Daughter of Fire and Ice, Marie-Louise Jensen

Synopsis: 'A sense of menace grew on me all morning. Not a vision. No glimpse of the future disturbed me. It was more a shadow of approaching danger...'

Snatched by a notorious Viking chieftain, Thora is set to leave her homeland on a ship bound for Iceland. But when her captor is murdered an altogether different journey begins...

My Thoughts: The phrase 'I couldn't put it down' is often thrown around and has been used so much that it's becoming clichéd. However, with this novel, it's completely true as this book was pretty much stuck to my hands for the three days it took for me to consume it.

Jensen shows once again that she is a master at creating a realistic world that blends the familiar with the foreign.

The protagonist, Thora, is a well balanced character who manages to be good without being saccharine and who pulls the reader along with her on her journey as it twists and turns.

Forbidden love can often be frustrating and annoying for the reader but Jensen manages it so that the reader feels as though Thora and Bjorn will be together eventually, making the reader willing to wait for this outcome.

The antagonist, Ragna, is also well drawn as Jensen avoids making her into a cartoon villian, instead creating a character who is complicated and for whom the reader feels a small amount of sympathy for.

Overall, this is a novel that twists and turns, taking the reader to places that they don't expect and that had me wishing for more as I read the final words.

*****

To Autumn, John Keats.

I studied Keats at secondary school, then at college and finally at university. This has always been my favourite of his poems, there is something about it that evokes such a deep longing...

To Autumn, John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.