Talking with Justin Hill.

Today I am delighted to be talking with Justin Hill.  Justin has written travel books and novels dealing with subjects from China to Africa as well as historical fiction.  His novel ‘Shieldwall’ was a Sunday Times Book of the Year.

IMG_4762150p%20co%20Madison%20Hill[1] Martin: Before we talk about your own fiction could you say which authors have had the greatest influence upon you?

I always seem to come up with a different list whenever I ask this question: but I suppose the place to start would be JRR Tolkien, and The Lord of the Rings because I was in the rudimentary reading class when I was nine, and wasn’t very interested in books.  Then I read The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, and was smitten.  I couldn’t believe that an author could make up, not only a story, but a whole world.  And I put my paperback copy of The Return of the King down, and thought, I want to do that.

After Tolkien I read the sagas, had a role-playing character called Skarp-Hedin, and a lot of Tolkien lookalike fiction, stuff like Terry Brooks, but the author who really grabbed me was David Gemmell.  My brother and friends used to visit the Fantasy section of WH Smiths on a Saturday morning, and look for the next Gemmell book.  He seemed the most exciting writer around at the time.

A list of notables probably start with Thomas Hardy, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Bruce Chatwin, Mary Renault, Julian May and Raymond Carver.  That’s a fairly literary list, and I always aspired to the same level of literary quality with the page-turning of more mass market authors.  That list should probably include the Tang Dynasty poets, whose grasp of language and detail and symbolism is always a source of inspiration.  I’d throw Robert E Howard in there as well, just to mix it up a bit.  I’m a big fan of his Conan stories.

Most recently authors I really admire I’d pick two: Dan Abnett, who melds crime and sci fi and George RR Martin, who I’ve come to since the TV series came out, but who has really impressed me with his way of telling stories.

What made you decide to be a writer?

Blame Tolkien, and then all the other writers whose stories and worlds I’ve loved.  I think of it this way: the only time I miss a stop on the metro here is when I’m engrossed in a great book and I lose sense of everything around me.  That level of absorption only happens when I’m reading.

In a way I’m that absorbed when I’m writing too.  There is a sense that writers are often writing the kind of books they want to read – but which haven’t been written yet.

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

I think selling my first novel: The Drink and Dream Teahouse.  I’d already had one travelogue published, but found fiction writing much more satisfying and exciting.  The book was half finished, I was skint, and the book went to auction and sold for a record breaking amount.

I felt I’d made it then.  It was the crest of a very large wave.

What attracts you to writing historical fiction?

I’d enjoyed Henry Treece and Alfred Duggan as a child: sticking pretty much to Alfred Duggan’s Dark Age work.  But never really read much historical fiction, until my brother gave me Sharon K Penman’s The Sunne in Splendour, about 15 years ago.

It’s about Richard III and the Wars of the Roses, and as a Yorkshire man, I had taken quite an interest in that.  I’d read a lot of history books, but it wasn’t until I read this novel that I understood how the personalities and familial relationships of the various families contributed to the history.

So I came away understanding how historical fiction is another doorway into the past, and I didn’t come away thinking I would write historical fiction, but the seed was planted.

Shieldwall and Hastings are set in the final century of Anglo-Saxon England, which is one of my favourite periods. What interests you about this period?

Well!  What’s not to love about it!?

There’s a weird mish mash. I remember very young feeling that I had arrived at the wrong time of the world.  I had no interest in cars, but felt the past –with cart horses, and firesides and seasons – was so much more interesting.

History also seemed very important to me.  It felt personal – still does in fact.  My family are old Northern Catholics, all from Yorkshire.  I grew up in York, where everything was branded ‘Jorvik’ or Viking.  But the Sagas seemed to talk to me across all those centuries, and felt more relevant, for example, than a lot of the literature coming up from London.

My village church – Skelton, near York – is a little gem, built by the same masons who put York Minster up, and little changed since.  History seemed all about me, and so much of who and what I am, we are, comes from the history of our families and societies.

 Which of your characters has most surprised you and why?

Recently Kendra because she was just a bit character who appeared in the opening chapter of Shieldwall, as a slave girl warming Wulfnoth’s bed.  But it was clear as soon as I’d written about her that she was an important character, and although not at all historical, had an important place in the lives of the characters I was following.

She was the touchstone in many ways.  And readers seem to have taken to her as well, which makes me feel I should keep her story going.

How do you research your novels?

For Shieldwall I started with academic histories written by people like Frank Barlow, to get the details, the characters, the events, the possible motivations.  This is really the skeleton of the story.  Then I started to plan it all out.  Where each book would start and end.  Who the main characters would be – all that kind of stuff.

But that’s all prelim stuff: the real challenge comes in the details and the characters.  By details I mean all the little references in the novel that make the world and the characters feel real.  This can be what they’re sitting on, what they eat, how they talk, what it’s like to put mail on for the first time, how a character would think, say when he went to watch bear baiting.

Building up the level of detail is a massive task that involves some like experience (I spent my 20s as a volunteer in rural China and Africa, which gave me a lot of insight into a non-modern world); research: I taught myself Old English to go back to source texts, as well as to get a sense of the language: it’s rhythms and cadences etc; I ploughed through archaeological pdfs of digs, went through all the episodes of Time Team, talked to re-enactors I knew; reading other novels; looking at the literature from other time periods and places (i.e. the Tang Dynasty poets who were writing about Mongolian invasions at a similar time, and had some good details about what it meant to be conquered).

That’s a huge job because a historical novelist has to construct a world that feels real to the modern reader, into which the characters go.

Last of all comes the characters: who are actually the most important and they’re a very complex mix of me, friends, who knows!  Take Edward the Confessor, for example, who appears in Hastings.  I started my research on him by reading biographies of Charles II – the only other king whose father was deposed, was exiled young, spent his time in France meddling with plots and schemers and drunks, and whose chances of reaching the throne seemed slight.

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

Google Earth was a great tool because Shieldwall is largely set in parts of England I’ve never been to, and living in Hong Kong, were too difficult to visit.  It allowed me to see the minute geography of a village, for example, or see if my characters were walking up hill or downhill.

The internet is second as it allowed me access to all that academic material and allowed me to research places, field views, photos, church names and details that I used for the novel.  There’s all kinds of great sites: Anglekyn, The Viking Answer Lady, and all kinds of blogs about the period.

A third one is a favourite of mine, which is the poem called Maxims II.  It’s a fabulously weird collection of gnomic sayings.

Then I do other things like listen to Julian Glover’s rendition of Beowulf as I fall asleep at night, so that it rattles around in my head at night and some of the magic comes out again in the morning.

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

I usually try and write three or four mornings a week, for about 3 hours a time.  I have all kinds of little props, that I’m beginning to feel are all procrastinations: I burn incense, I have special play lists, which are currently a mix of Gregorian chant, Mozart’s Requiem and folk singers like Stan Rogers.  Writing everyday doesn’t work so well for me.  A few days thinking between seems good, so I can think the best place to pick up the next scene.

That’s when I’m working on the first draft.  When I have a first draft I have a much better sense of the shape of the story: where the real drama is for each character, and then I can work all day every day banging it out.

Then I can work must faster.  Maybe not banging it out, but getting the story just right.  That usually takes me about six months.  Writing and rewriting and cutting back.

The last stage is a vicious cut, so that the story moves along at a cracking pace.

Then I collapse and my wife and I sit down and enjoy a good bottle of wine and I’m a little shell-shocked, and wonder what the hell I’ll write next.

Looking back over your life who might have been most surprised at your writing career? What would you say to them about it?

I think the person who would be most surprised would be me: the boy who wanted to write, and knew how difficult it is to get published, and wasn’t sure I would ever make it.

I wrote a poem about that:  Ings Walk.  http://www.nthposition.com/ingswalks.php

Less seriously I think my history teacher would be surprised.  He and I never quite clicked, which is a shame, because history has always been a passion for me.  He predicted me a ‘C’ at A level, and never quite understood how I got an ‘A’ grade.

What advice would you give to someone who is just starting to write fiction?

I could talk their ear off, but there are two things that kept me going.

Write your story: which means write what really compels you. Don’t write what was a best seller last year; don’t write like Bernard Cornwell because you think it will sell.  Write the story just the way you want to write it, and the closer you can get to that the better it will be.

The next piece of advice is the most important: don’t give up.  Professional or published writers are the amateur writers who never gave up.  This can be hard, because you will get rejections all along the way.  I still get rejection letters!  And however Zen you feel, they will come on the worst Thursday ever, when your dog has died and your girlfriend has told you that you need to talk, and you have just screwed up at work.

And when you get that letter saying that you novel is not for them, then you need to tell yourself that what you sent off was the best you could do three months ago, but that you have to somehow work out how to write it better and lift it that extra half inch.

The last half inch is the hardest: but it is the difference between published and unpublished novels.

What is your next writing project?

You’ll never have heard of him: but I’m taking some half-Danish lad called Harold, up to a battle at a place called Hastings, in 1066…

Thanks very much for talking with me, Justin.

You can find Justin’s books in all stores and online.  You can find out more about him by visiting his website : www.justinhillauthor.com

‘Peace Making.’ #SampleSunday #HistNov From my soon to be published novel.

‘And what about Cnut?’ Malcolm asked. ‘Can he control Esbjorn?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe so. I suspect he’s lived much of his life in fear of Esbjorn although I think that may no longer be the case. He is wary of his uncle but not, I think, afraid.’

Malcolm pondered this, cracking the knuckles of his hand as he did so.

‘Cnut seems to hold you in high regard,’ he said at last. ‘More than he did when he was last here.’cropped-edgar-01.jpg

‘We drew swords together,’ I answered. ‘I risked my life to save his.’

‘So he is in your debt?’

I shrugged. ‘I do not know if the Danes have such a sense of honour.’

Malcolm stood and stared out of the window. ‘I wonder why they are here?’ he muttered.

‘We will find out soon enough.’

He turned to me.

‘Yes. I have arranged a feast for them. You will be there?’

It was couched as a question but it felt like a command.

I nodded.

‘But not Anna, I take it,’ Malcolm continued. He sighed. ‘I understand now her reaction to the sight of the monster. How is she?’

I rubbed my eyes wearily. ‘She is troubled in her mind and heart. Hog is attending on her.’

Malcolm nodded.

‘She thought she would never see Esbjorn again,’I said. ‘It is a bitter blow.’

‘Then be kind to her, Edgar, be kind.’ He made to leave the room but then paused and turned to stare at me. ‘I know what your mother and sister think of Anna but I offer you this counsel. Hold fast to her until the end of your days.’

I smiled grimly. If Esbjorn were ever to find me on my own there might not be many days left to me.

Malcolm took great pains to organise the feast table. His place, naturally, was at the head of the table with my sister next to him. I sat next to her with Athelstan beside me. On Malcolm’s left sat Cnut and then Esbjorn. He would not allow any of the other Danes to join the feast but ordered them to eat in another chamber under the watchful eye of his soldiers. He packed the feast hall with his own followers and my guards.

‘That should be just enough to control Esbjorn,’ said Merleswein with a rueful smile.

I made sure that Anna was in our chamber with two maids to attend upon her. Willard and Hog sat by the door with half their men. The rest were outside by the window. All were fully armed.

Malcolm was careful to ensure that wine and beer flowed sufficiently but not copiously. He well knew that when the Danes got drunk they also got violent.

The food was excellent. Cnut and Esbjorn ate heartily as did Malcolm. I had no appetite and ate little and drank less. I wanted all my wits about me.

‘It is good to see you once again,’ Malcolm said to Cnut. ‘I am intrigued at the reason for your journeying so far north.’

Cnut dropped his meat upon the platter and wiped his mouth.

‘I have come with a message from my father, Svein, King of the Danes.’ His eyes twinkled and he leaned closer to make sure that I was listening.

‘My father wishes to make alliance with the King of the Scots,’ he continued. ‘And he also wishes to affirm our alliance with Edgar, King of the English.’

I started at his words. He had never called me king before. Cnut’s use of the title must have been agreed by his father.

My thoughts began to race. Did this mean that the alliance with the Danes could be forged anew? Would we be able to resume our attack upon William? My heart beat faster at the thought. I glanced at Athelstan who placed his hand upon my wrist as if to counsel caution.

‘That is welcome news,’ Malcolm said quickly. ‘It is, perhaps, unfortunate that the deeds done upon my gate were not in keeping with your father’s stance.’

Cnut picked up his meat and gnawed at it for a moment, pondering how to answer. He gave a quick glance at Esbjorn before he framed his reply.

‘My uncle is a man of great passion,’ he said. ‘But great heart also. He has come north is to make his peace with Edgar.’

A deep rumble sounded from Esbjorn’s throat. I leaned forward and saw his knuckles whiten and bulge beneath his flesh.

Athelstan pressed even more firmly upon my wrist and I leaned back, turning my face from my enemy for fear of my own anger.

Athelstan pondered for a moment and then nodded at Cnut. ‘We are delighted to hear this,’ he said. ‘The friendship of King Svein and his family is a thing we esteem most highly.’

Esbjorn spat a piece of gristle on to the table. Then he snorted, picked up a leg of goose and began to gnaw upon it.

The table fell quiet. The only thing that moved was Esbjorn’s jaw.

He chewed noisily, staring into the space in front of him. Then he belched and smeared his hand across his mouth.

‘My brother has sent me to make peace with Edgar Atheling,’ he said.

We waited for him to say more but he did not. It was clear that this was as much as we could expect.

I could feel all eyes upon me, wondering how I would reply.

I leaned forward and gave an airy wave. It was bare acknowledgement.

‘Very good,’ said Cnut quickly. ‘Now we can move forward.’

Esbjorn blew his nose with his fingers and wiped them on the table.

The third part of The Lost King will be published shortly. 

The first two parts: ‘The Lost King: Resistance’ and ‘Wasteland’ are available as e-books from retailers world-wide.

The Scourge of Satan #histnov #SampleSunday

The gate flew open and Esbjorn charged in.

He truly did look like a raging bull and we were the puny dogs pitted against him. His face was scarlet with rage and he bellowed like a wolf, raised his axe and charged towards me.

‘Now,’ cried Willard and half a dozen arrows slammed into the ground at his feet.220px-Mediaeval_archery_reenactment

‘You’ll need a second eye-patch,’ cried Godwin as Willard and his men aimed a second flight towards him. These arrows were closer still, some grazing Esbjorn’s arms and one slicing across his hand so that the blood spurted.

He hefted his axe and gave me a murderous look, trying to judge whether he could reach me quicker than an arrow.

‘This one will pierce your heart,’ said Willard, stepping forward. ‘That’s if you have one, of course.’

Esbjorn did not move but his solitary eye darted fire towards me.

Behind him, Cnut ambled through the gate. ‘You must knock more gently upon King Malcolm’s gate, uncle,’ he said. ‘You’d get a less hostile reception.’

He slipped from his horse, strolled over and embraced me.

‘It’s good to see you, my brother,’ he said. ‘Very good.’

I sheathed my sword, his sword, the one forged by Wayland the Smith, the one he had given me for saving his life in battle.

‘It’s good to see you too, my brother,’ I said. ‘Though I’d have preferred it had you been alone.’

Malcolm ordered a feast in honour of the Danes. Shortly before it was to start he summoned me to his chamber and questioned me about Esbjorn.

‘There is clearly much ill-blood between you,’ he said, pouring me a cup of wine. ‘I think you were unwise to taunt him into such a venomous rage and I pray that no greater ill come from it.’

I sipped at my wine. ‘You may be right, Malcolm, but I find it hard to imagine that our hatred could get any worse.’

Malcolm gave me a questioning look and I thought it best to tell him everything of my dealings with Esbjorn.

I told him how Esbjorn had kept Anna, first as his lover, then, when she refused him, as worse than his lowest slave, housed in his kennel with his hounds. I told him how he had used her to scramble up the latrines into York Castle in order to open the gate. I told him how I had thwarted the Dane when he had almost beaten her to death and how Godwin had threatened to stab out his one remaining eye.

I said how he had pretended to be my ally while negotiating with William to sell me to him.

‘What do the Danes call him,’ Malcolm asked. ‘The Scourge of Satan? He is aptly named.’

‘Yes. And the Danes are well used to monstrous men.’

‘Perhaps I shall ask your sister to prey for him,’ Malcolm murmured. ‘That may be the only thing with sufficient force in our armoury.’

I smiled at his words.

‘But fortunately, we now have more than Heaven on our side.’ He rubbed his hands together with pleasure. ‘I sent for five hundred warriors from Edinburgh. They arrived a few minutes ago. We are more than a match for the Danes now, even if they are led by this spawn of Beelzebub.’

‘Thankfully the whole of the Danish army is not under his leadership any more. Let us hope that Svein at least can master his brother.’

First Writings

I’ve just found something I had completely forgotten. It’s a little green notebook, tattered and stained and it contains the first poems I ever wrote.

I browsed through it and was intrigued, though not too much surprised, at how the things I wrote about then are similar to those I am writing about now. I’m fairly sure that the writers we loved when we were younger influenced what and how we write now (my series of talks with historical novelists shows how many were influenced by Rosemary Sutcliff, for example.) But it’s still something of a shock to find that the themes and issues which excited me when I was ten or eleven still fascinate me today.

Here’s the first poem I ever wrote. I was ten years old and I wrote it balancing a sheet of paper on my knee as I watched the Remembrance Day programme on the television.

Scarred with Red

Alas, the cream of Britain’s men are dead

And the fields around are scarred with red,

There’s Pete and Tom and Mick and Ned

There’s all my mates so very dead;

What can I do to help them now

Apart from make a solemn vow,

In days to come none shall forget

Those men their deaths so bravely met.

I am still fascinated by the First World War. I have written a collection of three short stories, ‘For King and Country’ which focuses on the pressures, sacrifice and courage of the participants in that terrible conflict. I am also planning a new novel set in those years.

The rest of my notebook shows the themes and concerns that still excite me: Warfare, injustice, blind obedience and the difficult fight against it, the seasons and the natural world.

Thankfully, I will share you any more of my Juvenilia.

It was later in life, when I was a young man, when I first began to write about clever young people fighting to make their way in the world against the hindrances and opposition of people determined to put them in their place. But that was, I’m sure, pretty much a working out of my own frustrations and aspirations.

Maybe my titles even hint at my favourite themes:

The Lost King: Resistance

The Lost King: Wasteland

The Lost King: Mercenary (to be published later this year)

Artful

Outcasts

My work in progress, about a very Machiavellian young woman at the court of Henry VIII will probably be called ‘Beguiled’. I don’t think I aspire to be Henry Tudor but I would like to know my protagonist Alice Petherton. In fact, I’m quite beguiled by her. She was originally only going to be a short story.

Historical Novelists’ Book Fair 12-15 April

Francine Howarth is hosting a four day Historical Novelists Book Fair for the period 12 – 15 April on her Romancing the Blog site.

Click on the link below to go to her site to find out more about the other other writers featuring in the book fair.   http://ow.ly/jZ69F.

I have a series of novels called ‘The Lost King’ which concerns Edgar Atheling, the young man who should have been King of England in 1066. He fought against the Norman Conquest for much of his life and his story has been largely neglected. The third novel will be available soon.

‘Outcasts’ is set in the months following Saladin’s conquest of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem. A family is torn apart by treachery.

‘Artful’ is about the adventures of the Artful Dodger after being transported to Australia. His skills and swagger are put under sore pressure.

I also have several collections of short stories including’ Mr Toad’s Wedding’, the winning entry of the international Kenneth Grahame Society competition.

If you’d like to read my books, and I hope you do, they are available world-wide on Amazon Kindle, Kobo, Nook, Apple, Sony Readers, Computers, Tablets and Smartphones.

My novels are priced at $2.99 or equivalent, my short story collections at 99 cents or equivalent.

Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Martin-Lake/e/B004Z13HPA/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1365863932&sr=1-2-ent

Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Martin-Lake/e/B004Z13HPA/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

Kobo: http://www.kobobooks.com/search/search.html?q=%22Martin+Lake%22&t=none&f=author&p=1&s=none&g=both

Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/martin-lake

I plan to publish the following new books.

‘The Lost King: Mercenary.’ This is the third in the series about Edgar Atheling and will be available in the summer.

‘Beguiled.’ A story of a forthright and determined young woman at Henry VIII’s Court. Extracts of this appear on this blog.

‘Dodger at the Revolution.’

‘Outcasts: Princes and Peasants.’

Talking with Harvey Black about his new novel, ‘Red Effect.’

Last year I did a series of talks with authors. I am delighted to announce that I am going to continue this fascinating series on a regular basis.

Today I am delighted to post from Harvey Black which focuses on his new book, ‘Red Effect’ which is out now. You may also want to take a look at my talk with him from November 8th 2012.Cold War 9 Harvey Black 039

Harvey, what started you writing?

I have wanted to write a novel since I was a teenager. Enthralled by Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, E.E. Doc Smith’s Lensmen series and Edgar Rice Burroughs, I felt sure my first would be of the SF genre.

Joining the army changed all of that and my passion now is for military history.  ‘Devils with Wings’, a military thriller, based around the adventures of two young Fallschirmjäger paratroopers during the early part of World War II, is a fictionalised adventure based on the famous assault on the impregnable Belgian fortress, Eben Emael.

Cover Reveal 079

 

What makes your books special?

 

I try to visit the locations in person. For Devils with Wings: Silk Drop, I walked the routes, up to 18 miles, in Crete, during the hottest part of the day, where my characters would have marched. Most of the descriptions in the novel, of what they can see, was written in situ.

I have just finished the first of my Cold War trilogy of novels, The Red Effect. Having spent a number of years in British Army Intelligence during the Cold War years, I have a deep insight into the undercurrents and flashpoints that occurred between the Soviet Union and the West.

RedEffect72dpi

 

 

What authors inspire you?

I have number of authors I follow, ranging from Stephen Leather, Simon Scarrow, Bernard Corwall, Gerald Seymor to Ian Rankin. Since I have been writing my own novels, I have played a close interest in newer authors, such as S.J.A.Turney and Stephen England. I am currently reading ‘Marias’ Mules’ IV.

What are your future plans?

There will be ten books in the ‘Devils with Wings’ series, Book 4, will be published towards the end of the year. The Red Effect now finished, I will focus on Book 2, The Black Effect, where the confrontation between East and West continues.

What will you do differently next time?

More structure to my chapters in advance, focus on my characterisation and improving my dialogue, key to keeping the story moving.

What lessons have you learnt so far?

Edit, edit, edit! Even when you have your editing done professionally, you still need to check your manuscript again and again.

Cold War 5 030

 

Out in April – The Red Effect.

Thank you very much, Harvey.

You can get a copy of Harvey’s novel by clicking on one of the link below.

 

 

 

‘Beguiled.’ The opening scene of my new work in progress

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 maid 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 made me one of her Ladies-in-Waiting 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 that better, 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. 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, no hope. If she proves to be a good brood mare then he will rest content for a little while. But in the meanwhile he hungers. The furnace grows hotter by the hour.

I gathered up my book of verse and strolled across the lawn.

It was the third week in September but the weather continued unseasonably warm. King Henry was alone in a bower of roses now shrivelling on the branch. The autumn winds blew fallen petals about his feet, hither and tither, skittish as a filly. 170px-Hans_Holbein,_the_Younger,_Around_1497-1543_-_Portrait_of_Henry_VIII_of_England_-_Google_Art_Project

Jane Seymour was herself one of Boleyn’s Ladies-in-Waiting and had once been my friend so the King had acquaintance of me.

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 the Earl of Surrey,’ he said, perusing the title. He flipped open the pages. ‘Do you like the Earl’s poems, Alice Petherton?’

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

Henry’s eyes narrowed and his head turned as if he could not believe his ears. ‘Ably writ?’ he said. ‘A chit of a girl talks of my foremost poet, an Earl 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.

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

‘Many have remarked upon this, Majesty.’

‘They are black as sloes,’ he continued. He gestured me closer and stared 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 sloes. Dark eyes are hard to read, don’t you think, Alice Petherton?’

‘Not as hard as the work of the Earl of Surrey, Majesty.’

He stared 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 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 curtsey. But as I did so my eyes never left his face.

 

‘Humble yourself, Edgar. Eat dirt.’ #SampleSunday #HistNov

Resistance.2012.coverThe month of June came in with a blaze of heat.  The air felt warm and consoling and the light was more clear and fresh than any I had remembered before.

‘You didn’t get summers like this under old King Edward,’ said Godwin with a whistle, early one morning.  ‘We should all get down on our knees for having such a wonderful king.’  He paused and stared at me.  ‘I wonder what weather you will bring when you become king.’

I punched him on the shoulder.  I was finding it increasingly hard to know whether he was being serious or a clown.

Then, out the corner of my eye, I saw Oswald gesturing urgently to us from a doorway.

I don’t know what instinct made me do it but I stilled the temptation to rush across to him and strolled instead.  When we reached him he touched his finger to his lip and beckoned us into the deep shadows behind.  Athelstan was waiting there.

‘Be silent and listen,’ whispered Oswald.  He glanced around as if the walls themselves were spies.  ‘Edwin and Morcar have fled the court and raised a rebellion against William.’

‘Never,’ I said.

‘Just listen,’ Oswald hissed.  ‘What you do next may prove the life or death of you.’

My heart began to race at his words.  ‘Immediate suspicion could fall upon you,’ he whispered.  ‘William is in the worst rage anyone has ever seen but also in a sweat of fear.  He is like a ravening wolf, thirsting for blood.’

Tears suddenly clouded my sight.  I had felt adult for a long while now but suddenly all I wanted was to be held by my mother.  ‘What should I do?’

‘I am not sure of the best counsel,’ continued Oswald.  ‘But I think it best if you make your presence known to William right away.  He will fear that you’ll join with the rebels so you must be in his sight at all times.

‘Humble yourself before him, Edgar, eat dirt.  It is the only way you can survive.’

I glanced up at Athelstan.  I could see that he was uncomfortable with Oswald’s words but he did not contradict them.

‘Now be gone,’ said Oswald.  ‘Be natural and act surprised when told the news.’

He turned to his son.  ‘Godwin, guard Edgar with your life.  Your own life is as nothing now.  I hold you to this.’

Godwin nodded and turned to me, his eyes shining.

We walked out into the sunlight.  My head was whirling with the news.  I saw my feet step one in front of the other, could feel the hot sun upon my head, yet it was as if I was trudging slow through a clammy nightmare.

Where was William?  If I was to follow Oswald’s advice it was vital that I find him straightaway.  But if he was in such a rage as Oswald described he may well slay me before I had chance to prove my loyalty.

I turned to look at Godwin and felt my eyes confused and pleading for help.  He stared back at me, his own eyes full of sorrow but helpless, quite helpless.

‘What shall I do?’ I whispered at last.

‘I don’t know, lord,’ he said.

I stared at him in silence, stunned.  Why are you calling me lord, I wanted to scream.  I’m just a boy, I’m just a boy.  Jesus help me but I want to be safe.

I saw Godwin’s head turn from side to side as if assassins waited at every turn.

‘We must hurry,’ he said.  ‘We must get to William right away.’

All at once my head became clear.  In front of my eyes I saw a golden meadow, hot under the sun.  And far in the distance I saw a shining sea.  A gnarled old thorn tree rose out of the waters, a golden crown hanging from a branch.

I looked into Godwin’s anxious face.

‘No,’ I said.  ‘We must flee.’

 *******************

The Lost King: Resistance is the first of the series of books about Edgar Atheling, heir to English throne in 1066.  It is available as an ebook for £1.92,  $2.90 or €2.68.

Defiance in the West. #SampleSunday #HistNov

Four days later we approached the walled town of Exeter.  To my joy I saw the flag of Wessex flying bravely from its walls.

English: Harold Godwinson

English: Harold Godwinson (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

‘A gold purse to the soldier who brings me that rag,’ William announced.  Then he sent forth a herald to parlay with the defenders while he sat at ease with Odo and Roger de Montgommery.

There was much calling to and from the walls but eventually a small sally door opened and out rode two men, both in fine robes and riding handsome horses.  One held aloft a white flag as sign of truce.

When they got close the two Englishmen dismounted and approached on foot.

William stared at them in silence while Roger spoke.

‘What foul disobedience you show to your lord and master,’ he said.  ‘Explain yourself and hope that the king has cause to show you some mercy.’

‘We do not come to plead,’ said one of the men, calmly.  ‘We come to find out the reason why this army is camping outside our city.’

‘The cause should be apparent to even the most simple of an Englishman,’ sneered Odo.  ‘But perhaps they have sent the lord of simpletons to parlay with us.’

The man turned to look at Odo.  ‘I am neither simpleton nor Bishop,’ he said.  ‘I am Athelstan, thegn of the lands you are camping on.’

‘These lands belong to King William,’ said Roger.  ‘You owe him your fealty.’

‘I owe nothing to a man whose lordship I do not recognise,’ said Athelstan quietly.  ‘Had I lands in Normandy I would bend my knee to him.  But not in England.’

The other man looked at Athelstan with queasy alarm, his hands gripping tighter on the flagstaff.

‘You impudent serf,’ cried Odo.

‘Thegn,’ said Athelstan, ‘I would be called a baron in your land.’  His grey eyes held Odo’s unwaveringly, until the Bishop cursed and looked away.

‘Your title is immaterial,’ said de Montgommery.  ‘The matter under discussion is why the citizens of Exeter have risen up against the king and why you have chosen to give sanctuary to the mother of Harold Godwinson, the usurper of the throne.’

‘Gytha Torkelsdotter is an old lady who has chosen to spend her last days in this city.  She has not sought sanctuary.’  Athelstan gave a questioning look.  ‘Is there any need for her to do such a thing?’

‘Forget the old bitch,’ cried Odo.  ‘We want to know why Exeter has risen up against the king.’

‘Ah,’ said Athelstan.  ‘That is simple.  We do not recognise him as king.  We will pay him the tribute that we used to pay to the rightful kings of England but we will not give him fealty and nor will we allow him to enter our walls.’

There was a silence which lasted for a long, long moment.

‘I will enter,’ cried William.  His voice was as quiet as snow falling on fields.  ‘I will enter when you throw your gates open.’  He smiled at Athelstan, almost like a father smiles indulgently upon his son.

‘Or,’ William continued, ‘if you persist in defying me, I will enter marching through the guts of your people.’

The quiet menace hung in the air like a stench.

‘I think that this audience is at an end,’ said Athelstan.

William stared at him for a moment, almost as though he had not understood his words.

‘By God,’ he exploded. ‘I will decide when this audience ends and no other.  Seize them.’

At this a dozen of his knights sprang at the two heralds.  Athelstan drew his sword and fought back fiercely, slaying one of the knights and wounding two.  The other herald wailed in terror and fled, leaping upon his horse and galloping like the wind back to the city.

In a moment Athelstan was overcome and lay prostrate before William who was speechless with fury.

‘Force will gain you nothing,’ said Athelstan.  ‘We do not recognise you.’

‘You do not recognise me,’ William choked out at last.  ‘Then recognise nothing more.’  His face worked fearsomely.  ‘Kill him,’ he cried.

‘Hold,’ cried Montgommery.  The knights hesitated at the word.

He turned to William.  ‘My lord, this man is a herald and a brave man at that.  I beg you, do not harm him.  I will pledge good conduct for him.’

William held Montogommery’s gaze for a moment his eyes bulging from a face as red as sunset.  Then he nodded curtly.  ‘As you wish.  But I will teach these rebels a lesson they will not forget,’ he said.  ‘Bring me one of the hostages.’

Two of the knights hurried off and ran back, half dragging the fattest of the hostages with them.

‘Blind him,’ cried William.

The hostage shrieked as he was thrown to the ground.  One of the knights held his head firm while a second raised a dagger above his head.  But he paused and then turned to look at William.  ‘Do it,’ he cried, striking one clenched fist into his palm.

The knight shuddered but plunged the blade into the right eye-socket, worked it back and forth, slashing and cutting until the shredded eye slid out.  Then he drew out the blade and did the same to the left eye.

The hostage’s screams echoed over the army and the walls of the city.

I turned away in horror, struggling not to vomit.

‘He was a hostage,’ I heard Athelstan say, coldly.

‘And so are you,’ said William curtly.  ‘Remember it.’

From the walls of the city came a huge cry of disgust at what the Normans had done.  I glanced back at the rest of the hostages who stood looking on aghast.  ‘I expect they think they will be next,’ I whispered to Godwin.

‘I don’t care about them,’ he muttered.  ‘I care about us.’

‘I think we are safe,’ I said.

Godwin turned and looked at me as if I was mad.

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

The Lost King: Resistance is the first of the series of books about Edgar Atheling, heir to English throne in 1066.  It is available as an ebook for £1.92,  $2.90 or Eur 2.68

The Journey to Battle. #HistNov #SampleSunday

Oswald came striding towards us, leading his horse.  He bowed his head quickly and smiled.  ‘Are you ready, Edgar?’ he asked.

I nodded.  He swung up into his saddle and the three of us trotted past the waiting men to the head of the army.  There were over five hundred Mercians and half that number of Northumbrians, the soldiers of Edwin and Morcar.  The rest of the men were from the local area and from London.  Some attached themselves to one or other of the earls, others to me, and most to Asgar, Sheriff of Middlesex.  I glanced around for Merleswein but then remembered that he had been sent back north to ensure its loyalty to me.

At the front of the army waited Archbishop Stigand, Edwin and Morcar and all of the leading counsellors of the kingdom.  Just behind them were a group of about two hundred men clad in iron mail, huge battle axes hanging from their belts.

‘Housecarls,’ I breathed.

‘Yes,’ said Oswald.  ‘Like me, these were the men who were wounded at Stamford Bridge and could not march with Harold to Hastings.  They are recovered now and are here to guard you.’

I stared at them in wonder.  I had assumed that all of the Housecarls had died with Harold.  But here they were, the last remnant of the royal bodyguard, the best trained and most feared warriors in the whole of Europe.  They sat like rocks upon their horses and my normal guards seemed diminished beside them.

‘All of their comrades are dead,’ said Oswald, ‘fulfilling their oaths to King Harold.  These men have made the same oath to you.  None will desert you; all will serve you to their death.’

‘Will they ride with me into battle?’ I asked in awe.

Oswald shook his head.  ‘If you were to ride into battle they would.  But we will not risk you in such a venture.  You are too young and too important.  No, at this battle, Edwin and Morcar will lead the army.  The Housecarls will keep you safe in sight of the field but not on it.’

‘No,’ I cried.  ‘I am the king and I must lead my army.’  Hot tears sprung up, burning my eyes.  I did not want Oswald or Godwin to see this so I tried to blink them away.  My sight grew foggy and in the end I had to wipe my eyes with my sleeve.  ‘Like a baby,’ I thought to myself.

When my vision cleared the first thing I saw was Oswald, staring silently at me.  There was sorrow in his eyes.  ‘We cannot risk it, Edgar.  We have lost one king already to the Normans.  We dare not lose another.  It will be the end of England.’

English: Harold Godwinson falls at Hastings. H...

English: Harold Godwinson falls at Hastings. Harold was struck in the eye with an arrow (left), slain by a mounted Norman knight (right) or both. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

‘But I’m not scared.  I want to fight.’

‘Of course you do.  You are the heir of Alfred and of Ironside.  But today we must ask a greater courage of you.  And that means not going into battle.  It means staying safe, keeping out of harm’s way.’

‘But that makes me think that we’re not going to win the battle.’

I paused, waiting for a swift denial from Oswald.  It did not come.

‘Oswald?’ I asked.

‘Battles are decided by God,’ he answered.  ‘If it were down to the skill of warriors then William and not Harold would have died at Hastings.  But it is God who decides.’

I turned my horse away.  How could he talk like this?

Suddenly, in the distance, a horn blew.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose up.  It was a challenge, it was defiance, it was expectation.

I looked angrily at Oswald.  He might doubt that we would win but surely the clamour of the horn promised victory.

Once more the horn blew and the army marched out.

It was a long while before I could speak again.  The army had been on the march for over an hour and the weak sun had climbed high into the sky.  Godwin started to talk about his friends and about his dog and I started to talk about Harold and how we used to play together on winter evenings before the feasting.

‘I wish I had met him,’ Godwin said.

‘He was my best friend,’ I said.

Godwin nodded thoughtfully.

Towards evening we noticed that a change had come over the army.

‘They have gone quiet,’ said Godwin.

I nodded and looked around.  At the beginning of the march the men had seemed lighter-spirited, jostling each other, calling out and laughing.  Now they marched in silence.  Was this determination, I wondered?  Or was it fear, or worse still, foreboding?  Those who were not silent muttered into their beards, private words which they wanted none to overhear.

I began to feel anxious.

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

The Lost King: Resistance tells the story of the struggle against the Norman Conquerors.  It is available worldwide from all Amazon, Kobo, Nook, Sony stores, Apple and WH Smith for $2.98. £1.92 or 1.68

The second book in the series, ‘Wasteland’ is also available.  The third in the series will be published later this year.