Brendan Carroll's Blog: Working my way back - Posts Tagged "apprentice-diaries"

This should be an auspicious day for me. Starting a new month, a new sample and a day that matches my new avatar. I've decided to include an excerpt or sample of the YA/Companion book for the Red Cross of Gold, The Journey Begins, which is the first collaborative effort with D'Lani Elliott and also the first book in the Apprentice Diaries series.

"Ay! DJ!" Armand de Bleu called after the Spaniard who was rapidly walking toward the mess hall. "Save some for us!"
"Yeah! Don't let the wolves eat it all," Christopher chimed in the ribbing.
Baldemar or DJ as they called him, short for de Jesus among other less friendly names, was really going to catch it now since the Ramsay/wolf question in Sir Dambretti's class and his overt love of food and drink did little to help his cause. His stomach roiled and growled all day in class every day as if it were full of wolves indeed. The Academy was not treating de Jesus too kindly. Sir Barry of Sussex had him on a strict vegetarian diet, supplemented with fish and dairy, but without sugar, without fried foods and NO fast food. No fish and chips. No burgers. No pizza! The older boys made him run more laps at gym/rec and never cut him any slack for excess baggage. But one thing about DJ, he had money. Money of his own from a trust fund. The young student received a monthly stipend that kept him supplied with a trickle of crème filled snacks, which he hid in the springs under his mattress.
His fellow students actually liked him because he was not stingy with his reserves, but they could not pass up a chance to give him the blues for his mistakes and his appetite.
Baldemar glanced over his shoulder at them and made the sign of the cross, letting them know that he forgave them.
Armand used a new curse word that Christopher had taught him.
"I hate it when he does that," Armand said.
"Why? You have a guilty conscience?" Chris poked him in between his shoulder blades, making him bow up his shoulders.
"Please stop touching me, mon chere," Armand said and grinned back at him. "The others are starting to talk about you."
"Really?" Christopher ran ahead of him and took down a lanky boy with short brown hair. They rolled on the plush lawn until one of the lay brothers shouted for them to get off the grass. The two boys scrambled to their feet and were soon chasing each other down the walk toward supper and evening prayers.
Lucio Dambretti turned away from the window in the Grand Master's office.
"Boys will be boys," he muttered.
"That is as old as you are," d'Brouchart said. "And it does not excuse du Morte for bringing an undisciplined street urchin into our midst. What was he thinking?" He rubbed his temples.
"The Chevalier du Morte does not like to think, Sir," Dambretti said as he suppressed a smile.
"Yes, yes, I've heard that before as well. How much do they know? Does Angelo know about it?"
"That is hard to tell. Who can say what Angelo knows or does not know? Rumors abound in the academic setting. You know that. Boys need diversions. I was thinking of a field trip with your permission, Sir." The Italian turned his dark eyes on the Master.
"You are evading the subject, Golden Eagle. We have a security leak in this camp and I want to know who it is. How did the boys find out that du Morte was going after Anthony? I want to know who told them."
"You are not giving them any credit, Your Grace."
"How so?"
"Primo: Your apprentice disappears. He is not dead or ill or anywhere to be found. Secondo: The entire Villa is in an uproar for thirty-six hours and then all is gloomy. Tertio: Without warning, Chevalier Ramsay shows up and no Council meeting is in the offing? What do you think? The Knight of Death never comes from his den unless poked with a stick. It is pretty obvious that you summoned him. He mopes around the Villa for a day and then leaves."
"Well, I don't know," the Master said quietly. "It could be as you say, but I want these rumors quelled. I don't want to hear anything more about… about… Anthony." The big man leaned back in his chair and the springs squeaked in protest.
"Shall I take it down, Sir?" Dambretti asked and reached for a picture of Anthony Scalia hanging on the wall above the credenza.
"What? No!" The Grand Master stood up and then sat back down, waving one hand wearily at the Italian Knight. "Yes, please get it out of my sight."
"What about the field trip? I think a trip to the farmer's market in Naples would be a good exercise for the Survival Cooking class."
"I don't want anyone going anywhere, Golden Eagle. Not until du Morte returns."
Dambretti nodded curtly and turned to leave the office. He knew very well that the Grand Master had become very attached to Anthony, treating him more like a son than an apprentice. The Old Man was not taking the loss of the young man very well.
"Oh, and by the way," the Grand Master stopped him short of the door. "Have you heard from Ramsay perchance?"
Dambretti shook his head thoughtfully. Ramsay hated checking in, hated using phones, hated using computers. Even hated escalators and trains. Ramsay hated everything. He was grumpy and anti-social, but he was the Italian's best and first friend.
“He’s only been gone a few hours, Sir,” Dambretti shrugged. “Probably still on the plane.”
"Do you think Angelo knows?" d'Brouchart asked again after a moment, as he watched the old gardener pulling out weeds in one of the annual beds, and frowned at the sight of Angelo's huge gray cat lying in the sun atop the three-wheeled cart, preening himself. The cat had been around forever! Just how long do cats live anyway?
Dambretti shrugged again and wondered why the Grand Master kept asking about Angelo. He had often wondered about Angelo Gamelli himself. It seemed that the old fellow had always been the gardener. He had to be over 90 years old by now. One thing for sure, as ornery as he could be sometimes, Angelo loved to talk. Lucio had seen him talking to the old padre one moment, laughing and smiling and the next moment, he had seen him deep in conversation with Mark Ramsay with one arm wrapped around the Knight's shoulders and the venerable Knight of Death never allowed anyone to get that close to him.
Dambretti left the office with the picture of Anthony under his arm and tossed it in the passenger seat of his car. A huge ball of iridescent soap bubbles drifted up over the Admin Building and floated on the breeze past his Audi. He turned and watched it disappear into the olive grove. Someone had put soap in the fountain… again.
"Boys will be boys," he muttered, smiled and started up the white Audi sedan. Amelia would be waiting for him in Naples and he did not want to be late.

 http://www.amazon.com/The-Knights-Chr...

A long time ago (I won't say how long because it disturbs me), when I first started writing about Templars, no one in the mainstream was interested in them. There were a few books out there about them, mostly non-fiction, historical accounts, very little historical fiction about them and there was very little to no speculative fiction about the subject. I started out writing just one, stand-alone novel about an errant Knight Templar who was semi-immortal and ridden with personal problems as an exercise in purgative writing. In other words, I wanted to write out some serious personal problems I had in story form, fictionalizing and dramatizing and romanticizing my own troubles in a larger than life plot.
I succeeded in doing this and felt much better when I wrote the final word: Finished at the end of the Knight of Death.
After much re-writing, editing, cutting, grumbling and rumbling, I final settled on a final edition of the thing and then decided that it was not finished after all. Since then, I have written 26 more novels for the Knight of Death to star in and have another four to go before I can even hope to say Fine. Fine. Fine.
Since those days after I first wrote the Knight of Death, a great deal of interest has been generated in the Templars and what happened to them, what happened to their vast treasure trove, their fleet of ships and their ranks. There are many, many speculations now about what happened to them. Fortunately, I have my own ideas about what happened to them. I say fortunately because it is fortunate that I have my own ideas or else the readers of the Assassin Chronicles might become very bored in short order.