Martin Lake's Blog, page 7

Tidying Up

I’ve been tidying up the apartment today, a job I do not like. Or rather I’ve been doing the laundry and cleaning and hoovering. Tidying up is one of those tasks that I’m just no good at. I can never make up my mind where to put any one item and I often walk around with a piece of paper for a good long while before deciding that the very best place for it in all the universe was where I just found it.

This morning I was having a coffee with my very gifted artist friend Tobias Harrison. I told him about this  blog and in an unthinking moment gave him the address.

Consternation. The site needed tidying up every bit as much as the apartment.  So, after lunch on the terrace, and a couple of glasses of wine I’ve thought I’d share all the new covers of The Lost King series. They were produced by the very professional Derek Murphy of CreativeIndies. Derek is that rare thing, an entrepreneurial guy with a creative mind and an extremely generous nature.  He did a make-over of ten book covers and my book Resistance was one of them. Here’s a link to his article: http://www.creativindie.com/can-a-new-book-cover-double-sales-a-case-study-with-10-authors/

Then he said, ‘shall I do the others?’

That’s an offer I could not refuse. So here are all three covers side by side. If you look to the side-bar on the right you’ll see how much of a difference they made.

A Most Dangerous Love. #histnov #SampleSunday

Here’s the opening of my new novel which should be published within the month.  I could say more but I’ll let the protagonist speak for herself.

To be a servant at the court of King Henry is to live with your heart in your mouth. This is so whether you are young or old, male or female. Some, of course, have more cause for concern than others. I am young and I am female. So the danger to me is considerable.

The danger is the more acute because I am pretty and the Queen is in the last month of her confinement.

Henry has divorced one wife and executed the second. But that is far from the whole story. A string of shattered hearts lies strewn across the land like pearls from a necklace broken in rage. Aye, it’s true that complicit fathers, brothers, uncles and even husbands have got rich by leading their women like heifers to the courtly market. It is the women who give the most and suffer the most grievously.

Unless of course, they are clever.

It does not do to be too clever. Anne Boleyn taught us this. For make no mistake, King Henry is more clever than any man in the kingdom now that Thomas Wolsey is dead. And he is as subtle and wily as even the most cunning of women. Anne’s head rolling from the block is testimony to that.

The trick is to show your cleverness to just such a degree that Henry is intrigued by it but not threatened. The second trick is to intimate that your cleverness is at his disposal even more than your own. And the third trick? Ah, the third trick is to be willing to bed the great beast of appetites and to know when to do it.

My name is Alice Petherton and I am seventeen years of age. I came to court as a simple servant but I caught the eye of Anne Boleyn when she was newly crowned. I was good at singing, could dance like an elf and made her laugh and think. She took me as one of her maids of honour and my slow approach to the furnace began.

I was very fond of Anne. She was not pretty but there was something alluring about her, some promise of carnality which affected all who knew her, King and subject, man and woman. I must confess that on more than one night I awoke hot with sweat having dreamed I had been bedded by the Queen, worn out and used by her, alive and half-deadened, exultant and dismayed.

There came one morning when she stroked my cheek and kissed me swiftly on the lips. I gazed into her eyes that day, telling her that I was willing. But she merely laughed and told me to get on with my sewing. So are we played with by those we must learn to call our betters.

I will become one of these betters, I determined. I will be fawned upon and bowed to some day.

Not that I aspire to be a queen, you must understand. That is too deadly by far. King Henry appears to be in love with Jane Seymour. He would, of course, for she carries his child. His greatest lust is for a male successor; even more than for any pretty face and shapely form. There is no sense in seeking to usurp Seymour’s place as Queen; no hope. If she proves to be a good brood mare he will rest content for a little while. But in the meanwhile he hungers. The furnace grows hotter by the hour.

If you would like advance notice of the publication of this book please sign up for my newsletter. You also get exclusive access to some of my stories, news and views and advance notice of my new releases.

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A Most Dangerous Love. #histnov #SampleSunday

Here’s the opening of my new novel which should be published within the month.  I could say more but I’ll let the protagonist speak for herself.

To be a servant at the court of King Henry is to live with your heart in your mouth. This is so whether you are young or old, male or female. Some, of course, have more cause for concern than others. I am young and I am female. So the danger to me is considerable.

The danger is the more acute because I am pretty and the Queen is in the last month of her confinement.

Henry has divorced one wife and executed the second. But that is far from the whole story. A string of shattered hearts lies strewn across the land like pearls from a necklace broken in rage. Aye, it’s true that complicit fathers, brothers, uncles and even husbands have got rich by leading their women like heifers to the courtly market. It is the women who give the most and suffer the most grievously.

Unless of course, they are clever.

It does not do to be too clever. Anne Boleyn taught us this. For make no mistake, King Henry is more clever than any man in the kingdom now that Thomas Wolsey is dead. And he is as subtle and wily as even the most cunning of women. Anne’s head rolling from the block is testimony to that.

The trick is to show your cleverness to just such a degree that Henry is intrigued by it but not threatened. The second trick is to intimate that your cleverness is at his disposal even more than your own. And the third trick? Ah, the third trick is to be willing to bed the great beast of appetites and to know when to do it.

My name is Alice Petherton and I am seventeen years of age. I came to court as a simple servant but I caught the eye of Anne Boleyn when she was newly crowned. I was good at singing, could dance like an elf and made her laugh and think. She took me as one of her maids of honour and my slow approach to the furnace began.

I was very fond of Anne. She was not pretty but there was something alluring about her, some promise of carnality which affected all who knew her, King and subject, man and woman. I must confess that on more than one night I awoke hot with sweat having dreamed I had been bedded by the Queen, worn out and used by her, alive and half-deadened, exultant and dismayed.

There came one morning when she stroked my cheek and kissed me swiftly on the lips. I gazed into her eyes that day, telling her that I was willing. But she merely laughed and told me to get on with my sewing. So are we played with by those we must learn to call our betters.

I will become one of these betters, I determined. I will be fawned upon and bowed to some day.

Not that I aspire to be a queen, you must understand. That is too deadly by far. King Henry appears to be in love with Jane Seymour. He would, of course, for she carries his child. His greatest lust is for a male successor; even more than for any pretty face and shapely form. There is no sense in seeking to usurp Seymour’s place as Queen; no hope. If she proves to be a good brood mare he will rest content for a little while. But in the meanwhile he hungers. The furnace grows hotter by the hour.

If you would like advance notice of the publication of this book please sign up for my newsletter. You also get exclusive access to some of my stories, news and views and advance notice of my new releases.

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Yammering like dog foxes. #SampleSunday #HistNov

Here’s the next part of my new work in progress.

One of the warriors ran over and held the torch close to the door. The tall man glanced inside and chuckled quietly. ‘Outside,’ he called. ‘Quick about it.’

He stepped aside and Hild and the three children stole out of the hut, their eyes wide with terror.

‘Here’s a pretty little thing,’ said the man with the torch, stroking the hair of Brand’s daughter, Nerienda. She shrunk back against the wall and the man pushed his body against her. ‘I saw her first, Cenred,’ he said. ‘Finders keepers.’

The big man gave a grim smile. ‘Whatever’s here will be shared, fair and square, Dudda. Including the girl.’

‘No,’ cried Brand.

‘Both women,’ the big man, Cenred said, holding his sword at Brand’s throat, ‘including the girl.’

‘She’s fourteen years old,’ Hild cried, pushing forward. ‘She’s only a child.’

Cenred nodded. ‘That’s true. But you are not a child. You’re a comely woman. Very comely.’ He stepped forward and lifted her chin, examining her face closely. ‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ he said. ‘Your daughter will have to take only four of my men. So long as you take the other eight.’

Brand cried out and leapt forward but Cenred side-stepped and threw him to the ground. Dudda pushed his spear-point against Brand’s neck.

‘Is it a bargain?’ Cenred asked Hild. ‘I won’t even ask your man to watch.’

‘What if I have them all?’ Hild asked. ‘Will you leave my daughter alone?’

Cenred considered this. ‘I would agree but I don’t think you’d survive all twelve. Eight and four is what I offer. Is it a bargain?’

There was a silence and then Hild nodded. ‘But let me talk to my daughter first. This is not how she expected to experience life.’

‘None of us expected what’s coming to us all too soon,’ said Cenred. ‘You might as well get used to it. Our enemies will not treat you so kindly.’

‘You call this kindness?’ Hild said.

‘I call it kindness to my men. Don’t resist and it will be easier for you. Tell you daughter to do the same. There is no hatred in my men. Only sore need.’

The rest of the men dismounted and strolled over. As soon as they saw Hild and Nerienda they began to laugh and cry, yammering like dog foxes in the night. Brand and his sons were manhandled to the far side of the hut and their wrists were bound behind their backs.

‘What will the men do to them?’ asked Osgar, the younger of the boys.

Brand could not answer, so thick was his rage.

‘Don’t worry, Osgar,’ Ulf said. ‘The men won’t harm them.’ He knew this was a lie. But it was a necessary one.

‘Don’t move,’ Brand ordered them. He bowed his head, thankful at least that Cenred had not forced them to watch.

Cenred’s men had formed a ring around the two women. Dudda went into the hut and dragged out some bedding, throwing it on the hard ground. Despite the cold of the night they wanted a show.

‘Strip,’ one of the men called and then the rest of the men took up the word, chanting in a monotonous but threatening manner. After a moment there came a cry of admiration.

‘Cenred first,’ cried one of the men. ‘He should have first taste.’

‘I can wait,’ Cenred answered.

‘I can’t,’ cried Dudda. ‘I’m having the fresh meat.’ The other men laughed.

‘Then I’ll go for the experienced one,’ yelled another. ‘I like my mares well trained.’

Brand cursed and tried to work his bonds free.

There was a mighty cheer and then a horrible silence fell upon the hill. The men leaned forward, fascinated, anticipating. After a few moments there came the sound of Hild crying out. Brand shook his head at the cry. Hild sounded like she did when they made love; he could not tell whether her cries were of fear or of passion. And then Nerienda’s voice rose above her mother’s, a cry of pain and terror. Brand groaned aloud and staggered to his feet. He managed two steps and then he was tripped by an outflung leg and fell head first to the ground.

‘No father,’ cried Ulf, flinging himself on top of him. ‘You can’t stop them and if you try they’ll kill you.’

Brand did not answer but began to weep, his body heaving as if he were dying for want of air.

Still the rapes continued, each one marked out by an exultant cheer from the watching men. But then, after what seemed an age, Cenred cried out, ‘Enough.’

‘There’s more than half of us waiting,’ cried an angry voice.

‘Then you’ll have to wait. They’ll be fresher tomorrow. Keep on now and the women will be ruined.’

The men grumbled but did not dare disobey. The circle broke up and the men returned to their horses for their scant possessions.

After a few minutes Hild approached them, her arm around Nerienda who was sobbing uncontrollably. Cenred followed after them with three men.

‘Get back in your hut,’ he said to the women. ‘You’ll perish of cold out here.’ He nodded and the men hauled Brand and his sons to their feet. ‘You go with them,’ he continued. ‘And if you know what’s good for you don’t stir out again until dawn. My men are raging and I can’t be sure to hold them if they are provoked.’

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Warriors

As well as going to visit my wife in hospital I’ve been hard at work on my new novel. It’s taken some time on my edit of my Tudor novel but I’m slowly but surely working my way through that as well. I hope to publish this in February or March. Alice Petherton, the protagonist, is getting impatient to let her voice be heard.

I wrote the last novel on Scrivener and have done the same with this one. I’m learning more about it every time I use it. It seems ideal for me with my rather butterfly mind. I can write scenes as I think them and place them like jig-saw pieces into the overall framework. I’ll write more about this in the coming weeks. In the meanwhile here’s the opening section of my new novel. Hope you like it.

Brand turned over in his sleep. His eyes flickered open and he lifted his head. He could hear the sound of horses snorting. He placed his hand over Hild’s mouth and shook her awake.

‘Be quiet,’ he whispered. ‘Wake the children but keep silent.’

He pulled back the bed cover and tip-toed across to the bench. He picked up his hunting knife and drew it as quietly as he could. Turning towards his wife he gestured to her to take the children into the far corner of the room where the shadows were darkest. Then he inched open the door and peered out.

A dozen horsemen were standing on the slope in front of the hut, most still mounted, a few holding guttering torches. The horses were panting from exertion, blowing and neighing, kicking at the icy ground. Their breath and the heat from their bodies rose in the cold air, clouding them in a drifting fog.

Three men had dismounted and were making their way towards his hut. Brand slipped out of the hut and held his knife outstretched towards them.

‘Who are you?’ he cried. ‘What are you doing here?’

The three men hurried towards him, drawing their swords as they did so.

‘Put up your weapon,’ one of the men ordered. He was a tall, well-built man who stood a head taller than Brand. ‘There’s a dozen of us,’ he continued, ‘and we’re all well armed.’ He pushed the tip of his sword close to Brand’s throat.

Brand felt the scratch of the sword upon his neck. His heart was hammering in his chest and he willed himself to keep calm. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘Food for my men and forage for our horses.’

Brand shook his head, his eyes widening. ‘We don’t have enough food for ourselves. We have none to spare for strangers.’

‘Whatever you have we’ll take,’ said the man.

He put down his sword, pushed past Brand and peered into the hut. ‘Dudda,’ he cried, ‘bring a torch.’

One of the warriors ran over and held the torch close to the door. The tall man glanced inside and chuckled quietly. ‘Outside,’ he called. ‘Quick about it.’

He stepped aside and Hild and the three children stole out of the hut, their eyes wide with terror.

‘Here’s a pretty little thing,’ said the man with the torch, stroking the hair of Brand’s daughter, Nerienda. She shrunk back against the wall and the man pushed his body against her. ‘I saw her first, Cenred,’ he said. ‘Finders keepers.’

The big man gave a grim smile. ‘Whatever’s here will be shared, fair and square, Dudda. Including the girl.’

‘No,’ cried Brand.

‘Both women,’ the big man, Cenred said, holding his sword at Brand’s throat, ‘including the girl.’

‘She’s fourteen years old,’ Hild cried, pushing forward. ‘She’s only a child.’

Cenred nodded. ‘That’s true. But you are not a child. You’re a comely woman. Very comely.’ 

Don’t forget that you can read my books on any e-reader, tablet, computer or smartphone. You can buy them from most sellers. Most of the novels are $2.99 or equivalent, my collections of short stories a third of that.

Resistance, the first in my The Lost King series, is only $1.00 or equivalent.

Join my subscriber list for exclusive access to my stories, news and advance notice of my new releases.

It’s simple to sign up….. Just click on this link: http://eepurl.com/DTnhb and it will take you to a sign up form.

A New Year

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. I’ve been in a  bit of a turmoil, trying out various ideas for new novels, discarding some ideas immediately, planning others, liking some of them enough to start them. I wrote 13,000 words for one and then gave it up; perhaps not permanently but for a while at least.

And then, in New Year’s Eve, my wife went into hospital. So it’s backwards and forwards to visit her and worry and anxiety. She’s on the mend, thank goodness. She should be back home in a couple of weeks.

Over the last few days, I’ve looked at a novel I’ve planned and realised that in order to make the best of it I needed to start it further back in time and start twenty years earlier. I’ve now conceived a grand, hopefully not grandiose, scheme. The novel is set two hundred years earlier than The Lost King. At the moment I am calling it The Long War.

By the way Resistance, Book 1 of the Lost King is available at $1.22, 75p and similar in other currencies.

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The End of Crusader Jerusalem #SampleSunday #HistNov

MOST DANGEROUS MEN

Balian of Ibelin surrendering the city of Jerusalem to Saladin. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 Jerusalem

 Days later

Saladin watched as Jerusalem

emptied of its people.  They walked past

his tent in two columns.  Those who were rich enough to raise the money to buy their lives hurried past, sliding their eyes towards the Muslims, fearing treachery and death.

The second column, that of the poor, walked with heads bowed, contemplating the long

days of slavery, knowing their lives had been stolen. Amongst them were Agnes and the children. 

At the rear of the column walked the thirty commoners who Balian had made knights.Their heads were not bowed.  The spirit Balian had poured into them still survived, despite the surrender.

A man standing slightly to the rear of Saladin stepped forward at the sight of these men. ‘Brother,’ he asked Saladin, ‘who are these who bear themselves with such courage?’

Saladin shook his head.  ‘I do not know.’  He gestured for Balian to join them.

‘My brother al-Adil and I are curious about the men at the rear,’ he said.’Those who, alone of all my captives, do not seem to feel themselves defeated.  Who are they?’

‘They are my men,’ Balian answered.  ‘The commoners who I knighted in order to resist you.  The ones I told you of earlier.’

Saladin nodded.  He remained silent and his face grew thoughtful.Balian watched Saladin for a while, hoping for some sign.  But there was none.

Balian bowed towards Saladin who now smiled and clasped him by the arm.

‘Go in peace, Balian of Ibelin,’ he said.  ‘You were the most worthy of adversaries.’

Balian mounted the horse Jerome held for him and the two trotted off towards the rear of the column.

 Al-Adil stared at the thirty knights.  He tapped his forefinger upon his lip thoughtfully for a while and then turned to Saladin. ‘I have served you well in these wars, my brother,’ he said, ‘and never asked favour or gift.  I ask one of you now.’

‘Speak.’

‘I would have these men to be my possessions.’

Saladin’s eyes turned towards the thirty commoner knights.’They are men of new-found valour, brother,’ he said.  ‘As such they are most dangerous.’

‘I understand.  I would still have them.’

‘As you wish.  Is that sufficient?’

Al-Adil gazed upon the line of captives.‘Perhaps a thousand more captives, as slaves.’

Saladin commanded that the knights and a thousand of the people be given at once to al-Adil. 

By the time they had been gathered together the departed columns were far distant, Agnes and the children at the rear of the line.   

 BOUGHT AND SOLD 

North of Amman

 Agnes stumbled as she walked.  Eleanor was heavy in her arms.  The little girl had walked hand in hand with her mother for miles but in the end fell to the ground, exhausted.Agnes gazed down at her as she slept.  This should not be happening, she thought as she wearily gathered the child in her arms.

A few steps ahead trudged Gerard and Claude-Yusuf.  Both were kept going only by their pride and by the desire not to be beaten by the other.  They were strong lads but for how much longer would they be able to keep up this relentless pace?  She did not have the strength to carry them.

She glanced up at the sun.  Here on the plains it burnt hot and she pulled a cloth over Eleanor’s face. 

Her heart was bitter and hard.  She had failed to protect them.  All her hopes, all her soft thoughts had come down to this.  All her deeds.  The only thing she could do now was to keep on walking.

Thoughts of Bernard haunted her mind.  Where was he now?  He might be dead or undergoing some dreadful torture.  She did not know which was worse.  She could not stop herself contemplating

both.

Her thoughts floated back to those last, lost days.

Agnes reddened as she recalled the final day of freedom allowed to the citizens by the Saracens. Bernard had raced from the inn the moment they discovered that the strong-box and all the money had been stolen. She had slumped down on the table and stared at the wall.  Everything had been

for nothing then.  Her sacrifice, her degradation, her act of betrayal.

A foot-step sounded beside her and she had whimpered in fear. 

‘What’s happened?’ he had asked.

Her face burned in shame as she recalled what she did next.She told John everything, all the things

she could not have possibly said to her husband. 

He had listened in astonishment, his face growing ever more stern, ever more disgusted.She saw this but she could not stop herself.  She told all in a torrent of shame and fury and ended with the fact that the ransom she had bought so dearly had been stolen from them.

He turned his face away from her and she felt even more degraded. Then he turned back, his face steaming with tears.He had been unable to speak but he touched her on the neck, plucked up his sword and rushed out of the inn.

She sighed heavily as she thought back to that moment and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Are you all right, Mama?’ Gerard asked anxiously.

She brushed his wayward hair.’Of course, I am,’ she said.  ‘It’s just some desert sand in my eyes.’

**********

  Outcasts is available from all good e-book outlets for $2.99, £1.85 or your local equivalent. You can read it on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Sony Readers, Tablets and even on your computer or smart-phone. 

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Related articles

An extract from my novel Outcasts. #SampleSunday #HistNov (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)
Saladin’s Terms #SampleSunday #HistNov (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)
Buying Yourself and Your Children. #SampleSunday #HistNov (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)

Buying Yourself and Your Children. #SampleSunday #HistNov

Saladin had given the people of Jerusalem a few days to raise the money to buy their freedom but time is running out. Some, like the pilgrims John and Simon Ferrier, have sufficient money. But the recently knighted inn-keeper, Bernard Montjoy, is struggling to find money to buy the freedom of his wife Agnes, their two children and orphaned nephew.  While he searches the city for creditors Agnes waits for news in the courtyard of the inn. 

 

A familiar figure stepped into the courtyard. 

‘You look as though your heart will break,’ he said.

She nodded, not able even to make a show of contradicting him.

‘You are frightened for your family?’

‘I’m terrified,’ she said.  ‘We’ve been able to raise enough money to buy freedom for only two of the children.’

‘Who will that be?’

She waved her hand at him, not even wanting to contemplate the decision which they knew they must face this evening.

He stepped closer and touched her on the shoulder.  She felt his fingers tremble as he did it.

‘It doesn’t have to be that way,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ she glanced up and looked into his eyes.

He pulled a purse from his belt and upended its contents upon the table.

Her quick eyes counted the money. 

‘Eight dinars,’ she said. 

‘Enough to buy your freedom and that of the children.  Including Claude-Yusuf.’

‘We have two dinars already.’

‘You will need that when you start your new life.  Take all I offer.’

Her hand reached out for the money and then she paused. 

‘Are you certain about this?’ she asked.

He smiled like a cat who had trapped a bird. 

‘It is not a gift, Agnes.’

‘A loan, of course.  I will pay you back as soon as I can.’

‘It is not a loan, either.  It is for a purchase.’

Agnes blinked.  ‘For the inn?’

He laughed and ran his fingers through her hair.  

‘No, Agnes, it is to purchase you.’

**********

She sat upon the bed and stared blankly at the wall.  She pulled the sheet over her knees.  She felt dirty.  Dirty and disgusting. 

As he left he had thrown the eight dinars upon the bed and she had startled herself by scrabbling for them and clutching them close to her breast. 

‘These are desperate times, Agnes,’ he said.  ‘Be sure to put it inside your safe-box.’

She nodded bleakly at him as if he were her husband who could instruct her to do something.

‘I thought our coupling would be good,’ he said.  ‘But it far exceeded my expectations.  So full of passion, so full of lust.’

He laughed as he walked down the stairs. 

She sat there for an hour, his final words beating time after time upon her heart.

No, she kept thinking, it couldn’t have been, it mustn’t have been.

She knew the act had not been like that.  It had been a feat of desperation, a trading of her body for the lives of the children.  There had been no passion, no lust on her part.  But his very words began to poison her soul.

Bernard came home later that evening and she held out the coins for him.

He shook his head in disbelief.

‘How did you get it?’ he asked.

She shook her head and placed her fingers on his lips.

A thought slithered into his mind but he thrust it away. 

‘It’s enough to buy freedom for the children and for me,’ she said.  ‘But not for you.’

He stared at her and thought his heart would split.  Tears filled his eyes and she kissed them away.

She put the coins in the safe-box and held out her hand for him.

They climbed to their bedroom.  They made love, tenderly, in an agony of fear and desire. 

They sat awake all that night, talking and talking. 

The next morning they went to get the strong-box.  It was gone.

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

Outcasts is available from all major e-book retailers (apart from WH Smith in the UK)  for $2.99, £1.97 or local equivalent. You can read it on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Sony E-Reader, Smart-phones, Tablets and your computer. It’s the price of a cup of coffee as are all my books. Why not buy it and read it while drinking the coffee?

 

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Related articles

Saladin’s Terms #SampleSunday #HistNov (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)
An extract from my novel Outcasts. #SampleSunday #HistNov (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)

Finished the first edit of my work in progress

It’s been the most unusual book I’ve written. It started with a casual, playful sentence while I was sitting at the computer. And then, without my planning to, a character appeared on my screen. It was almost as if she had been waiting for me to discover her. She was insistent and beguiling. I started writing without the least idea of what would happen. Now the book is complete and I have done my first edit. I’ll tinker with the order of scenes (one of the advantages and maybe disadvantages of writing the novel on Scrivener is that I can do this with ease, perhaps too much ease.)

Some commentators who like to criticise Indie writers complain that their books are not properly edited. Believe me, mine will be, as are most Indie novels nowadays. The odd typo may still remain un-spotted but the book will go through several scrutinies so I hope they will be very few and far between. Amazon Kindle even does a spell-check when you upload your book so there are a multiplicity of gate-keepers.

Because of the lengthy editing process I’m not sure when the book will be published but it will be some time in the New Year.

In the meanwhile, here’s how Alice introduced herself.

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

To be a servant at the court of King Henry is to live with your heart in your mouth. This is so whether you are young or old, male or female. I am young and I am female. So the danger to me is considerable.

The danger is the more acute because I am pretty and the Queen is in the last month of her confinement.

Henry has divorced one wife and executed the second. But that is far from the whole story. A string of shattered hearts lies across the land like a pearl necklace broken in rage. Aye, it’s true that complicit fathers, brothers, uncles and even husbands have got rich by leading their women like heifers to the courtly market. It is the women who give the most and suffer the most grievously.

Unless of course, they are clever.

It does not do to be too clever. Anne Boleyn taught us this. For make no mistake, King Henry is more clever than any man in the kingdom now that Thomas Wolsey is dead. And he is as subtle and wily as even the most cunning of women. Boleyn’s head rolling from the block is testimony to that.

The trick is to show your cleverness to just such a degree that Henry is intrigued by it but not threatened. The second trick is to intimate that your cleverness is at his disposal and command even more than your own. And the third trick? Ah, the third trick is to be willing to bed the great beast of appetites and to know when to do it.

My name is Alice Petherton and I am nineteen years of age. I came to court as a simple servant but I caught the eye of Anne Boleyn when she was newly crowned. I was good at singing, could dance like an elf and made her laugh and think. She took me as one of her maids of honour and my slow approach to the furnace began.

I was fond of Anne Boleyn. She was not pretty but there was something alluring about her, some promise of carnality which affected all who knew her, King and subject, man and woman. I must confess that on more than one night I awoke hot with sweat having dreamed I had been bedded by the Queen, worn out and used by her, alive and half-deadened, exultant and dismayed.

There came one morning when she stroked my cheek and kissed me swiftly on the lips. I gazed into her eyes that day, telling her that I was willing. But she merely laughed and commanded me to get on with my sewing. So are we played with by those we must learn to call our betters.

I will become one of these betters, I determined, I will be fawned upon and bowed to some day.

Not that I aspire to be a queen, you must understand. That is too deadly by far. King Henry appears to be in love with Jane Seymour. He would, of course, for she carries his child. His greatest lust is for a male successor; even more than for any pretty face and shapely form. There is no sense in seeking to usurp Seymour’s place as Queen; no hope. If she proves to be a good brood mare he will rest content for a little while. But in the meanwhile he hungers. The furnace grows hotter by the hour.

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Saladin’s Terms #SampleSunday #HistNov

When he conquered the city of Jerusalem Saladin did not allow his armies to loot and slaughter as the Crusaders had done when they had taken the city a century before. Instead he gave surprisingly lenient terms. But not every one in the city was able to raise the money he demanded.

Agnes remained in her chair when Bernard returned.

‘Saladin has sent his terms,’ he said.

He hurried over to her and took her hand.

‘He demands ten dinars for each man, five for each woman and one for each child.’

She did not answer for a moment, her throat was tight.

‘How much do we have?’

‘A little over one dinar in the safe-box.’

Tears sprang into her eyes.  So little; not even enough for both of their children.  Her mind whirled, a chaos of thoughts and terrors.

‘I’ve got creditors though,’ Bernard said, attempting a smile.  ‘And we can sell the inn.’

She forced a smile upon her lips.  Both of them knew that the inn would be virtually worthless now.

‘Saladin has given us time to raise the money,’ Bernard said.

He hurried across to the ledger which was kept at the entrance to the kitchen.

‘I’ll start calling in our debts at once.’

Bernard trekked from house to house, from shop to shop and church to church.  Some who owed him money were willing to pay and did so with good grace.  As the pennies and solidi were pushed into his hands he allowed his hopes to rise. 

But many, those who owed him the greatest debt, pretended they were not at home or refused him to his face. 

‘I’ve got to look after my own family now,’ said one of his oldest customers, a man who he had always extended credit to gladly.

‘But that’s my money,’ Bernard answered.  ‘You’re buying your freedom with my money.’

‘Go to hell.’

Bernard leant against the wall.  ‘Hell,’ he murmured, ‘I’m there already.’

At the end of the day he returned home, his heart heavy and black.

‘How much?’ Agnes asked.

Bernard slid the money onto the table.

‘Almost a dinar,’ she said, forcing a smile to her face.  ‘You’ve done well.’

Bernard shook his head. 

‘Not well enough.  And I fear that I will do less well tomorrow.’

Neither said what they were thinking.  That here was enough to buy the freedom of two children but no more.

‘Did you have any luck in selling the inn?’ Agnes asked.

‘One Jew was interested and would have offered three dinars.’

‘Three dinars?  It’s worth much more.’

He nodded.  ‘It was last month.  But not now.’

Agnes took his hands in hers.  ‘Then take the money, however little.  Go to the Jew now and take the money.’

‘I can’t.  He suddenly took fright.  He feared that the Saracens would persecute him if he was seen to own a place that once sold wine.’

Agnes put her hand to her mouth.

They remained in silence for long minutes, staring into a pit that neither could ever have foreseen.

Finally, Agnes rose and went to the kitchen.  ‘There’s some supper here, my darling.  You must be famished.’

Bernard nodded.  ‘Tomorrow.  I’ll go out again tomorrow.’

He had reconciled himself to the fact that he would not be able to buy his own freedom.  He would not give up on buying that of Agnes.

The next day was even worse than the first.  The first day he had been met by cooperation or, at worst, by indifference.  This day he was met by curses and looks of contempt.  One man, a customer who owed him a great deal of money, punched him in the face before slamming the door on him.

When he returned at night he had half a dinar only. 

They sat and counted up the money time and time and time again.  No matter how many times they counted it, the amount remained the same. 

Finally, Bernard said the words neither had wanted to say.  ‘Still only enough to buy the freedom of two of the children.’

Agnes squeezed his hand.

Bernard wept.

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

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An extract from my novel Outcasts. #SampleSunday #HistNov (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)