The Old Woman's Curse

A Perilous Quest Through Time, Truth, and the Fate of Berlan

In 1495, in the quiet coastal village of Berlan, Reignard and Arlette should be preparing for a joyful future together. Instead, their union is halted by a single, unexplained refusal: Arlette’s mother, known only as the Old Woman, will not give her blessing. With no reason offered, Reignard is driven to uncover the truth—no matter the cost.

His search leads him beyond a menacing wall of thorns into a distorted version of his own village, where familiar faces turn strange and morality hangs in the balance. Guided by cryptic forces and tested by brutal trials, Reignard must confront three daunting challenges that will determine not only his fate with Arlette, but the future dignity of Berlan itself.

Blending historical fiction with dark fantasy, this story explores courage, consequence, and the unseen forces that shape human lives. As Reignard navigates treachery, time, and moral ambiguity, he edges closer to an answer—one that may grant him everything he desires, or strip it all away.

Step into Berlan and follow Reignard’s journey to discover whether love and honor can withstand the trials that lie beyond the hedge.

Excerpt from the book

Berlan, a village on the Atlantic coast of Aquitaine, France, 1495

It was a perfectly benign early summer morning when the sun peeked over the horizon, casting a warm glow over the tranquil Bay of Biscay. Three rugged fishermen tugged their small boat onto the shore, hauling it past the gentle waves until it came to rest above the tide line. With practised movements, they unloaded their bounty – a variety of fish that gleamed in the morning light – tossing them into two well-worn wooden barrels.

A young boy stood nearby, holding a donkey patiently as its paniers were filled with the heavy load. Isard, one of the fishermen, let out a satisfied whistle at their haul.

“We’ll make a pretty penny from this catch!” he declared.

Serlon, another fisherman, nodded in agreement as he looked up at the sky, where an ominous flock of gulls circled and squawked hungrily.

“Let’s hurry before those damned birds swoop down for their breakfast!” he urged.

The barrels were soon full to overflowing and secured to the donkey’s sides. With a protesting bray, as a cane cracked against its rump, the animal set off. The quite firm, damp surface of the beach softened the closer it got to the dunes, huge sandbars that extended in either direction as far as the eye could see; white ridges of sand that moved subtly, frequently ten or fifteen feet high. Distinctive features of the Aquitaine coast, they rose over time, but rarely diminished with the centuries. Long and impressive, they formed a natural barrier between land and sea – on one side the forests and homesteads, on the other the magnificent Atlantic Ocean with its rolling waves and never-ending horizon. Waves pounded anything in their way. If they had a reason to be less bellicose, the tides were more sympathetic towards their subjects, but this coastline was, at best, unpredictable.

“Whoa, old boy! Steady on!” Reignard, the owner of the boat, hissed, fearing they might lose the fish that squirmed crazily in the barrels. But, as they passed through a gap in the dunes, they joined the track that gave the animal a better grip and it made steadier progress. Not far along, they passed in front of cottages, small and humble, with their whitewashed walls and ochre pantile roofs. They afforded cramped accommodation for even a modest family, but all members – from the aged to babes – squeezed in, and had done so for generations. Residents of the cottages sat outside peeling vegetables or snoozing in a rocking chair in the rapidly warming day, or simply leant against the doorframe watching the world pass by. Everyone bade cheery greetings, with broad smiles and a friendly wave of the hand.