Virginia Crow's Blog: Crowvus Book Blog, page 13

#HistFicThursdays - Things to Inspire - Sketches

 If you want to know how someone sees the world, give them a pencil.

Right from an early age, we have a love of drawing. It's true that sometimes children's drawings can be a bit peculiar, but they are exactly how they view the world around them and there is something rather special about that.

A few years ago, we bought a job-lot of books and bits-and-bobs at our local auction. There were some rather lovely things amongst them and, since they only cost a couple of pounds, they were better than bargainous! In them was a collector copy of a biography of the sculptor Alfred Gilbert, who famously created the statue of Eros in Picadilly Circus. As part of the book, there is a hand drawn sketch of one of his designs. It is somehow both messy and precise, giving an idea of how he worked through his ideas until the reached the desired conclusion.

But this was not the greatest treasure in the collection - at least not for us! Buried in amongst the rest of the published and printed books was a sketchbook belonging to a young girl. We later found out that she had been distantly related to Alfred Gilbert, and that this was how the two books came to appear side by side. Her name was Eleanor, and her sketchbook is something else! Through the pages of her pictures, we can see what it was like to be a child during World War Two. Looking at the things she dreamed of, the observations she made, and the cultural background which is so difficult to recapture.

We were so taken with this discovery, we looked into where these had come from and came to know Eleanor rather well through our research and her belongs which we had just acquired.

So sketches can tell us a lot about not only the people who drew them, but also the times they lived in. They are often not intended to be shared beyond someone's immediate circle and so can be entirely honest. There is no need for vanity or pomp when there is only an audience who knows you already.

This picture is a pen and ink of La Tour Magne (The Great Tower), Nîmes, dated 1810. On the reverse is another piece of paper which has a religious poem written on. I have often wondered about this one. It was sold as the work of someone who had undertaken The Grand Tour, but the further I delve into the history of Nîmes at that time, the more I wonder whether or not this was the work of a military man not a tourist. Nîmes is a truly ancient settlement, and its history is full of bloodshed and bitterness. Was this someone's attempt to find a quiet moment of solace in what was an otherwise dangerous and fraught world?

Some of the most notable sketches come from those who were on campaign. There were long periods when servicemen were not required to fight and a sketchbook and pencil were readily at hand. The line between fear and valour has always been paper-thin, and the destraction of art could easily have offered a way for military men to tip the balance.

Of course, not all soldier's sketches were so serious. I have a soft spot for the one below, because it makes me thing of my own Great-Great-Grandfather who was in the Boer War and later became a recruiting sergeant. I like to think he would have wanted all the soldiers to be as happy as this chappy.

But it's not just soldiers who are sketchers, and they are certainly not always the subject. I have no idea who this lady was, who drew her, nor why she is in that particular pose with her stick, but she certainly has plenty of stories to tell. Perhaps that is why sketches are just so inspiring, because they give us a unique outlook on the way the world was seen, and ignite a unique voice in which to tell our stories.

#HistFicThursdays - Steel Valley: Coming of Age in the Ohio Valley in the 1960s - Jerry Madden

 This week for #HistFicThursdays, I'm delighted to be teaming up with The Coffee Pot Book Club to shine a spotlight on Jerry Madden's fabulous book, Steel Valley: Coming of Age in the Ohio Valley in the 1960s!

So, let's meet the book...

For readers of The World Played Chess by Robert Dugoniand Last Summer Boys by Bill Rivers

Love is never easy...even in easier times, like the 1950sand 1960s in the Ohio Valley with the steel industry booming.

Second-generation immigrant families were reaching forthe American middle class. And Catholic schools-made feasible by selflessCatholic nuns-promised bigger lives for everyone, including Jack Clark andLaurie Carmine. As they spent years searching for their separate futures,though, they were also stumbling toward love just as their world came crashingdown.

SteelValley depicts a story of love longed for, lost, and perhaps still withinreach, just as our nation's mythic yesterday became our troubled today, ourlast summer of innocence.

You can buy Steel Valley via this Universal Link!

 Now, let's meet the author:

Jerry Madden grew up in the Upper Ohio Valley in the 1960s. He holds a B.A. from the College of Steubenville and law degrees from the University of Dayton School of Law and the Georgetown University Law Center. After law school, Jerry served as the sole law clerk to the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Ohio, C. William O'Neill. He served in the United States Marine Corps (R) between 1970 and 1976. 
Jerry has practiced law in Washington, D.C., since 1979, including fourteen years at the Department of Justice as a trial and appellate attorney. He is the principal of The Madden Law Group PLLC in Washington, D.C. 
He lives in Northern Virginia with his wife, Cyndi, a retired educator. They have two children, Kelsey and Jack, both of whom hold M.Ed. degrees. They have one grandchild, Jamie Maclennan. 
You can find Jerry on these links:Website - Twitter - Amazon - Goodreads
To follow the rest of the Steel Valley tour, click on the banner below:

#HistFicThursdays - A Grave Every Mile - David Fitz-Gerald - Book Excerpt

  

 Today for #HistFicThursdays, I am delighted to be sharing a book excerpt from David Fitz-Gerald's fabulous new book! I'm once again teaming up with The Coffee Pot Book Club to share a sample of the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail book series from A Grave Every Mile!

First of all, let's meet the book...

Embark on a harrowing trek across the rugged American frontier in 1850. Your wagon awaits, and the untamed wilderness calls. This epic western adventure will test the mettle of even the bravest souls.

Dorcas Moon and her family set forth in search of opportunity and a brighter future. Yet, what awaits them is a relentless gauntlet of life-threatening challenges: miserable weather, ravenous insects, scorching sunburns, and unforgiving terrain. It's not merely a battle for survival but a test of their unity and sanity.

Amidst the chaos, Dorcas faces ceaseless trials: her husband's unending bickering, her daughter's descent into madness, and the ever-present danger of lethal rattlesnakes, intensifying the peril with each step. The specter of death looms large, with diseases spreading and the eerie howls of rabid wolves piercing the night. Will the haunting image of wolves desecrating a grave push Dorcas over the edge?

With each mile, the migration poses a haunting question: Who will endure the relentless quest to cross the continent, and who will leave their bones to rest beside the trail? The pathway is bordered by graves, a chilling reminder of the steep cost of dreams.

A Grave Every Mile marks the commencement of an unforgettable saga. Start reading Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail now to immerse yourself in an expedition where every decision carries the weight of life, death, and the pursuit of a brighter future along the Oregon Trail.

You can buy A Grave Every Mile is available on #KindleUnlimited via this link.
And here's an excerpt to whet your appetite:

Independence, Missouri, April 13, 1850

I hate it when men fight. After a man throws his first punch, he doesn’t remember why he’s fighting. Where’s the marshal? A town the size of Independence must have a lawman.

A crowd gathers in the rutty street as two men face each other, circling, waiting for an opportunity to swing. The blond combatant hollers in a high-pitched voice, “Take that back, Bobby.”

The dark-haired man, evidently Bobby, shouts, “No, I won’t. You can’t make me.”

The other man shouts, “You can’t talk about my wife like that. I’ll rip your head off.”

“She may be your wife, Wayne, but she’s also my sister. I’ll say what I want.”

Wayne lands a glancing blow on Bobby's cheek. As the punched man’s face turns, I realize these aren’t men. They’re practically boys.

The crowd cheers, encouraging them on. I’ve heard enough. If nobody is going to stop them, I will. My youngest daughter whines as I slide her from my hip, and wails when her feet reach the boardwalk in front of the dry goods store. My twelve-year-old daughter’s eyes reflect trepidation and I reassure her. “Don’t worry, Rose, honey. Hold Dahlia Jane’s hand. Stay right here until I return, and please don’t wander off, for Heaven’s sake.” I glance about to see where my husband and the boys are, but they're nowhere in sight. Not that Larkin would intervene. He would just shake his head and frown.

Two steps from the walkway, in front of the mercantile, my boots meet the muddy, uneven street. Even over the heads of observers, now three deep, I peg the fighters. At times like these, being a woman who is taller than most men is an advantage. As I push people aside, the two men growl at each other. Their arms lock as the evenly matched scrappers transition from fisticuffs to grappling. A trickle of blood dribbles from the corner of Bobby's mouth, and Wayne has a crimson eyebrow.

A tidy-looking young woman catches my attention. First, she addresses the dark-haired man, evidently her husband. “Stop it, Bobby." Then she reprimands her brother. "Knock it off, Wayne. You are creating a scene. Somebody will get hurt.” She glances up at me, her brow furrowed. It seems like a plea for help. I should know better than to interfere in the business of strangers. How many times have I been warned not to get involved? I can never help myself in such situations.

I step toward the snarling bruisers, grab each man by the back of his shirt, and separate them. The scrawny hooligans are surprisingly easy to lift. Maybe they seem so light because of all the years I spent chopping wood. The brown-haired man squirms more than his opponent, who implores, “What are you doing, lady? Have you gone mad?”

“My name ain’t Lady. It’s Dorcas, or Mrs. Moon, if you must.” Their dangling legs barely reach the ground. I clutch wads of fabric in my fists and their feet dance urgently beneath them, trying to find purchase within the muck. I feel like a schoolmarm interrupting a playground scuffle, but these are not children. I gaze into the dark eyes of one boy, then the bright eyes of the other. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sure you know better than to behave like this. What would your mothers think to see you now? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The people around us shuffle out of the way, and I’m surprised by an oncoming carriage. It’s too late to duck to the side of the street. A team of shiny black horses swiftly conveys a magnificent rig through a gloppy puddle a few feet from the boys and me, drenching my pink checked dress in pungent mud.

 Now, let's meet the author:

David Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a member of the Historical Novel Society.

Alpine landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head. He is also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level.

Dave is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music. It should be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses.

You can find David on these links:

Linktree -Website - Twitter - Facebook - Instagram - Pinterest - Book Bub - Amazon Author Page - Goodreads

To follow the rest of the tour for A Grave Every Mile, click on the banner below:

#HistFicThursdays - The Skjoldmø and The Seer - Free Short Story

This short story is a part of my Caledon world - a much earlier incarnation of the spirit of Scotland. Here, the adventure heads back to the 9th Century Highlands, and the continuing skirmishes between the Norse and the Picts, as well as one of the most outrageous deaths in history...

The Skjoldmø and The Seer

“Not only is he a coward…” I listened to Father’s drunken words which filled the hall with laughter. No one would remember them in the morning. A spray of mead left his mouth as he added: “He is an ugly man.”

“Sigrid.”

Turning at the sound of my name, I frowned to find no one there.

“Sigrid, I’m outside.”

A smile split my face as I recognised that voice. I left the hall and walked to Bridei who waited there. His painted arm reached out to me and I took his hand, our fingers interlocking.

“There’s a great celebration in there.”

I nodded. “Father has challenged Máel Brigte to a forty-man battle, but he’s taking twice as many men.”

“It won’t work.” Bridei pulled his hand back, hiding his face as he rubbed his eyes. “I know he will kill your father. The waters told me. That’s how I knew of the ship which brought you here. That’s why my father left me here: to listen to the waters.”

I rested my head against Bridei’s shoulder. I was short for a skjoldmø, but no one would challenge Sigurd the Powerful on his runt of a daughter. Waiting until Bridei once more interlocked his fingers with mine, I listened to Father’s merriment. I couldn’t imagine Bridei behaving like that. His gentle nature was an embarrassment to Máel Brigte who showed consistent favour to Bridei’s two younger brothers. But I had always been surrounded by warriors. There was something enticingly different about Bridei’s calm mannerisms.

“Sigrid, did you hear that?”

I shook my head, reluctant to divulge the thoughts which had distracted me.

“The waters are calling your name.” Bridei turned to face me, and I was surprised to find his eyes glistened. Disquieted by this, I spoke sternly.

“Are you playing a game, Bridei? It’s not a funny one.”

“I have to go and warn my father.”

“It’s not your duty.” I snatched his hand. “He’s forsaken you.”

Bridei chewed his lower lip. “He must kill Sigurd,” came his whispered response, drenched in self-loathing. “He has to kill your father, Sigrid, or my prophecies will have been wrong.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I demanded. Father was nothing to Bridei, ignorant even of his existence. Had he not been, he would have had the young man put to death for placing a hand on me.

Refusing to meet my eye, Bridei shook his head. Something in his lowered expression sang a warning. I trusted him never to lie to me, but I knew he didn’t tell me everything. Without another word, Bridei slipped away, not westward to where Máel Brigte and his men waited to meet Father’s challenge, but to the north. Evidently, he had thought better of warning his father.

As the drunken revelry of the hall collapsed into loud snores, I lay awake beside the hearth. The smoke was circling in the air, reeking of this land’s strangeness but, every time I tried to hate it, I was unable to do so. Bridei epitomised it, and he didn’t need another enemy, another person he sought to please but only scorned him. Stepping into the night, I drew my blade and stared at the twisting patterns the fire had forged there. I had learnt to use it, partaking in all Father’s battles.

If Bridei had warned his father, this might be my last chance to see him. In death, he would never be granted a place in Valhalla, while I was certain a seat already waited for me. Bridei always went north, so I set out in that direction, keeping the sea to my right and the hills to my left. The terrain between the two was largely flat and empty. By the time I reached a small river, my feet were tired and I decided against crossing. There was a ford, suggesting it was used often, but I saw no one.

“Sigrid.”

I instinctively set my hand on my sword. “Bridei?”

“Skjoldmø,” the voice breathed.

For the first time, I felt afraid. I, who had charged into battle along the coast of this strange land, who had inflicted and received countless wounds, became rooted to the ground. The voice didn’t speak again but, feeling exposed by my fear, I continued up the stream. Whoever had thought to play such a trick would be sorry they chose me as their victim.

I followed the river, listening for sounds beyond the water. There were none, and I found myself in a deep ravine with sides like cliffs. There was very little light here. At times, I had to wade into the stream, trusting my leather boots not to leak. Shivering as I pulled myself onto the verge, I wondered whether my feet were wet or only cold. Dogged determination had now swallowed sense. I should have turned back. I was lost. But I had to find whoever had spoken my name. Someone here knew me. Perhaps Bridei had told his people and an ambush waited. Perhaps I had been wrong about his gentle nature, and he would seize me in an attempt to exchange my life for his father’s.

As I turned the corner, I instantly regretted my thoughts. Bridei lay before me, his head nestled on a pillow of moss, while his thin body trembled against the cold night despite his blanket. This was his camp, with a small basket of gathered mushrooms and a broad but uselessly short knife being the only possessions in sight.

“Sigrid Skjoldmø.”

I stared at Bridei. He was certainly asleep. His lips never moved as the words sounded again and again.

“Let him sleep,” I hissed, no longer afraid of this voice, only angry it was trying to wake Bridei. He did stir now, his breath a stream of mist. I shrugged out of the reindeer skin on my shoulders and placed it over him.

“He cannot hear me when I speak to you.”

Without moving my feet, I looked around. There was no one there. I stood alone over my sleeping friend.

Frothy bubbles trimmed the pool next to me, caused by a waterfall at its edge, but the centre was entirely calm. The birches which lined the gorge were thinner here, and the moon shone on the water, filling the air with a silver glow. But something else was mirrored there. In the surface of the pool, the waterfall’s reflection came to life.

“Njǫrd?” I stammered the god’s name in disbelief.

“I have need of you, Sigrid Skjoldmø. This land has need of you.”

“You’re who speaks to Bridei. He said you spoke my name. I rebuked him.” I felt suddenly guilty as I looked at the sleeping man.

“He has not told you all. If Máel Brigte fails to kill Sigurd, he will be renounced as a false seer and killed. As you asked him to spare your father through his silence, the same act will cost his life.”

I swallowed hard and glared at the water. If this was Njǫrd, a certain level of respect had to be maintained, but I felt angry at the obvious intrusion he had made into our earlier conversation.

“Take your flask, Sigrid Skjoldmø, and draw water from the pool. Before the moon is spent you will have need of its healing qualities. Drink of it yourself.”

I followed Njǫrd’s command.

“But be warned,” he continued. “Only one other can drink from it, and Sigurd the Powerful will be laid low by Máel Brigte.”

“Father will kill his enemy!” I loyally shouted. Birds flew from their roosts at this outburst and, as they obscured the moon’s light, Njǫrd vanished.

I shivered, staring vehemently at Bridei as though he were to blame for Njǫrd’s words. Father was a far greater warrior than Máel Brigte, and Bridei’s prophecies were nothing but an attempt to unsettle Father’s men.

By the time I reached the hall, my anger had subsided but my determination was stronger than ever. I readied to ride into the hills alongside the rest of Father’s men. Father’s scout reported Máel Brigte had assembled his men at the River Oykel, ready for the challenge.

Despite my resolve to see Father victorious, I was exhausted by the time we camped at the mouth of the river. Father wasted no time in having his cup brought to him, and I listened with a smile as he and his men shared their stories. They were the same stories I heard on the eve of every battle, growing with each telling.

“I will give Sigrid to whoever brings me Máel Brigte’s head!”

I glared as Father pointed at me. “I have a say in who I marry.”

“Wouldn’t you want to marry the man who killed your father’s enemy?” There was a tone to Father’s words which I knew I shouldn’t cross, but my tired senses were too slow to correct.

“I thought you wished to kill him, Father. Or do you fear the native prophecy will come true?”

“What native prophecy?”

I had everyone’s attention now, and I clamped my mouth closed, wishing I had done a better job of guarding my tongue. I couldn’t let Father know about Bridei. The men around me took my reddening cheeks as anger at Father’s words rather than my own stupidity. Contriving a way out of exposing Bridei and escaping marriage, I smiled.

“The natives say Máel Brigte will kill you, Father. His own son foresaw it. But I know you will not fail.”

Derision and curses were rained on the enemy and, to my immense relief, Father claimed he would slaughter Máel Brigte with his own hands if necessary. I was saved from talk of marriage. It wasn’t that I deplored the idea, but I liked being myself and the thought of living as a wife was not the future I had in mind. Besides, there was no man I wished to marry.

My dreams that night were determined to prove me wrong. In them, I was standing at the pool where I had met Njǫrd, but the water ran red.

“This is what awaits on the river,” Njǫrd’s voice announced. There was no emotion at all to his voice, neither angry nor sad.

“Father will kill Máel Brigte.” I heard the proud defiance in my words, but it dissolved into horror as Njǫrd spoke.

“Neither Sigurd nor Máel Brigte have turned the water red, Sigrid Skjoldmø.”

I gave a strangled sound as I lifted my gaze to Bridei. He was hanging by his wrists from a branch over the pool, countless injuries lacerating his body. For a moment, his eyes met with my own before a spear struck his stomach and his gaze dropped under this fatal wound.

“You are no longer your father’s daughter,” Njǫrd continued. “You have been called to this land. The life of the seer is in your hands. Do you have the strength to save him?”

“He’s dead.” I repeated the words in a cycle of disbelief, anger, and sadness.

“They seek a way of destroying him. You are that way.”

I awoke to a frosty morning. Father’s men were preparing for battle and I wasted no time in joining them. Consigning the night’s visions to draumskrok nonsense, I dismissed the possibility the Norns had prepared Bridei’s thread for severing. Father’s battlefield advice echoed in my head: Too many thoughts lead to too many deaths. Even if Bridei had warned his father, he would be far away now. Máel Brigte would never trust his eldest son’s weak arm as one of his chosen forty warriors. I couldn’t blame him for that, I wouldn’t trust Bridei to know what to do with a weapon either.

We met Máel Brigte at midday, as had been agreed between him and Father. It didn’t take him long to recognise Father’s cheat. Dismounting as the two armies met, I felt once more the thrill of combat. This was the road to glory, the road to Valhalla. Whatever happened on this field would result in victory, in this life or the next. The combat was brutal and bloody but, outnumbered two-to-one, there was little hope for Máel Brigte’s men.

Proudly hoisting the severed head of his enemy, Father concluded the battle. Máel Brigte was as ugly as Father had announced, his deformed jaw and teeth making him look more like a boar than a man. But, as Father attached this trophy to his saddle, I thought of Bridei for the first time since reaching the battleground. This was his father.

As we reached the river, Father’s horse sidled, throwing its head and stamping the ground. Grabbing and twisting its ear, Father cursed as he pulled Máel Brigte’s head free from where the man’s protruding tooth had sunk into his leg. The tooth, almost an inch long, was covered in Father’s blood.

“The swine still bites,” Father growled, ripping the tooth free from the decapitated head. “I shall adorn my hilt with this and use it as a second blade. And where is his son now, Sigrid?”

I glared at Father.

“False seer. He should be spreadeagled for such lies.”

“What of your own lies?” I realised I had spoken too hastily for any neutrality to be believed. Father threw his trophy at me.

“I want you to find this alleged seer, Sigrid, and bring him to me. I will show him what has become of his prophecy.”

My eyes narrowed, but I held my tongue as I passed Máel Brigte’s head back. “I’ll find him, Father.” Snatching my horse’s reins, I walked towards the battleground. North, that was the direction Bridei always went.

I had no plan beyond finding him. Reaching another river and remembering with a smile how Bridei spoke of his love of water and the words it shared, I followed it northward, over the gentle mossy shore and into the rocky, precarious mountains beyond. Unsure how much further the horse could go on this terrain, I wondered whether I had been wrong to come this way. I paused as the setting sun reflected on the surface of the river, colouring it crimson. Njǫrd’s words raced through my head and, discarding the horse’s reins, I scrambled further into the hills.

A short way along the river was a series of rocks supporting small rapids. Beyond this, the river was overhung by a cluster of alders and I stared in disbelief at the scene which unfolded there. Bridei hung from one of the branches. His feet were in the current, which tried to carry him downstream, but his bound wrists held him in place. Just as Njǫrd had shown me in my dream, his naked torso was torn and bruised. I glared at the four men who stood beyond the river, each gripping a spear. They hadn’t noticed me.

“You deceived him!” shouted one. “You tricked Father into facing those cheats.”

“I tried to warn him.” Bridei’s voice was frail, and I attempted to climb the rocks towards him. But the spray made them slippery and I slid back down.

“What do the waters tell you now?” mocked another. “Do they tell you he disowned you?”

“That Máel Brigte will kill Sigurd.” Bridei’s voice was frantic now. “He was still my father.”

“A bastard and a traitor,” agreed the third.

The final man turned his spear in his hand, and I clawed at the rocks, pulling myself up. I had to stop them. I had to make sure the dream remained as draumskrok.

“If you’re lucky, our aim will be true, or you’ll starve to death. What do the waters answer to that?”

“Sigrid.”

I stopped in the action of rising to my feet. Bridei hadn’t seen me, neither had the others. Then why did he speak my name? But a Norse name on the tongue of their kinsman only enraged the men more. Three of them launched their spears at him, one missed, while the other two cut into his side and shoulder as they continued their flight. Trapped on the other side of the river, I looked for anything which would stop the final man from throwing his spear. Bridei’s brother savoured each of the tears and sobs which came from the wounded man. This would be the wound which killed Bridei. I knew it. I had seen exactly this in my dream.

Without any projectile, all I could do was shout, hoping the surprise would be enough to stop the fatal trajectory of the weapon. I don’t know what I shouted. Perhaps there were no words, but I know it became an angry scream as I watched the spear sheathe itself in Bridei’s abdomen. I fell silent as his eyes met my own, just as they had in the dream, before his head fell forward. I had seen so much bloodshed today, inflicted so much death to secure my place in the afterlife, but this view horrified me.

My sword was in my hand before I had realised what I was doing. Splashing into the river, I tried to find my way across to the other side. But the world was growing darker and there was no clear path.

I stopped as I heard a new enemy. A voice, or perhaps more than one, echoed along the river with a prolonged howl. Unable to see more than shapes in the twilight, I watched as a leggy creature leapt at the four men. I could hear more than I could see. The pack were bringing down the men who had mocked Bridei, and I heard their own cries as pitiful as his had been. But I felt only disgust for them. After growls, snarls, curses, and whimpers, the night became silent as I negotiated my way to where Bridei hung. The water bubbled its way downstream, carrying Bridei’s blood amongst its crystals. I couldn’t hear any words on it.

“You won’t touch him,” I growled, more than matching the lupine expression which stared back at me. I pointed my sword towards the animal, wondering how many more were hidden in the night. In disbelief, I watched as the creature faded into the darkness.

Cutting Bridei down was difficult, but eventually I severed the cord and set him on the bank. The spear still protruded from his body and his breathing was laboured to the point of repulsing me. Taking hold of the shaft, I willed myself to remove the weapon. I had seen men survive being hit by spears, but never in their gut.

“Sigrid?” Bridei made several attempts before my name was formed.

“Quiet.”

“The waters…”

“They tricked you, Bridei.” I breathed out, tightening my grip, but I must have moved it slightly, for Bridei’s breaths became even more frantic.

“They’re calling you.”

Each one of those words was a battle to my friend, each one becoming more precious than the one before. Screwing my face into a sneer of determination, I yanked the spear from Bridei’s body. I couldn’t see his face, but his body relaxed as his breathing became shallow.

“No, I can’t be the reason they destroy you.” I reached my hand towards his cheek and willed myself to set it there. Unable, I pulled back. I had seen Bridei’s death foretold by Njǫrd. I couldn’t believe in draumskrok or coincidence now. So, as my hand brushed over my flask, I recalled the god’s words about healing.

“Your father,” Bridei sighed, trying to refuse the flask. But the act of talking proved too great for him, and I felt his chest become still.

“I am no longer my father’s daughter,” I replied numbly, praying to Njǫrd that the flask would restore my friend. My confused emotions battled as I realised Bridei wasn’t moving. Finally, I settled on anger. I would take him to Father. I would prove there was no honour in killing a man like Bridei.

The mountain mist soaked me as it closed in. Carrying Bridei was difficult, but my horse hadn’t wandered and, setting him over the saddle, I led the animal forward, careful to follow the river. Without it, I would have become truly lost.

As this river met with the River Oykel, I stopped for the night. The landscape was more open here and snatches of diluted moonlight shone through. I had left the mist behind, but the ground was damp. I lifted Bridei down and looked at him, my lower lip trembling.

“Njǫrd will guide you home.”

They were the only words I spoke that night.

I awoke to the smell of smoke, and immediately my hand reached to my sword. Kneeling up and drawing the weapon in one smooth movement, I gaped at the view before me. A tiny fire smouldered a short distance away and, huddled beside it and shivering violently, was Bridei.

“You were dead.”

He turned at my words. I watched as he looked down at his stomach, nodding slightly. But this return from death had silenced his gentle tongue and, while I spoke continuously to him, he never offered anything more than smiles to me.

This posed a conundrum. If I were to take Bridei to Father, he would certainly be killed. But I couldn’t abandon Father. No, I would take Bridei and defend him. Njǫrd said Bridei’s life was in my hands, I was determined to have the strength to save it.

Bridei never challenged me on my decision, although he was clearly anxious about its outcome. But neither of us had need to worry for, as we reached Father’s men, it was to the terrible discovery that he had fallen sick. Abandoning Bridei, I entered Father’s tent.

“Sigrid,” he began, his eyes wild as they settled on me. “Where is that seer?”

I pointed to where Bridei stood at the tent opening, hugging his arms around his scarred body. But all the wounds he had received only the day before, looked years old.

“I won’t let you hurt him, Father,” I stubbornly announced, but Father’s eyes were not angry but awestruck. I had never seen such an expression on his face.

“Curse you, boy! I should have heeded your words.”

Bridei glanced at the warriors who gathered for their leader’s final moments. I stared at them, my expression pulling an explanation from their lips.

“Máel Brigte’s bite festered, Skjoldmø. The poison is in Sigurd’s blood.”

“The waters were right,” Bridei sobbed, the first words in his new life.

“No man could have known,” Father hissed through gritted teeth, his brow drenched in the effort of words. I looked down at my flask, realising the weight of Njǫrd’s and Bridei’s words. I couldn’t save him. “Trust him, Sigrid. He hears the gods.”

I remained with Father as his fever rose, induced by the wound from the corpse’s tooth. Bridei stood at my shoulder, silent once more. But I didn’t want words. Repeatedly, I assured Father of his journey to Valhalla, that his death would be looked on as glorious.

He died in the evening, facing the sea. The following morning, he was buried within a howe with Máel Brigte’s head at his feet, before the celebration of his journey into the afterlife began. I partook in each stage of the ceremony but, as the drinking continued into the night, I slipped away.

There was no mistaking Bridei. He was thinner than all of Father’s men, and the remnants of the painted emblems on his upper arms shone in the moonlight.

“I’m not a false seer,” he whispered as I stopped beside him. “The waters were true.”

“What do they tell you now?” I threaded my fingers into his own and stared across the river.

“Your name.” Bridei’s lips turned into a shy smile and, without meaning to, I openly laughed. He hurriedly continued. “And that you’re the strength we need to restore our land, Sigrid Skjoldmø.”

“If that’s true,” I continued, placing my free hand on his cheek without caring what such things meant, “I’ll need the guidance of a noble seer.”

#HistFicThursdays - Dreams (or: Don't Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth)

 It is a truism that writers' minds spring to life the moment we are nowhere near our computers. As soon as we are snuggled up in bed, beginning to drift off to sleep, the best plot twists and most amazing characters appear in our mind's eye. This is why I have an array of notebooks by my bed, as well as about six pens (just in case the first five don't work!), because I know I will not remember these details beyond the morning.

Be smart, writers: ready your notebooks!

Here is an example, and the story of how The Year We Lived came into existence...

There is only one thing more immersive than a good book. No, not a film. I love films, but there isn't that envelopment which you get when you read, when the pages reach out and hug you into their story's embrace. The only thing more encompassing is a dream. In dreams anything is possible: any world; any time; any person - the opportunities are limitless. The only problem is we don't get to choose them.

There are inevitably those dreams which are so boring you would never bring them to life, although these tend to be the ones which trick you over the following days as you try to remember what was real and what was dreamed.

There are recurring dreams, too. Ones where you go back to the same place or time as another dream and, even though you know in your dream that you've only ever dreamt this reality, it seems wholly believable at that moment.

But then there are the dreams which take you as far from everyday life as you could imagine. These are where those notebooks come in handy! Writers, you will never have the same dream as someone else. Whatever we dream is unique to us, even if these dreams are in the similar vein to someone elses, there will be something which makes it different.

November 2018 there was one such dream for me. I remember waking up and thinking how amazing that story-dream had been. I can't remember now whether I was a character in the dream, or only sitting on the sidelines and watching it all unfold, but I do remember thinking how amazing it would be as a story. I was keeping a sketch diary at the time and, over the following days, the sketches were all filled with scenes from that dream, eager to preserve the images so I could recreate them in my new book. Of course, I couldn't believe no one had come up with it before, so I looked around for anything which was remotely like it. Surely my subconscious could not have imagined such a story. But no, my imagination really was working overtime while I slept!

Five years down the line, and I am so grateful of that sketch book and all the notes I scribbled down. It's true that the plot developed out of the one I had dreamt, but its core remains true to the tale my mind told me.

Clemency laughs at me for the quantity of dream sequences I have in my writing - and I certainly do have quite a few - but looking at how inspiring they have been in my own life, why wouldn't I?!

Top Tip: Find a notebook and keep it beside your bed. You can jot down the occasional story idea which comes to you in a dream, or you could even have a go at keeping a dream diary. Your next story idea could be waiting there in your subconscious!

#HistFicThursdays - Things to Inspire - Musical Instruments

 A couple of years ago, I wrote a blog post about Writing from Artefacts about a box of historical objects I received as a gift. Each month of 2024, I hope to build on this and introduce you to some of the artefacts I've gathered over the years. These are all things which have been - at least in part - inspirations for me, and I hope they will give you a few extra ideas along the way for your own writings...

The old organ in Thomaskirche

It's probably unsurprising that I'm starting with musical instruments, since music is my day job! There tends to be music in all my stories, and there is something very special about connecting to the music of the past. When I went on my German adventure in 2013, it was very special to visit Thomaskirche in Leipzig, where Bach was the Director of Music for more than quarter of a century.

Here are three of my own little musical treasures...

Music is something which is here to stay - its forward-facing legacy at least as long as its past. Whatever you are writing, whatever time or whatever place, music would always be a part of life. It is wonderful to be able to hold and study instuments made in traditional ways and with traditional crafts.

I have no idea what the age of these drums are, but they are made in a traditional style, using hollowed wood and animal skins. I would love to know more about where they came from and who made them, but there is no clue that I can find about either thing.

I got this bugle from a local auction. It is a military instrument, probably from WWI. Not being a wind musician at all, I can't get a note out of it, but Judith (our resident trumpeter) managed to play The Last Post on it. It was a very strange thing to hear that music on an instrument which - in all likelihood - had not played it for a century. Every dent on here has its own story, and I love imagining what that story might be.

Delving a little further back in time, this drum dates from the turn of the 20th Century. Again, it came from a local auction but from a different house clearance. This is a marching drum, still carrying its original (as far as I can tell!) skin on one side, although this is now torn, while the other side has been fitted with a synthetic skin.

Caithness held many Mafeking Night celebrations and - judging by the age and style of this drum - this could easily be a part of those celebrations.

#HistFicThursdays - Invention, Nature's Child - Free Short Story

I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that I took the title for this short story from a poem! If you are unfamiliar with the poem, I've included it at the bottom of this post rather than here since it gives away a significant part of the plot.

So here is a little piece of historical sci-fi because, as fans of Doctor Who know, sci-fi is not limited to the future!

Girolamo Fabrizio
(from Wikipedia)
Invention, Nature's Child

Candlelight flickered in the small office, the pale stone walls alive with dancing shadows. They were monstrous, not in size but in shape. Deformed oddities and dissected organs in jars which refracted the flame’s glow.

“Sir?” Harvey asked. There was no sign of his teacher. “Doctor Fabrizio?”

“You’re returning to your language already?” came an amused voice from behind an amphora. It spoke in Italian, but Harvey had heard almost no other language in three years, making it easy to understand. Adjusting his own speech accordingly, he replied.

“I am to leave this evening. And I should be in England once again before the summer. But I will take a great deal of learning with me, sir. And, were there ever a way to repay the debt I owe you for such an education, I should happily settle it.”

Fabrizio emerged from where he had been sitting. His old eyes, hooded and heavy, studied Harvey with an expression he could not fully understand. Was it amusement? Affection? Pride? Or perhaps all three?

“What extent of debt do you believe you have accumulated?”

Harvey paused, unsure what Fabrizio meant. He had only been polite, as his father had taught him and his mother had further recommended in the series of correspondence.

“Not so great, I hope, that I cannot repay it.”

“Wisely answered.” There was definitely amusement in the old man’s voice now. He was laughing at Harvey, and Harvey could not understand why. “I have only a request, a favour you might say. I would like you to take another student back with you. He is from your native England, but he is unsure about the journey.”

Breathing a sigh of relief before he had time to check himself, Harvey nodded. “Of course, sir. Although, pardon, but has he means to fund his travel?”

“You need have no concern on that account. He is a student of Padua, the greatest university in the world. It will pay for you both to return to your homeland.”

Having been taught never to assume poverty by his father, but how to accept the offering of a gift by his mother, the young graduate stood for a moment, perplexed over how to proceed. Fabrizio had clearly noted this inner turmoil, but it served only to raise his amusement. After a moment, the old man began making arrangements, telling Harvey where and when he could expect the mysterious Phillips, and concluding the conversation by offering him a large purse. Harvey took it uncertainly, thanked Fabrizio, and left the office.

He gathered his belongings and prepared for the journey home. He was eager to see his parents and his younger siblings again, but he was equally sad to be leaving behind this institution and its magical country. Padua was a seat of great wisdom and he could hardly believe he had been fortunate enough to graduate as a Doctor of Medicine from such a place as could trace its roots into the bedrock of learning. It would be strange and stifling to return to simple Chigwell, where so few people ventured further than the parish boundary.

Having a companion was a welcome distraction. Phillips was a fine young man who, despite his youthful appearance, explained himself as being older than Harvey when the newly-qualified doctor bluntly asked. He had a high forehead and perfect skin and a body which looked able to withstand any form of exercise, and Harvey found himself feeling a certain amount of insecurity around such an ideal model of manhood. But Phillips’ nature did not match his physique. He was shy, quiet, and almost cowardly. Harvey, unable to accept that his jealousy might have caused any of these traits, had talked more than enough for them both in an attempt to make Phillips more comfortable and, by the time they boarded the boat which would take them to their homeland, the two had become good friends.

On arriving in Folkestone, Harvey offered his hand to Phillips.

“I never asked where you were going,” he began cheerfully. “Where is your home, Phillips?”

“First I must visit London.” Phillips’ voice was uncertain. “In truth, Harvey, I don’t expect to be well-received.”

For a moment, Harvey worked his jaw, trying to tempt words to issue but none would come.

“You wouldn’t have travelled with me if you knew the truth,” Phillips continued, utterly crushed by his own admission. “My brother-in-law and my daughter’s husband were accused of treason. That’s why I was sent away from Padua. I am to petition the queen for my son-in-law’s release.” He lowered his head in shame. “I’m not the man for this job, Harvey. I cannot talk to Her Majesty.”

“Yet,” Harvey added, desperate to help the man before him. Phillips was no more capable of treason than himself, and he refused to accept that a man could be judged by those his family chose to marry. Besides, the longer Elizabeth sat on the throne, the more young men sort to challenge her. Treason was rife in the country and, where it was not, there were rumours aplenty that it was being planned.

“Will you wish me luck, Harvey?” Phillips asked miserably.

Harvey realised he was about to do exactly that, allowing the poor man to face what would certainly be imprisonment, if not death. Word of Queen Elizabeth’s temper and bitterness, unconstrained as it travelled through the papal heartland of Europe, had reached Harvey in Padua, and he was certain she would not take kindly to being questioned by a young upstart. Hastily changing his mind on his words, he smiled.

“Come to Chigwell and meet my family. I should like them to meet you. I’ve a mind to visit London later in the year. I’ll accompany you, if you wish.”

Phillips gave a relieved sigh, scrambling over thanks, and leaning forward to embrace Harvey before correcting himself. They journeyed inland in the carriage Harvey’s father had sent for him. There was no one to meet Phillips, and Harvey’s mind, so accustomed to challenging everything, questioned who his friend truly was, that he should seek an audience with the queen, but receive no welcome returning to his native land.

Phillips, the model gentleman, was welcomed by Harvey’s family. He helped Harvey’s father in his duties as mayor, and assisted with the education of the children. Although the invitation was only meant to last a day or two at most, it was not until several days later that they journeyed to London. 

“Protect one another,” Harvey’s mother said, watching as the two men readied to leave. She parted from Phillips before turning to her son, ensuring he alone would hear her next words. “Be careful, William. Your friend is afraid, and frightened men may lose their loyalties as they gain their fear.”

The journey to London was uneventful. His mother’s words continued to echo through his head as he watched Phillips, whose face was set. Eager to distract his companion from falling into the state of which he had been warned, Harvey smiled and opened a conversation on a neutral topic.

On arriving in London, Harvey expected Phillips to find an inn but, despite knowing the man’s purpose, he stared in mute amazement as Phillips stopped outside the impressive gates of an imposing house.

“What is this place? Is this your home?”

“No,” Phillips replied nervously. “This was Leicester House. It was the home of my uncle, then my poor brother-in-law. I don’t know who lives here, now.”

Unsure, Harvey followed Phillips towards the house. It was larger than the homes of any of his or his father’s friends. His steps stumbled, but Phillips seemed to be gaining in confidence, his back was straightening and his chin lifting in defiance of the nervousness he had exhibited earlier.

The door was opened and Harvey prepared for an angry response that these two unknown men had arrived unannounced. Instead, the face of the man before them turned grey, all colour fading from every inch of his skin so that his brown eyes stood out. This was not anger, it was fear. All too rapidly, however, one gave rise to the other and Harvey blinked in surprise as the man drew the sword he wore.

“This was not the welcome I expected,” Phillips announced, his voice quivering as he raised his hands. “I thought here, more than anywhere in this land, I’d be safe.”

Although these words were spoken as much in fear as sadness, the man before them returned the blade. “Forgive me, Philip,” he whispered, this new form of his companion’s name making Harvey’s forehead crease. “I know now I shall join you soon.”

“What are you talking about?” Phillips asked. “Where do you believe I am?”

“Come inside.” He made no attempt to address the question Phillips had raised. Harvey felt every bone in his body telling him it was not safe to accept this invitation, but Phillips was already stepping into the property, and he could not leave his friend to go alone. “I shall fetch the countess at once.”

Harvey, who had not spoken since they arrived, maintained his silence as he looked at the room into which they were shown. The furniture was lavishly carved into leafy patterns, and there was a tapestry over an enormous fireplace. Two bronze hounds stood on either side so beautifully fired that, as Harvey reached out to one of them, he almost expected to find they were not models at all.

“God have mercy upon me!”

Both Harvey and Phillips turned at this statement. They were met by a pallid-faced woman whose wide skirts seemed to be the only thing keeping her upright. The ruff on her neck framed her failing auburn hair which was capped with a black coif, and her features twitched between horror and gratitude.

“How have you survived?”

Harvey took a step back, as confused as the woman by what he saw before him. Phillips, however, smiled and bowed his head, the only person in the room to maintain their calm.

“Countess, I was sent by Signor Fabrizio.”

“But I have seen your effigy, Philip,” the woman wailed.

Harvey had intended to remain silent, but gave a strangled gasp at her words, drawing two pairs of eyes to him. The countess appeared to have only just noticed his existence, and she rounded on him, demanding answers. But Harvey had none to give. It hardly mattered for, though her lips asked a thousand questions, her ears refused to heed any explanation. Once this interrogation had ended, she walked over to Phillips, her hand outstretched, but seeming almost afraid of what would happen if she touched him.

“It’s nothing short of a miracle,” she laughed, as he took her hand and bowed low to kiss it. “You look so much like your mother’s family, like my dear Dudley. Your cousin, Philip,” she continued, choking on her words. “She killed him. She created him, and then she killed him.”

“My mother killed-?”

The woman held her hand up, silencing his question and looking sidelong at Harvey. Following her gaze, Phillips shook his head.

“I trust Harvey, Countess. He has been truer to me than any friend.”

“That fickle chit,” the woman spat, causing Harvey’s eyebrows to rise. “Not your dear mother, Philip. That wretch who sits upon the throne.”

These words struck Harvey and left him rooted to the spot. After Phillips’ assessment of his character, how could he flee? And yet fleeing was precisely what he desperately wanted to do. The axe, or perhaps worse, awaited him if he remained a part of this conversation.

Perhaps he was worrying unnecessarily, however, for the pair seemed to have forgotten him. They were talking about earls and knights whose names meant nothing to Harvey, the old countess pouring out her heart to her young nephew. Being peripheral also gave him the chance to observe the way in which Phillips responded and, although he comforted and consoled her, there was a certain vacancy in his expression as the woman reeled off all the deaths she had faced, beginning with Phillips’ own disappearance. It almost seemed that Phillips had steeled himself against admitting to an emotion where these horrendous executions were concerned.

“What of the Earl of Rutland?” Phillips asked at length. “Where is my son-in-law?”

“In the Tower still. But, while he is not at liberty, your dear wife has beseeched the queen to let him live well.”

“My wife-?”

“Is my daughter-in-law now. But you must forgive her, Philip. We all believed you were dead.”

Harvey watched as this conversation continued, Phillips refusing to see his wife, and the countess swinging from anger to despair always by way of bewilderment. He volunteered nothing to the conversation but, when he was invited to remain, he felt unable to refuse. He was silent throughout the meal, smiling as often as his conscience would allow, and withdrew early to bed. His bedchamber was as elegant as the rest of the house and he lay awake for hours following the patterns in the bedposts, constantly guttering his candle for fear it would go out and he would be murdered in the dark.

He was awake, then, as the door opened.

The candle was almost entirely burnt out. Its tall flame was strong enough to illuminate the shadowy form who stood in the doorway, but too weak to focus on their features. Harvey shuffled backwards on the bed, his racing mind trying to decide whether it was better to call out or stay silent in the pretence of sleep. But if one person in the house wished him dead, surely they all would and, by the glow of his own candle, the newcomer must have seen him move.

“Forgive me.” It was Phillips’ voice, and Harvey tried to remind himself of the friendship they had formed. “I saw candlelight beneath your door.”

Willing himself to believe this was his companion’s real motive, Harvey nodded, but could not coax his voice to speak. Phillips was wearing a long nightshirt, which hung down to his bare feet. He did not seem to notice the draught which raged through the house, causing his garment to bulge, and extinguishing the flame from Harvey’s candle.

All reason fled at this sudden darkness, and Harvey scrambled from the bed, holding his hand out before him and cursing his eyesight for taking such precious seconds to accustom to the dark.

“Don’t kill me!” he begged, stumbling towards the window, although he did not dare consider the fall he would make if he exited this way.

“Kill you?” Phillips gasped, halting Harvey’s steps as he realised how ridiculous such a notion was. “I wanted to talk to you, that was all. Away from the countess.”

Harvey’s eyes rested on the form which sat down on the bed, and watched as the perfectly balanced shoulders fell forward. Trying to remind himself of the doctor’s oath to care for those in need, he shuffled over and sat beside him.

“What is it?”

“You must have thought me cold for my response downstairs. For not wishing to see my wife, nor to know of my daughter.”

“I try not to judge.” The words were true, but only partially relevant. In truth, he had overlooked the decision amid the horror of the treason his friend was discussing.

“I have no memory of them,” Phillips continued wretchedly. “What should I do with a wife I don’t know? How could I love a daughter who was conceived without my knowing of what it was to feel her mother in my arms?”

“You forgot them? It has been known to happen, Phillips. In war, it happens often, and the countess said you were believed to have died in war. Your mind might recover on seeing them once more.”

Phillips shook his head, lifting his eyes to meet Harvey’s gaze. There was calm on his face, but his words held absolute heartbreak. “I haven’t forgotten them, Harvey. I never knew them. My son-in-law, I met once. Signor Fabrizio saved his life when he fell ill in Italy, but he would only do so in exchange for his marriage to my daughter. But she is not my daughter and so he is not my son.”

None of Phillips’ words made sense. Harvey began to suspect that the poor man was experiencing an active dream. He could remember having to stop his brother sleepwalking out into the streets. How much greater the nightmares must be for a man who had experienced war. Patiently listening to Phillips, discussing the confusion his memory lapse had caused, or the fear he felt at having to confront the queen, Harvey nodded, tutted, and soothed the man, but there was only one course he felt was open to him.

The following day, Harvey addressed a letter to his former tutor, candidly discussing the ailments Phillips appeared to be suffering from, but stopping short of writing anything concerning the mutual dislike of the queen which he appeared to share with the countess. Somehow, writing it made it more real. Unsure how greatly his letter might expose any role he was perceived to have in this treason, Harvey was reluctant to return home. Instead, he wrote as though he was Phillips’ physician, and gave his Cambridge address, where he enlisted as a student once more.

Phillips had remained in London, and it was not until September that Harvey next heard from him. Unable to delay his visit to the queen, Philips asked Harvey to accompany him. Being a measured thinker, Harvey’s mind would not work quickly enough to find a plausible excuse to escape this journey and he found himself walking uncertainly to the palace of Whitehall, amazed and alarmed by how readily Phillips was granted admission. They parted then, Harvey remaining beyond the palace boundaries, while Phillips walked on with a swagger Harvey knew was imagined more than felt.

It took Phillips all afternoon to return, his face calm as he walked out into the onset of night. The twilight was peculiar, and Harvey found himself peering into every growing shadow as though he expected it to leap out and attack him. He suggested taking a boat back to the house, but Phillips just shook his head and continued on foot. When Harvey enquired about the meeting, or concerning the safety of Phillips’ son-in-law, Phillips only answered curtly that the queen had taken one look at him and dismissed him with the words “Sweet Robin” on her lips in a voice which cracked in age and emotion. Harvey longed to believe his friend but when, after only two days, the queen and her company travelled up the river to Richmond Palace, Harvey began to suspect more had happened than Phillips had admitted.

England became awash with rumours of the queen’s failing health. A madness and a melancholy were said to plague her mind and torment her body. She withdrew from all her customary excursions, and whispers abounded that she was willing herself into the arms of death. This, Harvey dismissed as a madness in the populace until one evening in March. He looked up as a servant entered, carrying a letter which he set firmly into Harvey’s hand. Accustomed to a little more care, Harvey would normally have questioned him, but his heart pounded in the hope it contained Fabrizio’s reply, which he had been expecting for half a year. The handwriting was not his former tutor’s however, and Harvey opened it with great interest. Checking the name of the sender, he pushed himself to his feet at once.

“Who delivered this?” he demanded from the servant, who still stood in the room as though he was not only expecting but awaiting this response.

“He’s waiting outside, sir. He could not be coaxed in.”

Harvey ran from the room and out into the night. Just as he had been told, Phillips stood there, his horse’s bridle in his right hand. In his left, he held the reins of another horse and, as Harvey burst onto the street, he offered the reins towards him. Taking them, Harvey stared expectantly at his friend.

“I need your companionship once more, Harvey. It will only be once more.”

“How can I answer yes or no without knowing the nature of such a request?” Harvey breathed, remembering the fear he had felt last summer in London and the misgivings which had followed him since they had visited Whitehall.

“You wrote to Signor Fabrizio about me,” Phillips said, and Harvey was afraid his friend would be angry, but there was only a hint of sadness in his tone. “He responded to your letter through me.”

“When? I have waited for so long for a reply, I was left to believe he might have perished.”

“It arrived a little before I first visited the queen. I had meant to tell you then, but I couldn’t bring myself to impart the knowledge I had gained.”

“First visited?” Harvey whispered.

“Will you meet me in London, Harvey? In the cathedral? I brought you a horse.” His voice was full of desperation, and Harvey was unsure whether it was that tone or his determination to have his questions answered which made him nod.

“Where are you going?”

“To the cathedral. But I must go by way of Richmond.”

“What?” Harvey hissed, his intrigue giving way to fear as he felt once more the panic of being implicated in any form of treason. There could only be one reason for Phillips to visit Richmond.

But his companion would not divulge anything about his journey beyond promising to tell Harvey all he knew when they reached the cathedral. With hasty wishes for safe travel to the capital, Harvey watched as Phillips mounted and rode away. Harvey was not far behind him, settling matters before leaving Cambridge for London. He travelled through the night, breaking his journey in Chigwell, keen to have what he feared might be a final visit to his parents’ house.

The next day, Harvey found himself standing before the immense cathedral. The foreboding tower seemed to crush down on him as he walked forward, and being inside offered no respite from the reminder of how small and insignificant he was. Determined not to question what the future might hold, he walked in as the bells began tolling a plaintive, steady knoll. He looked around, watching as a number of people knelt on the floor wherever they had been standing and began offering prayers. Harvey, uncertain about interrupting them, glanced about the building until his eyes rested on Phillips. The man was standing beside a tomb, his hand stroking the air above it as though he wanted to touch the marble surface but did not dare. Harvey hurried over to him as more people flooded into the nave.

“What has happened?” Harvey whispered, looking at the morbid procession which poured through the building while he and Phillips remained at the side, entirely overlooked.

“The queen is dead.”

Harvey felt his jaw drop, unable to conceal the horror he felt at these words. It was not that he was especially distraught by Her Majesty’s death, the queen had been known to be in ill health, and had reached an age unheard of for her family. But Phillips had been with her. There was only one conclusion he could reach, although it took him several breathless seconds to voice this concern.

“Did you kill her?”

“Yes,” came the unwelcome reply. “I didn’t think you would see it in such a way, Harvey. You, a physician, a man of physicality. I hoped you would not. But then Signor Fabrizio wrote to me of what you had said. And I knew you would know I was to blame.”

“Phillips, please,” Harvey began with a trembling voice which, despite his best effort, continued to shake. “This makes no sense to me. Explain it, I beg you.”

Harvey watched as Phillips set his hand on the marble surface beside him, sighing as he did so. But it was not in sorrow, but relief. “This is my tomb, Harvey. I died, just as the countess said. I was but thirteen years into my life.”

This was met by a blank expression on Harvey’s face as he attempted to make sense of what he had just heard. “But you’re still alive. Here and now. You cannot be dead for I can feel your breath and, were you to give me your hand, would feel your pulse. You’re as alive as I am.”

Phillips shook his head. “And yet I have never shaved, nor grown an inch since I came to life. Nor was I born into this world through any woman’s womb. No, not like the man who lies here,” he added, stroking his hands across the marble. “He was both father and mother to me.”

“Philip Sidney?” Harvey asked, reading the inscription.

“Of all the nephews, the most like his mother’s brother. That was when the plan was hatched. The plan, which should have grown to fruition fifteen years ago.”

Harvey could feel his brow crease in confusion, but waited in silence until Phillips continued.

“Philip Sidney arrived in Padua thirty years ago and, bearing sympathies towards his Catholic predecessors, became acquainted with those like-minded souls who had fled to the continent. Amongst that group was a banished Englishman named Henry Howard. He was an admirer of Signor Fabrizio’s work, so much so that he persuaded Sidney to meet with him. Howard, it would seem, had seen the likeness between Sidney and his uncle, Dudley.”

“Wait,” Harvey stammered, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. “Do you mean Signor Fabrizio plotted to kill the queen?”

“I doubt he cared who held the throne of a foreign land,” Phillips whispered. “He had the opportunity to demonstrate his theory of creating and modifying one life from another in its most complex form. As Eve was drawn from Adam, so too was I drawn from Philip Sidney.”

He sighed, and Harvey sought for any emotion on his features but, for the first time, he realised Phillips’ face had never portrayed emotion. His words and tone had always denoted how he felt, but his face had only ever held one expression. Clearly uncomfortable under this scrutiny, Phillips leaned forward to set his lips against the tomb.

“I had no weapon, Harvey. I needed none to kill her. My own face, a ghost of her past, was enough for his revenge upon her.” Phillips looked at him. “Do you not see, Harvey? I was the weapon. Fabrizio created me to be Philip Sidney, to mimic life. That was why I didn’t remember my wife, or my daughter. That was why I had no memories of childhood, why all recognise me but none know me. Tell me you know me, Harvey,” he added, snatching Harvey’s arms so tightly the young doctor jumped. “You know me, don’t you? Tell me I am not simply Philip Sidney. Can I not be a man in my own right?”

Despite this desperate tirade of words, Phillips’ expression still never altered. But Harvey could feel the rapid pulse through the hands which gripped his arms. His tone proved his words as honest while his face made them appear insincere.

“Of course you are,” Harvey whispered. “Whatever you were created to do, however you were pulled into existence, made not born, your soul is yours and yours alone. Signor Fabrizio could not manufacture that.” As he looked at the perfect form of the man before him, Harvey found himself questioning how Fabrizio had done it. How had he built a man? How had he given life to a creation pieced together from little more than lifeless tissue and bone? And could it ever have been worth it to create the sorry, lost, and confused individual who stood before him?

Phillips nodded and took Harvey’s hand in both of his own. “I wanted to part from you in friendship, Harvey. Do you think you could be a friend of a creature like me? God may have forgotten me, but promise me you will not. He respected you, you must know that. Signor Fabrizio claimed you would go far in your profession, and further still in your compassion. That was the only reason he allowed me to leave, for he so trusted your care and skill.”

Harvey set his free hand over Phillips’ and smiled under the weight of this praise. “And I him. I shall take his teaching and inquiring mind with me throughout my life. And my admiration for you, my friend. You will always have it.”

Phillips nodded slightly, sighing again, in contentment this time. The two men left the colossal church. It was strange to step out into the city and know that the queen, a reliable constant throughout Harvey’s life, was dead. The Tudor line had ended, but the uncertainty which filled the halls of power was not matched in the hearts of the two young men who walked through the damp air of the new year. Life was ready for shaping, for them both, and Harvey felt the corners of his mouth twist up into a smile.

“Have you a place to go? My family would happily take you in until you can establish yourself.”

“Thank you, Harvey, but Howard has found me a position in the service of a gentleman soldier on the continent, named Guido Fawkes. I’m to leave for Calais at once. But I shall hold your invitation in my heart and, should a time arise that I might return to this country, I shall visit you.”

Equally relieved and disappointed to be parting from his friend, Harvey laughed. “No doubt I shall be an old man by then, and you shall not have aged a day.”

Thank you for reading Invention, Nature's Child. I hope you enjoyed it! The title is from a line of Philip Sidney's Sonnet 1. The complete poem is:

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay:
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows,
And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart and write.”

#HistFicThursdays - 2024 Calendar, and Pictures in Stone

 Happy New Year, Readers!
Because we're in a new year, I'm trying to be super-organised. There are so many things going on, I have to keep tabs on everything! So here's what is planned...
This year for #HistFicThursdays, I am opening up a space every month for a fellow Historical Fiction writer to share a guest post. This opportunity is open on a first-come-first-serve basis, so please get in touch if you are interested in having a guest post.
Each month, there will also be a free historical short story or poem, across a broad range of times and genres. There'll be one or two book tour posts, too, and I'm also aiming to write a post about the inspirations for aspects of different books. So, if it all goes according to plan, it will be a very busy year of #HistFicThursdays!

To start off the inspirational posts, here's a quick introduction to my new release. It's not Historical Fiction, but it is all about the inspiration for the story I wrote in NaNoWriMo last year.

Meet the Stempster Stones!

The Stempster Dragon

While clearing a pile of stones which had been dug out of the garden, I kept one or two aside because they had interesting patterns or shapes on them. After swilling them in water and applying a lot of gentle brushing, shapes began to appear. I contacted Treasure Trove Scotland who, very nicely, told me the human marks on the stone were not enough to suggest it had any real archaeological value. That said, I couldn't stop seeing shapes in them, so Dad suggested I wrote a book encouraging young adventurers to spot these patterns, whether they were ancient marks or nature's artistry.

So that was exactly what I did! Pictures in Stone: Early Artists or Natural Wonders? launched yesterday. It's full of fun and creative challenges and activities for young archaeologists. One of the challenges is to create a story inspired by one of the stones, just like I did in NaNoWriMo. My end product was The Stonemason's Crown, which is the first of what I hope will be a number of books set across the ages and all set right here at Stempster.

Who's this saintly chap?

I'm in the process of creating a complete Here in the Middle of Nowhere brand, based around our house here in Caithness. There are not just stories, but artworks too, including some taken directly from the patterns on these stones. These can be found on my Redbubble shop.

For Christmas, Clemency bought me a metal print of the LiDAR image of our property. There are all sorts of exciting marks around the land! And these are all going to weave their way into my stories too - although possibly not the septic tank!

Is it a bear? Is it a dog?

None of these pictures have been tweaked by the way. I would love to hear about your garden treasure finds, and what - if anything - you have ever unearthed which has inspired you to write a certain piece of work. If you've never thought about this before, I guarantee you will never look at a stone in the same way!

A Knight with a Microphone?!

24th December: The Final Preparations

Picture 1: Orlando has loved all 11 of his Christmases so far!
Picture 2: And another crazy Orlando tail! 
Picture 3: You always expect something to go wrong on Christmas Eve - this year it was a leaky radiator! The engineer is coming tomorrow morning!
Picture 4: The Christmas cake!
Picture 5: It's that weasel-y day!
Picture 6: There was a lake across the road this morning.
Picture 7: Dad loves watching the NORAD Santa Tracker!
Picture 8: We went out to deliver Christmas cards to neighbours this afternoon.
Picture 9: These little dishes were a gift from Lydia. They always make an appearance at this time of year.
Picture 10: the first view of the morning on Christmas Eve!
Picture 11: the sunlight through the window... very different from yesterday but just as lovely!

Picture 12: sun rays over Stempster as we came back from delivering cards
Picture 13: the little tree in the Sitting Room looks even better on Christmas Eve!
Picture 14: This is the dog's Christmas Breakfast - I had great fun making it for them. 
Picture 15: Clem and I working on the human rice salad.
Picture 16: A Christmas plate from 1976 - the year our family was formed 🥰
Picture 17: The crib always looks at its best on Christmas Eve, and taking a moment to admire its magic is a must!
Picture 18: Admiring the reflections and the brilliant moon illuminating the bare trees outside.
Picture 19: The three of us on our Christmas card delivering, with the flooded river behind us.

Picture 20: The sun setting on Christmas Eve. There is something wonderful about knowing it will next be rising full of hope and promise on Christmas Day.
Picture 21: And speaking of hope and promise, there were signs all over Stempster today!
Picture 22: A glass of lights and liqueur.
Picture 23: The Pork Pie looks amazing! I wish we could share the smell though because that is out of this world! 
Picture 24: Look who I found! Pig In Blanket is visiting the nativity scene, too.
And that is us at 300 Pictures - right in time for Christmas!
Merry Christmas from all three of us.

23rd December: Christmas Eve Eve and the Great Snow

Picture 1: Snowflakes on Jess's back!
Picture 2: In the last couple of months, Orlando has started licking Jess's back to try to get her to play. She tolerates this usually.
Picture 3: The sad story of an Orlando sliding off a step!
Picture 4: Orlando was having a conversation with a neighbouring dog!
Picture 5: You may pet me!
Picture 6: the day started with opening cards, and this perfect one from the wonderful lady who lived at Stempster before us! 
Picture 7: the after effects of Storm Pia, but with a sprinkling of snow!

Picture 8: the start of a winter wonderland!

Picture 9: If you look closely, you can see a spaniel on this one!
Picture 10: Orlando has read the sign on the door and now needs to be admitted!
Picture 11: Oh dear.
Picture 12: Looking down over the cottage garden...
Picture 13: And out towards the wind farm...
Picture 14: Then across the lawn..
Picture 15: And the kitchen garden!
Picture 16: We never usually win anything, so Rusty has been a very important part of our Christmas since we won him at Homebase in 2013!
Picture 17: Orlando refusing to shake the snow off!
Picture 18: "I may be tiny but I have a big voice!"
Picture 19: the spruce tree being weighed down by all the snow!
Picture 20: Stempster House looking picturesque in the snow!

Picture 21: The Christmas cactus in all its glory behind all the glory of the nativity... The snow outside just makes it even better!
Picture 22: The robin was not quite sure about the bird feeder! He did have a go, though!
Picture 23: It is, of course, necessary to make the most of snow when it arrives... That means snowballs!