Martin Lake's Blog, page 16

EDITING: THE LONG DAY’S JOURNEY TO IMPROVEMENT

I never used to like editing my writing.  In point of fact, I didn’t really know how to edit properly.   I was always aware of Hemingway’s scatological description of his first draft although he seems to be working away quite happily in this picture.

My approach to editing changed when I bought two books by Sol Stein, ‘Solutions for Writers’ and ‘Solutions for Novelists.’  In these he outlined his approach to editing, including a very smart and powerful model using what he calls ‘Triage.’  In this you fix the biggest things first.  These include your characters and their motivation, scenes and overall flow of the story.  Then you should look at more general points including the language used, the rhythm of the piece, tightening up the story and inconsistencies.  Finally you should look at the nuts and bolts of the writing including imprecision of language, confusion in dialogue and things which interrupt the suspension of disbelief.

This is just a quick overview, I’ll say more about Stein’s approach in a later post.

But what is clear is that editing is a long process, that it takes several stages and it can be every bit as creative as the initial writing.

This is the process I use.

My editing takes place even when I’m writing my first draft.  I re-read what I wrote the day before and fix anything which needs fixing.
Once I’ve finished my first draft I leave it for a month or so.  This leaves me enough space for me to re-read it with fresh eyes.
I read the draft quickly and note down anything which works well and doesn’t work so well.  Is the story strong enough?  Are the characters’ motivations realistic and clear?  Are there any parts where the story is sagging?  Are there themes which need to be heightened?  Are there any characters who shouldn’t be there or who are missing?  Are the chapters and scenes in the right order?
Then I read it through more slowly, looking for weak style, repetitive words, confusion of narrative or dialogue.  I often find it useful to read out loud when I come across a troubling part.
I then read the story in a different format.  First of all I use the Read function in Word.  This puts the manuscript into two pages which is more like a book.  It is surprising how different a view this gives.  I use this for copy-editing, particularly typos and punctuation errors.
Then I transfer it to my Kindle and read it on this, making any changes as I go along.  I may also print it out on paper and look at the manuscript in this format as well.
When I have made all my corrections I give the draft to my wife to read.  She is a skilled and tenacious reader.  We argue about plot, character and motivation which gives me good ideas on improving the overall shape of the novel.  And she has an eagle eye for typos and punctuation mistakes!
I rewrite the manuscript again.  I read it on Kindle once more.  Then I publish.

The Start of a Life-Long Friendship. #SampleSunday #HistNov

I was awake long before dawn on the appointed day.  I pushed Rip’s head off my chest and leapt out of bed.  ‘We are going to fight the Normans,’ I told him as I struggled into my clothes.  He yawned loudly.  I had told him this twelve dozen times already.  ‘I am the King of England,’ I told him, ‘and I lead my host to battle.’  He yawned and scratched at his ear.  ‘To battle,’ I cried, ‘to battle.’  He sprang up at my cry, first among champions, tail wagging furiously.  I led the charge down to breakfast.

I was hungry but could hardly swallow my bread and cheese so took them with me as I stepped out into the cold air.  It was still black night and stars glittered above my head.  I turned to the east but there was no sign of the sun.  Above the horizon a clear white star shone bright.

‘The morning star,’ said a voice.  ‘A good omen.’  The familiar shape of Oswald emerged and placed a hand upon my shoulder.  There was a second figure beside him, but not a tall warrior.  He came close and I saw that it was a boy of about my age, although taller and broader.

‘This is my son, Godwin,’ said Oswald.  I nodded at the boy and he nodded back.

‘I thought he would be a good companion for you,’ continued Oswald.  ‘But mind you keep yourselves out of trouble.  The army will march swiftly and I won’t have time to look out for both of you.  Be ready to ride at dawn.’

Oswald nodded and strode off in the night.  I stared in silence at Godwin for a little and he stared at me.  Finally he spoke.

‘Are you really the King of England?’

‘Yes.’

‘So I am your subject?’

‘Yes.’

There was a long silence between us.

‘But we can still be friends,’ I said at last.

Godwin nodded.  ‘I’m glad.  Herrig was my friend but he died of a fever.  He coughed up blood and a lump of black matter as big as an egg.  Then he died.’

‘Perhaps it was his soul,’ I said.  ‘The black matter.’

‘Or maybe the imp that was causing the fever,’ said Godwin.  He paused, as if realising that he had contradicted me.  ‘On account of it being black,’ he explained, quickly.

I did not answer for a moment.  I did not know what a king should do when he was contradicted by one of his subjects.  Should I insist it was a soul, even though I believed that Godwin’s idea was more likely?  Would he take it as a sign of weakness if I changed my mind?  What would Harold have done, I wondered?

‘I think you are probably right,’ I said finally.  ‘If it were black then it was more likely to be an imp than his soul.’  I paused.  ‘Unless, of course, Herrig was really evil.’

I heard Godwin say ‘hmm’ thoughtfully and I smiled.  ‘I don’t think he was that evil,’ he said at last.

‘So it must have been an imp,’ I decided.

I saw Godwin nod in the first glimmer of morning.

‘Let’s visit the horses,’ I said.

Godwin and I helped a groom saddle up my pony.  Godwin did not have a pony but I ordered that the grooms find him one.  This greatly impressed him.  By the time we had mounted the dawn had come, cold and clear, with a streak of red where the sun would appear.  My heart began to hammer in my chest and my head swam.  By this time several of my guards had joined us and they looked searchingly at me.  Could they hear the pounding of my heart, I wondered?  Would they think that I was a coward?  I tried to think of anything other than the coming battle but no other thoughts would stick in my mind.  I looked at Godwin.  He seemed as excited as I was.

‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

‘Excited,’ he said.

‘How do you know you are excited?’

‘Because my heart is pounding like a blacksmith at the anvil,’ he said.

I leaned towards him and listened.  I could not hear his heart at all.  I smiled in relief.

‘Is your heart beating as hard as mine?’ he asked.

I shook my head and gave as stern and unconcerned look as I could.  Godwin seemed impressed.

*********

The Lost King: Resistance is the first in a series of books about Edgar Atheling and his resistance to the Norman Conquest.  It is available from all e-book outlets.  The third book in the series will be published this summer.

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‘We’re going to fight the Normans.’ #SampleSunday (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)

PUTTING ALL YOUR EGGS IN ONE BASTARD

Reblogged from LOOKING FOR MR GOODSTORY:

 “The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue.”

Last week a few of us gave critic Rex Reed a very negative review. But there was one critic you’d feel almost proud to be savaged by. Her name was Dorothy Parker.

“She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.” (a review of Katherine Hepburn’s acting style.)

Read more… 957 more words

A life of comedy and tragedy.

‘We’re going to fight the Normans.’ #SampleSunday

English: Harold Godwinson falls at Hastings. Harold was struck in the eye with an arrow (left), slain by a mounted Norman knight (right) or both. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The next morning as I was finishing my breakfast, Oswald entered the room and announced that I would not be needed at the meeting of the Witan and could spend the day as I chose.  But he said that he would accompany me.

‘I will be your second hound,’ he said, stroking Rip’s head.

We wandered down to the river and began to stroll along the bank.  The morning mist was still heavy and every so often we would lose all sight of anything other than the closest bushes and trees.  Oswald said nothing although I heard him grunt with pleasure occasionally.  Perhaps it was hard being a warrior, I thought, and he liked this chance just to walk and enjoy the morning.

Finally, I plucked up the courage to ask him what was intriguing me.

‘Yesterday I had a dozen guards when I went down to the river.  Today I only have you.  Why has there been this change?’

‘Yesterday there was much doubt about the motives of Edwin and Morcar,’ said Oswald.  ‘Today there is less.  Or perhaps the wise ones choose to cloak their doubts.  Besides,’ and here he smiled broadly, ‘I am not alone.’  He gestured to the hill to our left.  I peered and could make out some five or six warriors with lurchers upon leashes.

‘There’s only six,’ I said.

‘Half the fear, half the men.’

I picked up a stick and began to swing it through the air, slashing at thistles and grass.  ‘But why should we fear Edwin and Morcar?’ I asked.  ‘They are Englishmen and should be loyal.’

‘There are many who question the slowness with which they journeyed south to join King Harold for battle.  Perhaps if their armies had been with him then he would still be alive.’

I fell silent at these words.  If only he were still alive.  I thought less about the earls’ treachery and more about how much I missed him.

‘If he was alive then you wouldn’t have to guard me,’ I said.  ‘I wouldn’t be important at all.’

Oswald stopped and turned towards me.  ‘And would you prefer that?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ I said.  ‘Of course I would.’

He ruffled my hair.

We walked in silence for a little while.

Then I said,  ‘And would you prefer that?’

Oswald laughed.  ‘You are wise for your years.  How should a warrior answer that and stay safe?  Which answer would you prefer?  That I am loyal to you the King of England or more loyal to Harold who I know you loved?’

I did not answer for a moment.  Then I swung at a particularly large thistle.  ‘I would prefer that you told me the truth.’

Oswald placed his hand upon my shoulder.  ‘Then I shall do so,’ he said.  ‘I would prefer that Harold was still alive for he was a great and noble man.  If he was alive the Norman Duke would be food for battlefield crows instead of the threat he is now.  If Harold was still king then you wouldn‘t be called to a task which shouldn’t be thrust upon one of your years.’

We gazed at each other for a moment.  I felt a sudden liking for Oswald.

 

We got back an hour or so after noon and at once noticed a change.  People seemed on edge and they moved more swiftly.  I caught the sense of this and my stomach swooped.  One of the older warriors hurried towards Oswald and spoke quickly in his ear.  My fingers gripped the fur on Rip’s neck as I watched them, waiting for what would happen next.  Oswald turned to me.

‘I think we should take you to the Witan,’ he said.

I hurried after the two men.  Four guards were at the door, swords unsheathed.  They stood aside for us and we entered the gloom of the hall.  A few men nearby looked up at me but most continued to stare at the Archbishop and a few of the senior counselmen.

‘Take your place, Edgar,’ Oswald said quietly.

I slipped across the hall and onto the throne.  Stigand glanced at me for a moment but without pausing in his speech.

‘If we are to take this action,’ he continued, ‘then every one of us must be in full agreement.’  His eyes swept across the hall.  No one spoke and no one moved.

He remained silent for a long moment and when he spoke again his words were slow yet sure.

‘The army will gather at dawn two days hence and march out to meet the invaders at Wallingford.’

Again there was a silence.  Then one of the counsellors began to beat upon the table with his fist.  Another took up the rhythm and then another and then two more.  In a moment the whole hall was beating out the time and a low growl rose from out their throats.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose up.  We were going to fight the Normans.

*******

This extract is from ‘The Lost King: Resistance.’  It is the first novel in my series about Edgar Atheling, last native King of England.  It is available from all e-book outlets.

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Guest post for Harvey Black

Harvey Black has asked me to do a guest post on his blog.  I was delighted at this invitation.

I have written about my approach to writing about war.  As always, I learned a little more about my own writing by taking a look at my work through a different prism.

Harvey’s own field is more recent than mine, by a thousand years.  He writes about World War 2 and the Cold War.

Please take a look at my contribution and the rest of Harvey’s blog at:

http://harveyblackauthor.org/

 

Outcasts Part 12 #SampleSunday #HistNov

Balian of Ibelin turned to his comrade.  ‘Jerome, send for my sergeants, I’ll knight those first.  And then Bernard, go find me such of your fellow citizens as you think will make good leaders.’

But there are no nobles left,’ said Eraclius.  ‘Only their children.  Perhaps twenty of them.’

Balian held Eraclius’ gaze, considering.

‘Jerome,’ he said, ‘I want you to knight every son of a noble old enough to bear arms in battle.’  He paused.

‘And I will knight any commoner that Sir Bernard recommends to me.’

He turned to Bernard.  ‘As many as possible, but only men who others will follow.’

Eraclius held out his hand to stay Bernard.

‘My lord Balian,’ he said.  ‘I do not think this is wise.’

‘Why not?  You just said we have need of knights.  How else will we get them?  Can the skeletons of Hattin be made to fight again?’

Eraclius crossed himself at these words.

‘No indeed, my lord,’ he said.  ‘But neither can knights be conjured out of rough-hewn men.’

Balian’s eyes narrowed and it looked for a moment as if he would strike the archbishop.

Eraclius flinched but maintained his ground.  ‘What do you think, Jerome?’

Jerome licked his lips and glanced up at the walls of the city which stood empty and unmanned.

‘I have never heard of such a thing,’ he said.  ‘But I have never been in a situation such as this.’

He paused.  ‘What I do know is that whoever Balian chooses to knight is a knight.  That cannot be gainsaid and cannot be undone.’

Eraclius glared at Jerome and shook his head.  ‘So be it,’ he said.  ‘If Christ could make fishermen disciples then maybe Balian can make peasants knights.’

He raised his hand for a moment as if about to cross himself at the impiety of his own words then he thought better of it and blessed Balian instead.

Jerome hurried off followed by Bernard.

Balian turned to John and Simon.  ‘From your speech you are English?

They nodded.

‘I can make use of another gift from England,’ he said.

He glanced across the square to where one of his sergeants was watching the handing out of weapons.  He gestured towards the man and he hurried over.

He was a tall man with a mass of golden hair like the mane of a lion.  He would have looked a mighty warrior save for one thing.  His right hand had been severed and was now a stump.

Balian drew his sword and touched him on the shoulder.

‘You’re Sir William Esson now,’ he said.

Esson held up his stump.  ‘Jerome said you were doing this, lord.  But how can I be a knight with only one hand?’

‘One hand is better than none,’ Balian said.  ‘And you’ve got a sharp mind and a tongue.  A tongue which speaks good Arabic.’

Esson nodded.

‘I want you to get the treasure which Henry of England gave to the city as penance for his slaying of Archbishop Becket.  If the priests are reluctant to let it go don’t hesitate to show them your swords.’

Esson smiled.

‘Once night has fallen take the treasure and go to the Saracen lines.  Buy as many weapons as you can from them.  You’ll find plenty willing to sell if the price is right.  Don’t stint.  We need weapons not treasure.’

‘Gladly, lord, but I am limited with one hand.’

‘Take this man with you, Simon Ferrier.  He’s English so I’m sure his King would approve of his actions.  He’ll carry the treasure for you.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Balian watched Esson and Simon disappear from the citadel before gesturing John to come closer.

He examined him for a while in silence.  ‘Tell me your name,’ he said at last, ‘and of your violent deed.’

‘I am called John Ferrier, lord.’  He looked at the ground.  ‘Our priest, Father William, taught me my letters; I was grateful to him.  Then I met his sister and started to court her.’  He paused, struggling to voice the words which clawed at his throat but would not come out.

Finally he muttered, ‘I found out William was sleeping with her.  I became mad with fury and attacked him.’  He fell silent.

Balian held John’s gaze in his.  There was no censure in his eyes.  ‘And what did you do to this priest?’ he asked.

‘I smashed his face and broke some ribs and his arm.

Balian whistled.  ‘That must have been some fury.’  He straightened up and spoke sternly.  ‘Priests should not lay with their sisters.  I for one deem your fury to be a rightful one.’

John blinked.  Nobody had ever said this.

Balian turned towards Eraclius.  ‘Be wary of Sir John, my dear Archbishop.  He has no love for priests who break their vows and sleep with women.’

*************

‘Outcasts’ is the first novel in my Crusades series.  It is available world-wide from all ebook retailers. 

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Outcasts: The Knighting of the Commoners #SampleSunday #HistNov

At Agnes’s insistence, John and Simon accompanied Bernard to the citadel.  They walked in silence, Simon still angry, Bernard fearful, John trying to quell the voices which rained down insults inside his head.

The citadel was crammed with men: Franks, Armenians, Syrians and Jews.  To one side was a pile of swords, spears and cudgels.  A line of men received weapons from one of Balian’s sergeants before shuffling to where a churchman stood, his hand held high in blessing.

Bernard turned his head away.  He had glimpsed Balian of Ibelin in a corner of the citadel talking with a veiled woman and half a dozen children.

At that moment the gate of the citadel was flung open.  To the astonishment of the crowd a dozen Saracen horsemen rode in followed by four men carrying a litter.  Balian kissed the woman goodbye and helped her into the litter.  The bearers made swiftly for the gate, followed by the children and last, the Saracen escort.

‘What’s happening?’ Simon asked.  ‘Where are they taking that woman?’

‘She is no ordinary woman,’ said Bernard.  ‘She is the wife of Balian.  More to the point she is grand-niece of the Emperor of Byzantium, as Saladin well knows.  Saladin has no wish to antagonise the Empire.  Maria Comnena could dance naked through the Saracen army and none would dare to look upon her.’

‘Somebody is looking at you though,’ John said.

Balian’s comrade, Jerome Sospel, was beckoning to them.

Bernard turned a worried gaze upon his friends and gestured them to come with him.

As they approached they saw Balian force his gaze from the gate where his wife and family had just departed and turn instead to examine the walls of the city.

Jerome placed his hand upon Balian’s shoulder for a moment, the briefest of moments.  Then he turned to the three friends as they approached.  ‘Bernard Montjoy,’ he said.  His voice pretended surprise.

Balian turned at his friend’s words and stared at the three men.

Bernard flung himself upon the ground, arms prostrate. ‘My lord, Balian’ he pleaded.  ‘You summoned me.’

Balian kicked him in the side. ‘Get up, Montjoy’ he said.  ‘Stop making a fool of yourself and of me.’

Bernard rose, dusting himself down, and stood abjectly, his head to one side.  ‘Mercy, Lord, upon your former servant,’ he pleaded.

Balian considered Bernard.  ‘I seem to remember that I once ordered a whipping for your insolence.  I have no need to repeat it now. I do, however, have need of you.  In your youth you were a good soldier; a sergeant, I recall.’

Bernard nodded.

‘I have need of every man who can bear a weapon.’  Balian put his hand upon Bernard’s shoulder.  ‘Most of the citizens will be good only to stop a Saracen arrow.  It is men like you who must make a fight.’

Bernard swallowed.  ‘I have a family, my lord.  A wife and two children.’

‘Then even more reason to fight.  If we hold on long enough then succour may come from the west.  And if it doesn’t arrive, yet we fight bravely, Saladin may agree to honourable terms.’

He gave a shrewd look at the Ferriers.  ‘Are these family?’

‘Friends, my lord.’

‘Can you fight, friends of Bernard?’

‘Just give me a weapon,’ said Simon.

John did not speak.  Balian stared into his eyes.  ‘Will you fight for the City?’

‘I am a pilgrim,’ answered John.  ‘I am a wrathful man.  My penance for an act of violence was to come to Jerusalem and never harm another.’

Balian turned to his comrade.  ‘What a delicious irony, Jerome,’ he said.  ‘The peaceable are lining up for weapons and this wrathful, violent man has sworn never to fight again.’

‘Perhaps he can be persuaded,’ Jerome said.

‘I can absolve him of his oath,’ said the Archbishop.  ‘Much good it will do though.’

Balian turned to him sharply.  ‘What do you mean?’

‘These are just common men,’ said Eraclius.  ‘We need knights to win battles.’

Jerome nodded.

‘You think this too?’ Balian asked.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Jerome said.  ‘The people may be brave but they need knights to command them.  Only knights will be able to inspire them.’

Balian’s shoulders slumped.  Jerome’s words confirmed the enormity of the task he had taken on.  Then he straightened.  His lips closed as tight as a scar.

‘You three, on your knees,’ he cried.

Terrified, Bernard, John and Simon scrambled to obey.

Balian drew his sword, making them flinch.  He touched them on their shoulders.  ‘Arise, Sir Knights,’ he said.

Astonished, the three men climbed to their feet.  Simon looked ecstatic, Bernard full of doubt.  John looked mortified.

‘There,’ Balian said.  ‘Now we have three more knights, which makes seven in the whole city.  It’s a start.’

******

Outcasts is available on all e-book readers including Kindle, Kobo, Nook and Tablets.  It is available from Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, WH Smith and other retailers.

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A Modest Proposal for a new calendar

In the last dozen years we have lived through two apocalyptic date.  The first was in the year 2000 when the world was rumoured to be at risk from something or other which I now forget.  The second was 2012 when some people asserted that the world would come to an end because a Mayan calendar had run out of dates or a rogue, invisible planet would crash into Pimlico, Des Moines or Nosy Varika.

Much of this nonsense is because one of the most common of the world’s timeline is based on the supposed date of Jesus Christ.  Every one agrees that the date is nonsense and, because it is so nonsensical there was massive confusion about when the second millennium would actually start.  If the first year of the Common Era, (it was called AD in my youth) was Year 1 then the new millennium did not actually start until 2001 which made the dire predictions of the end of the world in the year 2000 both hysterical and un-mathematical.

I also wonder if the latest scare date of 21st December 2012 had anything to do with its numerical equivalents 12.21.12 in the USA or 21.12.12 in my neck of the woods.  Such dreadful symmetry.

As someone keen on history I would like to propose a new calendar.  Not one based on a story in the bible but one which will pay tribute to all of humanity.  I propose a calendar which will start with the dawn of civilisation.  Even this is tricky as there is no firm agreement when civilisation started.

So, on a whim, I’ve plumped for 3,500 years BCE.  This is when several civilisations started across the globe, from China, the Indus Valley, through Mesopotamia, Egypt and the Americas.  I’ve also done it to keep the maths simple.

The benefits of this are manifold.  My new calendar is not linked to western civilisation nor to a religion.  It gets rid of the complications of counting backwards from the present year 1 for years BCE.  Best of all it puts modern times into the long sweep of history.

Here are some familiar dates in the new calendar.

 

 

1

200

400

500

800

875

1000

1200

1500

1700

1900

1950

2000

2320

2620

2724

2747

2755

2950

2991

3010

3068

3169

3300

3327

3279

3298

3400

3456

3514

3726

3976

4000

4052

4070

4122

4250

4300

4371

4411

4476

4501

4566

4599

4611

4687

4727

4799

4810

4825

4847

4953

4992

5001

5026

5080

5088

5116

5120

5142

5151

5196

5220

5276

5289

5305

5351

5361

5370

5389

5414

5445

5463

5469

5513
Possible start of Egyptian calendar

Hakra phase of Indus Valley civilisation

First Dynasty in Egypt

Sumerian cuneiform writing

Knossos in Crete is a city of 80,000 inhabitents

Khufu completes the Great Pyramid

Mammoth becomes extinct

Stonehenge complete

The horse is domesticated

First alphabets created

Shang Dynasty in China

Hittite Empire dominant force in area

Rig Veda written

End of the Hittite Empire

Iliad and Odyssey written

First Olympic Games held

Rome said to be founded

Tiglath-Pileser III begins rise of Assyrian Empire

Foundation of Persian Empire by Cyrus the Great

Rome becomes a Republic

Greek city states defeat Persia at Marathon

Construction of the Parthenon in Athens

Alexander the Great defeats King of Persia

Start of construction of Great Pyramid of Cholula

Ashoka the Great becomes Emperor

Great Wall of China begun

Hannibal defeated by Scipio Africanus

Chola Dynasty rises to prominence in South India

Julius Caesar murdered

Death of Emperor Augustus

Rise of the Sassanian Empire in Persia

End of the Western Roman Empire

Franks under Clovis defeat the Visigoths

Eastern Roman Empire (Byzantium) reconquers Italy

Birth of Mohammad

Mohammad moves from Mecca to Medina. Start of Islamic Calendar

Beginning of Abbasid Caliphate

Charlemagne crowned Holy Roman Emperor

Alfred the Great becomes King of Wessex

Rollo founds Normandy

Basil II becomes Emperor of Byzantium

Leif Ericson lands in Canada

The Battle of Hastings

First Crusade. Jerusalem is captured from the Muslims

University of Oxford founded

Saladin recaptures Jerusalem

Genghis Khan dies

Ottoman Empire founded

Dante publishes The Divine Comedy

Aztecs found city of Tenochtitlan

Black Death in Europe

Fall of Constantinople to the Ottoman Turks

Christopher Columbus reached the New World

Michelangelo begins sculpting David

Foundation of Mughal Empire

Sir Francis Drake first man to lead expedition round the globe

The Spanish Armada defeated

Shakespeare dies

Mayflower arrives in America

Tasman sights New Zealand

End of English Civil War

Peter the Great sole Tsar in Russia

The South Sea Bubble

American Declaration of Independence

The French Revolution starts

Napoleon becomes Emperor of the French

Great Exhibition in London

Start of American Civil War

Death of Charles Dickens

Edison tests his first light bulb

Start of World War 1

End of World War 2

The Beatles have their first hit record

Man lands on the Moon

This year.  Happy New 5513

 

I can’t guarantee the accuracy of the dates or, sadly, my arithmetic.  But I had fun doing it and it did make me think differently about history and time.

Christmas 1066. The Lost King: Resistance. #SampleSunday #HistNov

On Christmas morning Oswald woke me early and beckoned me to the window.  I glanced outside.  The sky was as grey as iron and as I watched snowflakes began to swirl.  By the time I got my clothes on the snow was layering the ground and the rooftops.  An unholy silence seemed to settle on the town.  Even the distant barks of dogs were muffled and no birds flew.  Godwin and I stared out at the cold whiteness.  Normally, I would have flung myself into the snow but this morning my heart was as heavy as a rock and I lingered mournfully in the doorway.  Godwin stood beside me, sharing my silence and gloom.

‘Come on lads,’ cried Oswald.  ‘Duke William will have me thrown in the river if you are late.’

Serving women came and sighed at the sight of me.  They made me strip my clothes off and adorn myself in fine linens and embroidered surcoat.  Lastly they wrapped a costly cloak around my shoulders.  Then one of my Norman guards came and fastened a sword around my waist.  I waited until he had gone before I pulled it from its scabbard.  It was blunt.

Oswald looked me up and down.  He did not say a word and I could not tell if he was pleased with me or not.  It was not like him to be so silent.  Then he nodded.  ‘Come on,’ he said.  ‘It is a long ride to the Abbey.’

We followed him out into the snow.  I was delighted to see that Leofwine, one of my favourite Housecarls, was waiting outside, holding the reins of my pony.  He helped me into the saddle and then we trotted along the river.  Waiting on the banks were the rest of my twenty Housecarls and with them a further forty Norman horseman.

‘You have a fine bodyguard,’ said Godwin, his eyes gleaming.

I nodded.  Our spirits were lifted by the sight of the warriors.

Slowly we trudged through the still sleeping streets.  The snow danced before our eyes like elf spirits in the woods.  Time seemed to have no sway and I could not tell whether we spent an hour or many hours in the saddle.

At length, up ahead, we saw the huge bulk of Westminster Abbey appear through the snow.  As we got closer, I realised that all the area surrounding it was crowded with Norman soldiers.  They were fully armed and looked watchful and nervous.  A few local men waited in the doorways of their homes, but there was no sight of their women or children.

We dismounted and entered the vastness of the Abbey.  It was like the mightiest hall of a king but twenty times larger. Huge torches flared upon the walls casting dismal shadows.  It looked as though the Abbey was full of giant ghosts, their bodies shifting and wavering in the cold draught.  I knew a spell against ghosts and was relieved that I could chant it if I had to.  But I guessed that the heavy smell of incense would banish any of the dead.  I had never liked the smell of incense and here there was so much that it clogged my nostrils and made my throat feel like wool.  The priests who swung the incense salvers droned out a miserable dirge all the while.  Perhaps they hated the smell as well.

I glanced up at the roof stretching far overhead.   The empty space made me feel naked and afraid and I turned my eyes back to the hall.  Half of it was empty but nearer the altar were about a hundred men and women, English and Norman.

‘We are not allowed to go any nearer,’ Oswald whispered to me.  ‘But we will be waiting here for you, never fear.’

Close to the altar was a small huddle of men, cloaked against the cold.  I was ushered up to join them.  Most were Normans, although I recognised only Bishop Odo and William fitz Osbern, a close friend of the Duke’s and his steward.

Also there was the traitor Archbishop Stigand, who gave me a winning smile.  I stared back at him as though he was a stranger.  Next to him was Earl Edwin who looked even more pale and drawn than previously.  And to my delight, there was his brother Morcar who gestured me over and made room for me to sit next to him.  My Norman guards seemed unhappy with this but did not wish to countermand the earl so contented themselves with crowding close in the bench behind me.

‘How are things with you, Edgar?’ asked Morcar.

I shrugged.  ‘I have been kept in a fine house.  My bodyguard Oswald has been allowed to stay with me and his son Godwin who is my friend.’  I turned and pointed them out to him.

‘And have you been treated well?’

‘Well enough.  They give me fine food and I drink wine instead of ale.  But I’m not allowed to go out without ten thousand Norman guards following me.’

Morcar chuckled.  ‘It is the same with me.  I am treated like the most honoured of guests but feel like a prisoner.  I am allowed to see no Englishmen at all.  Only Englishwomen.’

‘That must be really boring,’ I said.  Morcar gave a strange smile but did not respond.

‘And what about your brother?’ I asked.  ‘Do you see him?’

Morcar shook his head.  ‘This is the first time that I have seen him since we got to London.  He has been lodged at Winchester and I at Barking with Duke William.’

I grinned to myself.  It would upset Edwin that the Duke had sent him far away while keeping his younger brother close by him.  Either William preferred Morcar’s company, which was understandable, or considered him more of a threat.  Either way, Edwin would be angered.

A bellowing horn sounded in the Abbey and the Normans rose to their feet.  After a little moment Morcar did so as well and signed me to do the same.

All at once the chatter of the congregation ceased and the last dirge of the priests echoed against the walls and was snuffed out.  I turned and saw Archbishop Ealdred of York pacing slowly up the aisle and behind him, in full chain mail and a vast red cloak, Duke William.

At length they reached the altar and began a very long ceremony, some in Latin, a little in English but most in French.  I could speak French and followed it, but in the end I got bored.  All at once I thought of my dog Rip.  I felt terrible.  I had not seen him since the morning we left London to seek battle with the Normans.  That was nearly three weeks ago.  He must be missing me terribly.  I would have to seek permission from the Duke to go to find him.

At that point I noticed that there was a lull in the ceremony.  Then I saw a Norman priest walk up the aisle bearing a cushion with old King Edward’s crown upon it.  I narrowed my eyes.  There was only one person who should be wearing that crown, I thought.

The priest approached the archbishop who held the crown aloft above William’s head.  ‘People of England,’ he cried in a loud voice.  ‘Do you give consent that William should be crowned your king, lawful and anointed in the name of the saviour?’

I shook my head.  Only the day before, Oswald had told me that Duke William had decided upon this trick in order to claim that the people of England really did support him.  Real kings of England had not needed to seek this consent.  Harold had not and neither had I.

‘We consent,’ said the English gathered nearby.  I did not.

Then a Norman bishop stepped forward and cried out: ‘Nobles and warriors of Normandy.  Do you consent that William be crowned King of England and the English?’

A huge baying came from all of the Normans crowded in the Abbey.  The Abbey was so vast and empty that the cry seemed to take on a life of its own, crashing against one wall and back again as though a huge army was camped within it.

At that exact moment, the doors of the Abbey crashed open.  I turned in alarm.  Armed men rushed into the Abbey crying loud.  Some held drawn swords and some had burning torches.

‘Harold,’ I cried.  ‘Harold has come.

But it was not Harold.  These were Norman soldiers.  They hurtled up the aisle, swords waving, clamouring out William’s name.

Then, above the noise, we heard the Duke’s voice.  ‘Silence,’ he cried.  His voice was so loud that it carried far above the noise of the soldiers.  ‘Why have you entered this holy place with swords drawn?’

The Norman soldiers looked about them in confusion.

‘The fools think that the Bastard was in danger,’ said Morcar.  ‘They must have thought that the acclamation was some attack upon him.’  He looked around, thoughtfully.  ‘They must be as nervous as she-cats.’

At that moment, thick smoke began to billow into the Abbey.  William fitz Osbern ran down to the doorway and glanced out.  He came charging back up the aisle.  ‘Our bloody troops have set the nearby houses on fire,’ he cried.

Then he felled the nearest of the Norman soldiers with his fist.

‘I will not have this panic,’ cried William.  His face was scarlet with rage.  ‘Quench the fires.’

He glared at Archbishop Ealdred.  The old man did not respond for a moment and fitz Osbern pushed him forward.  He shook his head and placed the crown upon William’s head.

William jammed the crown further down upon his forehead and then stormed off to a side door.  He had only taken half a dozen strides when he turned and hurried back.  He grasped me by the shoulder.  ‘Come,’ he cried, ‘the whole of the Abbey may be engulfed.’

In a moment we were outside.  William stopped and stared at the flames which were fast destroying the nearby houses.  Screams of terror and pain cut through the winter day.  ‘I had not wanted my coronation to end like this,’ he said.  He stared at the burning houses.  ‘What a terrible way to die,’ he said.

I stared back at him, surprised at his words.

*******************

The first two books of the Lost King series are available at all ebook outlets priced $3.00, £1.95, €2.68CDN$ 2.99  or thereabouts.

The third book, Warrior, will be available in 2013.

You may also want to look at my other novels. ‘Artful’ tells the adventures of the Dodger in Australia where he has been transported and London. ‘Outcasts’ is about the ordinary men who were knighted by Balian of Ibelin to defend Jerusalem against Saladin.

May I wish all readers of this blog a happy holiday season.

Over the cliff

In David Lodge’s excellent book ‘A Man of Parts,’ he tells how his protagonist HG Wells felt unsettled and out of sorts when he had finished a novel.  I can well understand it.

I have just finished work on ‘Outcasts’, my novel about the fall of Jerusalem to Saladin and I feel equally unsettled and out of sorts.

HG Wells’ normal solution was to find some young woman to seduce.  Me; I’m going to see ‘The Hobbit’ with my wife, Janine.

It is a strange phenomenon this feeling.  I imagine it’s how characters like Wile E. Coyote feel when he’s chased the Road Runner and finds himself over the edge of the cliff.  He looks down at the abyss below and turns to the camera with a look of saddened resignation.  Those seconds while he stands there, poised in the air, no longer with feet on the ground, are how I feel now.

The solution, of course, is to get down to writing again.  I’m fortunate in that I have already written seventy thousand words of my new novel, ‘The Lost King: Warrior’.  I paused in the writing of this to do the editing of ‘Outcasts.’

I thought I’d done with editing for a while but, of course, as I’m re-reading the new book I find myself tidying it up as I go.  Not, perhaps, the best way to get an overarching view of the novel but I seem to be in editing mode so I might as well go with it.

But in the meanwhile, I have an appointment with Mr Bilbo Baggins.