Mary Anne Yarde's Blog: The Coffee Pot Book Club , page 231

Discover the romance of Anglo-Saxon England. Find me over at @JayneCastel blog.

Hey, thanks for checking in.

Today you can find my over at fellow Dark Age author, Jayne Castel's, blog! Check it out...

http://anglosaxonromance.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/guest-post-inspiration-for-du-lac.html


  US UK

Guest Post - author E.S.Moxon talks of her inspirations @word_seeker

Today, I welcome fellow Dark Age Historical Fiction author, E.S. Moxon, onto my blog.

 
Blood, betrayal and brotherhood.

An ancient saga is weaving their destiny.

A treacherous rival threatens their fate.

A Seer’s magic may be all that can save them.

WULFSUNA.
 Where did the inspiration behind your book come from?

I’ve had many things inspire me as a writer. I have several childhood memories of visits to prehistoric sites whilst on various holidays around the British Isles. Those sparked my interest in archaeology and history. And then there was my Italian grandfather, to whom I have dedicated ‘Wulfsuna’, who was rather a rogue in his youth and would regale us many times over with his exploits. These adventures invariably involved a wild boar, snakes or snow, all of which are in abundance in the Dolomites. I’m certain he influenced my yearning to tell tales!

As for specific influences for my ‘Wolf Spear Saga’ series, the purchase of some Rune stones and the coverage of the discovery of the Staffordshire Hoard were major factors. I wanted to know who the treasure belonged to and who had buried it (not necessarily the same people?). I tried to imagine who might have owned a particular sword and how many generations it had been passed down through before it was hidden beneath the ground. As for the Runes, the symbols and their individual meanings attributed to various gods and powers gave me insight into the people who wrote with them and divined their future with them. They also gave me the title of my book series, which is based on the Runic symbols for Thor and Tiw.

I would have to say that research and contact with archaeological artefacts continue to inspire me. Research can throw up fascinating articles on subjects I would not have specifically read in relation to my novels, leading me in new and exciting directions. Sometimes the things you stumble across become the best parts of your writing. And holding or using ancient objects can change or greatly enhance your view of the past.

Finally, I must mention other authors. For all the times you feel like giving up or that your writing lacks worth, other authors have been there to support me. You might not always share your worries, but on seeing another author’s achievement you can be inspired to keep going. And with the wonders of the web, these authors can be hundreds of miles away, but their problems are the same as yours and together you solve them.

Where can I buy this fabulous book?
SilverWood Books
Kobo
Amazon.comAmazon.co.uk

About the author.

Elaine writes historical fiction as ‘E. S. Moxon’ and is a member of the Historical Novel Society. Her debut ‘WULFSUNA’ was published by SilverWood Books in January 2015 and is the first in her ‘Wolf Spear Saga’ series. A Seer and one named ‘Wolf Spear’ are destined to meet throughout this series of Saxon adventures.

She is currently writing her second novel, set once again in the Dark Ages of 5th Century Britain. You can find out more about book 2 from Elaine’s website where she has a video diary charting her writing progress. She also runs a blog of her own, as well as being a regular posting author on the English Historical Fiction Authors blog. Elaine lives in the Midlands (UK) with her family and their chocolate Labrador.  E S Moxon WebsiteE S Moxon Blog
EHFA Blog

The Keresa Headdress - Larry Shackledford #BookReview #amreading @larrydshack

 "How do you know that the Keresa and the headdress really existed?


I was very excited to be given the chance to review The Keresa Headdress by Larry Shackleford. Larry is no stranger to this blog, recently he wrote a post about his inspirations behind The Keresa Headdress - if you missed his post you can catch it here.

What's the story?

It’s just a routine case at the FBI’s Salt Lake City offices. The young woman’s boyfriend is missing, possibly dead. Agent Karen Adams thinks he’s probably just out with another woman—but then the Royal Canadian Mounted Police come calling. Why would they care about a wayward addict cheating on his girlfriend in Utah?

Soon, Karen is involved in a case like nothing she’s ever seen, navigating through an international criminal network of drugs, sex trafficking, murder, and the black market trade of priceless archaeological relics.

Her new partner Marcus “Playboy” McCoy—handsome, charming, and almost unbearably crass—is equal parts help and hindrance as she navigates a seamy underworld in the Utah desert.

But she also finds assistance from some unusual sources: a graduate student in archaeology, a dissatisfied sister-wife from a polygamous commune, and an undercover Canadian Mountie. Together they become entangled in the web of international crime and the only way out is to find the most priceless artifact of all: the legendary Keresa Headdress.


 What did I think of the Story?

Oh my days - what a story. From the opening passage I was gripped. I was seriously addicted to this book.

Let me set the scene...imagine, if you will, Lethal Weapon mixed with Indiana Jones, 24, Spooks, Little House on the Prairie (yes, I did just say that!) and I don't know...something similar to the beautiful romance that was in Water for Elephants -- I kid you not -- This was all in one book!

There is no doubt in my mind that Shackelford is a master storyteller - it was like watching a movie - it was that easy to read. The pace of the story did not once slow down. This book draws you in and keeps you there, right up until the end.

Karen is such a superb character. I think we all know someone like Karen. She was alive in this book. She was so real, so believably wonderful – in my opinion, the perfect protagonist.

In contrast, if there was ever a partner so unsuitable for Karen it had to be Marcus. They played so well off each other, Karen was smart, respectable, while Marcus was an oversexed.... I found myself cringing, alongside Karen, at Marcus's many antics and please don't get me started on those grossly inappropriate Hawaiian shirts!

The story has so many twists, turns and unexpected events that this is a sitting-on-the-edge-of your-seat type of experience. It is a full on action adventure, with archaeology thrown in. Bonus!

The story does deal with some really difficult issues. There is a dark underworld in this book which preys on the vulnerable. I thought Shackelford was very sensitive in his approach when he wrote about this.

The antagonists were, as you would expect - awful, but very, very clever. They were not stupid villains; they had connections, insiders. They were ruthless in their pursuit of their goals. They were in it for the money, and nothing, not even the FBI was going to get in their way. Indeed, for most of the book the FBI were chasing their own tails - always one step behind.

The book, as the title suggests, revolves around the Black-Market in stolen archaeological artifacts. I found this absolutely fascinating. I thought this was a tricky subject to explain without it becoming a mini-lecture, but Shackledford depicted his knowledge so well that I didn't realise it was being explained - it was just part of the story. Now that takes some talent

The Keresa Headdress is a truly remarkable book. I loved it! I will definitely be reading more books from this author.

I would Highly Recommend that you check this out.


Where can I buy this fabulous book? 
 US
UK
About the author


Larry was raised in southwest Missouri where he received his college degree, but he received his education after he graduated and began working in a maximum-security federal prison. After spending two years behind bars, he continued his law enforcement career as a criminal investigator, residing and working in eight states and two foreign countries. Larry retired from law enforcement after twenty-five years of service and resides in Salt Lake City with his wife and cat.

Stonehenge and Arthurian Legend

Ambrosius's army and the Saxon invaders fought a fierce battle at Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire. The day fell to Ambrosius, but his army had not come through the fierce battle unscathed. 3,000 of his loyal knights had been killed.
Ambrosius decided that the dead should be honoured. A memorial should be built in this place, to remember the fallen.
 "If you are desirous," said Merlin, "to honour the burying-place of these men with an ever-lasting monument, send for the Giant's Dance, which is in Killaraus, a mountain in Ireland. For there is a structure of stones there, which none of this age could raise, without a profound knowledge of the mechanical arts. They are stones of a vast magnitude and wonderful quality; and if they can be placed here, as they are there, round this spot of ground, they will stand for ever."  
Geoffrey Monmouth The History of the Kings of Britain

 
There was of course, a little problem with the Irish. They had no intention of giving up their sacred stones. Armed with 15,000 knights and accompanied by Ambrosius brother, Uther, Merlin traveled to Ireland. The Irish tried their very best to defend their stones, but they were overwhelmed not only by the numbers, but also by the skills of Ambrosius's knights.
Merlin now had possession of the stones...
"Now try your forces, young men, (said Merlin) and see whether strength or art can do the most towards taking down these stones."
It was as easy as that....
Or not, as it happens. 
Merlin watched the efforts of the knights with great amusement. Finally he stepped in and using his vast "contrivances" (skill) he moved the stones effortlessly and sent them to Briton. Once they reached Salisbury, Ambrosius summoned the clergy and the people to celebrate the erection of the monument. Once everyone had gathered, Merlin set the stones in the same position as they had been previously in Ireland.
  Obviously, there is a great deal more to Stonehenge than this and the history of the site is fascinating. I am lucky that I live reasonably nearby to Stonehenge (just over a hours drive) and we have visited the ancient monument many times.

Unfortunately the stones, for their own protection, are roped off. You can walk around them, but you cannot touch them.

In 2013 English Heritage opened their new visitor center at the site. We went to visit the stones, and to see the new center, on a very cold and wet afternoon in January 2014. We have never walked around those stones so quickly in our life as we did that afternoon!  We were certainly glad to get back into the warmth of the visitors center, to which we discovered we were the only idiots who would venture out in such awful weather - we had the center practically to ourselves. Inside the center they have this marvelously roundish room. We sat down on the floor, in the middle of this room,  and watched the virtual tour of Stonehenge. The tour  takes you from the beginning of the monuments history, until modern day. It was very impressive and helped us appreciate just how old these stone are. 

I am not surprised that Merlin found his way to Stonehenge. I find it hard to conceive just how our ancient ancestors moved these stones. Maybe, along the way, there was a little magic to it. I like to think so anyway.


Reference
Geoffrey of Monmouth The History of the Kings of Britain.

The Pre-Raphaelites and Arthurian Legend - Guest Post @YeOldeHistorian

I would like to welcome Poppy form The History Cupboard onto the blog today.For some years now, as an avid fan of both history and art, I have been fascinated by a group of young Victorian artists who dared to break the rules of the known art establishment. During their time, they were seen as radical, only admired by those few who could recognise their creative genius and individuality. At times they shocked, at others they stunned, and, like any rebels, their lives were surrounded by scandal. But today they are recognised the world over as a group of forward thinking artists, who found themselves lost in the stiff boundaries of 19th century Britain. 

When I was kindly given the chance to write a guest post here, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to link the subject of this blog, Arthurian legend, and my great love for the Pre-Raphaelites! Luckily, the Pre-Raphaelites were inspired by these ancient tales, and produced numerous artworks based upon them. But let’s start at the beginning, and discover who the Pre-Raphaelites actually are?

Their story began in September 1848. Five young bohemian artists, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, John Everett Millais, William Holman Hunt, James Collinson and Frederick George Stephens, along with sculptor Thomas Woolner and writer William Michael Rossetti, met in London, at the studio of Millais. Through their mutual ideas of creating meaningful art, they had found each other, and they desired to create and paint in a way that was unlike anything being produced by many Victorian artists emerging from the Royal Academy. Victorian art had become meaningless and artificial, and together, they wanted to take the world by storm and dare to do it differently. Truth to their subject was their main cause. Inspired by the writings of art critic John Ruskin and the works of Medieval artists, the group wished to bring life back into art. They discovered their unique style by looking back to artworks produced before the famous Renaissance artist Raphael (hence the name of the group!). They wished to reimagine the lost style of the Medieval masterpieces which they so admired, where artworks were displayed in a technicolour that jumped off of the canvas. To realise their aspirations, they formed the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. 

Here are just a few examples of the most recognisable Pre-Raphaelite artworks:

   ‘Ophelia’ by John Everett Millais, 1851-52 

  ‘Beata Beatrix’ by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, c.1864-70  

   ‘The Golden Stairs’ by Edward Burne-Jones, 1880   Following their founding, the original Brotherhood soon welcomed other artists into their circle, and their influence continued into the 20thcentury. They produced hundreds of artworks, filled with the meaning that they had so wished to convey. Through tales of mythology, Shakespeare and poetry, the artists lead us through a magical world, and one of these world’s is that of Arthurian legend.
And no Arthurian tale quite captured the Pre-Raphaelites’ imagination than that of Elaine of Astolat. Although she was first mentioned by Sir Thomas Malory in his Morte d’Arthurin the 15th century, she was later to be immortalised in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s famed poem, The Lady of Shalott. Very few similarities are held between the two accounts, all but the tragic love that poor Elaine holds for Sir Lancelot, a theme that the Pre-Raphaelites were obsessed with.
“Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.”

The Lady of Shalott, doomed by a deadly curse, finds herself trapped inside the walls of a tower on the Isle of Shalott, where she has spent the entirety of her young life. Denied of the opportunity to discover the outside world, she is forced to content herself with viewing its reflection in a mirror. From these ‘shadows’, she weaves a beautiful tapestry of the happenings she has witnessed. Her days pass by uneventfully in her prison, until she sights Sir Lancelot, whose tuneful singing reaches her ears. Unable to resist temptation, the young lady turns away from her tapestry, and looks down to Camelot, from which direction Lancelot is approaching. Having lived for so many years without knowledge of how her curse will take hold, she finally unleashes it simply by taking a glance at the real world.

“Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
      The Lady of Shalott.”
Realising there is more to life than her solitary existence, the Lady of Shalott escapes her prison, an act which ultimately leads to her death. Boarding a boat, on which she carves her name, she floats down the river towards Camelot, where she hopes to view life in its true colours, not merely as ‘shadows of the world’. But she never quite makes it that far in life, dying on her voyage, the curse having doomed her to death.
“Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro' the noises of the night
      She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
      The Lady of Shalott.”
Easily the most famous depiction of the Lady of Shalott is that by John William Waterhouse. He was truly fascinated by the poem, depicted it several times in his paintings. But this is the most famous one:
  ‘The Lady of Shalott’ in the boat by John William Waterhouse, 1888
The Lady of Shalott is seen here embarking upon her journey down river, sitting upon the tapestry that has been her life's dedication. She’s finally breaking free from the chains that have held her trapped for so long.

The other Pre-Raphaelites that studied this tale also portrayed her as a lady trapped and wearied by her toilsome life. The sadness that the Lady of Shalott feels is a feature that all of these paintings share.

Sidney Harold Meteyard’s painting is perhaps the most sorrowful of all. You can see just how wearied she has become of seeing life through a reflection, rather than firsthand. The colours chosen by Meteyard add to the sorrow the Lady of Shalott is feeling. 




 
“I’m Half Sick of Shadows”by Sidney Harold Meteyard, 1913 
  Hunt’s interpretation, however, depicts the Lady of Shalott towards the end of her struggle, when she is beginning to build the courage to escape from her imprisonment. Entangled in the threads of her tapestry, the curse is trying with all its might to stop her from escaping. She is attempting in vain to untangle herself. The scattered irises lying at her feet symbolise her strength and courage to fight against her imminent doom.

 


‘The Lady of Shalott’ by William Holman Hunt, 1888 


Perhaps the least known of the Lady of Shalott's incarnations is that drawn by Elizabeth Siddal, herself a woman who toiled with sadness all her life. Her interpretation is a simple drawing, but through it, we can clearly see the story panning out. Siddal decided to depict the moment when the Lady of Shalott turns towards the window, and feels the sun beat down upon her face for the first time. The way the tapestry is flying out is dramatic, greatly contrasting with the Lady’s seemingly calm and composed manner. Perhaps she is thinking of how much of her life has been wasted away imprisoned in her tower?
                                                                                 ‘The Lady of Shalott’ by Elizabeth Siddal



Although the Lady of Shalott's story is most common among the Arthurian tales depicted by the Pre-Raphaelites as a whole, individual artists chose many different and varied scenes to paint.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s are amongst my favourites - they’re just so colourful! Rossetti was a great fan of Sir Thomas Malory’s Morte d'Arthur, and in both of the following paintings, he chooses to focus on the quest for the Holy Grail.



‘How Sir Galahad, SirBors and Sir Percival Were Fed with the Sanct Grael; but Sir Percival’s SisterDied by the Way’ by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1864   


This first example shows three knights of the Round Table, Sir Galahad, son of Sir Lancelot, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors, receiving the Holy Grail. Lying on the ground besides them is Sir Percival’s dead sister, who forfeited her pure young life to save a woman who could only be saved by the blood of a virgin. Rossetti has masterfully merged these two tales to form one story of faith and purity.


The three knights were the first to lay eyes on the Holy Grail, which was said to have been used by Jesus Christ at the Last Supper, and to have contained his blood following the Crucifixion. Many knights had attempted to discover the whereabouts of the Holy Grail, but it was only the pure Sir Galahad who could allow for such a venture to occur.
  

The second of Rossetti's artworks also depicts the Holy Grail, this time solely featuring the damsel who is briefly mentioned as handing over the Holy Grail to Sir Galahad, Sir Percival and Sir Bors, in Morte d'Arthur. Rossetti greatly romanticises and exaggerates the damsel’s role in Arthurian legend, but it’s such a beautiful image it just has to be included here!


  ‘The Damsel of Sanct Grael’ by Dante Gabriel  Rossett. 

     Burne-Jones imagined the scene of King Arthur’s passing on the Isle of Avalon. The ailing King is lying in the centre, surrounded by ladies shrouded in typically colourful, Burne-Jones attire. All are eagerly looking upon the King, hoping for him to recover from the wounds he sustained at the hands of Mordred's army, but it was not to be, for he died soon after.


So with this sad ending, portayed in the grandest of all Arthurian Pre-Raphaelite artworks, my post is now at its end. Thank you Mary Ann Yarde for allowing me to write here at your lovely blog, and I hope I may have enlightened you all about the artworks of the Pre-Raphaelites, and how they used their talents to give life to ancient Arthurian legend!
 ‘The Last Sleep of Arthur at Avalon’ by Edward Burne-Jones
Refrence: All images can be found in the public domain.
 

 

 
 

Guest Post - author Michael E. Wills, talks of everything viking! @MWillsofSarum

Today I have the pleasure of welcoming fellow author, Michael E Wills, onto my blog.Many years ago, when I was working as a teacher in Sweden, I had the good fortune to buy an old wooden manor house beside a lake, north of Uppsala. I say good fortune, but in fact it was extremely dilapidated and repairs required not only all my spare time, but every krona I had to make it habitable.The rumour in the hamlet was that the house was one of several, which through the centuries, had been built on the site of a monastery. The extensive vaulted cellars under the house seemed to support this possibility. To my eternal regret, I never had time to research the history of the building. However, the existence of the cellars did make me aware that I was living on an ancient site. This awareness was heightened when I discovered that not far away, on the other side of the shallow, small lake, were the remains of a castle. Why would anyone build a fortress by a small landlocked lake? Who lived there? How old was it? My fascination with Scandinavian history was sparked and has remained with me ever since. Eventually, my attention focused on the Viking era. I read extensively on the subject and took every opportunity to visit historical sites and museums. I recorded much of my research in diaries and vowed that one day I would use it to write a book.It was many years before I was able to fulfil my ambition to write about the Vikings, but with family now grown up and a move into semi-retirement, in 2009 I got my chance. I was working in Weymouth that summer and became aware of rumours in the town, that the men working on the building of a relief road, in preparation for the 2012 Olympic sailing events at Portland, had made a gruesome discovery of headless skeletons on the top of the ridgeway. I followed events closely and was thrilled when Oxford Archaeology confirmed that the remains were those of Vikings who had been executed between the years 910 and 1030. What had happened? Who were they? Who had killed them? This was an absolute gift for a novelist, there had to be a story here. My interest was heightened when further research of the bones revealed that at least one of the victims had been born north of the Arctic Circle. Who lived that far north in the tenth century and how on earth had they ended up in a shallow grave in Dorset?I decided that in order to write a book about what had become known as the Ridgeway Skeletons, I would need to do a great deal of research. As well as reading everything I could find on Viking activity on the Dorset coast, I decided to undertake a voyage in my 30 foot sailing boat to Scandinavia, to get a feel for what the journey was actually like, storms and all. A further strand in the research was a visit to Lapland to learn the history of the Sami and to try to identify whether any of them travelled with the Vikings.Many hundreds of miles later, I published my novel, “Finn’s Fate”. The story follows three brothers from the north of Sweden who in their search for a better life, join Danish Vikings on a raid to England. And no, they don’t all get killed in Dorset! This book was followed two years later with a sequel, Three Kings, One Throne, which tells the story of Harald Hardrada, the Norwegian Viking who nearly succeeded in taking the crown of England.More recently, I have become interested in telling children stories about the Vikings and I embarked on writing a trilogy of books for 8 to 13 year-olds. The series is called Children of the Chieftain. The first two books, “Betrayed”, (Longlisted for the 2016 HNS Indie Award), and “Banished” are now available. And why was the fortress built by the side of a landlocked Lake? The answer, I discovered in the research for Finn’s Fate, was that since the tenth century, the land in parts of Sweden has risen up to ten metres in height. Streams and rivers have disappeared or become shallow and in the case of the castle, it had once guarded a major waterway into central Sweden, a waterway which has become a shallow lake.
Where can I buy these fabulous books?
http://www.michaelwills.eu/buy-books/
 About the author.  Michael E. Wills was born on the Isle of Wight, UK, and educated at the Priory Boys School and Carisbrooke Grammar. He trained as a teacher at St Peter’s College, Saltley, Birmingham, before working at a secondary school in Kent for two years.

After re-training to become a teacher of English as a Foreign Language he worked in Sweden for thirteen years. During this period, he wrote several English language teaching books. On returning to the UK in 1979, Michael and his wife started a language school in Salisbury, which received accreditation by the British Council in 1983. The school was sold to International House in 2006.Today, Michael works part-time as Ombudsman for English UK, the national association of English language providers. Although a lot of his spare time is spent with grandchildren, he also has a wide range of interests including researching for future books, writing, playing the guitar, carpentry and electronics. He spends at least two months a year sailing his boat which is currently in Scandinavia.

Contacts : www.michaelwills.eu

The Shadow of a King - Cover Reveal @cgray129

I welcome back Arthurian author, C.M Gray, to my blog as he reveals his cover for The Shadow of a King.



Legends of old can never fade…
The truth can never die…
The tip of a spear settles any dispute…
But the love of a King, well… that comes before all…

King Uther Pendragon, High King of all the Celtic tribes,
in his fifteenth year of rule, is set a quest by Merlyn and
the Druids of Mona to brave the winter seas and set sail
for the Isle of Erin.

The quest placed upon the King, despite the tribal lands
being at war with Saxon invaders, is to take a war party and
return with a prize that will lay to rest the ghosts of the past
and allow the Celts to reclaim their lands.

However, none of those that set sail quite realise what this
quest will release within their King and what events
will unfold...
Publication date 4th April

The Du Lac Chronicles - Chapter 1 #amreading #HisFic

The Du Lac Chronicles is now available on Kindle.  Yay! To celebrate this I am sharing with you, my readers, Chapter 1. Enjoy!

“An evocative, timeless saga of love and betrayal” Tony Riches, author of The Tudor Trilogy


  US
UK

Chapter 1
AD 495 Wessex, Briton.


Alden du Lac drew in a ragged breath. The cold night air hurt his lungs, and the rough wooden post that he was tied to rubbed the wounds on his back. He had prayed for the welcomed relief of unconsciousness; alas, it was not to be. It seemed even God wanted him to suffer for his failings.
He had lost count how many times he had been lashed. All he knew was that each lash represented every Wessex soldier that had been killed by his men. Cerniw’s losses had been far higher, but no one paid for their deaths. Life was never fair, though; he did not need a lost battle and hundreds dead to tell him that much.
The year had been horrendous. Cerniw, with its rugged moorlands, its vast forests and beautiful coasts, had been struck with one pestilence after another. The people started to talk about moving, and some already had. Those who had stayed loyal to the land and, of course, to him, no doubt now wished they had not, for when Cerdic’s Saxons came, they purged the kingdom, making it look like the hell the bishop preached of in his Sunday sermon. Alden, unlike God, had been powerless to do anything about it. Oh yes, he had fought, but the numbers he fought against had overwhelmed his army, for who could fight the devil, without God on their side, and think to win?
Alden hung his head in shame, his shoulder-length dark hair falling into his face. He cursed his naivety and worse still, his arrogance. His younger brother had warned him, but he had not heeded the warning; instead, he believed the useless treaty that Cerdic of Wessex had offered him only months before. He should have seen where Cerdic was going with it then, only he had been blinded by grief, by guilt. The responsibility for what happened, therefore, was his and his alone. He knew that, and he took the blame. He deserved to be tied to a post waiting for death.
Alden closed his pain-filled grey eyes as the image of his homeland in flames scorched his mind. He could hear the screams, the begging for mercy, and the cries for help. He could taste the terror in the air and feel the heat of the flames. Dear God, what had he done?
He had been left with no alternative. Even now, with the clarity of hindsight, he could see no other choice. He had ridden towards the enemy, carrying the white flag of truce and hoping — sweet Lord, how he had hoped — for clemency, not for himself, but for his people.
Instead, Cerdic’s soldiers had pulled him unceremoniously from his horse and taken him prisoner along with at least eighty of his kinsmen. Of their fate he was uncertain, but his was assured. If he did not die tonight from exposure then an axe awaited him at dawn. It was a terrifying thought, and he prayed to God for courage. He felt no warm, welcoming presence and he feared what all men secretly feared, that on the morrow, he would not die well.
Snow began to fall softly from the night sky, not enough to settle, just enough to plummet the temperature further. He began to shiver. He tried thinking of a warm fire and his large bed covered in thick furs. It did not help. After all, when last he saw his fort it was in flames.
“Are you still alive, du Lac?”
Alden kept his head down, pretending to be unconscious, and hoped the bastard would leave him alone to die in peace. Draca, the guard in charge of the prisoners, was not fooled. He lived for terror and he had no intention of allowing the former ruler of Cerniw an easy death. He grabbed Alden’s chin roughly and forced his head up.
Alden opened his eyes and stared with contempt at the soldier in front of him. Draca was a huge man, with a shiny bald head, tiny eyes and a big fist, whose breath stank of stale beer and his body of gone-off fish mixed horribly with the smell of fresh blood — not his own, but someone else’s.
“Not quite dead yet, are you? Won’t be long, though.” Draca chuckled deep in his throat. “I’ve never killed a King before. I’m looking forward to it. Try and stay alive till morning, won’t you, for I want to be the one who takes your last breath.”
Alden stared past him, trying for indifference, refusing to give the man any satisfaction by showing fear at his words. Damn him to hell, he would die well, he would. He had to.
Draca continued to mock him; he tried to pay him no heed, for Draca could not make him feel any worse than he already did. He had thought himself a good and fair King, but no matter what he had done in the past, he had lost the kingdom and that made everything good he had done inconsequential.
Maybe it was a good thing that Cerdic had ordered his death. When his eldest brother found out about his failings he would be far less generous. Still, what he would give for his brother’s army to be marching on Wessex now. Not that that was going to happen, for Budic was safely tucked away in Brittany, oblivious to all that had transpired. And Alden knew he would be long gone from this world when Budic found out.
A shadow caught his eye. It was there for a moment and then gone. A ghost no doubt, and fear struck him, not for the supernatural and their haunting, but for his own fate. Dear God, please don’t let me stay all eternity locked inside these four walls, forever looking for a way out. Draca dropped his hand, satisfied when he saw the fear in his prisoner’s eyes. They all felt fear in the end; he made sure of it. What he needed now was a woman. He always needed a woman before and after a kill. There was a new serving girl, a petite little thing from the village, that he had not had the pleasure of introducing himself to yet. His Lord’s orders were very specific: not to leave the former King of Cerniw alone, but it wasn’t as if du Lac was going anywhere and what he was planning would not take long.
Alden closed his eyes and hung his head. A sennight ago nothing would have induced him to humble himself in such a way, but that was then. Anyway, it hurt too much to keep his head upright, and he didn’t want to see his future coming. He would rather be blind. He heard Draca march away, whistling a merry tune that seemed out of place amongst so much suffering.
An owl hooted overhead and Alden could not help himself, he shivered, for owls brought out the superstitious nature in him, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something else was in the yard. He could sense it. Something dangerous and unworldly and it was coming for him.
He forced his eyes to open and raised his head slowly. A figure dressed in black approached him through the falling snow. He could not see the figure’s face to ascertain if it was human, for it was hidden by a hood. Perhaps it did not even have a face. Perhaps it was a demon. He caught a glimpse of a silver blade and braced himself, closing his eyes, holding his breath, for he realised that death had come to claim him.
Annis of Wessex brought the knife down hard on the thick rope. It made a small, pathetic fray. Shocked, she touched the tip of the blade with her finger. It was almost blunt, the edges ragged. The knife belonged to her brother, and she hated it almost as much as she hated him, but it was unusual for him not to keep his instruments of torture sharp. She resisted the urge to throw the knife away from her, because through its pommel, she fancied she could feel the countless souls that had died by this weapon. Alas, the knife was all she had; she could not risk going back and getting another.
She felt sweat trickle down the back of her neck, despite the cold, as she stepped in closer towards her father’s enemy. The former King of Cerniw’s eyes had closed again and he did not appear to be breathing. Fearing she was too late, she gently touched his cheek with her fingertips and he flinched, as if she had struck him. Mortified, she quickly withdrew her hand.
Alden took another ragged breath. “If you are here to kill me, just do it and get it over with.” He spoke in the strange language of his own people and she could not understand him. Think, Annis. She looked at the knife and then looked at the rope and set to work. If the knife refused to cut then it would saw.
It seemed to take an agonisingly long time to saw through the rope. Annis kept glancing up at the battlements, but nobody came. They were strangely deserted and she fancied the gods had decided to freeze this moment in time, to give her a fighting chance. How they liked to toy with her.
The twines of rope grudgingly began to fray and snap. A dash of white sliced through the sky and a panicked squeal echoed around the courtyard as the owl flew away with his prey clutched tightly in his talons. Death was all around them.
Alden du Lac was free, yet he did not move, and she wondered if he could. Her brother had boasted that Draca could break a man’s spirit better than any other man he had ever known. But the rebellious part of her nature, so carefully hidden until now, refused to believe that the larger than life King of Cerniw would be thus defeated by a lowlife such as Draca. If he were not going to save himself, then she would do it for him. Hastily, she pulled at the ropes that held him to the post, not caring if she hurt him or inflicted more injuries. He deserved to be in pain if he had given up. She hadn’t. Every day of her life, she had had to fight. She had thought he would have had the courtesy of staying alive while she risked her own neck trying to save his pitiful existence.
Without the support, Alden crumpled to the hard, bloodstained, frost-covered cobbled ground. The breath whooshed out of him and he kept his eyes tightly closed, wondering what evil intent this beast had planned for him now. Die well, he reminded himself, think of something, anything. Take your mind away from here. He tried to think of the sea, the surf hitting the white sands of his home, but the image was blurred and his tormenter was tugging at his arm, trying to make him stand.
He wasn’t responding. She should leave…now. At least she had tried. She had underestimated the extent that he had been tortured. He was as good as dead. She tugged pathetically on his arm one more time, not expecting him to respond, so she was surprised when she felt him stir beneath her fingers. Encouraged, she tugged hard and at last, he began to move. He crawled to his knees, muttering something under his breath that Annis did not understand, and she wished she could speak Cerniw.
Whatever he said, it seemed to give him strength, for he reached for the post with his other hand. Using the post and Annis, he managed to heave himself up to his feet.
The world spun and his legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but death was pulling at his arm, silently asking him to move. And who was he to argue with death?
Annis wedged her shoulder under Alden’s arm. He leant heavily on her and she staggered under his weight, although thankfully, she managed to remain on her feet. She glanced up at the battlements, where a torch light flickered. The gods had started to play.
“Come on,” she whispered. “We have to move. We don’t have much time.”
Death had a woman’s voice? Of course, it would. Why had he ever thought death would be a man? Shame she spoke with the Saxon tongue, for he understood not a word.
Annis gave a quick prayer to her favourite goddess Frige. “Alden, move!” she demanded again.
The voice knew his name and the voice sounded panicked. Would death panic? It did not make sense. His head banged in time with his heart and his legs were not cooperating, but somehow he managed to make his feet move. Death continued to whisper words of what he thought must be encouragement. She was in a hurry to leave this place and he for one could not blame her.
She led him towards an old embossed oak door. He could not focus on the door. The image in front of him was blurry and he wondered if he was dreaming. It had to be a dream for there was no other explanation. He watched, trying to focus on his surroundings, as death produced a key. Death was in such a hurry to place the key in the lock that she dropped it on the cobblestones with a soft clang. She fell to her knees to search for it and Alden reached for the courtyard’s rough wooden wall with his hand to stop himself from falling.
Annis rammed the key into the lock and prayed the door would open. A woman’s scream pierced the night, followed by the sound of men’s laughter. She ignored the scream, for there was nothing she could do. She glanced over her shoulder as she turned the key and saw more torchlight. The door creaked dreadfully as it swung open. But still, no one came. Quickly, she wedged her shoulder under Alden’s arm, helping him down the first few steep steps.
Leaving Alden leaning against the cold, cobweb-covered stonework of the corridor’s wall, she quickly crept back outside. There were men on the battlements now and a woman, her dress in tatters, hanging from her thin body in strips. Annis paused for a moment, shocked. If she were a man she would have — but she wasn’t a man and she had just crossed the border from being the protected daughter of the King of Wessex to an outcast and a traitor.
Holding her breath, she stood on tiptoes and stretched, her fingers brushing the wood of a flaming torch. Cursing her lack of height, she just managed to lift the torch from its rusty sconce on the courtyard wall. Frowning, she glanced back up at the battlements, but her father’s men were too interested in the woman to notice what was going on down below. She smiled grimly, knowing that the soldiers would be repaid in kind. Her father would have their heads when he found his prisoner gone. She tore her gaze away from the frightful scene above and hurried back down the steps. Alden had sat down on the floor, his head bowed, his skin a deathly white and covered in blood. Quickly she closed the door, locked it and then leant her back against it, taking a few precious seconds to catch her breath and slow her pounding heart.
***
The alarm bell was shrill and echoed all around them. Alden, his head already pounding, wanted to cover his ears with his hands, sink to the floor, curl up in a ball and die. Death didn’t seem to be an option, however, much as he might desire it, for the woman by his side kept him on his feet. The floor was cold and hard on his bare feet and exhaustion pulled at all his senses.
“Almost there.” Annis spoke, more to herself than the man at her side. Every muscle in her body hurt and burnt with the exertion she was placing on herself. She began to question herself. Who was she to think she could save a man’s life? She clenched her teeth together until she felt the ache in her cheeks and willed herself to relax. She had chosen this path. She had known it was going to be difficult. But knowledge is only as good as the experience that goes with it. And nothing had prepared her for this.
The flaming torch was dimming and would soon extinguish, leaving them in total darkness and she did not know this part of the castle very well, for it was one of the forbidden places. The previous owner, a Celtic warlord who went by the name of Arthur, had built this castle decades ago. He was long dead now. Her father had killed him.
She glanced across at the man by her side. His head was bent low and his breathing came in frightening gasps. The last time she had seen Alden du Lac he had kissed the palm of her hand, closing her fingers on the kiss as if to keep it safe. His grey eyes had sparkled with amusement when he had looked at her, and his whole face shone with life. With that one teasing kiss, she had fallen. Her days had been filled with dreams of him. Impossible dreams, for he was another woman’s husband. She had no right to think of him in that way and she had tried hard to forget all about him, but no matter what she told herself, she could not stop herself from dreaming.
She watched with panicked fascination as the torch glowed brightly, flickered, then extinguished and the cold darkness engulfed them both.
“I hope you know where you are going?” His voice came out as a hoarse whisper, but at least he had the clarity to speak in Latin, the language of the nobility and a language they both shared. “I think so,” Annis replied honestly, as she let the now-useless torch slip from her fingers and clatter to the floor.
“I feel so reassured,” he said, trying to bite back the sarcasm, but she had heard it.
“I can always take you back.” Annis stated, a touch of anger in her soft voice, adding under her breath, “I am doing the best I can.”
“Will they stop ringing that bloody bell if you do?”
Annis snorted on a laugh and then blushed at her unladylike manner and she was glad for the dark. “We can but hope. I’ll say I apprehended you. I might get away with my life!” She began to walk forward, forcing him to move with her.
“Who are you? Where are you taking me?” Alden gasped, as another wave of pain robbed him of his breath momentarily.
“The last place they would expect to find you,” Annis stated. “The very last place,” she added bitterly. Her father thought her worthless. What use was a daughter? She had been a disappointment to him in all her seventeen years of life. But he had not forgotten her completely. She was a bargaining tool now that she had come of age, sold as easily as one would sell a horse. King Natanleod of Sussex was reportedly on his way to claim her. But she had promised herself she would be long gone from here before he did, for Natanleod had a terrible reputation when it came to women and she would be wife number six What had befallen the other five did not bear thinking about, except they were all dead and buried. She had tried to argue with her father, reason with him, but one did not reason with Cerdic of Wessex.
“Are you taking me to Cerdic’s bedroom? He will be surprised!” Alden jested, although where he found the strength to jest at a time like this even he did not know.
Annis felt a small sense of relief, for she feared the torture he had suffered had addled his mind. He still had his sense of humour, even if it was hanging on by a thread and for that, she was thankful. “No. Mine. Now save your breath,” she quickly added, “we still have a long way to go.”

 Copyright © Mary Anne Yarde.
   



 

The Du lac Chronicles - Chapter 1 #amreading #HisFic

The Du Lac Chronicles is now available on Kindle.  Yay! To celebrate this I am sharing with you, my readers, Chapter 1. Enjoy!

“An evocative, timeless saga of love and betrayal” Tony Riches, author of The Tudor Trilogy


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Chapter 1
AD 495 Wessex, Briton.


Alden du Lac drew in a ragged breath. The cold night air hurt his lungs, and the rough wooden post that he was tied to rubbed the wounds on his back. He had prayed for the welcomed relief of unconsciousness; alas, it was not to be. It seemed even God wanted him to suffer for his failings.
He had lost count how many times he had been lashed. All he knew was that each lash represented every Wessex soldier that had been killed by his men. Cerniw’s losses had been far higher, but no one paid for their deaths. Life was never fair, though; he did not need a lost battle and hundreds dead to tell him that much.
The year had been horrendous. Cerniw, with its rugged moorlands, its vast forests and beautiful coasts, had been struck with one pestilence after another. The people started to talk about moving, and some already had. Those who had stayed loyal to the land and, of course, to him, no doubt now wished they had not, for when Cerdic’s Saxons came, they purged the kingdom, making it look like the hell the bishop preached of in his Sunday sermon. Alden, unlike God, had been powerless to do anything about it. Oh yes, he had fought, but the numbers he fought against had overwhelmed his army, for who could fight the devil, without God on their side, and think to win?
Alden hung his head in shame, his shoulder-length dark hair falling into his face. He cursed his naivety and worse still, his arrogance. His younger brother had warned him, but he had not heeded the warning; instead, he believed the useless treaty that Cerdic of Wessex had offered him only months before. He should have seen where Cerdic was going with it then, only he had been blinded by grief, by guilt. The responsibility for what happened, therefore, was his and his alone. He knew that, and he took the blame. He deserved to be tied to a post waiting for death.
Alden closed his pain-filled grey eyes as the image of his homeland in flames scorched his mind. He could hear the screams, the begging for mercy, and the cries for help. He could taste the terror in the air and feel the heat of the flames. Dear God, what had he done?
He had been left with no alternative. Even now, with the clarity of hindsight, he could see no other choice. He had ridden towards the enemy, carrying the white flag of truce and hoping — sweet Lord, how he had hoped — for clemency, not for himself, but for his people.
Instead, Cerdic’s soldiers had pulled him unceremoniously from his horse and taken him prisoner along with at least eighty of his kinsmen. Of their fate he was uncertain, but his was assured. If he did not die tonight from exposure then an axe awaited him at dawn. It was a terrifying thought, and he prayed to God for courage. He felt no warm, welcoming presence and he feared what all men secretly feared, that on the morrow, he would not die well.
Snow began to fall softly from the night sky, not enough to settle, just enough to plummet the temperature further. He began to shiver. He tried thinking of a warm fire and his large bed covered in thick furs. It did not help. After all, when last he saw his fort it was in flames.
“Are you still alive, du Lac?”
Alden kept his head down, pretending to be unconscious, and hoped the bastard would leave him alone to die in peace. Draca, the guard in charge of the prisoners, was not fooled. He lived for terror and he had no intention of allowing the former ruler of Cerniw an easy death. He grabbed Alden’s chin roughly and forced his head up.
Alden opened his eyes and stared with contempt at the soldier in front of him. Draca was a huge man, with a shiny bald head, tiny eyes and a big fist, whose breath stank of stale beer and his body of gone-off fish mixed horribly with the smell of fresh blood — not his own, but someone else’s.
“Not quite dead yet, are you? Won’t be long, though.” Draca chuckled deep in his throat. “I’ve never killed a King before. I’m looking forward to it. Try and stay alive till morning, won’t you, for I want to be the one who takes your last breath.”
Alden stared past him, trying for indifference, refusing to give the man any satisfaction by showing fear at his words. Damn him to hell, he would die well, he would. He had to.
Draca continued to mock him; he tried to pay him no heed, for Draca could not make him feel any worse than he already did. He had thought himself a good and fair King, but no matter what he had done in the past, he had lost the kingdom and that made everything good he had done inconsequential.
Maybe it was a good thing that Cerdic had ordered his death. When his eldest brother found out about his failings he would be far less generous. Still, what he would give for his brother’s army to be marching on Wessex now. Not that that was going to happen, for Budic was safely tucked away in Brittany, oblivious to all that had transpired. And Alden knew he would be long gone from this world when Budic found out.
A shadow caught his eye. It was there for a moment and then gone. A ghost no doubt, and fear struck him, not for the supernatural and their haunting, but for his own fate. Dear God, please don’t let me stay all eternity locked inside these four walls, forever looking for a way out. Draca dropped his hand, satisfied when he saw the fear in his prisoner’s eyes. They all felt fear in the end; he made sure of it. What he needed now was a woman. He always needed a woman before and after a kill. There was a new serving girl, a petite little thing from the village, that he had not had the pleasure of introducing himself to yet. His Lord’s orders were very specific: not to leave the former King of Cerniw alone, but it wasn’t as if du Lac was going anywhere and what he was planning would not take long.
Alden closed his eyes and hung his head. A sennight ago nothing would have induced him to humble himself in such a way, but that was then. Anyway, it hurt too much to keep his head upright, and he didn’t want to see his future coming. He would rather be blind. He heard Draca march away, whistling a merry tune that seemed out of place amongst so much suffering.
An owl hooted overhead and Alden could not help himself, he shivered, for owls brought out the superstitious nature in him, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something else was in the yard. He could sense it. Something dangerous and unworldly and it was coming for him.
He forced his eyes to open and raised his head slowly. A figure dressed in black approached him through the falling snow. He could not see the figure’s face to ascertain if it was human, for it was hidden by a hood. Perhaps it did not even have a face. Perhaps it was a demon. He caught a glimpse of a silver blade and braced himself, closing his eyes, holding his breath, for he realised that death had come to claim him.
Annis of Wessex brought the knife down hard on the thick rope. It made a small, pathetic fray. Shocked, she touched the tip of the blade with her finger. It was almost blunt, the edges ragged. The knife belonged to her brother, and she hated it almost as much as she hated him, but it was unusual for him not to keep his instruments of torture sharp. She resisted the urge to throw the knife away from her, because through its pommel, she fancied she could feel the countless souls that had died by this weapon. Alas, the knife was all she had; she could not risk going back and getting another.
She felt sweat trickle down the back of her neck, despite the cold, as she stepped in closer towards her father’s enemy. The former King of Cerniw’s eyes had closed again and he did not appear to be breathing. Fearing she was too late, she gently touched his cheek with her fingertips and he flinched, as if she had struck him. Mortified, she quickly withdrew her hand.
Alden took another ragged breath. “If you are here to kill me, just do it and get it over with.” He spoke in the strange language of his own people and she could not understand him. Think, Annis. She looked at the knife and then looked at the rope and set to work. If the knife refused to cut then it would saw.
It seemed to take an agonisingly long time to saw through the rope. Annis kept glancing up at the battlements, but nobody came. They were strangely deserted and she fancied the gods had decided to freeze this moment in time, to give her a fighting chance. How they liked to toy with her.
The twines of rope grudgingly began to fray and snap. A dash of white sliced through the sky and a panicked squeal echoed around the courtyard as the owl flew away with his prey clutched tightly in his talons. Death was all around them.
Alden du Lac was free, yet he did not move, and she wondered if he could. Her brother had boasted that Draca could break a man’s spirit better than any other man he had ever known. But the rebellious part of her nature, so carefully hidden until now, refused to believe that the larger than life King of Cerniw would be thus defeated by a lowlife such as Draca. If he were not going to save himself, then she would do it for him. Hastily, she pulled at the ropes that held him to the post, not caring if she hurt him or inflicted more injuries. He deserved to be in pain if he had given up. She hadn’t. Every day of her life, she had had to fight. She had thought he would have had the courtesy of staying alive while she risked her own neck trying to save his pitiful existence.
Without the support, Alden crumpled to the hard, bloodstained, frost-covered cobbled ground. The breath whooshed out of him and he kept his eyes tightly closed, wondering what evil intent this beast had planned for him now. Die well, he reminded himself, think of something, anything. Take your mind away from here. He tried to think of the sea, the surf hitting the white sands of his home, but the image was blurred and his tormenter was tugging at his arm, trying to make him stand.
He wasn’t responding. She should leave…now. At least she had tried. She had underestimated the extent that he had been tortured. He was as good as dead. She tugged pathetically on his arm one more time, not expecting him to respond, so she was surprised when she felt him stir beneath her fingers. Encouraged, she tugged hard and at last, he began to move. He crawled to his knees, muttering something under his breath that Annis did not understand, and she wished she could speak Cerniw.
Whatever he said, it seemed to give him strength, for he reached for the post with his other hand. Using the post and Annis, he managed to heave himself up to his feet.
The world spun and his legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but death was pulling at his arm, silently asking him to move. And who was he to argue with death?
Annis wedged her shoulder under Alden’s arm. He leant heavily on her and she staggered under his weight, although thankfully, she managed to remain on her feet. She glanced up at the battlements, where a torch light flickered. The gods had started to play.
“Come on,” she whispered. “We have to move. We don’t have much time.”
Death had a woman’s voice? Of course, it would. Why had he ever thought death would be a man? Shame she spoke with the Saxon tongue, for he understood not a word.
Annis gave a quick prayer to her favourite goddess Frige. “Alden, move!” she demanded again.
The voice knew his name and the voice sounded panicked. Would death panic? It did not make sense. His head banged in time with his heart and his legs were not cooperating, but somehow he managed to make his feet move. Death continued to whisper words of what he thought must be encouragement. She was in a hurry to leave this place and he for one could not blame her.
She led him towards an old embossed oak door. He could not focus on the door. The image in front of him was blurry and he wondered if he was dreaming. It had to be a dream for there was no other explanation. He watched, trying to focus on his surroundings, as death produced a key. Death was in such a hurry to place the key in the lock that she dropped it on the cobblestones with a soft clang. She fell to her knees to search for it and Alden reached for the courtyard’s rough wooden wall with his hand to stop himself from falling.
Annis rammed the key into the lock and prayed the door would open. A woman’s scream pierced the night, followed by the sound of men’s laughter. She ignored the scream, for there was nothing she could do. She glanced over her shoulder as she turned the key and saw more torchlight. The door creaked dreadfully as it swung open. But still, no one came. Quickly, she wedged her shoulder under Alden’s arm, helping him down the first few steep steps.
Leaving Alden leaning against the cold, cobweb-covered stonework of the corridor’s wall, she quickly crept back outside. There were men on the battlements now and a woman, her dress in tatters, hanging from her thin body in strips. Annis paused for a moment, shocked. If she were a man she would have — but she wasn’t a man and she had just crossed the border from being the protected daughter of the King of Wessex to an outcast and a traitor.
Holding her breath, she stood on tiptoes and stretched, her fingers brushing the wood of a flaming torch. Cursing her lack of height, she just managed to lift the torch from its rusty sconce on the courtyard wall. Frowning, she glanced back up at the battlements, but her father’s men were too interested in the woman to notice what was going on down below. She smiled grimly, knowing that the soldiers would be repaid in kind. Her father would have their heads when he found his prisoner gone. She tore her gaze away from the frightful scene above and hurried back down the steps. Alden had sat down on the floor, his head bowed, his skin a deathly white and covered in blood. Quickly she closed the door, locked it and then leant her back against it, taking a few precious seconds to catch her breath and slow her pounding heart.
***
The alarm bell was shrill and echoed all around them. Alden, his head already pounding, wanted to cover his ears with his hands, sink to the floor, curl up in a ball and die. Death didn’t seem to be an option, however, much as he might desire it, for the woman by his side kept him on his feet. The floor was cold and hard on his bare feet and exhaustion pulled at all his senses.
“Almost there.” Annis spoke, more to herself than the man at her side. Every muscle in her body hurt and burnt with the exertion she was placing on herself. She began to question herself. Who was she to think she could save a man’s life? She clenched her teeth together until she felt the ache in her cheeks and willed herself to relax. She had chosen this path. She had known it was going to be difficult. But knowledge is only as good as the experience that goes with it. And nothing had prepared her for this.
The flaming torch was dimming and would soon extinguish, leaving them in total darkness and she did not know this part of the castle very well, for it was one of the forbidden places. The previous owner, a Celtic warlord who went by the name of Arthur, had built this castle decades ago. He was long dead now. Her father had killed him.
She glanced across at the man by her side. His head was bent low and his breathing came in frightening gasps. The last time she had seen Alden du Lac he had kissed the palm of her hand, closing her fingers on the kiss as if to keep it safe. His grey eyes had sparkled with amusement when he had looked at her, and his whole face shone with life. With that one teasing kiss, she had fallen. Her days had been filled with dreams of him. Impossible dreams, for he was another woman’s husband. She had no right to think of him in that way and she had tried hard to forget all about him, but no matter what she told herself, she could not stop herself from dreaming.
She watched with panicked fascination as the torch glowed brightly, flickered, then extinguished and the cold darkness engulfed them both.
“I hope you know where you are going?” His voice came out as a hoarse whisper, but at least he had the clarity to speak in Latin, the language of the nobility and a language they both shared. “I think so,” Annis replied honestly, as she let the now-useless torch slip from her fingers and clatter to the floor.
“I feel so reassured,” he said, trying to bite back the sarcasm, but she had heard it.
“I can always take you back.” Annis stated, a touch of anger in her soft voice, adding under her breath, “I am doing the best I can.”
“Will they stop ringing that bloody bell if you do?”
Annis snorted on a laugh and then blushed at her unladylike manner and she was glad for the dark. “We can but hope. I’ll say I apprehended you. I might get away with my life!” She began to walk forward, forcing him to move with her.
“Who are you? Where are you taking me?” Alden gasped, as another wave of pain robbed him of his breath momentarily.
“The last place they would expect to find you,” Annis stated. “The very last place,” she added bitterly. Her father thought her worthless. What use was a daughter? She had been a disappointment to him in all her seventeen years of life. But he had not forgotten her completely. She was a bargaining tool now that she had come of age, sold as easily as one would sell a horse. King Natanleod of Sussex was reportedly on his way to claim her. But she had promised herself she would be long gone from here before he did, for Natanleod had a terrible reputation when it came to women and she would be wife number six What had befallen the other five did not bear thinking about, except they were all dead and buried. She had tried to argue with her father, reason with him, but one did not reason with Cerdic of Wessex.
“Are you taking me to Cerdic’s bedroom? He will be surprised!” Alden jested, although where he found the strength to jest at a time like this even he did not know.
Annis felt a small sense of relief, for she feared the torture he had suffered had addled his mind. He still had his sense of humour, even if it was hanging on by a thread and for that, she was thankful. “No. Mine. Now save your breath,” she quickly added, “we still have a long way to go.”

 Copyright © Mary Anne Yarde.   



 

Who was Ambrosius Aurelianus? Arthurian Legend.

King Arthur is often confused with Ambrosius Aurelianus. I have fleetingly mentioned Ambrosius several times before, but I think he deserves a post of his own.
Ambrosius was a war leader of Roman-British decent. Surprisingly the earliest mention of him is in the 6th Century by Gildas. Gildas named very few people in his sermon De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae, but he does name Ambrosius. This is what he had to say...


"... a gentleman who, perhaps alone of the Romans, had survived the shock of this notable storm. Certainly his parents, who had worn the purple, were slain by it. His descendants in our day have become greatly inferior to their grandfather's excellence. Under him our people regained their strength, and challenged the victors to battle. The Lord assented, and the battle went their way."

Although this is very brief, we can deduce a fair amount from it.
Ambrosius was of Roman descent.

  "...his parents had worn the purple..."
Purple was a really important colour. It was worn by the Emperors of Rome. It was the colour worn by those of noble heritage as well as senators. Senior officers in the Roman legions also wore a purple band. Maybe his father held a high rank in the army, or maybe he was  a governor of a provenance in England.

The passage also describes his parents being slain by the Saxons and yet he survived.
  Roman men wearing togae praetextae with reddish-purple stripes during a religious procession.

Ambrosius was a Chrisitan."...The Lord assented..."

He went into battle with God's help - so from that we can assume he was a Christian.
Ambrosius fought the Saxons.
"Sometimes the Saxons and sometimes the citizens were victorious."

I guess things did not always go the way Ambrosius wanted, but it does tell us that he was a great war-leader.

I always found this line very interesting.

"His descendants in our day have become greatly inferior to their grandfather's excellence."

Who was his Grandfather? He was obviously an important person. There has been a fair few name thrown forward as to who Gildas had been talking about, but it is all speculation.
 Bede mentions Ambrosius in his great work, Ecclesiastical History of the English People
"...Their leader at that time was a certain Ambrosius Aurelianus, a discreet man, who was, as it happened, the sole member of the Roman race who had survived this storm in which his parents, who bore a royal and famous name, had perished. Under his leadership the Britons regained their strength, challenged their victors to battle, and, with God's help, won the day."It seemed that Bede took his account from Gildas..dare I say Bede had a better way with words?!
Ambrosius's story is picked up by Nennius.

Nennius suggests that Ambrosius was a very influential warlord. Vortigern, another great powerful warlord, feared the return of Roman rule and he saw Ambrosius as more of a threat to his throne than that of the northern invaders. You may recall a story I wrote in an earlier post about Ambrosius, Vortigern, two dragons and a tower that kept falling down. If you missed it, you can read it here.
By the time Monmouth came to talk about him - his story, like many others of the time, had become fictitious and his connection with Arthurian legend was forever cemented. His name is changed to Pendragon - and he becomes High King Arthur's, uncle. Merlin even builds a memorial for him at Stonehenge.



Sometimes it is argued that Ambrosius is Arthur. Both fought at Badon Hill, both were powerful warlords.
Whether Ambrosius was King Arthur, I don't think we will ever know. Whoever he was, he certainly had a very fascinating life.