The Night the Earth Moved

Last night I was sitting writing at my computer when my chair shook. The light in the room was moving, casting shadows on the wall. Startled, I glanced round and saw that the lamp was rocking gently on the floor as if some giant cat were playing with it, tapping it like it was a ball of wool.

I could not understand what was happening. I’d never experienced anything like this before. I went out onto the terrace and looked around. There was nothing untoward, no explosions, no flying saucers, no crash on the nearby train line.

I went back into the apartment, Maybe it was some extremely angry poltergeist. And then I guessed. Could it be an earthquake? I stood unmoving, silent, straining to feel and hear anything more. There was nothing. I went to bed.

This morning I found out that it was indeed an earthquake. It was felt all along the Cote d’Azur. It reminded me of how much more wild and savage the south of France is than where I used to live in the south west of England.

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Another Writing Tool

If you’ve been following my blog you’ll know that my newest novel ‘A Love Most Dangerous’ appeared without me intending it to at all. I sat down at my computer and doodled and the first few sentences appeared…. CA_GD_LAKE_final_2(2)

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

I guess that this is a good example of inspiration. But inspiration does not necessarily come when you want it to. Sometime it needs a little encouragement and help.

I’ve used this writing tool when I’m at a loss for something to write.

It works by harnessing your inner muse.

If you give it a go you may find that allowing your sub-conscious off the leash will help when you are at a loss for a story or how to progress one you are stuck on.

Be warned though; it doesn’t work for everybody.

It makes use of the following categories of story:

1. setting
2. protagonist
3. antagonist
4. theme
5. conflict
6. main action
7. subplots
8. resolution/cliff-hanger
9. point of view

Here’s what you do.

Look around you, or go for a walk, and note down the nine most memorable objects you see.
Give each object a number.
Use the first memorable object to answer the following question: In what way is (the object) like or unlike the setting of my story?
Write down your answer.
Then ask yourself: In what way is object 2 like or unlike the protagonist of my story?
Write down the answer.
In what way is object 3 like or unlike the antagonist of my story?
Write down the answer.
In what way is object 4 like or unlike the theme of my story?
Write the answer down.
And so on down to object 9 and point of view.

This gives you a lovely framework for your writing.

Try it and let me know how it worked for you.

Posted in A Love Most Dangerous, Writing Tips | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

A Writing Tool Box

I’ve been using Scrivener to write my last few novels. It is simply the best writing tool I’ve ever used. It has so many tools and gizmos that I doubt I’ll ever make use of them, or want to, come to that.

But there are still some tools which I make use of and have incorporated into my Scrivener templates. (Including the novel bibles I have started using since David Hewson wrote about it.)

William Faulkner In Hollywood

The best tool is to apply my posterior to a seat and get writing. No, not like that. Never smoke a pipe near your manuscript.

In addition to taking a seat there are a few other tools which I regularly make use of and which can prove very useful.

The first is my WRITING LOG.  This is a simple table showing each day of the week.  I use it to note down the number of words I’ve written that day and the cumulative total to date.  It is wonderfully motivating and encouraging.  In fact it’s a real carrot and stick.  I would not write a novel without this.  It’s done more to keep me on track and writing than anything else. Scrivener has a rather more sophisticated version which uses a nice coloured bar to show how far you’ve got in your target for the day and the overall book. But I always transfer this to my Writing Log so I can see how I’m doing day by day.

The second tool is my COMBINED MASTER PLANNING DOCUMENT.  In this I have combined elements of the Hero’s Journey, Propp’s Morphology of the Folk Tale and Aristotle’s Key Plot Elements.  I then map my novel according to these and file it away.  I rarely look at it again unless I get stuck.  If I do chance to look at it I sometimes find I am keeping pretty much to the plan, other times hardly at all.  Neither worries me.  I find that the plotting is useful in itself as I never used to pay enough attention to this aspect of my writing.

CHRONOLOGY  This is the essential tool for my historical novels.  I have four columns.  One is for the date.  The second is for the general events which took place that year.  The third and fourth show what is happening to my protagonist and antagonist (and their followers) in that year.

CHARACTER LIST  This is my newest tool and I have found it invaluable.  Again, it’s a simple table with the essential information about each character.  It helps me keep track of who is who in the novel and important information about them.  As many of my characters are historical figures I find it helps to put a picture of them, ideally as close to the date of the story as possible.

When I get stuck or find myself caught up with too many choices I resort to more lateral thinking devices such as using my subconscious.

None of these tools are essential and I don’t rely on any of them.  But they are great aides when things go a little awry in my writing.

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Meeting King Henry #HistNov

Here’s an extract from my latest novel.

CA_GD_LAKE_final_2(2)

CHAPTER FOUR

The King of England

19 September 1537

 

It was the third week in September but the weather continued unseasonably warm. King Henry had been walking in the garden with some gentleman attendants but must have wished for some solitude for he gestured them to move some distance from him. He walked over to a bower of roses which were now shrivelling on the branch. The autumn winds blew fallen petals about his feet, hither and thither, skittish as a filly.

I opened up my book of verse and strolled across the lawn, reading from the book as I walked.

The King had some small acquaintance of me although he had only spoken to me once, on Mayday. He wished me good day. I did him a curtsy and made to walk on.

‘You have a book, Alice Petherton,’ he called. ‘Is this for decoration or education?’

I curtsied once more and glanced up at him before looking at the ground demurely.

‘For education, Your Majesty,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I seek to improve myself.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw his eyes slide from the book to my breasts and then to my hair.

‘Don’t bend your head to the ground, child,’ he said. ‘Your King will not harm you by his gaze.’

I took a breath and raised my head. The newly risen sun illuminated the lower part of my face but my eyes remained in shadow.

I saw his chest move, as if a wind of passion was surging within. He held out his hand for the book.

‘Poems by Sir Thomas Wyatt,’ he said, perusing the title. He flipped open the pages. ‘Do you like the Sir Thomas’s poems, Alice Petherton?’

‘I do Your Majesty. They are ably written.’

Henry’s eyes narrowed and his head turned as if he could not believe his ears. ‘Ably written?’ he said. ‘A chit of a girl talks of my foremost poet, a knight of the Kingdom, in such a manner?’

I curtsied again. ‘I meant no disrespect,’ I said.

‘Perhaps what you mean and what you say are very different matters, Alice Petherton?’

‘They are not designed so, Your Majesty. It must be my youthful ignorance.’

He said nothing but continued to stare at me. The sun had risen higher now and dissolved the shadows which had hidden the top of my face from his gaze.

‘You have very dark eyes,’ the King said. ‘Very dark. And yet your hair is blond and your complexion pale.’

‘Many have remarked upon this, Majesty.’

‘Your eyes are the colour of damsons,’ he continued. He gestured me closer, tilted my head and looked into my eyes. I felt the heat of him beating down upon me, or perhaps it was my own heat, gusting like a wind in summer.

‘Yes, very like damsons,’ he murmured. ‘Dark eyes are hard to read, don’t you think, Alice Petherton?’

‘Not as hard as the poems of the Sir Thomas Wyatt, Your Majesty.’

He looked at me again, a quizzical look upon his face. I saw his emotions battling, his thoughts flying. Then he tilted back his head and laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, not loud, not soft; as natural a laugh as a King could make. Yet as he laughed his eyes locked fast upon me.

I smiled, a gentle smile, as if I smiled not at my own words but at my lord’s pleasure.

His laughter stopped. He stared at me as if had not properly seen me until this moment.

When he spoke again his voice was changed, deeper and cloying.

‘I would know you better, Alice Petherton,’ he said. ‘I would read poems with you.’

‘I am at Your Majesty’s pleasure,’ I said, giving another curtsy. But as I did so I made sure that my eyes never left his face.

‘A Love Most Dangerous’ is available on Kindle for $3.07, £1.84 or equivalent.

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

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A Love Most Dangerous

Early in April 2013 I sat at the computer wondering what to write. I had just finished the first draft of ‘Blood of Ironside’ and put it away for a rest before I started on the second draft.

I thought I might write a short story. I put my fingers on the keyboard and wrote this:

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.

I sat back bemused. Who was talking? I knew when the period was, more or less. But I was writing from the point of view of a girl. I had never done this before.

And then I wrote:

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.

Alice’s voice took hold of me. For the next year, apart from an interlude when I revised Blood of Ironside, I have lived with Alice Petherton. My wife is very tolerant.

I did not know much about the Tudor period, having learned too much about it from a History teacher who was obsessed by Henry VIII. So I had to research as I wrote. I usually do some research as I write but I had to do far more as I went along for this novel.

I learned about maids of honour:

The Queen’s chamber was crowded when we arrived. Jane Seymour sat close to the window, working, as always, at her embroidery. She was said to be the finest needlewoman at court, and not merely by sycophants. I admired her work and knew that no matter how hard I tried I would never produce anything close to its quality

This was partly because I loathed working with needle and thread. I much preferred to spend my hours in reading, or even writing. But Jane liked to do neither and so all her ladies and maids must, perforce, bend themselves and their minds to the constant poke and stitch of needlework. Sometimes, at the end of the day, my fingers felt like pin-cushions.

About food, feasts and fasts:

In the centre of the table lay a roast boar, the scent of its rich meat wafting across the Hall, enticing the taste buds like no other fare can. Next to the boar was a glistening swan, roasted and embellished with fruit and sweetmeats. I guessed that stuffed inside it would be an aviary of birds: goose, chicken, partridge, pheasant, woodcock, snipe, pigeon, heron, capon and song-birds.

About births, christenings and funerals:

King Henry stood at the front of the Hall, a tiny baby held high above his head. The King began to walk down the central corridor with slow and measured tread, pausing at each group of courtiers to show the child to them. As he did so each group began to applaud with enthusiasm, some with genuine pleasure. A few called out with joy but such loud demonstrations were frowned upon by the Steward’s officers. Presumably they were fearful for the infant’s tiny ears.

The King came close to us. Knowing that we were the Queen’s Ladies he did more than merely pause as he had with the other courtiers. He stopped and moved closer to us holding the baby out so close we could have reached out and touched him. A cooing came from our throats, as though we were creatures of a Dovecote and not young women of the Household. The King smiled at this, delighted at our response.

And I had to learn about:

Royal Palaces and their layout and furniture, palace servants, the old and new nobility, courtiers and their intrigues, religious changes, Tudor clothing, musical instruments and how they sounded, the Royal Menagerie and the animals housed there, modes of transport, roads and the upholstery of a coach, popular dances and how to dance them, Tudor names and modes of address, Tudor poetry and poets, the streets and alleys of London, crime and punishment, Tudor pastimes, Tudor gardens and flowers, a Tudor farm and farming, attitudes to women and children, diplomacy and marriage negotiations and the physical and mental health of the King.

It’s been quite a journey.

And now, this weekend, ‘A Love Most Dangerous’ is available to buy worldwide on Amazon Kindle. CA_GD_LAKE_final_2(2)

 

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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.

martinfinal5wasteland2ironside4

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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.

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Posted in Alice Petherton, Tudors, Women in historical fiction | 7 Comments

Yammering like dog foxes. #SampleSunday #HistNov

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

Saxon Helmet

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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Posted in Historical fiction, Vikings, Women in historical fiction | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

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. Viking

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. martinfinal5

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Posted in Historical fiction, War, Women in historical fiction | Leave a comment

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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Posted in Heroes, Historical fiction | Tagged , , | 5 Comments