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Back The Darkest Shore Save as PDF
Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Karen Brooks
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. EXPLANATORY NOTE
  7. PART ONE
  8. One
  9. Two
  10. Three
  11. Four
  12. Five
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. Thirteen
  21. Fourteen
  22. Fifteen
  23. Sixteen
  24. Seventeen
  25. Eighteen
  26. Nineteen
  27. Twenty
  28. Twenty-One
  29. Twenty-Two
  30. Twenty-Three
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. PART TWO
  37. Twenty-Nine
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-One
  40. Thirty-Two
  41. Thirty-Three
  42. Thirty-Four
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. PART THREE
  45. Thirty-Six
  46. Thirty-Seven
  47. Thirty-Eight
  48. Thirty-Nine
  49. Forty
  50. Forty-One
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Forty-Eight
  58. Forty-Nine
  59. Fifty
  60. Fifty-One
  61. Fifty-Two
  62. PART FOUR
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Epilogue: Autumn 1706
  73. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  74. GLOSSARY
  75. LIST OF CHARACTERS
  76. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Unable to curl against the hawkit cattle or sheep because, as soon as they felt her trying to settle next to them, they started lowing, kicking and bleating, drawing the attention of the farmers, she’d been forced to move on. Back out into the wretched snow, tramping through drifts and along muddy roads. Shaking with fatigue as well as cold, her ankle aching, by the time she’d finally found an empty barn and some stinking straw to burrow in, the moon was in its descent.

She’d no idea where she was, but prayed she was still heading towards St Andrew’s.

In the pale light piercing the planks of splintered wood that formed the walls of her sanctuary, she could see it for what it was. A broken-down sty. It still smelled of the pigs that had once rooted about within its tight confines. The trough was empty, the straw brittle and dry — thank the Lord. Barely protecting her from the hard ground and bitter night, it was better than nothing.

It took all her strength to sit up and slap some warmth back into her limbs. Each time her hand connected with her flesh, it was as if hot bolts had been driven into her palms, her fingers. God, but she was freezing. Her breath poured out of her mouth and nostrils in clouds. Peering through the opening where a door had once hung, she could see it had snowed again. It lay upon the ground, drifting into the sty like a wave, frozen solid before it touched her. Maybe she could find a vessel to gather some in and, maybe, if she was really fortunate, the means to start a fire and melt some. All her food had gone. How long ago had she eaten the bannocks and coney Sorcha had given her? Was it only one night? Felt like years.

What a numptie she was. She’d underestimated not only how long it would take her to get to St Andrew’s, but her strength. She also hadn’t considered how slow it would be travelling on foot this time of year, what with her ankle paining, snow to wade through, the occasional passers-by to hide from and the little bit of foraging she’d managed to do that had done naught but make her stomach cramp.

With the help of the sty walls, which creaked as she leaned against them, she hauled herself upright. Unsteady, she waited until the room stopped spinning, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

If she didn’t get moving and soon, she never would again. Aye, well, as tempting as that was, she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

First taking a piss, she searched for something to put snow in. There was nothing but a rusty pail with a great broken seam.