Here’s the first part of my novel.  I’m still trying to figure out the best way to begin.  I don’t like the first two paragraphs at all.  By the third, I’m a little more into it.  Maybe I can work in some of the information from the first paragraphs later.  I’m not sure how well the dialogue works.  What do you think?  The actual story won’t be about Melindea, but about her daughter that is born this night.

Prologue

Smoke from the smoldering fire snaked around the floor and settled in dark corners, if there could be corners in a circular tower. The stacatto tap of rain against the leaded window panes offered a counterpoint to the clomping boots of General Ivan Wolfe. The General stopped pacing long enough to take a drag on his cigar. He stared at the flickering flames in the grate to avoid the scene in the center of the room. He could see only one way out, and it was strewn with peril.

Behind him, two women lay facing each other in the canopied bed. The sweat that glistened on their bodies matched the condensation sweating off the stone walls. The wind shrieking outside the tower walls harmonized with their groans at each contraction. The two women giving birth in the tower this night had never met before, but both loved the General. Only one could survive this night and remain at the General’s side. The other would be offered as a sacrifice before the WolfRiders.

Melindea gripped the hand of the other maid across from her in bed. Even though they had never met before today, they were tied inextricably together in life and death. At first they had worked against each other, each mistrustful of the other, each knowing that one would live and the other die. As her contractions begain, Melidea wanted nothing to do with this woman who had shared her Ivan. She refused to look at the other’s face, to hear her name or her groans. She growled through each of her own contractions, denying the other woman any rest between her own. But as the contractions bore down more and more, Melindea forgot her anger in the all-consuming pain. She realized there would be no other midwife, no other woman for comfort and assistance with this birth. She glanced at the face of the woman across from her. She guessed the terror in the maid’s eyes reflected that in her own. Even though they could not talk upon the threat of losing their tongues, an understanding passed between the two women. No matter what happened after, they were in these births together. At first they just tried to match their breathing; then they clasped hands to help each other through the contractions. Slowly, their bodies began to synchronize the rhythm of rest and contraction.

Above, a lantern cast an oily light over the women’s sweaty bodies. Outside the canopy, dark shadows flickered in the firelight and the stone walls sweated condensation. Melindea could hear the clomping of the General’s boots against the staccato tattoo of the rain outside, but she could not make out his form. Why did she have to love this man? No, why did the man she loved have to be the General Ivan Wolfe? In the rest between their now simultaneous contractions, she thought back to the first time she had seen him. He was just Ivan then, or so she believed.

* * * *

He came crashing through the underbrush where Melindea was gathering sorrel leaves for Gram. Too frightened even to leap out of his way, Melinda stared at the dark-haired man perched atop a snorting black stallion. A blood red cape swirled behind him as he wheeled the horse and cursed under his breath. Melinda gathered her skirts and retrieved her basket. The sorrel leaves had scattered, but no matter. She turned to flee back into the woods just as he spotted her.

“Wait! I didn’t mean to startle you.” His left hand gripped both reins as he reached to stroke the stallion’s neck with his other hand. “Steady, boy,” he whispered to the horse. To Melindea, he said, “Something spooked my horse.”

“Startled me?” Melinda crossed her arms. “You didn’t startle me. You nearly flattened me with your horse and spilled my leaves and now I must go home and explain to Gram why I come home empty handed. You should know better than to wear such a cloak in these woods. It’s no wonder your horse spooked.” Now that her fright was over, Melindea fought to rein in her temper. Hot pin pricks burned behind her eyes as she blinked rapidly. She bent down, picking up common leaves along with the spilled sorrel. She should know better than to speak her mind so to a stranger. Once her temper got going, there was no telling where she might stop. It was one thing to complain to Gram about the injustice in her life, but quite another to speak to a stranger, who might be a spy for the fearsome WolfRiders. Who else would wear a cloak like that or ride a horse with such fire? The boys and men from the village didn’t have cloaks at all–just short capes to block the worst of the rain and snow. Not many had mounts either. Those who did had stubborn mules or slow ponies, not stallions.

“Let me make it up to you,” he offered. The rider dismounted and led the stallion to a tree on the opposite side of the clearing. He whispered soothing words to the horse as he tied him to an oak tree. Then he removed his cloak, folded it, and placed it in a saddlebag. “I think you might be right about that cloak. I was foolish to wear it in these woods. I am truly sorry my mistake frightened you.”

The rider strode across the clearing and stood before Melindea. Without the hooded cloak, he appeared younger, more innocent than threatening. His soft brown eyes peered at Melidea from under a mop of black curls. “Am I forgiven?”

Melindea looked up to see him smiling at her and nodded curtly. Her hands automatically returned to gathering leaves from the forest floor.

“My name’s Ivan,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Melindea.”

He knelt and reached for the basket. “Melindea, you shouldn’t mix the mints with the sorrel,” he said as he deftly seperated the leaves.

“You know leaves?” Melindea asked. She sat upright and stared in surprise. Most men in the village had no interest in learning or gathering leaves. They left that for Gram and now her. Of course, they still came to the cottage every time they had a headache or a gash.

“Yes. My gram was the village healer. When I was a boy, I went with her through the woods to gather leaves. I would not have wanted to come home empty handed, either.” He laughed as he brushed his hands together and stood. He stretched out a hand to Melindea as she rose. “May I meet you here again–next Friday?”

Melindea nodded. That had been the first of many meetings wih Ivan. In the begining, she had kept it secret from Gram, but nothing escaped Gram’s sharp eyes for long. It was just as well Gram didn’t know the secret of the tower tonight.

* * * * *