Martin Lake's Blog, page 13

Never Beaten #SampleSunday #HistNov

I knew I wasn’t mad but I did wonder about the citizens of Exeter.  Despite the well-armed Norman army camped like ghouls in front of their gates and despite William’s demonstration of the mercy of kings, they refused to submit to him.  Once he had got over his astonishment, he laid siege to the city with a cold and deadly determination.  Yet no matter how many attacks he sent against the walls, each one was repulsed with bloody losses.  And each repulse made his rage burn hotter. 

Six days into the siege the defenders grew even bolder. 

Dawn broke, dank and misty.  I awoke with a gasp.  Every night now I suffered nightmares of knives cutting into eyes and flesh.  Sometimes, the victim was the poor fat hostage, other times it was Morcar or Harold.  This morning it had been me.  I lay shivering on my bed and took comfort from the snores of Godwin close beside me. 

I checked for the dagger which I now wore even when I slept and got up as quietly as possible so as not to disturb Godwin.  I failed.  He awoke in an instant and leapt to his feet, his own knife ready in his hand.  ‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered.

‘I want a shit,’ I said.  ‘It’s morning.’

We threw on our cloaks and struggled out into the dawn.  The mist hung over the camp like a shroud.  In the far distance we could hear rooks crying and the dull calls of cows.  But they seemed heavy and flat, deadened by the murk.  In the east the sky showed light where the sun should be but it could not pierce through. 

Silently, we trudged through the camp to the latrines.  We squatted down, peering through the gloom towards the city. 

I heard a chink of metal. 

‘What’s that?’ I whispered. 

Godwin shook his head and stood slowly, one hand pulling up his breeches, the other pulling out his knife.  I rose too and as I did so I caught in the distance the shadowy shapes of men stealing through the mist. 

‘Hide,’ I muttered and pulled Godwin down beside me.  We peered through tussocks of grass, squinting to make out what was happening.  Then there came a movement and the ghostly shapes were no longer silent.  They stormed into the camp, slashing and stabbing at the sleeping figures.  The Normans tried to struggle up but for long minutes the attackers had the advantage and hacked and slew with little opposition.  Then, a single horn blew and at the signal the attackers turned and fled. 

English: Battle with the Normans (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Normans were up like hounds on the hunt.  But they had only chased a hundred yards when more attackers sprang up from the ground and drove into them.  The cries were dreadful to hear and most of the Normans were felled.  Once again the horn blew a blast and the attackers turned and raced back to the shelter of the walls.

William and Roger were out of their tents now and sent captains to stop any further pursuit.  Godwin and I hurried back to the camp to ensure that no suspicion fell on us.  In minutes the whole of the camp was armed and ready.  The Normans were chaffing at the bit, eager to chase after the Englishmen and avenge their comrades.  For a moment I thought that William was going to lose them but he called out for silence. 

‘Chase after them and you are dead men,’ he cried.  ‘They have learnt this tactic from us so make sure we don’t fall victim to our own ploys.’ 

A captain came up and whispered in his ear.  William turned and addressed his men once again.

‘Eighty men have died this morning.  That is more than enough.  Master your anger and make sure that the next eighty to die are English scum.’

‘They say that a crisis shows a man in his true colours,’ said a quiet voice beside me.

I looked up in surprise.  A thin, slight figure had approached without Godwin or me noticing.  It was the thegn, Athelstan. 

He stared at me.  ‘You must be Edgar Atheling.’

I nodded.

He smiled and bowed low to me.  ‘My lord,’ he said.

‘Stop it,’ I said.  I glanced around nervously.  ‘Don’t attract attention.’

He straightened up. 

‘Perhaps you are right, he said.  ‘But soon will come the time when the Normans will have to pay heed to you.’

I gazed into Athelstan’s eyes.  They were grey, not a cold grey, but cool like the sea when the sun has been hidden by clouds.  And they had a far-away look.  It was as if he were standing in this world and peering into another.

He turned and strode off into the mist. 

Later on I asked Godwin what he thought of Athelstan.

‘He’s all right.’

‘All right?’

‘Yes.’  He pursed his lips for a moment and nodded.  ‘I think you can trust him.’

‘Did you notice his eyes?’ I asked.  ‘They seemed as if they were looking somewhere else.’

Godwin nodded.  ‘Like my grandfather playing chess.  He’d be plotting seven or eight moves down the game and working out what his opponent was going to do as well.’

‘Was your grandfather good at chess?’

‘Never beaten.’

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William of Normandy gives a lesson in diplomacy. #HistNov #SampleSunday (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)

This sample is from The Lost King: Resistance. It is available as an e-book for all devices and your computer and smart-phone for $3.00 or £2.00. The third novel in the series will be published shortly.

William of Normandy gives a lesson in diplomacy. #HistNov #SampleSunday

I have just read Carol McGrath’s excellent novel ‘The Handfasted Wife.’ The later part of her novel concerns how the people of Exeter defied the might of King William forcing him to lay siege to the city. Carol’s focus is on the defiance of the women within the city, led by Gytha, the redoubtable mother of King Harold.

This is an extract from ‘The Lost King: Resistance’ where I also write about the siege but from outside the walls.

Four days later we approached the walled town of Exeter.  To my joy I saw the flag of Wessex flying bravely from its walls.

‘A gold purse to the soldier who brings me that rag,’ William announced.  Then he sent forth a herald to parlay with the defenders while he sat at ease with Odo and Roger de Montgommery.

There was much calling to and from the walls but eventually a small sally door opened and out rode two men, both in fine robes and riding handsome horses.  One held aloft a white flag as sign of truce.

When they got close the two Englishmen dismounted and approached on foot.

William stared at them in silence while Roger spoke.

‘What foul disobedience you show to your lord and master,’ he said.  ‘Explain yourself and hope that the king has cause to show you some mercy.’

‘We do not come to plead,’ said one of the men, calmly.  ‘We come to find out the reason why this army is camping outside our city.’

‘The cause should be apparent to even the most simple of an Englishman,’ sneered Odo.  ‘But perhaps they have sent the lord of simpletons to parlay with us.’

The man turned to look at Odo.  ‘I am neither simpleton nor Bishop,’ he said.  ‘I am Athelstan, thegn of the lands you are camping on.’

‘These lands belong to King William,’ said Roger.  ‘You owe him your fealty.’

‘I owe nothing to a man whose lordship I do not recognise,’ said Athelstan quietly.  ‘Had I lands in Normandy I would bend my knee to him.  But not in England.’

The other man looked at Athelstan with queasy alarm, his hands gripping tighter on the flagstaff.

‘You impudent serf,’ cried Odo.

‘Thegn,’ said Athelstan, ‘I would be called a baron in your land.’  His grey eyes held Odo’s unwaveringly, until the Bishop cursed and looked away.

‘Your title is immaterial,’ said de Montgommery.  ‘The matter under discussion is why the citizens of Exeter have risen up against the king and why you have chosen to give sanctuary to the mother of Harold Godwinson, the usurper of the throne.’

‘Gytha Torkelsdotter is an old lady who has chosen to spend her last days in this city.  She has not sought sanctuary.’  Athelstan gave a questioning look.  ‘Is there any need for her to do such a thing?’

‘Forget the old bitch,’ cried Odo.  ‘We want to know why Exeter has risen up against the king.’

‘Ah,’ said Athelstan.  ‘That is simple.  We do not recognise him as king.  We will pay him the tribute that we used to pay to the rightful kings of England but we will not give him fealty and nor will we allow him to enter our walls.’

There was a silence which lasted for a long, long moment.

‘I will enter,’ cried William.  His voice was as quiet as snow falling on fields.  ‘I will enter when you throw your gates open.’  He smiled at Athelstan, almost like a father smiles indulgently upon his son.

‘Or,’ William continued, ‘if you persist in defying me, I will enter marching through the guts of your people.’

The quiet menace hung in the air like a stench.

‘I think that this audience is at an end,’ said Athelstan.

William stared at him for a moment, almost as though he had not understood his words.

‘By God,’ he exploded. ‘I will decide when this audience ends and no other.  Seize them.’

At this a dozen of his knights sprang at the two heralds.  Athelstan drew his sword and fought back fiercely, slaying one of the knights and wounding two.  The other herald wailed in terror and fled, leaping upon his horse and galloping like the wind back to the city.

In a moment Athelstan was overcome and lay prostrate before William who was speechless with fury.

‘Force will gain you nothing,’ said Athelstan.  ‘We do not recognise you.’

‘You do not recognise me,’ William choked out at last.  ‘Then recognise nothing more.’  His face worked fearsomely.  ‘Kill him,’ he cried.

‘Hold,’ cried Montgommery.  The knights hesitated at the word.

He turned to William.  ‘My lord, this man is a herald and a brave man at that.  I beg you, do not harm him.  I will pledge good conduct for him.’

William held Montogommery’s gaze for a moment his eyes bulging from a face as red as sunset.  Then he nodded curtly.  ‘As you wish.  But I will teach these rebels a lesson they will not forget,’ he said.  ‘Bring me one of the hostages.’

Two of the knights hurried off and ran back, half dragging the fattest of the hostages with them.

‘Blind him,’ cried William.

The hostage shrieked as he was thrown to the ground.  One of the knights held his head firm while a second raised a dagger above his head.  But he paused and then turned to look at William.  ‘Do it,’ he cried, striking one clenched fist into his palm.

The knight shuddered but plunged the blade into the right eye-socket, worked it back and forth, slashing and cutting until the shredded eye slid out.  Then he drew out the blade and did the same to the left eye.

The hostage’s screams echoed over the army and the walls of the city.

I turned away in horror, struggling not to vomit.

‘He was a hostage,’ I heard Athelstan say, coldly.

‘And so are you,’ said William curtly.  ‘Remember it.’

From the walls of the city came a huge cry of disgust at what the Normans had done.  I glanced back at the rest of the hostages who stood looking on aghast.  ‘I expect they think they will be next,’ I whispered to Godwin.

‘I don’t care about them,’ he muttered.  ‘I care about us.’

‘I think we are safe,’ I said.

Godwin turned and looked at me as if I was mad.

The Handfasted Wife and The Lost King: Resistance are available at most major retailers. Readers in the UK can get my books on Amazon by clicking on the pictures  in the sidebar to the right.

 

Talking with Justin Hill.

Today I am delighted to be talking with Justin Hill.  Justin has written travel books and novels dealing with subjects from China to Africa as well as historical fiction.  His novel ‘Shieldwall’ was a Sunday Times Book of the Year.

Martin: Before we talk about your own fiction could you say which authors have had the greatest influence upon you?

I always seem to come up with a different list whenever I ask this question: but I suppose the place to start would be JRR Tolkien, and The Lord of the Rings because I was in the rudimentary reading class when I was nine, and wasn’t very interested in books.  Then I read The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, and was smitten.  I couldn’t believe that an author could make up, not only a story, but a whole world.  And I put my paperback copy of The Return of the King down, and thought, I want to do that.

After Tolkien I read the sagas, had a role-playing character called Skarp-Hedin, and a lot of Tolkien lookalike fiction, stuff like Terry Brooks, but the author who really grabbed me was David Gemmell.  My brother and friends used to visit the Fantasy section of WH Smiths on a Saturday morning, and look for the next Gemmell book.  He seemed the most exciting writer around at the time.

A list of notables probably start with Thomas Hardy, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Bruce Chatwin, Mary Renault, Julian May and Raymond Carver.  That’s a fairly literary list, and I always aspired to the same level of literary quality with the page-turning of more mass market authors.  That list should probably include the Tang Dynasty poets, whose grasp of language and detail and symbolism is always a source of inspiration.  I’d throw Robert E Howard in there as well, just to mix it up a bit.  I’m a big fan of his Conan stories.

Most recently authors I really admire I’d pick two: Dan Abnett, who melds crime and sci fi and George RR Martin, who I’ve come to since the TV series came out, but who has really impressed me with his way of telling stories.

What made you decide to be a writer?

Blame Tolkien, and then all the other writers whose stories and worlds I’ve loved.  I think of it this way: the only time I miss a stop on the metro here is when I’m engrossed in a great book and I lose sense of everything around me.  That level of absorption only happens when I’m reading.

In a way I’m that absorbed when I’m writing too.  There is a sense that writers are often writing the kind of books they want to read – but which haven’t been written yet.

What’s been your favourite moment in your writing career?

I think selling my first novel: The Drink and Dream Teahouse.  I’d already had one travelogue published, but found fiction writing much more satisfying and exciting.  The book was half finished, I was skint, and the book went to auction and sold for a record breaking amount.

I felt I’d made it then.  It was the crest of a very large wave.

What attracts you to writing historical fiction?

I’d enjoyed Henry Treece and Alfred Duggan as a child: sticking pretty much to Alfred Duggan’s Dark Age work.  But never really read much historical fiction, until my brother gave me Sharon K Penman’s The Sunne in Splendour, about 15 years ago.

It’s about Richard III and the Wars of the Roses, and as a Yorkshire man, I had taken quite an interest in that.  I’d read a lot of history books, but it wasn’t until I read this novel that I understood how the personalities and familial relationships of the various families contributed to the history.

So I came away understanding how historical fiction is another doorway into the past, and I didn’t come away thinking I would write historical fiction, but the seed was planted.

Shieldwall and Hastings are set in the final century of Anglo-Saxon England, which is one of my favourite periods. What interests you about this period?

Well!  What’s not to love about it!?

There’s a weird mish mash. I remember very young feeling that I had arrived at the wrong time of the world.  I had no interest in cars, but felt the past –with cart horses, and firesides and seasons – was so much more interesting.

History also seemed very important to me.  It felt personal – still does in fact.  My family are old Northern Catholics, all from Yorkshire.  I grew up in York, where everything was branded ‘Jorvik’ or Viking.  But the Sagas seemed to talk to me across all those centuries, and felt more relevant, for example, than a lot of the literature coming up from London.

My village church – Skelton, near York – is a little gem, built by the same masons who put York Minster up, and little changed since.  History seemed all about me, and so much of who and what I am, we are, comes from the history of our families and societies.

 Which of your characters has most surprised you and why?

Recently Kendra because she was just a bit character who appeared in the opening chapter of Shieldwall, as a slave girl warming Wulfnoth’s bed.  But it was clear as soon as I’d written about her that she was an important character, and although not at all historical, had an important place in the lives of the characters I was following.

She was the touchstone in many ways.  And readers seem to have taken to her as well, which makes me feel I should keep her story going.

How do you research your novels?

For Shieldwall I started with academic histories written by people like Frank Barlow, to get the details, the characters, the events, the possible motivations.  This is really the skeleton of the story.  Then I started to plan it all out.  Where each book would start and end.  Who the main characters would be – all that kind of stuff.

But that’s all prelim stuff: the real challenge comes in the details and the characters.  By details I mean all the little references in the novel that make the world and the characters feel real.  This can be what they’re sitting on, what they eat, how they talk, what it’s like to put mail on for the first time, how a character would think, say when he went to watch bear baiting.

Building up the level of detail is a massive task that involves some like experience (I spent my 20s as a volunteer in rural China and Africa, which gave me a lot of insight into a non-modern world); research: I taught myself Old English to go back to source texts, as well as to get a sense of the language: it’s rhythms and cadences etc; I ploughed through archaeological pdfs of digs, went through all the episodes of Time Team, talked to re-enactors I knew; reading other novels; looking at the literature from other time periods and places (i.e. the Tang Dynasty poets who were writing about Mongolian invasions at a similar time, and had some good details about what it meant to be conquered).

That’s a huge job because a historical novelist has to construct a world that feels real to the modern reader, into which the characters go.

Last of all comes the characters: who are actually the most important and they’re a very complex mix of me, friends, who knows!  Take Edward the Confessor, for example, who appears in Hastings.  I started my research on him by reading biographies of Charles II – the only other king whose father was deposed, was exiled young, spent his time in France meddling with plots and schemers and drunks, and whose chances of reaching the throne seemed slight.

 Which research tools, sources and web-sites did you find most useful?

Google Earth was a great tool because Shieldwall is largely set in parts of England I’ve never been to, and living in Hong Kong, were too difficult to visit.  It allowed me to see the minute geography of a village, for example, or see if my characters were walking up hill or downhill.

The internet is second as it allowed me access to all that academic material and allowed me to research places, field views, photos, church names and details that I used for the novel.  There’s all kinds of great sites: Anglekyn, The Viking Answer Lady, and all kinds of blogs about the period.

A third one is a favourite of mine, which is the poem called Maxims II.  It’s a fabulously weird collection of gnomic sayings.

Then I do other things like listen to Julian Glover’s rendition of Beowulf as I fall asleep at night, so that it rattles around in my head at night and some of the magic comes out again in the morning.

What would be a typical writing day for you?  Do you have set times, spaces, routines or rituals?

I usually try and write three or four mornings a week, for about 3 hours a time.  I have all kinds of little props, that I’m beginning to feel are all procrastinations: I burn incense, I have special play lists, which are currently a mix of Gregorian chant, Mozart’s Requiem and folk singers like Stan Rogers.  Writing everyday doesn’t work so well for me.  A few days thinking between seems good, so I can think the best place to pick up the next scene.

That’s when I’m working on the first draft.  When I have a first draft I have a much better sense of the shape of the story: where the real drama is for each character, and then I can work all day every day banging it out.

Then I can work must faster.  Maybe not banging it out, but getting the story just right.  That usually takes me about six months.  Writing and rewriting and cutting back.

The last stage is a vicious cut, so that the story moves along at a cracking pace.

Then I collapse and my wife and I sit down and enjoy a good bottle of wine and I’m a little shell-shocked, and wonder what the hell I’ll write next.

Looking back over your life who might have been most surprised at your writing career? What would you say to them about it?

I think the person who would be most surprised would be me: the boy who wanted to write, and knew how difficult it is to get published, and wasn’t sure I would ever make it.

I wrote a poem about that:  Ings Walk.  http://www.nthposition.com/ingswalks.php

Less seriously I think my history teacher would be surprised.  He and I never quite clicked, which is a shame, because history has always been a passion for me.  He predicted me a ‘C’ at A level, and never quite understood how I got an ‘A’ grade.

What advice would you give to someone who is just starting to write fiction?

I could talk their ear off, but there are two things that kept me going.

Write your story: which means write what really compels you. Don’t write what was a best seller last year; don’t write like Bernard Cornwell because you think it will sell.  Write the story just the way you want to write it, and the closer you can get to that the better it will be.

The next piece of advice is the most important: don’t give up.  Professional or published writers are the amateur writers who never gave up.  This can be hard, because you will get rejections all along the way.  I still get rejection letters!  And however Zen you feel, they will come on the worst Thursday ever, when your dog has died and your girlfriend has told you that you need to talk, and you have just screwed up at work.

And when you get that letter saying that you novel is not for them, then you need to tell yourself that what you sent off was the best you could do three months ago, but that you have to somehow work out how to write it better and lift it that extra half inch.

The last half inch is the hardest: but it is the difference between published and unpublished novels.

What is your next writing project?

You’ll never have heard of him: but I’m taking some half-Danish lad called Harold, up to a battle at a place called Hastings, in 1066…

Thanks very much for talking with me, Justin.

You can find Justin’s books in all stores and online.  You can find out more about him by visiting his website : www.justinhillauthor.com

‘Peace Making.’ #SampleSunday #HistNov From my soon to be published novel.

‘And what about Cnut?’ Malcolm asked. ‘Can he control Esbjorn?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe so. I suspect he’s lived much of his life in fear of Esbjorn although I think that may no longer be the case. He is wary of his uncle but not, I think, afraid.’

Malcolm pondered this, cracking the knuckles of his hand as he did so.

‘Cnut seems to hold you in high regard,’ he said at last. ‘More than he did when he was last here.’

‘We drew swords together,’ I answered. ‘I risked my life to save his.’

‘So he is in your debt?’

I shrugged. ‘I do not know if the Danes have such a sense of honour.’

Malcolm stood and stared out of the window. ‘I wonder why they are here?’ he muttered.

‘We will find out soon enough.’

He turned to me.

‘Yes. I have arranged a feast for them. You will be there?’

It was couched as a question but it felt like a command.

I nodded.

‘But not Anna, I take it,’ Malcolm continued. He sighed. ‘I understand now her reaction to the sight of the monster. How is she?’

I rubbed my eyes wearily. ‘She is troubled in her mind and heart. Hog is attending on her.’

Malcolm nodded.

‘She thought she would never see Esbjorn again,’I said. ‘It is a bitter blow.’

‘Then be kind to her, Edgar, be kind.’ He made to leave the room but then paused and turned to stare at me. ‘I know what your mother and sister think of Anna but I offer you this counsel. Hold fast to her until the end of your days.’

I smiled grimly. If Esbjorn were ever to find me on my own there might not be many days left to me.

Malcolm took great pains to organise the feast table. His place, naturally, was at the head of the table with my sister next to him. I sat next to her with Athelstan beside me. On Malcolm’s left sat Cnut and then Esbjorn. He would not allow any of the other Danes to join the feast but ordered them to eat in another chamber under the watchful eye of his soldiers. He packed the feast hall with his own followers and my guards.

‘That should be just enough to control Esbjorn,’ said Merleswein with a rueful smile.

I made sure that Anna was in our chamber with two maids to attend upon her. Willard and Hog sat by the door with half their men. The rest were outside by the window. All were fully armed.

Malcolm was careful to ensure that wine and beer flowed sufficiently but not copiously. He well knew that when the Danes got drunk they also got violent.

The food was excellent. Cnut and Esbjorn ate heartily as did Malcolm. I had no appetite and ate little and drank less. I wanted all my wits about me.

‘It is good to see you once again,’ Malcolm said to Cnut. ‘I am intrigued at the reason for your journeying so far north.’

Cnut dropped his meat upon the platter and wiped his mouth.

‘I have come with a message from my father, Svein, King of the Danes.’ His eyes twinkled and he leaned closer to make sure that I was listening.

‘My father wishes to make alliance with the King of the Scots,’ he continued. ‘And he also wishes to affirm our alliance with Edgar, King of the English.’

I started at his words. He had never called me king before. Cnut’s use of the title must have been agreed by his father.

My thoughts began to race. Did this mean that the alliance with the Danes could be forged anew? Would we be able to resume our attack upon William? My heart beat faster at the thought. I glanced at Athelstan who placed his hand upon my wrist as if to counsel caution.

‘That is welcome news,’ Malcolm said quickly. ‘It is, perhaps, unfortunate that the deeds done upon my gate were not in keeping with your father’s stance.’

Cnut picked up his meat and gnawed at it for a moment, pondering how to answer. He gave a quick glance at Esbjorn before he framed his reply.

‘My uncle is a man of great passion,’ he said. ‘But great heart also. He has come north is to make his peace with Edgar.’

A deep rumble sounded from Esbjorn’s throat. I leaned forward and saw his knuckles whiten and bulge beneath his flesh.

Athelstan pressed even more firmly upon my wrist and I leaned back, turning my face from my enemy for fear of my own anger.

Athelstan pondered for a moment and then nodded at Cnut. ‘We are delighted to hear this,’ he said. ‘The friendship of King Svein and his family is a thing we esteem most highly.’

Esbjorn spat a piece of gristle on to the table. Then he snorted, picked up a leg of goose and began to gnaw upon it.

The table fell quiet. The only thing that moved was Esbjorn’s jaw.

He chewed noisily, staring into the space in front of him. Then he belched and smeared his hand across his mouth.

‘My brother has sent me to make peace with Edgar Atheling,’ he said.

We waited for him to say more but he did not. It was clear that this was as much as we could expect.

I could feel all eyes upon me, wondering how I would reply.

I leaned forward and gave an airy wave. It was bare acknowledgement.

‘Very good,’ said Cnut quickly. ‘Now we can move forward.’

Esbjorn blew his nose with his fingers and wiped them on the table.

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The Scourge of Satan #histnov #SampleSunday

The gate flew open and Esbjorn charged in.

He truly did look like a raging bull and we were the puny dogs pitted against him. His face was scarlet with rage and he bellowed like a wolf, raised his axe and charged towards me.

‘Now,’ cried Willard and half a dozen arrows slammed into the ground at his feet.

‘You’ll need a second eye-patch,’ cried Godwin as Willard and his men aimed a second flight towards him. These arrows were closer still, some grazing Esbjorn’s arms and one slicing across his hand so that the blood spurted.

He hefted his axe and gave me a murderous look, trying to judge whether he could reach me quicker than an arrow.

‘This one will pierce your heart,’ said Willard, stepping forward. ‘That’s if you have one, of course.’

Esbjorn did not move but his solitary eye darted fire towards me.

Behind him, Cnut ambled through the gate. ‘You must knock more gently upon King Malcolm’s gate, uncle,’ he said. ‘You’d get a less hostile reception.’

He slipped from his horse, strolled over and embraced me.

‘It’s good to see you, my brother,’ he said. ‘Very good.’

I sheathed my sword, his sword, the one forged by Wayland the Smith, the one he had given me for saving his life in battle.

‘It’s good to see you too, my brother,’ I said. ‘Though I’d have preferred it had you been alone.’

Malcolm ordered a feast in honour of the Danes. Shortly before it was to start he summoned me to his chamber and questioned me about Esbjorn.

‘There is clearly much ill-blood between you,’ he said, pouring me a cup of wine. ‘I think you were unwise to taunt him into such a venomous rage and I pray that no greater ill come from it.’

I sipped at my wine. ‘You may be right, Malcolm, but I find it hard to imagine that our hatred could get any worse.’

Malcolm gave me a questioning look and I thought it best to tell him everything of my dealings with Esbjorn.

I told him how Esbjorn had kept Anna, first as his lover, then, when she refused him, as worse than his lowest slave, housed in his kennel with his hounds. I told him how he had used her to scramble up the latrines into York Castle in order to open the gate. I told him how I had thwarted the Dane when he had almost beaten her to death and how Godwin had threatened to stab out his one remaining eye.

I said how he had pretended to be my ally while negotiating with William to sell me to him.

‘What do the Danes call him,’ Malcolm asked. ‘The Scourge of Satan? He is aptly named.’

‘Yes. And the Danes are well used to monstrous men.’

‘Perhaps I shall ask your sister to prey for him,’ Malcolm murmured. ‘That may be the only thing with sufficient force in our armoury.’

I smiled at his words.

‘But fortunately, we now have more than Heaven on our side.’ He rubbed his hands together with pleasure. ‘I sent for five hundred warriors from Edinburgh. They arrived a few minutes ago. We are more than a match for the Danes now, even if they are led by this spawn of Beelzebub.’

‘Thankfully the whole of the Danish army is not under his leadership any more. Let us hope that Svein at least can master his brother.’

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The Lost King: Mercenary #SampleSunday #HistNov (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)

Writing Spaces

As well as my series of talks with authors, I’m starting a series of posts about the writing spaces of authors.  I’m re-posting the one I wrote about my writing spaces to get the ball rolling.

I have lived in many homes and had a variety of writing places. I have found that those which seemed least pleasant often led to me being more creative and productive. I wrote my first collection of short stories crammed into a tiny dark place beneath stairs, my first novel hunched over a table in a dark corner of a room. When I set up my study to perfection I found myself perversely seeking out other places to write. Perhaps I know sub-consciously that that my work sometimes suffered in too perfect a setting.

I studied Neuro-Linguistic Processing, NLP, under Robert Dilts in California and he has a theory which perhaps explains this. He suggests that the best way to be creative is to use what he has termed The Disney Strategy.

There are three stages to the Disney Strategy. 1. Dreaming up ideas. 2. Turning the dream into reality. 3. Sternly evaluating and criticising what you have produced. You then go through the cycle again until you are happy with what you’ve produced.

Sounds familiar? Writers might call it Planning, Writing and Editing.

Dilts further suggests that different settings are best for each stage in the process.

Dreaming up ideas. An open, playful space is best. Look up and allow yourself time and space to dream with a child-like sense of the possible.
Turning the dream into reality. A well equipped space where you can really focus on the work with the best of equipment and without distraction. Lean forward to the task and get on with it.
Evaluating and criticising. As uncomfortable space as you can find. Make yourself miserable and you’ll be more likely to discover your mistakes.

So here’s my current writing space. Or rather spaces.

I get my best ideas when I’m outside, on the terrace which overlooks the town and sea or, better still, in a café with the buzz of the world swirling past but leaving me undisturbed. My favourite place currently is the Cocoon Café where the owner and his waitress are welcoming and friendly.

As people walk past I scan their faces, conjuring up minor characters from their appearance and the things which appear to be concerning them. I also dream my best dreams when I’m lying down, in bed or in a reclining chair on the terrace. I look up at the skies and nothing can stop the ideas from flowing across me.

I turn my ideas into reality by working in the apartment. I use a good PC and have started to use some excellent writing software called Scrivener. I also have access to the finest research tool any writer could need, the world wide web. More than that, I have a circle of friends and colleagues from across the world, courtesy of this blog, Twitter and other social media.

The view looks over the town of Menton and Mediterranean Sea but I rarely find I am distracted by this. But to make sure I’m not I turn myself to the blank wall. The only thing I can see is a poster of a horseman from Siena on a mission from one town to another.

Sometimes, when the weather’s good like today I sneak out onto the terrace and write.

I evaluate and criticise by reading my work late at night. I would do it somewhere uncomfortable if I could but we live in a two room apartment and space is limited. Late at night when I’m tired and grumpy is about as good, or should I say bad, as I can find.

So there we have it. My work space. Or rather my working spaces.

 

 

The Lost King: Mercenary #SampleSunday #HistNov

For the next couple of weeks I’m going to be posting extracts from the third in my series ‘The Lost King.’  It tells the story of Edgar, the heir to the English throne and his resistance to the Norman Conquest. It will be available as an e-book this summer.

The guards cried out and pointed to the south. Ten score of Northmen were galloping like fury towards us.

‘How many men have you, Malcolm?’ asked Athelstan.

‘Three hundred.’

‘It may not be enough.’

I shielded my eyes with my palm and peered at the approaching horsemen. They did not spare their steeds, driving them with desperate speed towards us. The air was filled with their savage and exultant cries.

‘Christ in heaven,’ whispered Anna, taking a step backwards and clutching at her throat.

I followed her gaze. Racing at the head of the Northmen was Cnut, son of Svein Estrithson. Riding by his side was a dreadful sight. Esbjorn.

I felt Anna shrink to my side and clutched her by the arm.

‘There’s no need to fear,’ I said. ‘I’m here with you.’

She gazed up into my eyes and I felt the doubt and terror in her heart.

The Northmen careered to a halt and stared up at us.

‘Little Prince Runaway,’ cried Esbjorn when he saw me. He roared with laughter and spat in my direction. The Northmen yelled with approval at his action.

Cnut, however, shook his head and took a pace forward. He looked up at me and waved his hand.

‘How goes it Edgar?’ he called. ‘It is good to see you.’

Esbjorn gave him a look of contempt and stared back up at us before stepping to the fore.

‘Is Malcolm Canmore here?’ he cried. ‘I came to speak with Malcolm Canmore.’

‘I am he,’ Malcolm said, drawing himself up to his full impressive height. ‘Who seeks to talk with me?’

‘I am Esbjorn, called by my people the Scourge of Satan. Fear not, King Malcolm, I come not to wage war against you but to talk peace.’

‘His every word is a lie,’ hissed Anna.

Malcolm turned to look at her, his face alarmed.

Esbjorn saw and followed his gaze. His voice rang out with false laughter.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ he cried. ‘Is that my Earthworm? Surely not. When I saw her last she was covered in shit and piss. And the blood from the men she’d butchered ran down her naked breast.’

Anna cried out and rammed her fist into her mouth. I felt her begin to slip to the ground.

‘Godwin,’ I cried.

Godwin swept her into his arms and raced down the steps to the courtyard. I watched her as he carried her into the Hall and I thought my heart would twist from out my chest.

‘What do you want, Esbjorn the treacherous?’ I cried in a fury.

I saw Athelstan step forward as if to stop me but I brushed him aside.

‘Have you been sent by William who you fawn upon?’ I called to Esbjorn. ‘Are you hot from his bed and hurrying to do even more of his bidding?’

Esbjorn shuddered like a bull before charging. He reached his arm out towards me and I shrunk back as if he might clutch me from the high stockade and dash me to pieces upon the ground.

‘Your tongue is golden but your bowels are yellow,’ he cried. ‘Come down here and I’ll wrench your tongue out and feed it to my hounds.’

‘What manner of man is this?’ said Malcolm, eyes wide with horror.

Esbjorn clamped his heels to his horse and charged at the gate in his fury. The poor horse was more terrified of its master than any injury and crashed itself futilely against the woodwork.

Esbjorn leapt from the saddle, swung out his axe and smashed it against the gate. Blow after blow he rained upon it and such was his strength and wrath that the timbers began to splinter.

I shot a look at Cnut wondering what he would do. He merely leaned forward, hands crossed lightly upon his saddle, and watched his uncle with the utmost calm. At one point he glanced up at me, raised a sardonic eyebrow, then returned to watch the assault upon the gate.

‘He’s almost through,’ said Athelstan.

‘Summon my guard,’ Malcolm cried before leaping down to the courtyard, calling me to follow him.

I raced down the steps, slid to a halt and turned towards the gate.

The heavy timbers buckled under the heavy blows and shards of wood flew everywhere. Esbjorn’s huge axe was hacking out an opening.

Malcolm glanced round and saw Godwin racing back into the courtyard with my guards close behind. In a moment they were followed by two dozen of Malcolm’s men.

Suddenly, I felt to my left the reassuring bulk of Hog and next to him Willard and the rest of his men. They nocked their arrows and raised their bows.

Malcolm saw this and gestured for the gate to be flung open.

‘Don’t slay, just terrify,’ Athelstan said to Willard.

The first two novels in the series are The Lost King: Resistance and The Lost King: Wasteland.  They are available in e-book format on Kindle, Kobo eReaders, Nook, Sony Reader, tablets and smart phones.

They are priced at $2.99, £1.99 and € 2.75 or equivalent.

 

Talking with Giles Kristian

I am delighted to be talking today with historical novelist Giles Kristian.

Martin: Welcome, Giles. Which authors have had the greatest influence on you?

When I was fourteen I suffered a bout of glandular fever. I was off school and bored out of my mind, so my mother bought me a book. There were warriors with axes on the cover and she knew me pretty well. That book was The Crystal Shard by R.A. Salvatore and it changed my life. There in my hands was the key to another world and that was what probably started the whole thing off. In more recent times Bernard Cornwell has been without doubt the biggest influence. His were the books that first put the crazy idea firmly in my head that I could be an author. I find his writing so fluid seemingly effortless and am able to immerse myself completely in the worlds he creates. This, I think, is testament to his mastery of the craft. But I also find inspiration outside of the historical fiction genre. I can read Stephen King and marvel at his imagination. I can tear through Lee Child and admire the author’s ability to make you crave the next page.

When did you first know that you wanted to be a writer?  Was there a specific event that made you decide?

Perhaps it was the poetry of Seamus Heaney, who was introduced to me by my 6th form English teacher Ed Thorpe. I remember reading ‘Digging’ from Death of a Naturalist, aged about seventeen, and feeling the words so keenly. The poem resonated with me utterly. It still does. I think that even back then, when I read the words:

‘Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.’

I somehow knew that my path was to be a writer, too. I remember Seamus Heaney’s poems, the likes of Mid Term Break about the death of his four-year-old brother, and I feel the power of his craft, the emotion of it balling hot in my chest.

‘He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.

No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year.’

Since then I’ve wanted people to ‘feel’ my words as I ‘felt’ Heaney’s.

 You write historical fiction.  Why this genre in particular?

I have always been drawn to the past. Everywhere I go and in everything I do I am confronted with the past and with an almost overwhelming sense of history. I catch glimpses of it in a thatched roof. I smell it in the smoke of a wood fire. I hear it in the languid sigh of waves on the shore and I touch it when I lay a flat hand on a rock at the fjord’s edge. I get enormously frustrated that I cannot go deeper, that I will never experience the past as it truly was and can only interpret it from a great distance. Truth be told, I should probably be grateful (can you imagine life without antibiotics or anesthetic?) but nevertheless, history fascinates me. This is why I love historical fiction. A good historical fiction novel is a time machine, or the closest thing to one.

Your RAVEN saga novels are set in the 9th Century and The Bleeding Land novels in the English Civil War of the 17th Century. Why the change of period?

The Viking stuff is in my blood and writing it is a joy. But after three Viking novels I felt I needed to flex my imagination and stretch my ability. It seemed to me that there weren’t many (or any) highly visible, full-on action adventure novels set against what is such a rich historical backdrop. However, the English Civil War is a Gordian knot and maybe that accounts for the dearth of fiction about it. It was a highly complex and nuanced affair and between you and me, the research is a pig. Nevertheless, I don’t really think The Bleeding Land novels are about the Civil War. Rather they tell the tale of one family which is ripped apart by the conflict. We follow Mun (Edmund), Tom and their sister Bess as they fight for their lives and deal with their own inner demons. I wanted to write about love, honour, duty, revenge, hatred and fear. The books are about the Rivers family, and the English Civil War provided the ideal canvas upon which to paint their tale.

Which research tools, sources and websites did you find most useful?

Fortunately, there is plenty of non-fiction about the English Civil War, and whilst writing I usually have four or five books open on my desk. Sometimes, especially when writing about a historical battle such as Edgehill or Marston Moor, writing can be like trying to piece together an enormous and complex jigsaw puzzle. Far from some flamboyant, keyboard-rattling stream of consciousness, it is often laborious and difficult and slow. But if you get it right the reader will never know the work it took to create. They will be drawn into the moment and the period. If that happens, I’m happy.

Do you plan your ideas carefully or just follow your ideas and see where they lead?

You could say I write from the hip. With the RAVEN saga it was more like hoisting the sail and seeing where the wind and waves took me. That can be very liberating but invariably there are times when I scratch my head and think, where on earth is it going to go now? Sometimes, reader’s reviews will talk of the twists and turns and that makes me smile because they’re rarely planned. It’s just me making it up as I go along! But with the Civil War stuff I have a vague idea where it’s going because I follow a chronology of actual events. The major battles of the conflict provide a skeleton around which I build the flesh of the story.

Do you do a lot of editing, or do you find that as time goes on your writing is more fully-formed?

Only once (in RAVEN Blood Eye) have I ever cut a passage of writing from my first draft. I don’t really know why but maybe it’s because I write slowly to begin with and perhaps this means it’s more or less right by the time I submit it to my editor. Of course, he will then make suggestions such as adding character motivation, more explanation or filling in some backstory to remind readers what happened in the previous book, and that’s very much appreciated. When you’re so close to the story things might seem obvious to me that are not obvious at all to the reader. Then there’s the copy-editor without whose incredible skill our books would be far less readable. She spots the continuity errors, chronology and timing problems, geographical mistakes and generally tidies things up. Having a publisher like Transworld behind me is a real privilege and the book you see on the shelves is absolutely the result of a brilliant team effort.

If you were to give advice to someone thinking of writing historical fiction what would you say?

You must, MUST concentrate on the story and the characters, not the history. Your job is to entertain, not inform. Yes, you’ll put the work in to get the details and the history right and to create that sense of time and place – but nothing is more important than giving the reader an enjoyable experience. Also, when you finish your first draft and think it’s ready, it’s not. Put it away. Resist the urge to seek validation and praise. Come back to it with a clear head and you’ll be amazed how much it can be improved.

If there was one thing that you would change about your writing career, what would it be?

I’m very happy with how things are gong. I feel enormously privileged to be able to make a living from my imagination, and I can’t currently think of anything I’d rather be doing. I think I’ll write a contemporary novel at some point, perhaps a thriller. I want to write more short stories for ebook publication. I want to write more film scripts and explore that world a little more, having recently sold the movie option for the RAVEN series. I’d like more time to read, but having two small children (a girl of three-and-a-half and an eleven-month-old boy) means that spare time is not a luxury I have at the moment.

What would be a typical writing day for you?  Do you have set times, spaces, routines or rituals?

 I write in a cosy cedar wood cabin where the only distractions are birds, rabbits, the occasional weasel bounding past….and Twitter. I have recently started using a stand-up desk because I don’t like being someone who sits down all day. Sitting at a desk just seems so at odds with what I write that I wanted to try being more active whilst creating. I haven’t yet gone in for the miniature treadmill some people use at their stand-up desks (seriously) but I’m considering it (seriously). I start around 9.30 and finish around 4.30-5.00pm and set myself a daily word count target of 1400 words. Sometimes I’ll listen to film scores, especially when writing battle scenes, but mostly there is just the silence and the occasional but obligatory authorial mutterings.

What’s been your favourite moment in your writing career?

 My then editor very kindly took me to see my first book, RAVEN: Blood Eye, being printed. Anyone who aspires to become an author of physical books can perhaps imagine what an incredible moment it was to see what began as a daydream manifested into a beautiful hardback book. And not just one but thousands upon thousands, wending their way along conveyer belts and stacked here and there in glorious, angular mountains.  

 Tell us something about your most recent book.

 My new book, BROTHERS’ FURY continues the story of the Rivers family and their struggle to survive amidst the turmoil of war. The brothers Mun and Tom still fight on opposing sides, driven by anger and honour and the need for vengeance. Their sister Bess faces no lesser peril by leaving the safety of their home and taking to the road on a quest to find Tom and re-unite her family. This is quite a savage tale in places, dealing with people’s base instincts and the realistic horrors of a nation at war with itself. When you read this book I want you to feel as though you have ridden into the fray. I want you to feel breathless when you turn the last page.

Thank you, Giles, Your new novel is being published this week so all the best for this.

LINKS:

Twitter: @gileskristian

Facebook: GilesKristian

Website: http://www.gileskristian.com

The Bleeding Land book trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_0st-526hM

A Son is Born. ‘Beguiled.’ #SampleSunday #HistNov

I was woken in the dark of the night by people yelling and bells clanging. I gasped and reached for my clothes. It must be a fire, nothing else could cause such alarm.

I struggled into my clothes, too anxious to seek for a flint to light my taper.

Swift foot steps echoed outside and then the door was flung open.

‘Alice?’ came an anxious voice.

‘Is that you, Lucy?’

‘Yes.’ I heard the rustle of clothes and then a warm body flung itself into my arms.

‘What is happening, Alice? Is it the French? Have they stormed the Palace?’

‘Don’t be so foolish,’ I said. ‘I think it may be a fire.’

‘Then we shall be burned alive,’ Lucy gasped. ‘Quickly, we must fly.’

I squeezed her arm to give her courage.

‘Hush, Lucy, do not fear, I’ll look after you.’

A moment later Susan Dunster hurried into the room. She held a candle in her hand; it was just like her to have thought of lighting one. She had clearly dressed as swiftly as I had for her clothes were all awry. But her face was bright with excitement.

‘I’d rather it was the French than a fire,’ she said. ‘Think about those handsome soldiers.’

I glanced outside and saw a light to my left. It was moving in the air, up and down, up and down and getting closer all the time.

‘Arise, arise,’ shouted a voice. ‘A son is born, a son is born.’

Susan and I exchanged glances. Poor Jane had been in labour now for three days and two nights. We had thought that the child would not be brought alive into the world.

The light grew larger and I saw that it was a torch held aloft by one of the King’s servants.

‘A son is born,’ he cried as he reached us. ‘Arise, arise and celebrate. The King has a son, an heir.’

He pushed a lit candle into my hand.

‘Go to the chapel to pray for the babe,’ he said. He hurried on his way, chanting at the top of his voice while bells rang out in wild exultation.

‘The Kingdom is saved,’ Lucy said. ‘The King has an heir.’

‘Let us pray the boy lives,’ I said. ‘Only his daughters seem intent on surviving.’

‘His bastard, Fitzroy, survived until a youth,’ Susan said.

‘The Kingdom needs more than a bastard youth who gives up the ghost at seventeen,’ I said. I wondered what the King would be doing at this moment.

‘It’s a miracle Jane Seymour has produced a son,’ Susan said. ‘She is dry and bitter as a quince.’

‘Susan Dunster,’ I exclaimed. ‘How can you say such a thing?’ Then I giggled and pinched her arm playfully.

‘I say what everyone of us is thinking,’ she said. ‘You included.’ She paused. ‘How do you think the King will react?’

‘How should I know?’

Susan touched me upon the arm. ‘You know why I think this, Alice.’

I sighed. ‘The King and I discuss poetry and music, nothing more.’

‘Then that little is far more than any other lady of the court,’ she said. ‘Your conduct is whispered off, Alice, and not just by the Queen’s Ladies.’

‘I cannot help the whispers,’ I said. ‘I only obey his Majesty’s commands.’

‘And that is what the gossip is about, Alice. What exactly are his commands?’

I held her hands in mine. ‘I tell you truth, Susan. We read only poetry and discuss things of the mind. Nothing more.’

In the flickering light of the candle I saw her smile. If I could not convince my friend how could I hope to convince my enemies? Lucy, sweet thing, looked puzzled by our conversation.

I took a breath and put my arm through theirs. ‘Come, we must away to the Chapel. It would not do if we arrive late.’

This extract tells of the birth of the future King Edward, VI, the only legitimate son of Henry VIII to survive. He became King at the age of nine but died aged fifteen. His mother, Jane Seymour, never recovered from her labour and died twelve days after giving birth to him.

This passage shows how crucial it was for Henry to produce a male heir. The Tudors were one of the most successful of English Dynasties but it may not have felt like this at the time. Henry’s father had won the Crown in battle and memories of the terrible Wars of the Roses must still have worried the King and his advisers. Henry was one of the most powerful and despotic Kings this country has ever known but many of his actions can be explained by his desperate desire to produce an heir.

Courtiers would have been almost as pleased as the King at news of his heir. The last thing anybody wished for was political unrest.

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