Martin Lake's Blog, page 18

Part 6 of my work in progress. #SampleSunday #HistNov

CHAPTER 3 JERUSALEM

SAINTS AND DEMONS

Bernard heaved a barrel of ale onto the counter.

‘Good news,’ he said.  ‘The young Englishmen have decided to stay for a month.’

‘Excellent,’ Agnes answered.  ‘With the soldiers gone the city feels empty and our coffers are beginning to look the same.’

‘Do you like the English?’ he asked.  ‘You might be related.’

‘My great grandfather was English,’ Agnes said. ‘That was a long time ago.  In any case, these two are of Norman blood.  And my great grandfather was said to be the son of the Normans’ deadliest enemy.’

‘But do you like them?’

She paused before picking up a cloth and polishing a tankard.  ‘I like them as much as any other guest.  Why do you ask?’

‘They’ve only been here, what, three days and the boys seem to have got attached to them already.’

Agnes looked troubled.  ‘Do you think it is a cause for concern?’

‘I don’t know.  I think Gerard believes they will stay here forever.’

‘Gerard’s always excitable.’

Agnes came over to her husband and brushed her fingers through his hair.  ‘And what about you?  Do you like them?’

He grinned.  ‘I do.  That may be why I am asking the question.  I like them a lot, more than an inn-keeper should like his guests.’

‘That is because they come from somewhere far-away and exotic.  England sounds so exciting.  Jerusalem is boring and you hanker for adventure.’

He grabbed her by the waist and stared into her eyes.  ‘I have all the adventure I need just living with you.’

Agnes blushed at his words and a tiny smile grew upon her lips.

‘I like you saying this,’ she said.  ‘But I sometimes wonder if you don’t yearn for a little more adventure than I can provide.’

‘Not in the slightest,’ he said, pulling her close.

 *******

Later that day John sat in the courtyard enjoying the last of the day’s sunshine.  He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sky, enjoying the warmth bathing his skin.  His lips felt dry and hot and he licked them slowly.  He tasted the salt from where he his sweat had dripped onto his lips.

He did not hear any noise but he suddenly became aware of a presence in the courtyard.  His first thought was that it was one of the boys.

But then he knew.  He knew it was Agnes.

He opened his eyes and turned to look at her.

She was leaning in the doorframe, a cloth and a plate in her hand.  She must be enjoying the sun as well, he thought.

His heart quickened.  Or perhaps she had been watching me.

‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she said softly.

He shook his head.

‘You didn’t.  I wasn’t asleep.’

‘You looked very peaceful.’

He thought as if the breath was being squeezed from his lungs.

‘I was just thinking, just dreaming, day-dreaming rather.’

She laughed, a little tinkling sound which almost made him shiver.

‘I do that,’ she said.  ‘Or I do whenever I get a minute’s peace.  I’m afraid that isn’t often.’

He gazed at her but did not answer.  His mind struggled to find something to say but every phrase he formed seemed inane.

The sun had moved so that half of her face was mostly in full sunlight but half in shade.  The branches of the old olive tree flickered shadows across her face.  Almost like a bridal veil, he thought.  The line where light and shadow caught his gaze.  Her features, normally so bright in his imagination, were dimmed there but more alluring for that.

‘You look red,’ she said.

He touched his hands to his cheek and blushed even redder.

‘It’s the sun,’ he said.  ‘My skin isn’t used to it.’

She smiled.  He had no idea what the smile meant.  He guessed she may have realised that the colour on his face came from within.

‘John,’ called a familiar voice from within the inn.

He ignored Simon’s call, hoping that he would not find him and go away.

‘John,’ he called again.  ‘Where are you?  I’ve got something to tell you.’

Still John ignored his call.

Agnes smiled and glanced at the ground before looking up at him once again.

‘Aren’t you going to answer your cousin?’ she asked.  ‘He sounds keen to find you.’

John nodded and went even redder.  He cursed his cousin.

‘I’m in the courtyard,’ he called.

Simon appeared in the doorway and took in the scene.  A grin which looked knowing and lascivious broke upon his face.

‘I wasn’t interrupting anything?’ he asked innocently.

Agnes shook her head.

‘Of course not,’ said John quickly.  He got to his feet.  ‘What did you want?’

Simon put his hand to his mouth as if struggling to remember.  ‘Do you know, I’ve completely forgotten.’

He gave a courtly bow to Agnes, winked at John and went back into the inn.

Agnes turned and gazed at John.

‘I’d better go after him,’ he said.

‘I think you had,’ she answered.  ‘Before he gets any more strange ideas.’

John mumbled incoherently and walked into the gloom of the inn.

**********

The novel will be published later this month.

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Poor Knights and Princes. Part 5. #SampleSunday #HistNov

An example of the greatly debased later histamena: an electrum coin of the first years of Alexios I Komnenos (r. 1081–1118). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The old man turned his attention to the Englishmen once more.

‘You are pilgrims by the look of it.’  He picked up a bag and shook it.  ‘And I am by calling a money changer.’

He grinned and gestured them to sit on two stools next to his own.  ‘My name is Alexius Kamateros of Constantinople.  I can change any coin from east, west, south or north.  As friends of these boys, I give you the best rate in Jerusalem.’

‘We have English pennies,’ John said.

The old man nodded.  ‘That is good.  The English know how to make a coin.’  He spread his hands.  ‘I have to say that the older the better.  Since the Normans conquered the country the coins are not quite so fine.’

‘But still good?’

‘Oh yes, still good.  Better than Frankish coins or German or Saracen.’  He leaned close towards them.  ‘But not as good as those from the Empire of course.’

‘Alexius’ ancestor was an Emperor,’ Claude-Yusuf said.

‘Vespasian,’ Alexius said.  ‘A long time ago.  My people moved from Rome to Constantinople six hundred years ago.’

John and Simon exchanged glances, not knowing what to make of the old man.

‘You doubt that I am honest?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Simon.  ‘I’m sure you are.’

‘More honest than the relic sellers, at any rate.’

He leaned close once again.

‘In the Street of the Palmers you will find only one honest shop,’ he continued.  ‘The rest will sell you a part of a sheep’s fleece and tell you it comes from John the Baptist’s wild and woolly head.  They will sell you a dried up old thorn and say it came from Christ’s crown.  They will sell you a rusty nail, or even maybe all three and claim you know what.  Why I have even seen one sell a rock and claim that it was used to stone Saint Stephen.’

Simon laughed.  ‘We shall watch out for them.  I have heard that an Abbot in France has a golden casket where he keeps the fore-skin of Christ.’

Alexius threw his hand in the air.  ‘I can purchase half a dozen of the same, in the one street.’

‘You say there is one honest shop?’ said Simon.

Alexius rose from his stool and bowed.  ‘The shop belongs to he with whom you now speak.’

‘Of course.  I should have guessed.’

Alexius sat down once again.  He sniffed, deciding what his next move should be.  ‘In the meanwhile, you want to change some money?’

‘I would like something smaller than a penny,’ John said.

Alexius produced a small scale as if from nowhere and placed three of John’s pennies in one pan and adjusted a small lever on the scales. He opened a bag and poured tiny copper coins into the other pan until the scales balanced.

‘This is the current rate,’ he said.  Then he poured more copper coins into the pan, causing it to sink to the table.  ‘And this is the rate for friends of friends.’

The noon bell rang and the old man plucked up his bags and scales and pulled down a shutter on his booth.

He turned to the cousins.  ‘Do you plan to stay long in Jerusalem?’ he asked.

‘We think so.’

The old man stared at them for a long time.  ‘Forgive me for saying, but I think that both of you should not stay here for long.’

**********

The novel will be published shortly on Kindle.

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Talking with MC Scott. #HistNov

Today I’m delighted to be talking with MC Scott, historical author and chair of The Historical Writers’ Association.  Thanks very much for talking with me, Manda.

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

Manda:  I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was very, very young.  As a child, I wrote ‘books’ from the perspective of the owls in the kitchen (my mother ran a rehab centre for birds of prey and every summer, we’d have a kitchen full of owls and kestrels, some of whom had to stay over winter).  I studied veterinary medicine, but still had some romantic notion of being able to be a good vet and write books, which just wasn’t possible, though I did manage to run the two together for about 8 years.

Which authors have had the greatest influence upon you?

In my youth, Alan Garner (his latest book is just out, a sequel to The Moon of Gomrath, it’s just arrived and I’m desperately mining time out of the days to read it), and Rosemary Sutcliff, particularly ‘Sword at Sunset’ which was her take on the Arthurian myths and is still one of the best, though Mary Stewart’s ‘Crystal Cave’ trilogy was exceptionally good and really influenced my childhood.

In adolescence, I discovered Dorothy Dunnett and read ‘King Hereafter’ endless times.

As an adult, Mary Renault, particularly her ‘Fire from Heaven’, the story of the young Alexander, and, of course, more recently, Hilary Mantel, who has shown us all what historical writing can be in the hands of genius.

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

That’s hard – the publication of each novel is such a huge high point, it’s hard to separate them out. I suppose being shortlisted for the Orange Prize with my first novel, Hen’s Teeth was a fairly high point, as was the nomination for an Edgar with No Good Deed.  Most recently, writing ‘Eagle of the Twelfth’ was an exceptional experience – I’ve never had a novel write itself before, but this one came pretty close.

How do you research your novels? 

I read a lot, I talk to people, I try things out… I’m lucky in that I taught for years at the Cambridge Vet School and as a result, have lifetime access to the Cambridge University Library which is an astonishingly good resource. I read endlessly into the minutiae of the subject and then try to work out what might actually have happened around the event or person in question – at least for the historical novels.  In terms of place, I’ve just come back from a trip to Orleans which was research for the new novel I’m working on just now.

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

Definitely. I can’t cope without some kind of structure to the day. I have a competition agility dog, so a lot of the day’s structure is formed around training with her: we go out for an hour or so onto the hill in the morning, then I have regular 10 minute breaks through the day when I run her down the lane and back, and then another hour in the evening.  Those are my thinking times. In between, I try to clear all the admin in the morning – though with the advent of the HWA, that’s becoming ever-harder, and then edit the scene I’m working on first.  The afternoon is for writing new material, for throwing down the raw text to be worked on in the next few days. Left to myself, I can work through to nine or ten at night, but my partner tends to want to see me and so I stop around 7:30 – 8.

Who or what inspires you most? 

Anyone and everyone who does what they do exceptionally well. So in the context of historical writing, Hilary Mantel is a constant source of awe and wonder although more recently, I’ve read Neal Stephenson’s REAMDE and been completely blown away by the lucid-complexity of his thinking.

In agility, my trainer, Lee Gibson gives me something to aim for and Lauren Langman in Devon is an inspirational instructor who understands the science of dog behaviour and how to best apply it to our dogs.

If you were to give advice to someone thinking of writing a novel what would it be?

Don’t give up the day job.  Seriously, we’re in the midst of a recession and fewer and fewer people are buying books. It’s harder now to break into professional-level writing than it has ever been.  But that doesn’t mean you can’t write: I wrote my first three novels while working full time and I was holding down 3 different part-time jobs when I wrote No Good Deed. Get yourself a good agent, and then write 500 words a day every day, you’ll have a novel within a year.

What is or would your favourite writing space be like?

I have dreams of a garden office which is made all of wood and glass, to passiv-haus standards. It has a 4m planted aquarium along one wall and I write at a ‘walk station’ which will stop me from ever again getting RSI. I look out on the garden where the dog is secure and there’s a pen for the pups I will inevitably breed from her. I have broadband 35Mb access (a dream; I live in a very rural area with minimal connectivity) and the phone never rings.  The cats sleep on the desk and the dog has her own dog flap.  My actual writing space is the spare room which has a north facing window and a view over the neighbour’s half-built self-build wreck of a former barn.

Spring, summer, autumn, winter? Autumn

Dreams or daydreams? Dreams

Hare or rabbit?  Hare

What is your next writing project?

I’m in the very early stages of a novel that will have a contemporary thriller thread set in modern day France and a historical thread set in the fifteenth century.  I think I know who Joan of Arc really was (and I’m certain she wasn’t a 19 year old peasant girl who just happened to be able to don full armour and jump on a trained war horse without falling off), but the revelation of who she is and how she came to have the ability to lead the French armies to victory after nearly a century of defeat is only half the story.  The bigger part is what might happen in the very near future in France if that was revealed. The hard right have taken ‘The Maid’ as their mascot and if someone had proof that she wasn’t who they have been told, I think they’d kill to keep it quiet. So the book opens with a death and we slowly work through the reasons.  It’s new and fresh and utterly inspiring…

Chair – The Historical Writers’ Association

http://www.TheHWA.co.uk  

Thank you very much for talking with me, Manda, and good luck with the thriller.

********

The next talk will be on 9 November when I’m talking with Harvey Black.  One week after that I’m talking with Ben Kane.

 

Forthcoming Talks with Fellow Authors

I’ve really enjoyed talking with fellow authors over the last five months.

I’m looking forward to forthcoming talks with authors.  They include MC Scott, Harvey Black, Ben Kane, Elizabeth Chadwick and Prue Batten with many others in the pipeline.

If you’ve missed any of the previous talks please check my previous posts.

The authors I’ve talked with already are:

David Gaughran, Ty Johnston, SJA Turney, Lynn Shepherd, Angus Donald, Gordon Doherty, James Wilde, Robyn Young, Douglas Jackson, Simon Toyne and N. Gemini Sasson.

The talks have been informative, illuminating and great fun.

Thanks to all past and future contributors to this series.

 

Poor Knights and Princes Part 4 #SampleSunday #HistNov

John returned to the entrance and climbed up the stairs which led to the place of the crucifixion.  With each step his heart felt more deadened, his burden of guilt more heavy.

At the top of the stairs he paused, his hand upon the door.

Dare I go in?  Am I so reviled, so lost that I cannot sully this holy place?

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his heart.  He took a deep breath and stepped into the chapel.

To his left was a small rock on which it was said the three crosses had been raised a thousand years before.  He fell to his knees in front of it.

He cast his mind back to his act of sin and sacrilege.  He felt once again his anger, still hot as the blood which swept his veins.  He felt once again the sense of shame.

He needed more.  He tried to force his thoughts to the sorrow, the contrition he knew he should feel at the horror of his deed.  But instead they turned again to those screams of shame and rage.

He knelt in silence for a long time, his hands pressed to his forehead.  It was useless.  Salvation would stay forever beyond his reach.

Could this be, he wondered?  Was Jerusalem too holy a place for one so unworthy?  Was he damned, never able to attain the bliss it promised?

He struggled to his feet and leant his hand against the wall, propped up like a dead thing awaiting disposal.

A familiar blackness settled once more upon him.  He made a perfunctory obeisance towards the place of sacrifice and left.

He found Simon and the boys at the foot of the stairs.

‘Are you all right?’ Simon asked.

John smiled wanly.  ‘Yes.  But what I desire may not prove as easy as I imagined.’

He did not tell Simon his real thoughts.  Simon had trod long and weary miles with him on the journey to the Holy Land and it was not fair to even hint that they may have been in vain.

Simon nodded but made no comment.

‘Well I saw the tombs but one of the priests took a dislike to the boys.  I thought it best to leave.’

As he said it he glanced at Claude-Yusuf for it was he who had aroused the anger of the priest.  By the look on his face he had realised it.

‘Shall we take you round the rest of the city now?’ Gerard asked.

Simon nodded.  ‘That would be good.’

They took them back through the maze of alley ways, past the inn and then right along the David Street towards the Jaffa Gate by which they had entered the city.

Close by the gate the city walls continued in an easterly direction to enclose a vast citadel.  Two huge towers loomed high above the citadel walls, impregnable bastions designed to throw back the fiercest assault.  The cousins crept past the fortifications, feeling like mice trying to scurry past a watchful cat.  They felt ashamed, for the two boys were unabashed.

‘This is where King Guy lives,’ cried Gerard with pride.  ‘He waved to me once and kissed me on the head.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Claude-Yusuf said.

‘He did.  You can ask my father.’

‘Why would he kiss you so?’

‘Because he knows that I am to be a Templar knight when I grow up.’

‘How could he know that?’

Gerard went to answer then realised he did not know and was forced to shrug instead and try to look superior.

John and Simon looked everywhere as they walked.  With every step they appeared to be going deeper into a more foreign world.  There were no Europeans here apart from themselves.  They could not help but stare at the exotic appearance of the people with their dark faces and strange, bright clothes.

The locals, on the other hand, gave the Englishmen only the most cursory of glances.  They were well used to the sight of pilgrims.

‘Are these Saracens?’ John asked.

Claude-Yusuf shook his head.  ‘No Muslims are allowed to live within the city walls.  These people are Armenians.’

They strolled through streets and markets, past churches and shrines, startled by the bright and vivid colours.  Their nostrils were filled with the scent of strange food, startling spices, musky stews and fish both fresh and rotting.  The noise was overwhelming for everyone talked at the top of their lungs.

After a few minutes the boys turned left and they entered a quarter of the city which was even more strange to their sight.  The people were smaller than the Armenians and even darker of face.  They wore clothes of bright and vibrant colours and every man was bearded.  Small groups of men clung around tiny squares, locked in fierce discussion, their arms waving until someone said something amusing which made them roar with laughter.  But as soon as they saw John and Simon they grew quiet and watched in silence until they passed.

‘Are these Jews?’ Simon asked.

Claude-Yusuf nodded.

‘They make lots of pretty things,’ he said.  ‘Mother and Aunt Agnes come here to buy their clothes.’

They came out onto a larger road.  To their left was an open space crammed with people talking in close huddles.  On either side of the street were tiny shops, most of them little more than booths.  The cousins peered in as they passed.  They did not appear to sell anything at all.

‘Gerard,’ called a figure sitting on a stool beside one of the booths.  ‘Claude-Yusuf.’

‘Alexius,’ they cried and ran over to him.

He was an old man, probably in his late fifties.  He reached out for Gerard’s ear and plucked a little coin from it.  He then did the same to Claude-Yusuf.  The boys were mesmerised and watched as he made a great show of biting on the coins.

‘They are gold, most certainly,’ he said, passing them to the boys who stood rapt, examining them.  ‘You boys have a gold-mine each in your heads.  Don’t let the Patriarch know or he will be after you.’

The man looked up at John and Simon and scrutinised them as if he were seeking to remember who they were.  Finally, he seemed to have satisfied himself and grinned widely, showing a mouth filled not with teeth but with gold.

‘Tell me boys,’ he said, without taking his eyes from the adults.  ‘Who are your new friends?’

‘They are English,’ said Gerard, ‘from France.  They are staying at the inn and are my good friends.’

‘Am I not your good friend?’ the old man asked softly.

Gerard looked crestfallen for a moment.

‘Of course you’re our friend, Alexius, of course you are.’

He fell silent, biting his lip.  ‘But can’t a person have more than one good friend?’

‘He can indeed,’ Alexius said.  ‘But he may, by definition, have only one best friend.’

‘Claude-Yusuf is my best friend.’

‘A good choice, if I may be allowed a judgement.’

He turned his attention to the Englishmen once more.  ‘You are pilgrims by the look of it.’  He picked up a bag and shook it.  ‘And I am by calling a money changer.’  He grinned and gestured them to sit on two stools next to his own.  ‘My name is Alexius Kamateros of Constantinople.  I can change any coin from east, west, south or north.  As friends of these boys, I give you the best rate in Jerusalem.’

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1066 and the End of a World.

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)

In October 1066 Duke William of Normandy won the Battle of Hastings and killed King Harold.  Confident that the path to the throne was now clear he rested his army and waited for the Witan, the council of the great English lords, to come to submit to him.

They did not come.

Instead they chose as the king Edgar Aetheling, the young grandson of Edmund Ironside.  Edgar was the only person directly descended from Alfred the Great and the Witan must have believed that only he had any hope of uniting the country against the Norman invaders.

[image error]

English: Edmund II of England and his family (Edward the Exile, Edgar the Ætheling, Saint Margaret of Scotland, Edmund , Cristina) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Thwarted in his wait for the English to come to him William marched north to seek their submission in London.  A terrible disease, possibly dysentery, swept through the army and William himself became terribly ill.  In a few weeks, however, the army was on the move again, ravaging Kent and heading towards London.

It was at Southwark that the Normans experienced their first setback.  The English, defending their new young king, threw the invaders back at London Bridge.  Unable to enter the city, William burnt Southwark in revenge.

William then led his army on a long sweep west and north of the Thames, destroying everything in his path.

It was by such methods that William made his first mark upon the people of England.

But he still had to deal with the legitimate king of England.

 *********

My novels, ‘The Lost King: Resistance’ and ‘Wasteland’ tell the story of Edgar and his resistance to the Norman invaders.  They are available in e-book from all retailers including Amazon, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, Sony and WH Smith.

The third in the series: ‘Warrior’ will be available early in 2013.

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The Land of Vain Regret. Part 3. #histnov #SampleSunday

This is the third part of my new novel which will be available in December.

Gerard and Claude-Yusuf raced into the room and headed straight for the cousins.

‘Shall we take you around Jerusalem?’ Claude-Yusuf asked.  ‘We are most excellent guides.’

‘Claude-Yusuf knows everywhere and everything,’ Gerard said with pride.

‘That sounds a splendid idea,’ Simon said.

At that moment Agnes walked in from the courtyard.

‘But only if your parents agree,’ John said hurriedly so that she could hear.

‘Agree to what?’ Agnes asked.

The two boys ran to her, each grabbing a hand and looking up at her with pleading eyes.

‘The English have asked us to take them round the city,’ Gerard said.  ‘We will be their guides.’

‘They have asked you?’ she said, feigning surprise.  Her eyes went to the young men.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said John.  He felt his face redden.

Agnes glanced away.  ‘If you promise not to be a nuisance to the gentlemen,’ she said.

The two boys wriggled with excitement.  ‘We will, we will.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

She smiled at the men.  ‘Are you certain about this?’

‘We don’t know the city,’ Simon answered.  ‘We need experienced guides.’

‘I must see the church first,’ said John.  ‘That is essential.’

Ten minutes later Gerard and Claude-Yusuf dragged the cousins out of the inn and led them through a narrow alley way.  They were soon in the middle of a warren of streets and alleys.  They moved fast, darting up and down, turning corner after corner until the two adults lost any sense of direction.

After a few minutes they walked through an arch into an open space.

In the centre of the space was a vast church.

The Ferriers gasped.  They had never in their lives seen such a building.  It dwarfed anything they had seen or could have imagined.

‘I’ve never seen a tree as tall as this,’ Simon said.

‘I think it’s even bigger than Nottingham castle,’ said John.

Simon’s gaze went from one end of the church to the other.

‘I tell you what, I think the whole of the Goose Fair could be lost inside it and the city church as well.’

John nodded, awestruck.

The Church of the Sepulchre was made of glistening stone.  Its roof was covered with silver and two large domes with golden crosses appeared to float above the roof.

As John gazed upon it he felt as if he were being dislodged from his firm footing upon the ground, almost as if he dangled half-way between earth and sky.

He brought his eyes back to the ground, seeking for some sense of normality.

They were standing on the edge of the cobbled area in front of the church.  It was thronged with people and the tumult of their noise was overwhelming.

Some looked similar to the people they had seen when they entered the city.  Most looked like pilgrims from the west, travel-worn, filthy, staring at the glory of the church.

‘Well,’ said John, swallowing hard.  ‘You’ve brought us here.  Shall we go inside?’

He took Gerard and Claude-Yusuf’s hands and stepped through the porch into the church.

John was staggered by what he saw.  Every wall was hung with tapestries.  Gold figurines crammed every surface and the ceiling appeared studded with precious stones.  The clear light of day flooded the interior; it was as if he had stepped into the Heaven of his imagination.

His eyes followed the long nave and rested on a huge alter-piece.  His heart lurched at the sight of it.  He wiped his eyes, took a breath and started down the nave towards it.

The alter showed scenes from the life of Christ: his birth, childhood, ministry and sacrifice, carved from fine-grained dark wood.  John stared at the many faces of Christ in the screen.  He was overcome, believing this to be the very image of his saviour.

Beside the alter piece was a large plinth made of fine marble.  It was covered in flowers and small dishes of smouldering incense.  In the centre of it was a rectangular slit which had, by some miracle of craft, been incised deep into the marble.

‘What’s this?’ Simon asked.

‘It’s where the True Cross usually rests,’ Claude-Yusuf said.  ‘But King Guy took it with him in order to beat the Saracens.’

Simon smiled.  John recalled Bernard’s words about this and wondered at them.

‘Let’s go this way,’ Claude-Yusuf said, tugging at John’s hand.  ‘This is where dead people were buried.’

‘Is the tomb there?’ John asked.  ‘Where Our Lord’s body rested before he rose again?’

Claude-Yusuf shrugged.

‘There are bones there,’ Gerard said.  ‘Lots of them.’

‘Show me where Our Saviour was crucified first,’ John said.

The boys looked blank.  They had no idea that such a place existed in the city.

An old pilgrim had been listening to their talk from where he rested on a bench.  He reached out for John’s hand.

‘The place you seek can be found in a chapel above us,’ he said.  ‘Climb the stairs by the entrance to the church and you will arrive there.’

John thanked the pilgrim and turned to Simon.

‘I pray you cousin, will you take the children away for a while?  I need to see Calvary on my own and quietly.’

‘Of course,’ Simon answered.  ‘I understand.’

Simon bent down to the boys.  ‘I’d love to see where people were buried.’ He said. ‘And their bones.’  He had hardly straightened before he was whisked away.

John returned to the entrance and climbed up the stairs which led to the place of the crucifixion.  With each step his heart felt more deadened, his burden of guilt more heavy.

At the top of the stairs he paused, his hand upon the door.

Dare I go in?  Am I so reviled, so lost that I cannot sully this holy place?

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his heart.  He took a deep breath and stepped into the chapel.

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The Common Knights of Jerusalem #SampleSunday #histnov (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)

My books are available in ebook format from all leading retailers.

Talking with N. Gemini Sasson. #histnov

Today I’m talking with N. Gemini Sasson, author of The Bruce Trilogy and Isabeau.

Martin: Hi Gemi, nice to see you.  Before we talk about your writing I wonder if you could tell us which authors have had the greatest influence upon you.

Gemi: In my youth, it was Jean Plaidy, Sir Walter Scott and Alexandre Dumas who sparked my imagination. More recently, I’d say Bernard Cornwell and Philippa Gregory in the historical category, but I probably read more mainstream contemporary fiction than anything else. Mitch Albom is a particular favourite of mine.

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

I was probably 13 or 14 when I got this wild idea that I wanted to be a writer. Books provided me with the excitement that you don’t get in small town Ohio. They made me dream of bigger things, like defeating the enemy and rising triumphant. Clearly I was bored and spent too many hours alone. I wanted to give other readers what the writers I’ve read have given me all my life – an escape. A good book makes you look at the world around you a little differently. I wanted to make people think and feel something through words.

You write historical fiction.  Why this genre in particular?

Some people like to escape into the magic of a fantasy world, or the passion of a romance, or the excitement of a thriller. For me, I’ve always been intrigued by the past – not only by the differences in daily life, but by the similarities of the human experience.

What attracted you to writing about Scotland and England in this period?

I have Scottish roots on my mother’s side, tracing all the way back to a branch of the Bruce family in the 14th century. The amazing thing is that I didn’t learn this until very recently, long after I’d written about Robert the Bruce. When I travelled to the UK with a friend over a decade ago and we first landed in Scotland, I had this really odd sensation – that I’d been there before, that I was home. After that, I decided to pursue an idea I’d had for awhile – to write about one of Scotland’s greatest national heroes. Robert the Bruce’s story is so closely tied to that of England’s that my research just naturally carried me there, as well.

If you could spend time with your favourite character who would it be and what might you do?

Well, if I wasn’t married, I’d hang out with James Douglas and just stare at him. He was Robert the Bruce’s right hand man. He was known for his furtive means of taking castles. I have a bad boy crush on him.

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

Since I’ve been writing biographical fiction, I tend to collect a lot of biographies in paper book form, so I can highlight to my heart’s content. After taking a LOT of notes, I write a timeline on posterboard and from that I select the events that will be included in the storyline. I use web sites for small tidbits of information as needed. One of my favourite sites, which has served as a source of information on various castles, is Undiscovered Scotland (http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/).

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

I allow myself flexibility, or I’d go insane. With two active kids, several pets and home improvement projects always going on, I cram in my writing time when I can, working in chunks. I tend to get more writing done in the winter, but if I could describe a typical day, it would be to start by checking e-mail, then reviewing the previous day’s edits or writing, write from 9-11 a.m., let the dogs out, eat, check e-mail again, let the dogs back in, write, let the dogs out, write until the dogs start barking, put them back in… I usually close my files for the day when my husband gets home from work and we go for a run or bike together, but I do sneak in some more editing in the evening when he’s watching his favourite TV show.

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

Getting my first fan mail. If your family or friends say they bought your book and liked it, you tend to think they’re just being kind, but when a total stranger takes the time to look up your e-mail and write to you, that’s a shot of adrenalin. I now save every fan mail I get and tape it to the wall in front of my desk. The unbelievable thing is that I’m running out of room and will have to start on a second wall soon.

Spring, summer, fall or winter? 

Summer.

Travel by car or on foot?

Foot.

Sea-shore or mountains?

Mountains.

Finally, Gemi, could you tell us about your next writing project?

I’m almost finished with the first full draft of a novel on Owain Glyndwr in 15th century Wales. He fought against Henry IV for Welsh independence, but he was sort of a reluctant hero initially. It’s entitled Uneasy Lies the Crown and should be out before the end of 2012.

Thanks so much for having me Martin!

And thanks for coming, Gemi.  Good luck with Uneasy Lies the Crown.

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

You can find out more about N. Gemini Sasson at these places: 

http://www.amazon.com/N.-Gemini-Sasson/e/B003OSL6CG/  or http://www.amazon.co.uk/N.-Gemini-Sasson/e/B003OSL6CG/

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/n.-gemini-sasson

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/NGeminiSasson

http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/n.-gemini-sasson/id433058220?mt=11

Website: http://www.ngeminisasson.com

Blog: http://ngeminisasson.blogspot.com

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Dawn. Menton

It’s 7.15 in the morning and the moon and Venus are dangling in a brightening sky.  I was awake and ready for work three quarters of an hour ago but then my computer decided to update itself and took an age.

A watched laptop never configures so I decided to go onto the terrace and watch the world wake up.

Monsieur Martin the baker is busy in his shop, baking baguettes and serving early breakfasters.  A man is sipping coffee in one of the seats ouside and watching people hurry to work.  By the look of him he has no where to hurry to or maybe he does and is just very relaxed.  Or enjoying his first coffee of the day.

An insect chirps busily in the tree in front of me.  A blackbird wakes and begins to sing.  In the distance, closer to the beach, seagulls squawk at each other, their irritable sounding ‘yike, yike, yike’, cutting through the air.

The traffic is light and with no shrill motor-bike engines revving to prove the manhood of their riders.  An ambulance weaves slowly through the traffic, lights flashing but no siren blaring.  I assume it’s someone who had just had a heart attack, who needs speed but no noise.

The sky is a moving feast of clouds.  They barely seem to move while I watch them but when I look up after only a few moments the pattern has changed remarkably.  Like a huge kaleidoscope shaken by a child god.

The sky is brightening now.  It’s 7.25.  The moon and Venus are growing faint, I thought for a moment they had been snuffed out by the light.  They seem like dying lovers, all life ebbing from them, clinging on while sight remains so they can see each other until the end.  A red mist takes them and they fade away.

But then the reddening cloud thins and I can just see the bent bow of the moon.  The crescent is so thin it looks like it may break.  Yet somehow, despite its fragility, it remains in place, defying the brightness for a little longer.

The clouds over the sea remain dark but higher in the sky they’re turning pastel pink.  They look like a stepping stone path across the sky.

A train rattles out of the station, heading for Italy.  There was only one passenger on the earlier train.

One of our friendly doves has come to see me, staring across from its perch on the terrace edge.  It shakes itself and a white feather falls.

The trees have re-gained their colour now.  In this light I can see the line of trees in the gardens are turning brown, hanging on like the moon, but soon to fall and disappear.

This will be our first autumn in Menton.  The last of the seasons for us to experience; we’ve loved the winter, spring and summer.

What a pleasure awaits us.

Part 2 of my Kingdom of Jerusalem novel #SampleSunday #Histnov

This is the second sample of my new novel which is set in the immediate aftermath of Saladin’s conquest of the city of Jerusalem.  If you’ve seen the movie ‘Kingdom of Heaven’ you’ll have a good understanding of the time and setting.

The huge gates were winched shut.  The crowd, which moments before had roared with joy at the departing army, gradually fell silent.  People turned and looked at their neighbours, elation fading from their faces.  The throng began to disperse.  Those who remained looked forlorn, almost embarrassed.  A pained silence descended upon them.

John and Simon gazed at the crowd in confusion.  It was the first time they had paid them any attention and they were shocked.

The men were swarthy and heavily bearded, a few with turbans.  The women wore veils and their arms shimmered with silver.

They can’t be our people, John thought.  Since landing in the Holy Land the cousins had paid little heed to the locals.  They had assumed that Jerusalem would be full of Europeans.  It appeared that they were wrong.  The people here looked unlike anybody they had ever seen before.

There was a sudden commotion behind them and they turned to see what was happening.

The two boys were clambering down from the shrine they had climbed to watch the army go by.  A priest with pale face and livid eyes grabbed the eldest by the hair.

‘You dare to stand upon a sacred shrine,’ he cried, slapping the boy across the face.

Simon stepped forward.  ‘Leave him alone,’ he cried.  ‘He’s doing no harm.’

‘Infidels must not pollute this shrine,’ said the priest.

‘I’m not an infidel,’ said the boy.

‘Liar,’ said the priest.  He clenched his fist still tighter and shook the boy’s head.  ‘What’s your name, infidel?’

‘Claude-Yusuf.  My father is a soldier.  He’s just marched off with the King.’

The priest slapped the boy once again.  ‘A half-breed.  Worse than an infidel.  I’ll have you whipped.’

‘You can’t do that,’ said Simon.

‘Can’t I?’  The priest held Simon’s gaze.  ‘I think you’ll find I can.’

‘He’s done nothing wrong.’

‘He’s a half-breed.  Whelped on a Saracen mother.  I’d slaughter the lot of them.’

Both boys began to wail.

John had not interfered until this point but he could stand by no longer.  He stepped up to the priest but Simon saw and blocked his way, preventing him from reaching the priest.

‘I have journeyed from England to Jerusalem,’ Simon told the priest, ‘and in all those miles I never thought I’d see such unchristian behaviour.’  He prised open the priest’s fingers.

The priest’s eyes narrowed.  ‘I shall remember you, infidel-lover,’ he said.  He strode off, his curses carrying on the air.

The boys wiped their noses.

‘Are you all right?’ John asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I am as well,’ said his friend.  ‘My name is Gerard.  Are you pilgrims?’

John nodded.  ‘We are.  We’re from England.’

The boys exchanged looks, this news of much greater interest than the recent assault upon them.

‘Is England in France?’ Gerard asked.

John shook his head.  ‘Certainly not.’

Simon bent down to the boys.  ‘You seem to like soldiers.  You were watching the army march past.’

‘Claude-Yusuf is for the Hospitallers,’ Gerard said once again.  ‘I’m for the Templars.  I shall be one when I get older.’

‘What about you, Claude-Yusuf?’ John asked.  ‘Do you want to be a Hospitaller?’

The boy did not answer.  He stared at the ground and twisted his toes in the dust.

Simon shrugged and held a penny up to the boys.  ‘Thank you for arranging such a magnificent welcome to the city,’ he said.  ‘We are going to stay at the Pilgrim Hostel.  Do you know where it is?’

‘It’s a long way from here,’ Gerard said.

‘A long way,’ said Claude-Yusuf.  ‘We know a better place.’

John raised an eyebrow, suspecting some trick.

‘The best inn in Jerusalem,’ Gerard continued.  ‘It’s much better than the Hostel.  Good beds, good drink and good food.’

‘It’s close by,’ added Claude-Yusuf.

Simon laughed.  ‘Then let’s take a look at this marvel of an inn.’

 ***

The two boys took the cousins’ hands and led them into a maze of alleys.  John feared they would soon be lost but in a few moments they found themselves at the inn.

‘See,’ said Claude-Yusuf, ‘I said it was close.’

After the glare of the streets the inn looked dark.  Better yet, it was cool.  A large room stretched in front of them with rough tables and benches dotted around in an ordered manner.  At the far end of the room a door led into a courtyard with small trees and shrubs.   Along the wall ran a counter stacked with barrels of ale and bottles of wine.  A woman stood behind this, cutting bread.

‘We’ve brought some pilgrims,’ Gerard called.  ‘From England.’

‘From England?’  The woman smiled and handed each of the boys a slice of bread.

‘You’re good boys,’ she said, glancing over towards John and Simon.

Her face was oval, with olive coloured skin and dark brown eyes.  Her hair was a tawny blonde, little darker than the colour of straw.  Two dimples played on either side of a tiny mouth.  John had never seen anything as lovely.  He cast his eyes downward, seeking to banish the thought from his mind.

Simon smiled at the woman.

‘My name is Simon Ferrier,’ he said.  ‘And this is my cousin, John.’

‘Welcome,’ the woman said.  ‘You must be tired.  Can I offer you food and drink?’

Simon nodded enthusiastically but John shook his head.

‘Not yet, I beg,’ he said.  His eyes remained fixed on the floor.  ‘My cousin Simon may wish to eat but before I do I must climb the hill of Calvary and see where Our Lord was crucified.’

The woman gave a fleeting smile and then frowned, wondering how best to answer.

‘To see that would indeed be a miracle,’ called a man from the courtyard.  He was of slight and wiry build, dark skinned with curly hair, a moustache and a wide grin.  His apron was covered in red and brown stains, some of them still wet.

Perched upon his shoulder was a small girl about five years of age.  He slid her to the floor and came towards them.

‘There is no hill of Calvary,’ the man continued.  ‘It was flattened and a church built around it.’

John was shocked.  ‘So we can’t see Calvary?’

‘Not a trace of it.’

‘And the cross?’

‘Oh you can see that; or a bit of it at least.  It’s in the church.  There’s a tiny fragment of timber buried in a cross of gold.’

John frowned.  ‘Gold?’

‘The churchmen felt that Christ would have wanted gold.’

The woman sighed and shook her head as if in warning.

‘The cross isn’t in the church now, father,’ Gerard said.  ‘The army took it and marched with it at the front of the column, the very front, just behind King Guy.  The army took the cross to go to war.’

‘Did they, indeed?’  The man looked troubled.

‘So they stake everything on this attack,’ he said almost to himself.

The novel will be published in December 2012.

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