Shadows in the Spring

by Christina Courtenay

Genres: Ancient World Romance; Action & Adventure Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Brimming with romance, adventure and vivid historical detail, Christina Courtenay's gripping dual-time novel travels from the present day to the danger of Roman Britannia.

Praise for Christina Courtenay:

'Paints a vivid picture of life in two very different timeframes and, as the stories unfold, we see how the themes of life and love change little with the centuries. Fast-paced and thrilling!' SARAH MAINE
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Just some of the rich praise for Christina Courtenay's pacy, evocative and romantic novels including Echoes of the Runes, The Runes of Destiny and Promises of the Runes:

'I've been looking forward to this book . . . and it far exceeded my hopes and expectations. Romantic, fascinating and gripping, it's one of my favourites of the series' NICOLA CORNICK

'As a reader, I was delighted and absorbed accompanying Ivor on his quest to the 9th Century. Courtenay writes so beautifully, drawing you in to each scene, that time and pages slip by effortlessly' ERIN GREEN

'Whenever I need a break from the Twenty-First Century, I read one of Christina Courtenay's novels' SUE MOORCROFT

'I wonder if I, too, can find a way to travel back in time... If not, reading this book was the next best thing' GILL STEWART

'Seals Christina Courtenay's crown as the Queen of Viking Romance' CATHERINE MILLER

'This epic romance is sure to sweep you off your feet!' TAKE A BREAK

'An absorbing story, fast-paced and vividly imagined' PAMELA HARTSHORNE

'A love story and an adventure, all rolled up inside a huge amount of intricately-detailed, well-researched history. Thoroughly enjoyable' KATHLEEN MCGURL

Release date: April 24, 2025

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

Iceni lands (north-east Norfolk), late May AD 80

Duro couldn’t believe he was actually riding at last across the flat landscape of his ancestral tribe, the Iceni. It wasn’t completely level, but gently rolling in parts, and the sky appeared endless, especially by the coast. It seemed unreal that he was finally here. He had dreamed about it for so long, he didn’t trust his senses when they told him he wasn’t asleep. He shivered in the bracing wind, but he didn’t mind the cold. After so many years living under the hot Campanian sun in Pompeii, he relished the cool air caressing his face. Had longed for it during unbearable, stifling nights in the gladiator barracks room he’d shared with his friend Raedwald. Even the drizzle of fine raindrops couldn’t dampen his spirits.

He was almost home.

Soon, the settlement came into view. Lazy drifts of smoke rose into the air, trickling through the tall, conical thatched roofs of the collection of roundhouses. His horse broke into a canter, as if it knew they were nearly at the end of their journey, and they headed along a rough track towards the enclosure. A ditch and a wattle fence encircled the cluster of buildings, vegetable plots and animal pens. There were sounds of activity, and familiar cooking scents wafted on the breeze towards him. He took a deep breath and smiled when he recognised it for what it was – the smell of home.

The main gate stood open, and chickens scratched around in the dirt, clucking quietly to themselves. They scattered with affronted squawks as he rode into the settlement, and a couple of dogs came running, barking to alert the inhabitants to his presence. Someone had already spotted him, and raised voices carried through the still air of the late afternoon. He wasn’t surprised to find a group of people waiting for him outside the largest of the roundhouses, whose double doors faced the sunrise each morning.

As he dismounted, he scanned the men standing before him, their expressions ranging from wary to outright hostile. Dressed in baggy woollen trousers and colourful long-sleeved tunics, there were about a dozen of them, ranging in age from callow youth to middle age. Two were past their prime, but intimidating nonetheless. All the adults sported moustaches and longish hair. The one standing in the middle looked familiar, and Duro fixed his gaze on him and smiled.

‘Commios?’ he guessed, seeing some of his own features reflected in the face before him. He received only a scowl in return until a woman gasped and rushed out from behind the men. Her multicoloured tunic flapped around her spare frame, and long grey plaits whirled as she threw herself at him.

‘Durobelinos, by all the gods! Is it really you?’

‘Maerica!’ He caught her around the waist and swung her in a circle, laughing. She was older, and somehow faded and frail, but he’d recognise her anywhere. She’d been his mother’s best friend and had often helped to look after Duro and his siblings. Although she’d frequently scolded him for his wild ways, she had always been kind. Probably kinder than he’d deserved, as he had been a little tearaway, getting into one scrape after another.

‘Durobelinos? My . . . brother?’ Commios had taken a tentative step forward and was peering at him as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘I . . . We thought you long dead.’

Duro put the old lady down gently and turned back to the others, who had now been joined by several more women and a few curious children. ‘No, as you can see, I am alive and well. I’ve spent many years as a Roman slave, but I am a freedman at last. I have come to see how you all fare.’

He glanced at the plain bronze ring on his left hand, a mark of his supposed status. Only citizens and freedmen were allowed to wear rings, and his had been on his finger long enough to show a glimpse of the white skin underneath where it wasn’t tanned. Anyone seeing that would assume he’d been free for years. There was no need for them to know that he hadn’t been granted manumission, but had escaped captivity. His owner – the gladiator master Marcus Antonius Varro – was likely dead and buried under mountains of burning ash and pumice, and there was no one else who could dispute Duro’s right to freedom. The last time he had seen the man, he’d been holed up in his quarters at the gladiator barracks in Pompeii, refusing to leave. Varro had proclaimed himself convinced that the earthquakes would soon stop, and by time he realised the nearby mountain was exploding, it would have been too late to leave.

‘And to take over as chieftain?’

Duro raised his brows at his brother’s belligerent question, which jolted him out of his thoughts. It would seem his homecoming wasn’t welcomed by everyone, but then he hadn’t expected it to be easy. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said, keeping his tone even. ‘But I do now own the land you are farming and inhabiting.’

He had paid the relatively cheap sum of three thousand silver denarii for the large tract of land just a few weeks ago. He’d signed a contract in the shape of two wax tablets bound together and sealed with the witnesses’ signets so that they couldn’t be tampered with. A record of the land purchase had also been entered into the Roman archives at Venta Icenorum, the civitas, or administrative centre, for this region of the Britannic province, situated half a day’s ride south of here. He’d had to go there several times, but didn’t begrudge the effort, as he was keen to have everything legally watertight. Following the unsuccessful Boudican revolt some twenty years ago, much of the Iceni territory was now under Roman control. It was supremely satisfying to have bought back even a fraction. Duro was determined to purchase even more in future if circumstances permitted.

‘What do you mean?’ One of the other men moved forward to stand next to Commios. ‘This is our land. We pay rent to the Romans fair and square.’

As punishment for taking part in Queen Boudica’s rebellion, Iceni tribesmen had had ownership of their ancestral lands taken away from them by the Roman conquerors. Upon his return to these shores, Duro had learned that they had been allowed to go back and live there, on condition that they pay rent and taxes to their overlords. He would guess that had irked them no end, but they’d have had no choice in the matter. It was that or move elsewhere.

‘You did, but now they have sold it to me outright, so apart from the taxes we are all burdened with, you won’t be paying them in future,’ he told them. Everyone was taxed in various ways by the Roman administration; there was no avoiding that whether you were a landowner or not.

His statement was greeted with a glare of downright mistrust from his brother, and silence from everyone else. Despite only having seen twenty-four winters, Commios appeared to be the designated chieftain of this settlement. Presumably that was on account of his lineage – their family was kin to the former Iceni kings. His resentment of someone barging in was understandable, especially since Duro, being the eldest, had the right to demand to take over. Never mind the fact that the land was his by purchase. That was not his intention, though. At least, not immediately. He’d come prepared to tread softly.

He held up his hands in a peace gesture. ‘Look, I am not here to take charge. I only sought to relieve you all of the burden of the Roman yoke. Wouldn’t you rather the land was owned by one of us than by the usurpers? I’m not expecting anyone to pay me rent, but I would be grateful for a place to stay and a portion of the produce. I will, of course, do my fair share of the work while I’m here.’

‘What do you mean, while you’re here? You’re not staying, then?’ Was that relief in Commios’s voice? It saddened Duro that his little brother wasn’t as happy to see him alive as he himself was to find at least one relative intact.

To the Iceni, family was everything. They lived in kinship groups of extended families, where ties of blood were strong and children were greatly valued. Despite the lukewarm welcome, Duro was ecstatic to be reunited with what was left of his kin. He was never severing their connection again if he could help it. Commios would just have to adapt to his presence in their lives. He would have some time to get used to it, as Duro was only here for a brief visit for now.

‘Not immediately, no,’ he replied. ‘I have had many years to think about the fate that befell our family. I seek revenge. I was forced to watch when that Roman cur disrespected our mother and sister, and I remember him well.’ Disrespect was an understatement, but the others all knew what he meant and there was no point spelling it out. ‘I heard his name and I know which legion he was part of. I have sworn an oath to the gods that if he is still alive, I will find him and make him pay for his misdeeds.’ He paused to take a deep breath, tamping down the emotions swirling inside him as they always did when he thought about what had happened. ‘I don’t suppose you have any news of our sister, Rufilia?’

Although their mother had been killed in front of him, his sister was still alive last he saw. She’d been taken into slavery, just like him.

‘No. She’s probably dead,’ Commios replied, a fleeting expression of sadness flashing in his eyes. ‘She must have become a slave, and if she’d managed to escape, she would have returned to us. No one has seen or heard from her since that time, so we lost hope.’

‘Right.’ Duro wasn’t surprised, but it was still unwelcome news. He surveyed the assembled males once more, looking for another familiar face without success. ‘And our younger brother? What became of him?’

Maerica entered the conversation, grabbing his arm as if to make up for his brother’s less than enthusiastic welcome and boorish behaviour. ‘Last we heard, Caratius was a cavalryman in the Legio Secunda Augusta. He came home once to visit when they were on the march nearby. Seemed happy enough with his lot.’ She shrugged, as if it was unfathomable how anyone from their tribe could fight on the enemy’s behalf.

Duro understood, though. Caratius would have only been three during the time of the rebellion, and when he grew up, the Roman army offered opportunities. At home, he would always have been in Commios’s shadow, whereas a soldier was well paid and looked after by the Roman state. It was a chance to be on the winning side, rather than bogged down in defeat and resentment. The Iceni were known for their great horsemanship, so his brother would be well suited to life in a cavalry unit.

‘The Legio Secunda? Hmm.’ That was the legion he sought, but for a different reason. The man who had violated and killed his mother, then raped his sister and taken her prisoner, had belonged to a vexillation – or small detachment – of the Legio Secunda. They’d been present to help out the main force that defeated Queen Boudica, the Legio XX Valeria Victrix. It was strange that his brother had ended up in the same legion as Duro’s nemesis, but Caratius couldn’t have known that. He hadn’t been anywhere near the battlefield and would have no memories of that time.

He turned to Maerica and resolutely changed the subject. ‘Would you happen to have any of your famous stew in the pot? I’m fair famished after my long journey.’

He hadn’t come all that far today, but he didn’t tell them that. He’d only travelled from the domains of his friend and former fellow gladiator Raedwald, to the east, out by the coast. Since their return from Pompeii, he and Raedwald had been busy setting up a trading business. He’d also helped the man and his wife, Aemilia, get settled into their new home. All was well with them now, and their burgeoning business was thriving. He had felt he could safely leave them to see to his own affairs for a while.

‘Of course! What am I thinking?’ Maerica tugged on his sleeve. ‘Come inside, do, and I’ll serve you in a trice.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiled at her. It was nice that someone was happy to see him. Hopefully he’d win the others over gradually, and Commios would simmer down once he realised Duro wasn’t here to oust him from his position as chief. He just had to persuade him that was the truth.

Brussels, Belgium, late May, present day

Mackenna Jackson tugged her suitcase into the large hotel foyer. She knew it was somewhere in the centre of Brussels, part of one of the luxury hotel chains, but she didn’t care which one. It looked like all the other umpteen hotels she’d stayed in during the last six months, and the name and location were irrelevant. They were beginning to blur into one. She would be extremely grateful when she could go back home to the UK and live in the same place for a while.

She had met her boyfriend, Bryan ‘Blue’ Daniels, during a party held by the record company she’d worked for as a temporary receptionist. It was a clichéd meet-cute, but there was instant attraction between them and they’d started dating. Mac felt the whole thing was a bit surreal, as Blue was the lead singer in the famous band Valhalla Storm. She was Cinderella to his Prince Charming, drawn into a whole new world where shopping at Harrods and eating at the finest restaurants was nothing out of the ordinary. Money slipped through Blue’s fingers like water, and although Mac tried to curb his excesses, he just laughed and carried on regardless.

When he’d asked her to give up her job and travel with the band on their upcoming tour, she hadn’t hesitated. It had seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime, and the glamorous lifestyle beckoned. Unfortunately, the reality was much less exciting. Long, boring days of travel, a lot of waiting around in hotel rooms, and endless parties with groupies and other hangers-on. Even the concerts, which she’d once felt so privileged to watch from the side of the stage, became samey. Something to be endured, not enjoyed. Not that she would ever tell Blue that. He was inordinately proud of Valhalla Storm, and rightly so. If you didn’t have to hear the songs on repeat, they were fabulous.

A bodyguard stationed by the lifts nodded to her. They had all become her friends during their travels and she always felt safe when they were around. ‘Hey, Mac, you’re back! I heard the news – so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you, Jimmy.’

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. She’d had to fly home to attend her beloved aunt Sandra’s funeral, and it had been a difficult time. Aged only sixty-one, Sandra should have had many more years to enjoy life, but she’d been diagnosed with a savage type of cancer. Things had progressed quickly after that, and Mac couldn’t believe she was gone. It was like a bad dream, but now she just wanted to put it all behind her and start the grieving process.

‘Let’s get you a key card. I bet you want nothing more than to crash, am I right?’ Jimmy ushered her over to the reception desk and swiftly procured a card to Blue’s room. Mackenna hadn’t been with them when they checked in, as they had recently arrived from Amsterdam, their previous stop on the tour.

‘Thanks, you’re the best.’

Tired beyond belief, she took the lift to the top floor, where the band members all had a suite each. She had managed to get away a day early and couldn’t wait to see Blue again. To be enveloped in his arms and let go of all the tension roiling through her. He’d make her feel good and help her to forget her sorrow for a while.

Stepping out of the lift, wheeling her case behind her, she was hit by a wall of music coming from one of the suites, whose door stood wide open. The bass thumped so loudly she could feel it vibrating in her stomach, and she sighed. There wouldn’t be much rest around here until the party tailed off. That could be any time between now – nearly midnight – and dawn.

She guessed Blue was in the thick of it – he loved to party and never missed an evening of fun – and she decided to leave him to it. Heading for his room, which thankfully wasn’t the loud one, she slotted in the key card and pushed open the door, stepping into a lavish sitting room. Immediately, she heard giggling coming from the adjoining bedroom. Leaving her suitcase, she walked over to peer in through the door, stopping dead at the sight before her.

It was yet another ultimate cliché, and presumably every rock star’s dream. Blue was lying in the middle of the giant bed with a blonde woman on either side of him. Despite having different facial features, they were eerily similar. Both were in possession of very large, very fake boobs, and their naked bodies had clearly been spray-tanned recently, judging by the somewhat unnatural colour of their skin. They were pretty, though, it had to be said. Mackenna could see why Blue might have had a hard time resisting them. And yet he should have done. Had sworn he would never want anyone but her.

Yeah, so much for that.

‘Oh Blue, you’re so perfect. I’m gonna lick every inch of your gorgeous body,’ one of the blondes murmured in a thick French accent, while her clone was already busy doing just that.

Blue chuckled, clearly having the time of his life, until he looked up and caught sight of Mackenna. His eyes went comically wide and he struggled to sit up, flailing against the onslaught of the blonde bombshells. ‘Mac! Baby! You’re back already? Didn’t you say . . .?’

‘That I was arriving tomorrow? Yes, but I managed to get an earlier flight. Guess I shouldn’t have bothered. Enjoy the rest of your evening. And the rest of your life.’

She turned away from the awful scene in front of her, unable to watch for even a second longer. The lump in her throat had grown to epic proportions and would not be contained any longer. Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks, and she swiped at them impatiently. Honestly, had she really been naïve enough to think she’d be enough for a rock star? That this would last? Yes, she’d been told by her friends that she was beautiful, smart and fun to be with, but he could have anyone he wanted. Anyone in the world. Supermodels. Blonde clones. Why would he want to tie himself to one woman? That wasn’t very rock ’n’ roll, was it?

God, she’d been such fool. It was time to return to reality.

Grabbing her suitcase, she marched out of the room and slammed the door shut. She turned to head for the lift and ran smack into a hard chest. When she looked up, she realised it belonged to Jonah Miller, the band’s songwriter and lead guitarist. Taller and broader than Blue, with a shock of golden hair, he was objectively as handsome as her former boyfriend, just more rugged. Because Blue had the sort of pretty-boy face that looked fantastic in every photo, he was invariably the one who was complimented on his looks. Mackenna had always thought this unfair, but Jonah himself seemed content to remain in the background.

‘Whoa there! Mac? What’s wrong?’ Jonah grabbed her upper arms to steady her. Looking from her tear-stained face to the door she’d come out of and back again, he put two and two together. He swore softly. ‘I don’t bloody well believe it. I’m going to kill that arsehole, I really am,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I should have known better. And I’d rather have found out now than another six months down the line.’ A slightly hysterical giggle erupted from her mouth. ‘He was trying to talk me into marrying him last week. Thank God I didn’t take him seriously!’

Jonah’s ice-blue eyes went dark and his brows came down in a fierce scowl as he swore again. The door behind them was flung open and Blue came tearing out wearing only his jeans with the fly half unbuttoned. His hair was standing on end and his eyes were glazed from one too many drinks, or possibly something else. But the fact that he was under the influence didn’t excuse his behaviour. Mackenna could see that he wasn’t far enough gone not to know exactly what he’d been doing. He just hadn’t thought he’d get caught.

‘Babe! Come back,’ he begged. ‘It didn’t mean anything, I swear!’ He gave her puppy-dog eyes but she found herself immune. ‘They’re leaving now. Seriously, I was just—’

Mackenna cut him off. ‘I don’t care. It meant something to me,’ she snarled. ‘Go back and finish what you started. We’re over.’ She glanced up at Jonah. ‘Thanks for . . . everything. You guys have been great and I’ve loved getting to know you. Good luck with the rest of the tour.’

‘Mac-kennaaa,’ Blue whined, as if she was the one acting like a difficult toddler and not him. She ignored him and headed for the lifts.

‘Please can you text me to let me know you got home safely?’ Jonah called out, earning himself a muttered ‘What the fuck, man?’ from Blue.

‘OK, I will.’ Mackenna had all the band members’ mobile numbers in case of emergencies, but she’d never used them. Jonah was sweet to be concerned about her, though, so she figured she owed it to him. And they had actually become good friends during the tour, when he’d discovered that she was half Swedish. He had a secret obsession with Vikings – hence the name of the band, which was his idea – and thought it was cool that it was part of her heritage. Mac, in turn, was impressed with his knowledge and the fact that he actually liked reading. Blue never read anything more serious than song lyrics, and had scathingly called Mac and Jonah ‘book nerds’. Neither of them had cared.

The last thing she heard as she walked into the lift was Jonah practically growling at Blue, ‘You’re a complete and utter moron, you know that? A spoiled brat who doesn’t know a good thing when it smacks you in the face. Christ! You didn’t deserve her and I’m glad she found out what you’re like. In fact, I’m sick and tired of you, your ego and your immature antics. As soon as this tour is over, I quit!’

Mackenna didn’t hear Blue’s reply, but she could imagine he wasn’t best pleased. Valhalla Storm would be nothing without Jonah, as all the best songs had been written by him. He helped produce their unique sound too, while Blue did nothing but vocals and lolling around looking hot. Good luck to him trying to keep the rest of the band together if they had to find a new guitarist and songwriter. The drummer, Owen, would probably walk too, out of solidarity with Jonah, as they were best mates. The thought of how devastated this loss would make Blue cheered her up no end, but she still couldn’t stop the tears.

It had been a really shitty week.

Iceni lands (north-east Norfolk), late May AD 80

‘So you were a gladiator? For seven years? How on earth did you survive that long? I’ve heard tell most of them only last a fight or two.’ Maerica’s mouth hung open in awe as she handed Duro a steaming bowl of stew.

He accepted it with thanks and breathed in the familiar smell, which brought back so many memories. How he’d missed this. The simple home-cooked foods of his childhood served in a plain bowl – none of that fancy Samian ware they’d used in Pompeii. Cooked with butter rather than olive oil, and served with beer, not wine. No unnecessary spices and strange ingredients either. Best of all, he could eat whatever he fancied now, although he always made sure not to overdo it. As a gladiator, he’d been on a strict diet – usually consisting mainly of cereals and pulses – to complement the daily training. It was only when he and Raedwald had been out and about in the town of Pompeii that they’d been able to partake of other dishes.

Sitting by the fire inside a cosy roundhouse with his family and tribe members around him. Talking, laughing, sharing the ups and downs of rural life. Something inside him loosened, as if the tight hold he’d had on his emotions ever since his capture at the age of eight could finally be set free. He exhaled and allowed his body to relax.

‘I did my best to win every fight and I trained hard,’ he told Maerica. He knew the others were listening as well, but they hadn’t spoken to him directly yet, so he pretended not to notice them. ‘Also, I had a very good friend, Raedwald. We sparred with each other and made sure we were both in the best shape for every bout. We made a pact as soon as we met to try and escape or buy our freedom, and we worked towards that goal with fierce determination.’ He shrugged. ‘And here we are. Or rather, here I am. He’s bought his own lands to the east of here, where he’s settling with his wife.’

Maerica’s eyes lit up. ‘Do you have a wife too? This place could do with more little ones.’ She threw a meaningful glance at Commios, who studiously ignored her. Duro gathered his brother hadn’t taken a wife yet, although he was certainly old enough and should have done. Or perhaps he’d had one and lost her? That was a mystery for another day, though, and he wouldn’t pry.

He shook his head. ‘No, I’ve not found one yet.’

‘Well, there are a couple of girls of marriageable age here – Bellicia and Mina.’ Maerica nodded towards two young women who’d been casting him interested glances. They looked to be around twenty winters, which he recalled was the usual age for women to marry here. This differed significantly from Roman custom, where girls as young as twelve could be wedded, although consummation of the marriage would not be for some years after that.

‘Bellicia is the eldest daughter of Belcatus, and Mina is his niece by marriage,’ Maerica continued, as if that was a point in their favour.

Duro had gathered that Belcatus was the oldest man in this settlement. As they were all a kin group of extended families, he was some sort of relative of his and second in command here to Commios. He had probably led the inhabitants until Commios became old enough to take over, but the older man didn’t seem to resent not being the chieftain now.

‘I’m not interested in wedding anyone here, Maerica,’ Duro told her firmly. ‘As I said, I shall be on my way soon. For years, the need for revenge has festered inside me. It is something I have to do, else I’ll never rest easy. If the man who hurt my loved ones is still alive, he has to suffer as they did and pay for his crimes. I believe the gods will be with me, and I have asked for their assistance with my quest.’

The old woman sighed. ‘Perhaps you’ll think differently when you return. The girls might not have found husbands by then.’

‘We will see.’

Duro had no intention of taking either of those two to wife. They were comely enough, but seemed giggly and very immature. He was used to more experienced women who knew what they wanted and acted boldly. He’d bedded quite a few during his time in Pompeii, as some of the Roman matrons sought out gladiators for bed sport. It had been preferable to paying for such encounters, and in its own way it was an indirect revenge on the men of the race who had captured and enslaved him. Not that he had ever wanted a Roman woman as his wife. No, he’d like someone who would be content to live a simple life li. . .