D.K. Marley's Blog, page 169

My London Obsession

I really don’t know where to begin to explain my obsession with London. And really, to contain my love just to London is unfair because my obsession is with Great Britain as a whole. I have visited London three times now, the first came only one month after the horrific death of Princess Diana. I remember walking up to Kensington Palace and still seeing tons of flowers at the gate and hardened candlewax embedded into the sidewalk along the fence. People still stood there with their hands to their lips, their shocked looks and watering eyes, which was to be expected since she was so loved and the suddenness of her death sending vibrations of sorrow echoing from August 1997 to today.

The echo of death, the grief and sorrow of someone taken so suddenly, I can well relate to the experience. But that is for another post and another day.

Back to my travels through London and the countryside….

My favorite places to visit? Of course, since I am such a Shakespearean fan, the Globe Theatre in Bankside. I got to take the tour of the theatre but it still is on my bucket list to see an actual play. While there in 2007 I attended the Shakespeare Authorship debates hosted by Sir Derek Jacobi and Mark Rylance (and had the incredible opportunity to meet these two amazing actors – (side thought: if any of you haven’t seen Sir Jacobi in Kenneth Branaugh’s Henry V or Hamlet; or if you haven’t seen Mark Rylance in his Emmy-winning performance in BBC’s Wolf Hall, you are missing out))

Other great places any Anglophile must visit while in London? The Tower of London, Clink Prison; and for Notting Hill fans, of course, the Portobello Market in Notting Hill.

My favorite places to visit outside of London? I think if I could go back and just spend a while week in Stratford-upon-Avon, I would be a very very happy person. There is just something about Stratford – the quaintness, the peaceful river flowing by, the willows touching the surface of the water as the swans paddle by and ripple the reflection of the Swan Theatre mirrored in the Avon; or sitting in the Old Thatch Tavern and imagining Shakespeare and Burbage clicking a couple of pints and jawing over their latest play.

I cannot tell you how I wished to just sit in a chair at the house on Henley Street, all by myself, and just soak in the atmosphere and etch every detail in my mind.

Here is a few photos of my time there:

 

Click to view slideshow.

Again, quoting from “The Complete Works of Shakespeare” 1960 edition edited by Hardin Craig, it is interesting to hear the thoughts of 16th century London:

“Sixteenth-century London was at once more attractive and less attractive than twentieth-century London (before bombing). It was full of trees and gardens; meadows and cultivated lands came in some places down to its very walls. The way in which it bordered clear streams and green fields might be imagined from a distant view of some uncommercial provincial city of modern times, like Lincoln, York, or Hereford. Most American cities are too smoky even to suggest it. (Hardin Craig’s interesting additional thought, ha) But London had its ugly side, too. Something like the narrowness and filth of the crooked streets of old London, used as places of trade, social intercourse, and congregation, may be found in southern Europe or the Near East.

London was a walled city, or rather, a city just overflowing its walls. The fortification along the River Thames had disappeared but the wall was intact along the east, north, and west of the city. The course of the walls is still easily traced in the midst of the modern city, for the old names of streets and gateways have been largely retained. (etc., etc.)”

He continues later on with: “There were in Shakespeare’s time perhaps one hundred thousand people within the walls, and as many more in the suburbs.”

Just amazing to think about London during Shakespeare’s time. I think, while he expounded on the fact that there were more trees and meadows banking up against the city walls, the filth of the city ditches and lack of plumbing facilities had to of added to the poor living conditions for most of London’s lower class citizens. And to add to it the rat infestation and the onslaught of the plague.

Sometimes, I find, historical fiction writers and books romanticize a time period such as the Tudor era, and even further back, without taking into consideration the realities of living in a city such as London minus the modern conveniences we have today. I mean, a castle is a castle is a castle. With only torches or candlelight, imagine the darkness, the dankness, the secret meetings and liaisons happening a bit too easily within such conditions.

I visited Warwick Castle in Warwickshire, which is only about 15 minutes outside of Stratford-upon-Avon (another impressive visit any tourist, especially any fond of history as this is the famous castle of Shakespeare’s Henry VI part 1 and 2, and Richard III; beloning to the Earl of Warwick, the infamous Kingmaker), and I must say, since I visited near closing time at dusk, a castle after dark is much different than the romantic notions of some historical fiction novels. Kinda scary to my mind….

Anyway, thought I would share a bit of my travels around London and the countryside. I hope soon to offer some of my photos and thoughts of Edinburgh, Salisbury and the Lake district soon to come.

Thanks for reading!

D. K. Marley

1st Chapter Preview of “A Winter’s Fire” – A Lady Macbeth Tale

Prologue  —

Set a man aflame with a belly full of mead, a mind glowing with glory, and loins burning with desire, and he will fry as crispy as a seasoned Yule log on a Druid’s altar. A winter’s fire burned in Gruoc’s heart; cold, calculating and fierce, fed by the wind slicing across the Highlands. And the warmth of the fire tinging her pale cheeks in red raged before her, alive and breathing into an inferno as the flames licked up the sides of the banqueting hall, engulfing tar-pitched timbers and the fleshy parts of men. Yet, there was only one among the fifty screaming soldiers for whom she held the torch – her husband, Gille Comgain, the Mormaer of Moray.

Her former husband now, she thought. Her rosebud lips curled into a satisfied smile and her excited breath broke across in short puffs of steam, evaporating into the chilled night air.

Her mother, a noble little Pict from the ancient Kingdom of Caitt, would be proud of how her daughter tip-toed away in her silk eschapin shoes, for it was from her she learned the stealthy movements of a fox. Her father’s disapproving frown flashed in her mind, yet little did she acquire from her milky father, save for the color of her Nordic red hair and green eyes shaming the meadows near her grandfather’s castle in Carlisle.

She mediated on this decision for months prior, with not even a twitch in her deceptively sweet face as she barred the doors and touched the stick to the tapestry near the door. Only once did her stomach tumble. Just before entering the hall, her husband grabbed her by the hand and bid her dine with him. She lowered her eyes and, standing on her tiptoes, whispered a seductive answer to his request.

“No, my Lord, for it has been a fortnight since I have seen you. If I sit with you and your men, the carousing will go late into the night; but, if I wait for you naked in our bed, your desire will shorten the feast.”

All too easy. In truth, she wanted to vomit as his face lightened with a seductive leer, his fat lips and gluttonous cheeks brightening in a glossy warmth.

Yes, she sparked, his lard arse will fuel the flames. And I will be free, free of this man whom the King forced me to marry, free of these chains bound to a man whose aspirations never reached any higher than the top of a bramble bush.

A horse whinnied behind her and she turned to see the flames curling reflection in the warhorse’s black eyes. He stomped his foot and blew out a puff of steam from his nostrils. The dark stranger perched on the mount tilted his head upwards, his amber eyes revealing below the edge of his woolen hood and a plaid scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. Behind him on the horse’s haunches, a small boy with haunting brown eyes sat and squirmed.

Gruoc touched the sweaty neck of the horse, stroking and tangling her fingers in the mane. “Shhhhhh,” she whispered, “all is well.”

The boy’s lips trembled as he released a wail full of snot and tears. Gruoc grabbed hold of his bare foot and squeezed. “Shut up, Lulach. You should weep for me, not for him. You should also pray that you not grow up to be anything like your father.” She paused and caught the cautious look from the stranger. With a resolute grin, corrected her statement. “No, I take that back, my son. You should strive to be exactly like your father, for you see, this is he.”

Lulach wiped his nose across the sleeve of his tunic; his eyes saturated with hate toward his mother.

“You are a liar!”

He tried wiggling off the horse, but the stranger twisted in his seat and clawed his bear-like hand around the back of the boy’s neck.

“Sit still,” he growled, “or I will break your good-for-nothing neck.”

Lulach slumped against the man’s back, sobbing deep and broken. The stranger leaned over closer to Gruoc, his voice rasping through the scarf. “You are a devil, Gruoc, or a witch! My heart should give me pause to consider entangling with you, but by God’s wounds, I am enraptured. Come, before anyone sees us.”

He reached his hand from beneath the cloak, revealing a warrior’s leather gauntlet starred with heavy studs, grabbed her wrist and lifted her as easy as a bale of wool. She gathered up the cascading skirt of her green silk bliaut and straddled the horse, nestling close between the stranger and the horse’s withers. He wrapped his arm around her stomach and pulled her tighter. Even through the curtain of his scratch wool tunic and the cold metal of his ring-mail hauberk, she sensed his heated desire, more so when he leaned near to her ear, pulled the scarf away from his mouth and let his breath tickle down her neck.

Gruoc giggled and tilted her head back on his shoulder as his words caressed like the carefree plucking of a bard’s harp, promising a new beginning.

“Finally, after all these years, tonight I shall bed you as my true wife. Tonight you shall truly be what you were meant to be, the Thane of Glamis’ wife and Lady Macbeth.”

He kicked the horse in the side, spurring him away from the crumbling hall and toward the west. Only once did Gruoc glance back over her shoulder and only once did she feel a slight twinge of guilt. As the wind whipped the tendrils of her hair across her face, her heart jumped and she bit her lip.

Dear God, she wondered, how did it all come to this? Six years passed by in a sigh. Only sixteen then when I touched the stone at Scone. So innocent and so naive.

She touched her lips to Macbeth’s unshaven jaw. No, her heart reprimanded, innocent I am not, nor have I ever been.

 

Chapter I

Perth, Scotland

1030 A. D.

Gruoc never thought to be married at sixteen years old, much less to two men in less than a week; one in secret and the other commanded by the King of Scotland.

Lord Macbeth, Thane of Glamis, stopped to refresh his horses at her father’s home while on his way to court in Forres. She knew him a little, being that her father was kinsman to him through Macbeth’s mother. He swept into the hall like the sweeping wind across the moors. She liked the look of him with his dark hair tumbling over his ears and midnight eyes reflecting mystery like the waters of the loch of Callanish. The ambition burning deep in the gold flecks of his irises fed the flame he sparked within her heart. Kneeling near to him to pour mead into his cup, she brushed her lips over the top of his ear and bid him meet her in secret.

He stayed three months, acting the perfect gentleman as he kissed only the back of her hand and caressed only her cheek, yet her willingness to give herself to a man of her choosing as a daughter of the old Pictish way fired deep within her soul. Her dainty whispers in his ear and enticing leers did little to persuade his mind from the battles raging against the Northern coast of Scotland, though. The King demanded his thanes before him, so with her urging, he pledged his troth to her, kneeling palm to palm before Prior Nicholas at Scone Priory and declaring their love before God and vows before the Holy Father. And with his honor for the King, he left with a kiss upon her hand, vowing a day to win her father’s approval and a night of sweet consummation upon his return.

Gruoc touched her hand to the stone. The image of her true love’s face in her mind, his sweet lips as he promised to love her for eternity, flashed bright, as the reddish sandstone rock lay cold beneath her fingers. Her two friends, Ina and Mira, giggled into their palms as they watched her from a distance, and Donnella, her always cousin and sometimes friend, taunted her.

“Go on, Gruoc, say the words and you will know your husband. Perhaps he will be ruler of Scotland!”

Gruoc shook her head and pursed her lips. Donnella, the daughter of her mother’s sister, was always the instigator of their various husband-searching schemes from the time they paid a penny for a witch to tell their fortunes in the marketplace near the Firth of Tay until now with this one. Only a month had passed since Donnella was promised in marriage to a nobleman, Lord MacDuff, and now she insisted all her single relatives and friends likewise find husbands. Ignoring her cousin’s jibes, Gruoc let the words roll across her mind and sink into her heart.

“O, stone of destiny, I already know my true husband,” she whispered, and a chill crept up her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut and said a prayer, a prayer of a sixteen-year-old girl dreaming of her first love. She raised her chin, directing her thoughts toward the beamed arches of the priory’s ceiling and letting the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the vacant arched windows play against her closed lids, as if to heighten her lofty aspirations.

No, I pray not for the promise of rank, but for my husband… please, when I open my eyes… let me see him. Wait, please, if you do not mind, Lord, if he be the sort to be King, well, I will not mind.

She opened her right eye first, letting her stare filter through her soft reddish-blond lashes, and the images of her three friends focused into view near the arched doors at the end of the nave.

“It did not work, for all I see is three stupid wenches.” Gruoc shrugged as the girls burst into laughter.

Donnella sashayed around Gruoc, holding the skirt of her cote-hardie with her forefinger and thumb so that her dress swayed as she walked. “Well, it is just a rock, after all. Not all of us can have the good fortune of knowing who their husband will be.”

Gruoc thrust out her foot just in time to send Donnella tumbling to the floor in a cascade of woad blue linen and nasally shrieking. Donnella sat up and clasped her hand over her right knee as she lifted her skirt and dabbed the bloody scrape with her spit-soaked finger. Ina and Mira ran to her side.

Mira glared at Gruoc. “You know, Gruoc, you can be such a bitch sometimes! It was all just in fun.”

“I think you are jealous, cousin,” Donnella snarled.

Gruoc snapped her fingers together. “Ha! Jealous of what? Of you landing the nobleman MacDuff? I don’t give a pin’s fee for the likes of him, besides I hear he suffers from that nasty man’s disease he got from humping drabs outside the walls of Edinburgh Castle. He is probably rotten.”

Without warning, the doors of the Priory Chapel slammed open as if a thunderous gale blasted against the oak and causing the hammered iron hinges to shiver in their rasps. The space filled with sunlight haloing armed soldiers decked in leather breastplates and faded gippons. The girls gasped and backed away as the men parted and their leader cut through their midst like a Norse long boat trailing the dirt and stink of many days on the road. He removed the bowled leather helm from his head, shook out his matted red curls and glared at the little girl seated on the floor next to the stone. His florid cheeks swelled over the red cloud of his beard as he smiled and he licked his lips as if he were about to devour a sweetmeat.

“Well, well,” he bellowed in a voice harkening a Highlander drunk and burnished with sour whiskey, “are we to have a Queen of Scotland now?” Laughter rolled through his men in a wave.

Gruoc felt the dust, the sunlight and the fear stinging her eyes. She stood up, brushed her dusty hands across her gown and tangled her fingers in the jeweled ceinture circling twice around her tiny waist, then lifted her chin and attempted to walk past him. He grabbed hold of her, his fingertips touching as he encircled his hand around the upper part of her arm, and he growled.

“O, a high and mighty one! You think not to speak to the Mormaer of Moray? I am second only to our King Malcolm. Who are you, little wench, that you set your chin and pass me by?”

Gruoc spun on her heel and wrenched her arm from his grip, arching her slender eyebrow and throwing back her shoulders as if ready to strike.

“Ha! Second to King Malcolm but not of the same blood! I am Gruoc, daughter to Boite and granddaughter to Kenneth the Third. You should think to bow to me, Mormaer, for I am princess of the Alpin line, the true High Kings of Scotland. Those of you calling yourselves by your title Mormaer are a poor substitute for noble blood.”

The Mormaer began to chuckle, his large belly shuddering beneath his tunic, causing the chain mail covering to chime together like tiny bells. She did not like the way his eyes examined her, almost as if he held a special secret behind his ice blue eyes. He waved to one of his men, a young soldier whose meaty calves covered in undyed knee stockings and laced with leather thongs revealed his days of traversing the Highland mountains of the North country along the peaks of Kintail. Gruoc backed away, enfolding herself into the protective arms of her friends, as the man whom she knew well, the man she married a week ago, stepped forward near to the Mormaer. The Mormaer nudged him with his elbow and gestured toward Gruoc.

“So, tell me, cousin, what do you think of her? Shall I take her now or wait till this eve?”

Ina snapped at the Mormaer. “How dare you!”

“My father’s Claymore will slice open that fat belly of yours as soon as he hears of this,” Gruoc added. “Come along, girls, let us leave these nasty men.”

The band of soldiers crested around them in a semi-circle, making no attempt to let them pass. Gruoc spun back around, glaring her gritted teeth at the Mormaer.

“You do not dare attempt such evilness in the midst of this holy place, no matter who you are. The prior will surely damn you to hell.”

The Mormaer chuckled again, this time joined by his men in a knowing laugh. “Stupid girl! Are you indeed such an idiot that you did not think to question your father’s reasoning for sending you to the Priory today? Surely with your maiden ladies in tow, you can recognize your own wedding day.” He bowed before her in a mocking sweep. “I, dear princess, am your intended, Gille Comgain, your husband as soon as your father arrives after paying for Prior Nicholas’ services. Such an advantageous arrangement for a daughter of King Kenneth’s line to marry the Mormaer of Moray, thus uniting our kingdoms in one accord against the raiders of this land. Our son will reign as High King of all Scotland.”

Gruoc’s resolve wavered as a wave of nausea settled in her stomach and her heart thudded hard in her chest. “You are a liar!” She darted her stare to the young man standing next to him, praying to catch a sympathetic glance as he raised his gaze from the floor. As his eyes rested on her, she caught her breath.

Shall you not speak to protect your wife, her mind whispered.

“And you, what sort of man are you that you will stand at his side and not protect me?”

The young man bowed and adjusted the wolf hide draped over his shoulder, speaking in a voice that warmed her like the fires of Beltane. “I am Macbeth Mac Findlaech, my lady, and Thane of Glamis in service to King Malcolm who approved of this match.”

Gruoc’s heart sped faster and she glanced at the stone of destiny. This young man, this Macbeth Mac Findlaech, is my husband, dear God. This is he, not this large oaf beside him. How can you let such a sin occur? She bit her lip and motioned to her friends. Bending at her knee, she curtsied to the Mormaer and softened her voice.

“If my kinsman, King Malcolm, commanded then there is nothing for me to do, but as a request, I ask of you, Mormaer, to give me leave to ready myself. Perhaps you can send your cousin here to keep watch over me, lest I might escape through the cloisters.”

The corner of Gille Comgain’s mouth lifted in a crooked grin, a tell-tale sign she had won and a morsel of a clue on how to handle the burly man. He bowed and let her pass into the chancel with her friends, escorted by his cousin. Gruoc pulled Donnella close and whispered in her ear.

“Once we pass the screen, bid the Highlander to speak with me.”

Donnella smirked. “And tell me, cousin, why should I do this for you?”

Gruoc pleaded with her eyes. “Donnella, come now, do not be mad at me for teasing you. It has always been this way between us, but I would not have another bedfellow during these maiden years than you…” Gruoc paused, taking notice of a certain look in Donnella’s eyes. “Wait, you knew?”

“Knew what,” Donnella asked.

Gruco motioned toward the men. “I can see it in your eyes. You knew that this was to happen today and you did not tell me? All of this about touching the stone, an act?”

Donnella shrugged. “Your father asked me to find a way to bring you to Scone Priory. Forgive me, for I knew you were to be married, but I thought it all quite romantic.”

Gruoc took a deep breath and threw her arm around her simplistic cousin. “Then we shall exchange forgiveness and be done with this. Please, do this for me. Ask the Mormaer’s cousin to speak with me in private.”

Donnella walked near and whispered to the Highlander as Gruoc dropped her shoulders and buried her face in her hands, feigning a whimper as she sank down onto a bench nestled in an archway on the Northern wall of the chancel. She touched the edge of her long narrow mafors, the gauzy veil shielding her flame-red hair, to her eyes as Macbeth approached. She let her stare drift upwards, rounding her eyes in a mournful plea. She prayed her own eyes would hold fast to their sad glare and not reveal her delight to her friends upon looking into her husband’s face.

He shifted on his feet as she whispered. “You have been traveling a great distance, my love?”

Macbeth coughed into his fisted palm. “Yes, my lady, we were at the court in Forres with the King and took our journey near Loch Maree.”

“Ah,” Gruoc answered with interest, “I traveled with my mother once to Caitt. She wanted me to see the place where she was born. She even used the woad to mark me with a tattoo like our Pictish ancestors. See…” She lifted her skirt to reveal a small serpent curled and looped through itself in a knotted letter G right on the inside of her left thigh right above the knee. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when she saw the color drain from his face. Dropping her skirt, she continued as if nothing happened. “Do the fields there still glow golden with flowers?”

Macbeth bowed his head and she could see he avoided looking into her eyes. “Yes, my lady, like an ocean of yellow as far as you can see.”

She leaned forward, forcing him to look at her. “Why stands you so aloof from me, your wife, Lord Macbeth. You were not so a week ago when we spoke our vows. I know of you now, my husband, Thane of Glamis. We share the same bloodline, you and I. Our great-great-grandfather was Malcolm the First, the one they called An Bodhbhderec, the Dangerous Red, so what do we have to fear from the King if he knows of our marriage? We make a better match than linking me to the Mormaer.”

Macbeth remained detached, yet smiling as the creases around his mouth deepened and framed the youthful beard circling his mouth.

“You know our ancestry well, my lady.”

Gruoc shrugged and pursed her mouth. “Well, what more is a noblewoman to do than become skilled in embroidery and begetting?”

Macbeth laughed quietly and looked toward the doorway.

“Forgive me, my lady, if I speak out of turn, but somehow I cannot see you being content with such pastimes.”

Gruoc lowered her eyes and sighed. “Ah, that is what you think, and yet, you obviously know me not at all.”

He knelt before her and her heart jumped at seeing his long woolen tunic rise up his bare thighs. She touched her fingers to her lips as he answered.

“You are right, my lady, I do not know you well, as of yet, but I saw a young dragon in the nave spitting fire, a quality that speaks well of the strong young woman who urged me toward binding our hands. That is why I can say that I cannot see you idling your days dyeing thread.”

Real tears stung her eyes with his words and she bit her lip.

“And yet, with all my supposed strength, what am I fit for except to bend to the will of men? You take and take, and care little for the promises made in secret. Sometimes I wish for the days of our ancestors when our Pictish customs gave women the right to choose, for thus I did when I took my vows with you. For all my fire-breathing, I am indeed slain the moment that I stand at the altar with the Mormaer. What shall we do? Shall we declare our marriage to the King?”

“No,” he answered, “we cannot. We did a stupid impetuous thing, but as his pawns, we must submit to his will. ‘Twas a stolen moment, Lady Gruoc, one I will cherish, but ’tis one we dare not confess for we did so without your father or the King’s consent. ‘Tis an act we must annul for ’twas never consummated.”

Gruoc lowered her gaze. “Ah, a consummation I dreamed of in your absence.”

He caressed his lips over the back of her fingers, removed his left gauntlet and twisted a golden ring on his index finger. Sliding it over his knuckle, he held out the treasure for her to take. Gruoc held the ring up to the candlelight. The polished yellow hue gleamed like the color of the rye fields near Edinburgh in the morning sun, and the crest showed the royal house of Alpin.

“What is this for, my husband?”

Macbeth narrowed his eyes. “If ever you need me, send this back to me and my sword is yours.”

Her heart jumped and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Why do you say this for future reference? Will you not smite your cousin now?”

“No, my lady, for he is my cousin and the King’s ally.”

“Then, tell me why you would not kill him on these very steps for licking his lips toward your wife?”

Macbeth squeezed a stream of spit between his tongue and teeth and onto the floor as if something vile formed in his mouth. “My lady, there is much resentment boiling in my blood for my cousin, and founded reasons to back my anger, but I will not trouble you with the stories of a lifetime of enmity and bloodshed trailing through my ancestral line connecting me to the Mormaer. You know our times and the lengths a man will go to quench his ambition.”

Gruoc smiled. “Then you speak for yourself, Lord Macbeth, do you not?”

Macbeth matched her sly grin. “Yes, my lady, and I am as you are, an ambitious dragon quite cornered for the moment, and yet, who knows how Fate is playing with us. For now, as Thane, my allegiance is to the High King. You know the story of two years ago of how a group of us nobles attended a meeting with Canute the Great after he became King of all England. Our intent was to keep our noble line intact and to make certain that the lands of our inheritance were not taken from us. My home is Glamis and I must hold that, for if I go against Malcolm in any way, no matter how my heart aches to protect our secret vows, the reaction could cause an upheaval of our Scotland, delivering her into the hands of Canute. I wish, my lady, that I could do more, but your father is the King’s nephew…”

Gruoc stood and walked to the altar, gazing up at the carved wooden effigy of the Christ with his pained face and bent knees. “So, it is honor for the King only that drives you, Lord Macbeth? Are you that type of man, sir? For I have found that honor, no matter how lofty the cause, brings nothing but a life of regret to the bearer. Methinks that one must seize what he wants.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked over her shoulder with a lingering look. Macbeth did not look away.

“Whatever the cost, my lady?”

She turned to face him. “Forgive me, sir, for I do not wish to be mistook. Scotland means a great deal to me and, of course, I do not wish to see it overrun with dower English, but nor do I wish Malcolm to bequest the throne to a fat Eglan of a man who will use his position as an excuse for drunkenness, gluttony and lechery. The Mormaer has left a trail of tales of his most ignoble behavior and I warrant his court will be filled with his bastards. You can see how the Mormaer has this thought in his mind. He probably pandered at Malcolm’s feet with his request for me, knowing of my noble blood and how our union and heir would bring him a step closer to the throne. I wonder, you are more in a position for the throne than Gille Comgain, your mother being Malcolm’s daughter, and yet, you seem to cower to him. Is your own ambition so stilted? Do you not have what it takes to see yourself on the throne?”

Macbeth’s jaw dropped. “And drench my hands with my kinsman’s blood?”

“Even so,” Gruoc blurted. “You cannot tell me that you have never killed a man.”

Macbeth took a step forward and softened his stare. “My lady, you are young and somewhat naive of what it takes to take a man’s life. I pray you never know that feeling, for it can do one of two things to a person. It can rip out your heart to where you repent the deed or it can move you toward a hardened soul where each kill thereafter is easier and easier.”

Gruoc touched her fingertips to the smooth curved hilt of the claidmore protruding from the leather baldrick clasped around his waist.

“Pray tell, Lord Macbeth, are you thus moved?”

Her eyes flashed up to his face and she noted the upward curl of his mouth, a sign he understood her meaning. She stepped closer until her breath tickled on his neck.

“And if you are not, perhaps ’twas well you married me, for you need the right kind of woman to urge you along.”

Macbeeth touched the back of his fingers to her cheek and he chuckled. “Something tells me you are the one I should fear.”

She reached across and brushed her hand across the back of his hand. “Hush, for I hear my father’s voice in the nave. My dear Lord Macbeth, you have done more than you know with your kindness and love. And now, I shall bear up under anything with your smile in my mind.”

His eyes shadowed over and he looked away. “And yet, how can we bear this? The thought of his hands…”

Gruoc wrapped her hands around his. “Ah yes, my love, I shall bear it for the day I may declare to all that I am your true wife.”

Macbeth jerked away. “Bah! What good is that? In less than an hour you will be another man’s wife.”

Donnella padded near and curtsied. “My lady, your father calls for you.”

Gruoc crooked her lip in a dangerous smile as a plot formed in her mind. Macbeth stood in amazement as her words sliced through the air.

“Another man’s wife by command only, but by God’s wounds, he will never touch me!”

A Day to Write

Writers write. Some of the best advice I ever received is to keep writing, no matter what. As sick as I am, I spent the day writing and revising my new novel. So, forgive my lack of words for this blog today. I am spent.

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Haters Gonna Hate

[image error]Haters are gonna hate….

Another day, another hater, but I am way past the point of caring. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I respect that people have different opinions and I care about honest, caring critique from respected industry people, but the nasty haters who blast you for your choice of subject, especially when cutting close to the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays, well, I have learned to “shake it off.”

First and foremost, I am a historical FICTION writer, author and reader. The definition of fiction on Google is :

fic·tion

ˈfikSH(ə)n/

noun






literature in the form of prose, especially short stories and novels, that describes imaginary events and people.




synonyms:
novels, stories, (creative) writing, (prose) literature;


informallit
“the popularity of South American fiction”













invention or fabrication as opposed to fact.
plural noun: fictions
“he dismissed the allegation as absolute fiction”




synonyms:
fabrication, invention, lies, fibs, untruth, falsehood, fantasy, nonsense


“the president dismissed the allegation as absolute fiction”













a belief or statement that is false, but that is often held to be true because it is expedient to do so.
“the notion of that country being a democracy is a polite fiction”













 AND the definition of historical fiction is:
Historical fiction is defined as movies and novels in which a story is made up but is set in the past and sometimes borrows true characteristics of the time period in which it is set. A novel that makes up a story about a Civil War battle that really happened is an example of historical fiction.

As opposed to a historian:

his·to·ri·an

hiˈstôrēən/

noun




an expert in or student of history, especially that of a particular period, geographical region, or social phenomenon.
“a military historian”

 

I am writing this blog in support of all the historical fiction writers and authors out there who create amazing stories flavored with historical people and events. We do not have the luxury of interviewing people of our chosen time era, mine centering in the Tudor era, so, that being said, we must rely on our research.

To the hater of today, I am in good company, as I will gladly share my thoughts on Marlowe with others, very esteemed others, who question Shakespeare’s authorship, as well.

I attended the authorship debates at the Globe Theatre in London, hosted by Sir Derek Jacobi and Emmy-award winner, Mark Rylance, and never blasted them for their thoughts on the Earl of Oxford. As a matter of fact, I made a bee-line to the theater when the movie “Anonymous” came out.

But, haters gonna hate, but thank you for the publicity, for isn’t there a famous quote that says, “There is no such thing as bad publicity.” – P.T. Barnum; and another from Oscar Wilde – “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.”

So, last quote, from Taylor Swift “Shake it off, shake it off…” as I write what I love and check my bank account.

A Preview to My New Novel

I do appreciate all the new followers, and I appreciate your patience. Wouldn’t you know it? The very week I decide to start blogging is the very week I get sick. So, I am going to share a bit of what I am working on as of today.

Now that my novel “Blood and Ink” is officially back on Amazon after a long hiatus, due to circumstances beyond my coping skills (if anyone has read my Grief post), I am now back to writing full hilt. Well, full hilt when I get over this yukky stuff!!

Here is a preview of my new novel:

I am working on a adaptation into historical fiction of Shakespeare’s Hamlet! Title: “Prince of Sorrows”. And the status? I am now on my third rewrite…. I think one more should be the thing to catch the conscience of the Prince. Still in revision, so please, to any who comment, kill me with kindness….[image error]

Here is the preview:

Something smelled rotten in Denmark. The odor lilted more rank than the slimy cabbage leaves and maggot-boiling mutton discarded in a heap behind the royal kitchen, or more than the moldy cheesed breath of Orrick, the tavern owner in the village, when he blasted a laugh between the yellow posts of his teeth. The putrid aroma drifted on the wind like the blasts of winter, permeating the stone walls of Elsinore Castle in a hard, cold, bitter wetness, and growing along the dark corridors, spreading and eating away at the peace of the entire kingdom and her inhabitants.

Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark, the first and only son to King Horwen and Queen Gertrude, smelled the sulfuric stench before any other soul and the odor gagged him like clenched fingers around his throat.

Hamlet’s golden hair tussled in the biting wind and his teeth clicked together in a steady rhythm as he watched the armored body of his father carried shoulder high into the yawning mouth of the crypt of Denmark’s Kings. A creeping chill raced through his blood and the source of the wrenching pain in his heart bore down upon the golden circlet sitting upon his uncle’s brow.

Only a day since the news flew into his ear and ripped his heart from his chest. Two things precious to him tore from his future – his father and his inheritance. He approached his uncle and wrapped his fingers around Claudius’ bony arm. The painful words in Hamlet’s mouth matched the tears stinging his eyes.

“This will not pass, sir. We have not resolved this matter and yet,

you take presumption to wear my father’s crown?”

Polonius, his father’s former councilor, drew close and whispered,

“Sirs, I pray you take this matter in private and not before the eyes of all the Kingdom. We must unite as one in the sad hour.”

Claudius’ eyes narrowed and Hamlet released his grip.

“I am not done with this,” Hamlet whispered in Claudius’ ear. “You think to strip me of all with your claim of knowing my father’s mind as to the succession, but methinks you conjure words and morph yourself into the shape of a Jew to lend yourself to the will of such laws given to that nation to conclude a brother-in-law marriage when the world knows you to be nothing than a lecherous and greedy knave. I will not stand silent to watch your purple eye gaze upon my mother with the look of a salivating bear emerging from its hibernating lair to eat, to mate and to gorge your belly to satisfaction.”

The corner of Claudius’ mouth curved into a smile. “Ah, dear nephew, I know not what you mean. Take it up with the councilors, for your father’s message is clear in paper and ink upon the message he left for them. You are overwrought by your grief, boy.”

Hamlet gritted his teeth. “Yea, I will do what I must do.”

Claudius’ daring words threatened back. “As will I…. as will I.”

Polonius nudged Hamlet in the back and motioned toward the crowds staring at them. Hamlet turned and nodded his head toward them and they parted. The burning in his cheeks flared to see their eyes upon him, their weeping eyes and drawn faces gazing upon this royal spectacle of a son passed over by his mother’s o’er-hasty announcement that she would marry her husband’s brother. He kept his stare to the ground as he passed through the midst of them, his heart wary of their sorrowful and pitiable looks, for he knew that he had no consolation to give the common folk of Elsinore.

He paused before the stone steps leading down into the crypt and let out a sigh. The walls of the death chamber held a stale and frigid hell, and Hamlet’s breath frosted in the air in quick, sharp bursts, keeping in rhythm

with the fear collecting in his stomach. With each step downward, the hairs on his neck quickened and the rank smell rose. He lifted his eyes and directed them upon the shell of the King, his father, and let the tearful stare guide his feet. He traced his fingers along the edge of the stone coffer until his palm rested against the metal breastplate covering Horwen’s chest. With trembling fingers, he lifted the beaver of his father’s helmet and ran his hand across the icy cheek, all the while blinking away the tears blurring the wasting image before him. His eyes traced down his father’s figure and noted the crested signet ring still on his father’s right hand. Hamlet touched his father’s hand and slid the ring into his palm as he fell across the stiff body to hide the theft.

Gertrude ran up to his back and threw her slender arms around her son. Hamlet stiffened from her touch and he pried her clenched fingers from his arms. His tears froze as he wrapped his fingers around her chin and forced her to look into his eyes.

“Do you now seek solace from the seed of your union with this now dead King? Take your hands from me, woman, for you should look to your new husband, for there is no comfort in this empty body before you.”

She backed away from him with her fingers upon her lips and confusion refueling the river flowing from her eyes. Hamlet closed his eyes and blocked out the vision of her falling into his uncle’s arms. Behind his lids, he sought the darkness for a prayerful word, a joyful remembrance, a hint of his father’s voice, anything to soften the pain coursing through his veins. Yet, nothing stirred in the deep hollow darkness; all thoughts and memories he swallowed up and abandoned like an accused thing on the ledge of an oubliette. His eyelashes twitched against his skin and flicked away the heavy droplets forming at the ridge. He curled away from the sound of his mother’s wails and his uncle’s glare, pausing once as Claudius raised his voice in Hamlet’s direction for all the crowds to hear.

“Hamlet, dear son, I hold you dear in my heart and would wish you look upon this Denmark as a new father and King, for you now are the most certain heir to this throne. All love that any natural father would give, do I now give to you.”

Hamlet’s gut retched, yet he took a deep breath and bent his head in acknowledgment for the benefit of the crowds and the dozen council men

looking on.

“I am poor in thanks at this moment, sir, but such as it is, I give it.”

Gertrude turned back toward him as he mounted the stairs. “My son, will you attend us in the throne room for the marriage banquet?”

Hamlet continued his ascent without acknowledging her question. As he shielded his eyes from the blast of sunlight, an angelic figure in a creamy linen gown appeared before him, leaning against the iron doors to the crypt. He reached out as he passed and took a tendril of her gingered hair, twirling it around his forefinger.

“Ah, an angel with emerald green eyes. Are you here to convey my father to heaven? Or are you here to salve my wounded soul with your smile?”

Ophelia lowered her gaze and her lashes fanned out to hide her eyes.

“My lord Hamlet, any ointment I might have to ease this pain is yours upon your command.”

Hamlet released the curl and touched his fingertip to her chin. “Then, it is my command.”

She looked straight into his face and curtsied as her brother, Laertes, approached and took her by the arm. “Lady, our father calls for us to attend him before the King and Queen for the nuptial feast. Hamlet, my friend, will you come with us?”

Hamlet looked out across the pebbled courtyard, letting his stare skim past the mounted soldiers, past the shaking shoulders of the Queen’s ladies, and out across the stately ramparts towering high above the sea. His entire body shivered from cold and sadness as he gazed toward heaven, his heart aching to see his father’s spirit floating toward the clouds. His thoughts thundered inside him.

Are you there, just above our mortal heads? Are you even now gazing upon this sad scene as the minutes and hours continue to click away as if you were never flesh and bone? Another morning will come, and still you will be gone; another sun to set, and still, no father. How long will it be before I can follow you?

Spring Sick Day

Yep, I love spring. I love spring so much that I have sucked in all the deliciousness of the season into my lungs in one fell swoop. Result? No voice and no energy. At this moment I am barely typing this blog post.

But I promised myself a year, 365 days, of posts and even though I would love to ramble on about the beauty of Shakespeare’s sonnets or some of the incredible advice I received from other editors and writers, alas today is not the day….

So please enjoy this book trailer for my book “Blood and Ink” on YouTube while I recuperate.

Saturday Promotion Day

So, I decided Saturday will be my book promotion day, that way I won’t bombard all my followers with “buy my book” requests. My blog, after all, is about writing and I want to support other writers with prompts, tips, advice, and more.

So, here is my Saturday promotion:

Book synopsis: Christopher “Kit” Marlowe, the dark and brooding playwright of Queen Elizabeth’s court, becomes his own character, Faustus, and sells his soul to gain the one thing he desires: to see his name immortalized. Inspired at an early age on the banks of the Stour River, his passion for a goose quill and ink thrusts him into the labyrinth of England’s underworld – a secret spy ring created by the Queen’s spymaster, Sir Frances Walsingham. Kit suffers the whips and scorns of time as he witnesses the massacre of Paris, the hypocrisy of the church, the rejection from his ‘dark lady,’ the theft of his identity as a playwright, and wrenching loss that will breath life into many of his unforgettable characters. As he sinks further into the clutches of Walsingham, a masque is written by his own hand to save his life from shadowing betrayers, from the Queen’s own Star Chamber, and from the Jesuit assassins of Rome, thus sending him into exile and allowing an unknown actor from Stratford-upon-Avon, William Shakespeare, to step into his shoes. And so begins the lie; and yet, what will a man not do to regain his name?

Read the review by the Historical Novel Society here: Historical Novel Society Review

Available on Amazon in paperback: Blood and Ink on Amazon

Available on Amazon in ebook: Blood and Ink eBook format on Amazon

Thanks to all in advance!

DK Marley

[image error]

The Allure of Marlowe

As I renew my writing and look over former writing to inspire my thoughts, I recall articles written for the Marlowe-Shakespeare Connection blog.

As so many of you know, I have always been a believer in the idea that Shakespeare did not write the plays attributed to him, and said so in my novel, “Blood and Ink”. While the idea, I suppose, can never be proven, to some degree, at least, the notion has merit.

I am not the first to believe the conspiracy, and will not be the last; as shown by the incredible movie “Anonymous”, a few years ago, by Sir Derek Jacobi. I had the privilege to meet Sir Jacobi, back in 2007, at the authorship debates he and Mark Rylance hosted at the Globe Theater in London. While his belief leans more toward another man, I asked him about his thoughts on Christopher Marlowe. Another person standing there at the time, during my inquest, looked at me with such distaste and said, “Oh, don’t tell me you are a Marlowan?” To which I answered, “Why, yes, I am.” He asked, “And I suppose you think he went into exile to Italy and never was killed in Deptford?” Again, I said, “Yes, I do.” They all, sort of, chuckled, which caused me to add, “Well, I am really just a writer. I can’t claim I am an expert, but you know, the story makes for great historical fiction.” The man, who piped up with his arrogant questions, shut up, and the gracious Sir Jacobi smiled at me and shook my hand. Oh, well, even with such occurrences, I enjoyed the debate over Shakespeare’s authorship very much. I never have claimed that I was writing a work of non-fiction. I wrote a story, some of the meat based on factual events, and others coming straight from my mind. Isn’t that what writers do?

I must admit, I let the encounter bother me for quite some time; but, alas, no more. A fiction writer is a fiction writer is a fiction writer….

When I returned to the states, I got in touch with the Marlowe-Shakespeare Connection blog and asked if I could send in a few articles. I never thought they would actually publish them, but they did! I guess the authorship debate will go on, as will the writing of many books about the theme, and the matter will never be settled; but here is my addition to the question and the reasons behind my interest in writing “Blood and Ink”.

Link to article: http://marlowe-shakespeare.blogspot.c...

Link to my book on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Blood-Ink-D-K-...

Here is the article itself:

The Allure of Marlowe

Imagine this: standing in the great Globe Theatre surrounded by all things Shakespeare, slowly walking down a corridor full of relics of the past, all speaking William Shakespeare’s name. But, of course, before that day you had no reason to consider any other name nor had any such thought been presented to you. And then, it happens. You round the corner and before you is a wall that displays the names and faces of five men that could have been the writer of the plays. This is what happened to me. I perused the names with interest and amazement. Like finding a rare antique at a yard sale that someone missed, Christopher Marlowe’s face stared back at me and my heart seemed to beat faster. How could the world have missed the obvious? The sparkling little trinket of truth that spoke to me as if his ghost whispered in my ear, “Tell my story. Foul deeds will rise though all the world o’erwhelm them to men’s eyes.”I suppose I could have chosen any of the men, but something moved me. From the very moment, Marlowe’s allure buried in his mysterious eyes made me know a story lay there hidden, waiting to burst forth. Within a week and endless hours on the internet and at the library, the clues he left behind, the secret little smile in his Cambridge portrait and the knowing glint in his eyes lay before me. The pieces of the puzzle fit together like never before, the treasured words of Christopher Marlowe, the Muse’s Darling, and not the man from Stratford, linked into a beautiful and tragic telling of a man who knew the world. Here was the man who travelled the continent, who knew court life and country travails, politics and provocateurs, religion, science, languages, intrigue, love, betrayal, and exile. All the meaty experience to fill the pages of mighty plays and sonnets.One of the first things that we are told as writers is, “Write what you know.” The adage cannot have changed since the 16th century. Marlowe wrote what he knew, leaving behind the clues, which were a common and clever tool used by writers of the day. So I ask, why buy a reproduction when you can have the real thing? It’s a lot more fun to dig for authentic Marlovian gold than float along with the crowd picking up synthetic Shakespearean souvenirs. Listen closely, you can hear his voice. “I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name.”

D. K. Marley

The Historical Novel Society Review of My Novel

Check out the review of my novel “Blood and Ink” from the Historical Novel Society!

Loved this part: “DK Marley’s exhaustively researched and spryly written novel Blood and Ink follows in the tradition of such minor-key classics as Anthony Burgess’ A Dead Man in Deptford, and the central premise of Marley’s book—that Marlowe only faked his death in 1593 in order to escape the attentions of the Privy Council—will be familiar to followers of the Shakespearean authorship question (Shakespeare, needless to say, features prominently here). Marley has sifted through a phenomenal amount of research, but along the way she hasn’t forgotten to tell a first-rate and gripping story, adorned in many places by some very pretty turns of phrase. We may never have a final resolution to the tangled questions Marley raises, but as long as we get such strong and enjoyable novels as this one out of the tangle, we shouldn’t complain.”

My book is now available on Amazon!! Buy here: https://www.amazon.com/Blood-Ink-D-K-Marley/dp/1986530396/   Paperback version – $19.95    Ebook version coming soon – $4.99

View full review here:

https://historicalnovelsociety.org/reviews/blood-and-ink/