked him. She had likely been hidden from his eyes by a protective family, for she was comely. And if she was typical of the farmers’ daughters there, her chastity was well guarded and she was a virgin. His mouth watered as he thought of himself with the power to conquer her.

What would you trade for your brother’s life?

"You would kill him? Truly, milord—"

He attacked me, Kerr barked. A spray left his mouth and his eyes glittered. Stupid lot of ignorant farm animals, that’s all you people are. You will learn how to treat your lord.

Milord, she cajoled, he’s a youth half your age. He had no weapon and could do you no harm. ‘Twas only his fear that our father was dead—

What would you trade for his life? he demanded.

She shook her head and tears gathered in her large blue eyes. It was the worst of her luck, meeting him here on the road. She had thought to steal into the sheltered courtyard of the Dearborn estate, where she had heard Peter was tied outside the stables. Manor servants who lived in her town reported that he was unguarded but too weak to escape. Now she had learned that even the road at night was not safe from Kerr. Milord, I have nothing—

Nothing? he asked with a haughty laugh. I see a great deal I could make use of, wench.

Jocelyn tried to calm her quaking and slowly stretched toward him the basket of bread and fruit she carried. In an instant she knew her ploy of ignorance had not fooled him. Stephen slapped the basket out of her hand and the food spilled along the road. She jumped at the blow and stepped away. I have nothing, milord. No money or stock.

He leered at her with a definite expression of delight at frightening her and made no response. Money or farm animals did not interest him and she knew it before mentioning them. Her town of Bowens Ash was out of sight to her now and a considerable distance beyond the next turn of the road. She knew her screams would not be heard. He was tall, thin, and probably fleet.

She silently prayed and slowly turned from him to walk back toward her village, hoping he would only laugh or hurl insults at her back. The sting of his riding crop against her cheek brought a startled cry from her lips. She felt the wood against the back of her neck, and the thin leather straps followed the line of her jaw to lay open the tender flesh of her cheek.

She turned only slightly in his direction, and his hand was swift, tearing her bodice with one hearty tug to expose her breasts. A picture flashed through her mind of a village woman who had been found dead by the road just a few weeks past, and she knew her fate. She thought she was now meeting the murderer.

She made a quick attempt to flee, ignoring her exposed bosom and wishing for one slim chance to reach the wood, where she could dart through vines and trees back to her village. He had not played as a child among the marshes and forests and brush as poor children did. But as she would have bolted, she was thrown quickly to the ground and was rolling with him in the dust of the road, straggling and whimpering.

Ah, lusty bitch, he growled. He tore her clothing more, pulling at her skirt and attempting to pin her arms over her head. Now there will be no trade. Now there is only master and slave.

Jocelyn fought with every fiber of strength she had. The picture in her mind of the murdered woman, a mother of small children from her own village, repeated itself many times, in spite of her efforts to concentrate only on escape. There had been more murder and thievery recently than during the years of civil war they had all endured. She knew instantly that if she escaped him with only her virtue lost, it would be a gift of good fortune.

Her screams and struggles filled her head so that she didn’t hear the approach of horses and might have been trampled but for the blessing of a bright moon and Stephen Kerr’s quick reaction. He pulled himself off her to stand and be alert to whomever ventured down his road. Jocelyn pulled herself upright just as quickly, and when she would have fled into the wood, he struck her again, hard enough to send her reeling to the ground, her head pounding from the blow.

Ho, she heard a man’s voice bellow. The sound of the horses neared, slowed, and stopped, virtually above her. From her beaten position on the ground, she could see the dark shadow of a huge black stallion ridden by a man with a flowing cape. Behind him were riders, also darkly clad, like a body of black angels following Satan. Master Kerr...a tryst along the road? His deep, throaty comment was followed by a rumbling of laughter from his companions. See if she is yet alive, the man ordered one of his riders.

Jocelyn slowly brought herself to a sitting position, barely conscious of what was taking place all around her. It was difficult for her to focus on any of the men. Within just a few breaths, she could see that Stephen Kerr was somewhat cowed and trembling now, although he bit at them with icy words.

Get on your way, Wescott. This is not your property.

And miss my moment? He laughed. I’ve waited a very long time to find you without arms or riders, tumbling a maid in the dust.

Lay one hand to me, Wescott, and you’ll hang for certain for crimes that only wait to be proved.

Jocelyn was helped to her feet by one of the riders, and once standing, the blood on her cheek and her torn dress were apparent in the moonlight. The man called Wescott looked down at her from astride his magnificent horse and studied the damage. He seemed to fill with rage. His arm went to the whip at the side of his saddle, and with a graceful swirl, the whip unfolded to spit at the ground in front of Stephen Kerr’s feet. The lordly fellow jumped a step with a squeal. Mind the old wounds, Wescott. They fester still. And some doubt your right to position.

Do they fester? Wescott blustered. And who would know that better than I?

I had no part in your family’s tribulations, Stephen sneered. Would you seek to aggravate my father by an attack on me? That would only show your ignorance. I was but a boy when Worcester was fought.

Wescott’s face paled into cold stone and his black eyes caught light off the moon and were set sparkling. He gave a brief nod, as if in mock deference to Stephen’s logic. His words were as stiff as the look on his face, spoken slowly and with measured wrath. Of course, Master Kerr. You were no older than I. Jocelyn noted that Stephen swallowed once, with apparent difficulty.

Wescott went on, his voice still commanding but the rage controlled. Have you raped the lass or merely beaten her?

She is my property, Kerr shouted. His voice sounded almost womanly to Jocelyn when heard against the thunder of the stranger’s.

I believe I asked you a question, Master Kerr, Wescott rumbled with threatening clarity.

Stephen seemed to flout the immediate threat this man posed. Why would you care? Unless you want her for yourself. His voice raised in giddy laughter. Aye, a grand twist, should you fight me for a peasant whore. Do you covet my property, Wescott?

The young man at her side took her chin in his hand and turned her face to inspect her wound. It was the first time Jocelyn had given any notice to him and was stunned to find a lad not much older than her own brother. She looked then at the entire group, and though she couldn’t judge their leader’s age, she saw that one man was as old as her father, one was youthful and quite handsome, and two were no more than five-and-twenty at the very most. The young lad who held her face in his hand had a gentle touch and soft, fragile features, qualities she couldn’t quite reconcile with the dark explosion their arrival had caused.

"I’ve seen how the Kerrs value their property, "Wescott growled. He looked toward Jocelyn. She tugged at her torn bodice and met his eyes.

He’s hurt her cheek, the young man at her side reported. Doesn’t speak. I trust he’s beat her senseless.

She felt the dark eyes bearing down on her and was suddenly chilled through to her bones. Instantly she knew that if this man meant to do murder, no struggle would stay him. Yet there was an air of a firmer control all about him, a feeling that he would find no pleasure in raping and slaying defenseless women to prove his power. The characters in the scene before her changed as her fear disappeared and she felt a new strength. The devil was the serpent who groveled in the dust and sprang out at defenseless innocents in the dark of night and the angel of deliverance thundered upon him in the blackest rage.

The wench crawled upon my road to free her brother from my prison, Kerr attempted, his voice whining with protest. He’s held for trying to kill me. ‘Tis a just penance for an attempt to murder his lord.

Tried to kill you? Wescott laughed. Are you certain he didn’t try to protect his wife whom you would rape, or his child whom you would use for an anchor on your yacht?

He has no wife, Jocelyn shouted. He is but four-and-ten and held no weapon. Her voice sounded like a trumpet to her own ears, and the moment she spoke she saw the glittering dark eyes bent to her again. It was not fear that set her trembling but the energy that seemed to travel in his gaze. I meant not to free him, sir, but to give him food. In the village they said he was dying.

Dying, Stephen grumbled. He’s taken the lash for what he would have done, but he’ll live—long enough to hang for it.

Wescott edged his horse closer to the young Kerr. You disgust me with your lash. It doles out daily punishments that are unearned. Your people are broken and weeping and your murdering lot will never cease. He looked again toward Jocelyn. Get the lass gone, he ordered his man. She is no part of this.

Jocelyn turned and fled into the trees, awaiting no further orders. Her bare feet were as swift and sure as any doe fleeing a hunter’s arrow. And then she stopped. The moment she felt a solid curtain of brush and vines between herself and the road and firm dampness under her feet, she crouched where she was and listened carefully. No one, not even Kerr in his insatiable rage, would follow her here.

You’ve been warned, Wescott. You risk everything by avenging a peasant whore.

The wench has nothing to do with what my hand aches to give you, Kerr. You and the whole of my lord’s bastards. I only wish the lash fell to your hide once for every person murdered on these lands.

Kerr laughed hysterically, as if none of what had been said penetrated his skull. When we finally rid the roads of thieves that ride in the night, I trust there will be no murder on these lands. But ‘tis hardly possible, when the king grants lands to highwaymen, Kerr said accusingly.

The silence that followed was long and heavy, and Jocelyn shuddered as though she knew what was coming. The moon was high and bright. She did not want to hear the sound of more horses, nor the sound of battle on this road. She worried that Stephen Kerr would be considered away too long and his riders would return to look after him.

Strip the shirt from his back, Wescott ordered.

There was the sound of rustling and scuffling in the road, and Stephen’s voice rose high in protest. Don’t be a fool, Wescott, he shouted. One mark and my father will—

The sharp snap of the whip and the scream of its victim pierced the night, and Jocelyn jumped at the sound. There was a thud as Stephen Kerr fell to the ground.

Whining dog, Wescott sneered. You’d give fifty lashes to a boy half your age, but you can’t stand under one. Take that mark to your father and tell him it is from me. And tell him too that I should not be considered tame, though I am stayed for the moment.

Jocelyn heard the beat of the hooves as Wescott and his riders left the scene, and knowing Stephen Kerr lay still on the road, she began to move silently toward her village. She parted the brush and vines skillfully and her footsteps were completely noiseless. She moved thusly for a good distance until she paused again at the sound of voices and hovered, frightened, to listen.

It was farther, I tell you, where we left him with the wench.

It’s too much to hope that Wescott took him and has him tied in some rude stockade of his own.

It’s more likely he finished with the wench and hid in the bushes ‘til Wescott passed, as we did.

If my stars are kind, we’ll find his body along the road.

Jocelyn recognized from the conversation that these were the riders that Kerr had sent away, and further, that they knew Wescott had passed in the direction of their lone and unsupported master. That they loved him little gave her a slight lift, but they would not raise an argument to save her and so were not worth much more than Kerr in her eyes.

I tell you it’s further on, the first man repeated. With any luck, he’ll be already home to Dearborn.

Jocelyn waited patiently until she could no longer hear their voices and then continued to plod slowly and silently through the woods along the road.

Bowens Ash was a smattering of lowly houses scattered over a rolling hillside that encompassed carefully plotted gardens and grazing animals. It was northwest a full day’s travel to Worcester, the nearest town of any consequence being Edgehill.

The larger fields were Lord Kerr’s. The few decent homes belonged to gentry in the merchant trade or wealthy farmers who rented from Lord Kerr. Some of Lord Kerr’s henchmen, the bailiff and the master of the guard, had two-story homes, but most of the village folk had tiny nests they shared with their animals. They were repaired regularly with mud and rocks, and their floors were dirt. The walls barely kept out the winter chill. Crops were scant for most people, and there were only a few hens and rabbits to be butchered from time to time.

Jocelyn’s father lay on a straw pallet near the cooking fire. Jocelyn stirred a pot of potatoes and peas and would have felt rich with a slice of pork to add. The smell of meat was uncommon in their small home. Two young children also lay sleeping, neither awakened by the sound of her entrance.

Jocelyn acclimated herself to her home, trying to identify the familiar things around her to shake off her fear. On the table lay the slate, the one her father used to teach them the spelling of a few words and a small amount of ciphering. And then she noticed the mug and bowl beside it. Her heartbeat picked up. She had cleaned the dishes after the evening meal, set a new pot to simmering for them to break the fast, and the dough was rising in a bowl. Earlier, when everyone had fallen asleep, she had crept out of the house with her basket of food for Peter. The bowl and mug had not been there then.

She looked toward her father and touched her torn bodice fearfully.

Aye, he said. I don’t know what you’ve been about, but I knew you had gone.

I, ah...I tried to reach Peter, Papa. I meant to bring him some food. The women who serve Dearborn feared he was dying.

John Cutler sat up slowly, wearily. He rose and went to the table, pulling out the chair and sitting down.

You deliberately deceive me and disobey me, Jocelyn. In everything I command you. You were not about helping Peter, but more likely flirting with some young plowhand or juggler or—

But Papa, I was, she declared in a rush, moving closer to him with pleading in her voice and on her face. It was then that John Cutler took note of the torn dress and her cut cheek. She backed away a bit, pulling the fabric together more, although she had it fixed so that her breasts were not exposed.

What trouble, this? he asked, indicating her face.

‘Twas Stephen Kerr who stopped me, Papa, and would have used me, mayhaps killed me, but for a stranger who came upon us. Papa, I think it good and likely Stephen Kerr killed that woman who—

Hush, Jocelyn. That blasphemy would end your life the quicker. What stranger?

A big man with a rich horse and a whip the length of this room. Kerr called him Wescott.

Ah, the vermin is back. And mind you, when you talk of murder and thieving that we’ve seen, more is the like that Wescott had a hand.

He saved me from Stephen Kerr. She shrugged. And he did not hurt me. Why do you speak of him so?

Cutler gave an impatient flourish of his hand as if to dismiss the subject, but he answered just the same. His family was not considered a bad lot when Lady Waverly owned Dearborn. They were neighbors; the Wescotts held Braeswood, which joined with Dearborn, and they got on decently. But the Wescotts lost all in the wars, and the heir, Sir Trent, as he is to be called upon his return, spat in the face of God at his portion of bad luck. Aye, he cast about as a hired soldier and ofttimes highwayman, as it’s told. And the rumor is that the king, more than aware of his misguided past, rewarded him handsomely and titled him just the same.

Jocelyn cocked her head slightly and looked at her father. It was not difficult to picture Wescott as a rogue, but it was rather hard for her to imagine him indecent, if he hated Stephen Kerr. How can we know for certain that Wescott is to be feared? she asked.

He did not bow to the ways of The Word and the Protectorate, child, her father blustered. He fled his home and his country and went abroad with sabre drawn to spill more blood. If rumor of his criminal past reaches us from other countries, it must be truth. And if one-half is truth, he is the devil himself.

But Papa, he—

Aye, I’ve heard he’s a way with the women and that one look and a maid of little sense is smitten, so listen with care, Jocelyn, that you don’t sell yourself to the devil. ‘Tis a well-known fact the devil has more allure than the Almighty. That is the way of it.

Jocelyn hung her head to avoid her father’s eyes. He was staunch in his faith, having studied as a young man with the clergy. It was a fact that he once expected to have some position in the church, but instead pursued farming and traveled to Bowens Ash to many, his bride possessing this small, nearly insignificant plot of farmland.

In the early years, before the war, there was good to be gained from John’s learning, for he shared his knowledge with his wife and children. As war broke out and the countryside lay torn, with soldiers in huge numbers assaulting their villages and the means to fill the pot and patch the roof growing more difficult, John clung more tightly to his religion and had no patience for the children’s natural questions and curiosities. He found anything pleasurable also to be sinful.

When Jocelyn was nine years old, her mother died giving birth to her youngest brother, Warren. From that point on, she recalled having committed at least one blasphemy and one sin every day, if she were to consider her father’s reprimands. Once, at the age of fourteen, she was seen talking at length

Reviews for The Braeswood Tapestry

[dawn772 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This story set in 1660 got off to a slow start with lots of historical and political data but picked up midway although I was uncomfortable with treatment of heroine and my rating is 3.5* Sir Trent saves Jocelyn from being ravaged on the roadside. To save her brother she offers herself to Sir Trent.

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Second time reading and is still a great love story