The Start of a Life-Long Friendship. #SampleSunday #HistNov

I was awake long before dawn on the appointed day.  I pushed Rip’s head off my chest and leapt out of bed.  ‘We are going to fight the Normans,’ I told him as I struggled into my clothes.  He yawned loudly.  I had told him this twelve dozen times already.  ‘I am the King of England,’ I told him, ‘and I lead my host to battle.’  He yawned and scratched at his ear.  ‘To battle,’ I cried, ‘to battle.’  He sprang up at my cry, first among champions, tail wagging furiously.  I led the charge down to breakfast.

I was hungry but could hardly swallow my bread and cheese so took them with me as I stepped out into the cold air.  It was still black night and stars glittered above my head.  I turned to the east but there was no sign of the sun.  Above the horizon a clear white star shone bright.

‘The morning star,’ said a voice.  ‘A good omen.’  The familiar shape of Oswald emerged and placed a hand upon my shoulder.  There was a second figure beside him, but not a tall warrior.  He came close and I saw that it was a boy of about my age, although taller and broader.

‘This is my son, Godwin,’ said Oswald.  I nodded at the boy and he nodded back.

‘I thought he would be a good companion for you,’ continued Oswald.  ‘But mind you keep yourselves out of trouble.  The army will march swiftly and I won’t have time to look out for both of you.  Be ready to ride at dawn.’

Oswald nodded and strode off in the night.  I stared in silence at Godwin for a little and he stared at me.  Finally he spoke.

‘Are you really the King of England?’

‘Yes.’

‘So I am your subject?’

‘Yes.’

There was a long silence between us.

‘But we can still be friends,’ I said at last.

Godwin nodded.  ‘I’m glad.  Herrig was my friend but he died of a fever.  He coughed up blood and a lump of black matter as big as an egg.  Then he died.’

‘Perhaps it was his soul,’ I said.  ‘The black matter.’

‘Or maybe the imp that was causing the fever,’ said Godwin.  He paused, as if realising that he had contradicted me.  ‘On account of it being black,’ he explained, quickly.

I did not answer for a moment.  I did not know what a king should do when he was contradicted by one of his subjects.  Should I insist it was a soul, even though I believed that Godwin’s idea was more likely?  Would he take it as a sign of weakness if I changed my mind?  What would Harold have done, I wondered?

‘I think you are probably right,’ I said finally.  ‘If it were black then it was more likely to be an imp than his soul.’  I paused.  ‘Unless, of course, Herrig was really evil.’

I heard Godwin say ‘hmm’ thoughtfully and I smiled.  ‘I don’t think he was that evil,’ he said at last.

‘So it must have been an imp,’ I decided.

I saw Godwin nod in the first glimmer of morning.

‘Let’s visit the horses,’ I said.

Godwin and I helped a groom saddle up my pony.  Godwin did not have a pony but I ordered that the grooms find him one.  This greatly impressed him.  By the time we had mounted the dawn had come, cold and clear, with a streak of red where the sun would appear.  My heart began to hammer in my chest and my head swam.  By this time several of my guards had joined us and they looked searchingly at me.  Could they hear the pounding of my heart, I wondered?  Would they think that I was a coward?  I tried to think of anything other than the coming battle but no other thoughts would stick in my mind.  I looked at Godwin.  He seemed as excited as I was.

‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

‘Excited,’ he said.

‘How do you know you are excited?’

‘Because my heart is pounding like a blacksmith at the anvil,’ he said.

I leaned towards him and listened.  I could not hear his heart at all.  I smiled in relief.

‘Is your heart beating as hard as mine?’ he asked.

I shook my head and gave as stern and unconcerned look as I could.  Godwin seemed impressed.

*********

The Lost King: Resistance is the first in a series of books about Edgar Atheling and his resistance to the Norman Conquest.  It is available from all e-book outlets.  The third book in the series will be published this summer.

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Outcasts Part 12 #SampleSunday #HistNov

Balian of Ibelin turned to his comrade.  ‘Jerome, send for my sergeants, I’ll knight those first.  And then Bernard, go find me such of your fellow citizens as you think will make good leaders.’

But there are no nobles left,’ said Eraclius.  ‘Only their children.  Perhaps twenty of them.’

Balian held Eraclius’ gaze, considering.

‘Jerome,’ he said, ‘I want you to knight every son of a noble old enough to bear arms in battle.’  He paused.

‘And I will knight any commoner that Sir Bernard recommends to me.’

He turned to Bernard.  ‘As many as possible, but only men who others will follow.’

Eraclius held out his hand to stay Bernard.

‘My lord Balian,’ he said.  ‘I do not think this is wise.’

‘Why not?  You just said we have need of knights.  How else will we get them?  Can the skeletons of Hattin be made to fight again?’

Eraclius crossed himself at these words.

‘No indeed, my lord,’ he said.  ‘But neither can knights be conjured out of rough-hewn men.’

Balian’s eyes narrowed and it looked for a moment as if he would strike the archbishop.

Eraclius flinched but maintained his ground.  ‘What do you think, Jerome?’

Jerome licked his lips and glanced up at the walls of the city which stood empty and unmanned.

‘I have never heard of such a thing,’ he said.  ‘But I have never been in a situation such as this.’

He paused.  ‘What I do know is that whoever Balian chooses to knight is a knight.  That cannot be gainsaid and cannot be undone.’

Eraclius glared at Jerome and shook his head.  ‘So be it,’ he said.  ‘If Christ could make fishermen disciples then maybe Balian can make peasants knights.’

He raised his hand for a moment as if about to cross himself at the impiety of his own words then he thought better of it and blessed Balian instead.

Jerome hurried off followed by Bernard.

Balian turned to John and Simon.  ‘From your speech you are English?

They nodded.

‘I can make use of another gift from England,’ he said.

He glanced across the square to where one of his sergeants was watching the handing out of weapons.  He gestured towards the man and he hurried over.

He was a tall man with a mass of golden hair like the mane of a lion.  He would have looked a mighty warrior save for one thing.  His right hand had been severed and was now a stump.

Balian drew his sword and touched him on the shoulder.

‘You’re Sir William Esson now,’ he said.

Esson held up his stump.  ‘Jerome said you were doing this, lord.  But how can I be a knight with only one hand?’

‘One hand is better than none,’ Balian said.  ‘And you’ve got a sharp mind and a tongue.  A tongue which speaks good Arabic.’

Esson nodded.

‘I want you to get the treasure which Henry of England gave to the city as penance for his slaying of Archbishop Becket.  If the priests are reluctant to let it go don’t hesitate to show them your swords.’

Esson smiled.

‘Once night has fallen take the treasure and go to the Saracen lines.  Buy as many weapons as you can from them.  You’ll find plenty willing to sell if the price is right.  Don’t stint.  We need weapons not treasure.’

‘Gladly, lord, but I am limited with one hand.’

‘Take this man with you, Simon Ferrier.  He’s English so I’m sure his King would approve of his actions.  He’ll carry the treasure for you.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Balian watched Esson and Simon disappear from the citadel before gesturing John to come closer.

He examined him for a while in silence.  ‘Tell me your name,’ he said at last, ‘and of your violent deed.’

‘I am called John Ferrier, lord.’  He looked at the ground.  ‘Our priest, Father William, taught me my letters; I was grateful to him.  Then I met his sister and started to court her.’  He paused, struggling to voice the words which clawed at his throat but would not come out.

Finally he muttered, ‘I found out William was sleeping with her.  I became mad with fury and attacked him.’  He fell silent.

Balian held John’s gaze in his.  There was no censure in his eyes.  ‘And what did you do to this priest?’ he asked.

‘I smashed his face and broke some ribs and his arm.

Balian whistled.  ‘That must have been some fury.’  He straightened up and spoke sternly.  ‘Priests should not lay with their sisters.  I for one deem your fury to be a rightful one.’

John blinked.  Nobody had ever said this.

Balian turned towards Eraclius.  ‘Be wary of Sir John, my dear Archbishop.  He has no love for priests who break their vows and sleep with women.’

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

‘Outcasts’ is the first novel in my Crusades series.  It is available world-wide from all ebook retailers. 

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Outcasts: The Knighting of the Commoners #SampleSunday #HistNov

At Agnes’s insistence, John and Simon accompanied Bernard to the citadel.  They walked in silence, Simon still angry, Bernard fearful, John trying to quell the voices which rained down insults inside his head.

The citadel was crammed with men: Franks, Armenians, Syrians and Jews.  To one side was a pile of swords, spears and cudgels.  A line of men received weapons from one of Balian’s sergeants before shuffling to where a churchman stood, his hand held high in blessing.

Bernard turned his head away.  He had glimpsed Balian of Ibelin in a corner of the citadel talking with a veiled woman and half a dozen children.

At that moment the gate of the citadel was flung open.  To the astonishment of the crowd a dozen Saracen horsemen rode in followed by four men carrying a litter.  Balian kissed the woman goodbye and helped her into the litter.  The bearers made swiftly for the gate, followed by the children and last, the Saracen escort.

‘What’s happening?’ Simon asked.  ‘Where are they taking that woman?’

‘She is no ordinary woman,’ said Bernard.  ‘She is the wife of Balian.  More to the point she is grand-niece of the Emperor of Byzantium, as Saladin well knows.  Saladin has no wish to antagonise the Empire.  Maria Comnena could dance naked through the Saracen army and none would dare to look upon her.’

‘Somebody is looking at you though,’ John said.

Balian’s comrade, Jerome Sospel, was beckoning to them.

Bernard turned a worried gaze upon his friends and gestured them to come with him.

As they approached they saw Balian force his gaze from the gate where his wife and family had just departed and turn instead to examine the walls of the city.

Jerome placed his hand upon Balian’s shoulder for a moment, the briefest of moments.  Then he turned to the three friends as they approached.  ‘Bernard Montjoy,’ he said.  His voice pretended surprise.

Balian turned at his friend’s words and stared at the three men.

Bernard flung himself upon the ground, arms prostrate. ‘My lord, Balian’ he pleaded.  ‘You summoned me.’

Balian kicked him in the side. ‘Get up, Montjoy’ he said.  ‘Stop making a fool of yourself and of me.’

Bernard rose, dusting himself down, and stood abjectly, his head to one side.  ‘Mercy, Lord, upon your former servant,’ he pleaded.

Balian considered Bernard.  ‘I seem to remember that I once ordered a whipping for your insolence.  I have no need to repeat it now. I do, however, have need of you.  In your youth you were a good soldier; a sergeant, I recall.’

Bernard nodded.

‘I have need of every man who can bear a weapon.’  Balian put his hand upon Bernard’s shoulder.  ‘Most of the citizens will be good only to stop a Saracen arrow.  It is men like you who must make a fight.’

Bernard swallowed.  ‘I have a family, my lord.  A wife and two children.’

‘Then even more reason to fight.  If we hold on long enough then succour may come from the west.  And if it doesn’t arrive, yet we fight bravely, Saladin may agree to honourable terms.’

He gave a shrewd look at the Ferriers.  ‘Are these family?’

‘Friends, my lord.’

‘Can you fight, friends of Bernard?’

‘Just give me a weapon,’ said Simon.

John did not speak.  Balian stared into his eyes.  ‘Will you fight for the City?’

‘I am a pilgrim,’ answered John.  ‘I am a wrathful man.  My penance for an act of violence was to come to Jerusalem and never harm another.’

Balian turned to his comrade.  ‘What a delicious irony, Jerome,’ he said.  ‘The peaceable are lining up for weapons and this wrathful, violent man has sworn never to fight again.’

‘Perhaps he can be persuaded,’ Jerome said.

‘I can absolve him of his oath,’ said the Archbishop.  ‘Much good it will do though.’

Balian turned to him sharply.  ‘What do you mean?’

‘These are just common men,’ said Eraclius.  ‘We need knights to win battles.’

Jerome nodded.

‘You think this too?’ Balian asked.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Jerome said.  ‘The people may be brave but they need knights to command them.  Only knights will be able to inspire them.’

Balian’s shoulders slumped.  Jerome’s words confirmed the enormity of the task he had taken on.  Then he straightened.  His lips closed as tight as a scar.

‘You three, on your knees,’ he cried.

Terrified, Bernard, John and Simon scrambled to obey.

Balian drew his sword, making them flinch.  He touched them on their shoulders.  ‘Arise, Sir Knights,’ he said.

Astonished, the three men climbed to their feet.  Simon looked ecstatic, Bernard full of doubt.  John looked mortified.

‘There,’ Balian said.  ‘Now we have three more knights, which makes seven in the whole city.  It’s a start.’

******

Outcasts is available on all e-book readers including Kindle, Kobo, Nook and Tablets.  It is available from Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, WH Smith and other retailers.

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Part 10 of ‘Outcasts’. #SampleSunday #HistNov

CHAPTER 5

BALIAN OF IBELIN

Jerusalem

Fear flooded the city like a plague.  It swept down from the Church and through the streets to the citadel.  The people of the city hurried towards the high battlements, desperate to glimpse what they were terrified to see.  Bernard, John and Simon shouldered their way into the crowd and were carried along to the walls.

There were no soldiers left in the city anymore so there was no challenge to them as they climbed the steps to the battlements.

The sun was drawing close to the horizon, painting gold the plain beyond the city.  A vast army, swollen to fifty thousand warriors, was marching into place.  Even as they looked, the last formations hurried to close the gap remaining between them.

The city was surrounded.

‘Perhaps our leaders will attempt another parlay?’ John said.

‘It did no good last time and it will do no good now,’ Bernard answered.  ‘The moment those fools refused to surrender, Saladin swore he would kill every Christian.’  He sighed.  ‘Just as the first Crusaders killed every Muslim when they took the city.’

‘So we must put our faith in Lord Christ.’

Bernard shook his head, wearily.  ‘Christ’s representative Archbishop Eraclius leads us now,’ he said.  ‘So if preaching and whoring are needed to defend a city we have just the man to lead us to victory.’

They gazed out at the army arrayed below them.  Most were infantry but to the rear trotted legions of horsemen, their spears glittering in the light of the failing sun.

But what caught their eyes lay directly ahead.  Scores of catapults and mangonels were already in place, loaded with huge stones.

‘Surely they cannot conquer these walls?’ said John.  ‘Not even with those machines.’

‘The walls might be strong,’ said Bernard, ‘but there are no soldiers left to man them.’

Simon pointed.  A small group of horsemen trotted forward from the foremost Saracen lines.

‘Horsemen,’ he said.  ‘Five of them.’

Intrigued, the three men hurried down the staircase to the gate.  They waited with the crowd until a postern door slid open and the horsemen entered the city.

The leader of the group took off his helmet to reveal the lined and haggard face of an elderly warrior.

‘Balian of Ibelin,’ Bernard said.  He turned a worried face towards the Ferriers.

‘What’s wrong?’ John asked.

‘In my youth I was one of Balian’s sergeants.  When he married Queen Maria Comnena I made some jest about him marrying for a crown.  I received a flogging and my dismissal.’

‘What has he come here for?’ said Simon.

‘His wife,’ said Bernard.  ‘She’s here in the city.  I was wrong you see.  Balian married for love.’

The man who stood by Balian was a tall man of about the same age.  Where Balian looked worried he seemed calm and relaxed.  He gazed around at the city as if remembering good times he had experienced here.  He raked his fingers through his hair and then stopped.  He had noticed them watching him and a broad grin of recognition spread over his face at the sight of Bernard.

‘You know him?’ John asked.

Bernard nodded.  ‘Jerome Sospel.  Balian’s best friend and lieutenant.’

News of the horsemen had spread and a committee of churchmen pushed their way through the crowd.  They were led by Archbishop Eraclius who rushed to embrace Balian.

‘Praise God,’ he said.  ‘You have been sent to save the city.’

Balian shook his head.  ‘No.  I have come for my wife and children.  Saladin gave me free passage to collect them.  I swore an oath to stay in the city for one day only and not to take arms against him.’

A fierce cry of anguish rose from the populace at these words.  Balian glanced around at the sound but clamped his jaw tight, determined to ignore it.

‘But that was an oath to an infidel,’ said Eraclius.  He stepped closer as though about to whisper but he made his voice loud enough to carry across the crowd.  ‘It is in my power to absolve you of your oath to the Saracen.’

Balian gave him an angry glare.  ‘I have come for my wife.  Where is she?’

Eraclius peered at Balian, his mind working swiftly.  ‘She is in the palace.  Go to her.  Be joyous in your reunion.  I shall come to you there later.’

 ***

The next morning the people of the city were overjoyed to hear that Eraclius had absolved Balian of Ibelin from his oath to Saladin.  Balian was now free to take charge of the city’s defence.

‘What do you think of this news?’ John asked Bernard.

‘I don’t know.’  Bernard fell silent and shook his head.  ‘Jerusalem is my home.  Our delegates were mad when they refused Saladin’s terms; it condemned the city to destruction.’

He glanced across at Agnes who was singing quietly to their daughter.  ‘I feared for my family,’ he continued.  ‘But with Balian here…’

‘You think there may be a chance?’

Bernard shrugged.

Simon strode into the inn, his face shining with excitement.

‘Balian has asked for every man to join him in defence of the city,’ he said.  He gave a playful punch to John’s shoulder.  ‘It will be a glorious battle.’

John’s heart sank.  This was what he had dreaded to hear.

‘I came to Jerusalem to be a pilgrim,’ he said.  ‘I did not come to be a soldier.’

Simon stared at him in astonishment.  ‘To be a pilgrim is a luxury at a time like this.  The infidel is beating upon the gate.’

‘I will not kill my fellow man.’

Simon stared at him.  ‘A Saracen is not a fellow man.  He is an infidel, damned for all eternity.  That is what the church teaches us.’

‘I do not believe it.’

Simon opened his mouth to reply but Bernard raised his hand to silence him.  ‘Hush, both of you.  We should not war amongst ourselves.’

‘I do not want a war,’ John said.  ‘With Simon or with the Saracens.’

‘You may not want a war,’ Simon said.  ‘But what if the other man wants one?  What if the Saracen is determined to have one?’

Bernard turned towards John.  ‘No one wants to fight, no one wants to kill.  And no one here wants to make you take up arms against your will.’

‘He may have sworn to be a pilgrim,’ said Simon angrily, ‘but he never swore to lie supine before God’s enemies.’

John looked up, his blood swirling with rage at the insult.  He checked himself.  It was this rage that had made him come on a pilgrimage, this rage which he had to do penance for, this rage which he had sworn to master, for Christ’s sake and for his own.

‘Shall I fight the infidel alone, cousin?’ Simon asked in a cold voice.  ‘Or shall I fight with you by my side?’

John said nothing.

Simon’s face quivered with anger.  He strode off but before he could reach it the door was flung open.

A soldier looked around.  ‘Is Bernard Montjoy here?’

Bernard looked at the floor for a long moment.  Then he raised his hand.

‘Lord Balian wants you,’ said the soldier.

‘No,’ cried Agnes.

‘He commands it,’ the soldier said.  ‘He demands it.’

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

‘Outcasts’ Book 1 of my Crusades series, will be published this month.

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Talking with Elizabeth Chadwick. #HistNov

Today, I’m delighted to be talking with Elizabeth Chadwick.  Elizabeth is the author of novels which bring to life the turbulent times and fascinating personalities of the Middle Ages.

Martin: Which authors have had the greatest influence upon you?

Eizabeth: I have always been a voracious reader. Influences are so numerous and subconscious that I wouldn’t be able to name most of them. However, a few do stand out for specific reasons. I became interested in medieval history as a subject for fiction in my teens. I discovered Roberta Gellis and thought her work was amazing. She wrote on the line between straight historical fiction and historical romance. Her research was very detailed – she read the primary sources and as a result her characters were of their time and not modern people in fancy dress. Her storylines were entertaining and often edge of the seat and her characters so believable that you felt as if they were standing in the room with you. She had one particular hero called Ian de Vipont who was the romance hero cliché of being tall dark and handsome. In a less skilled writer’s hands he could have been made of cardboard but Gellis turned him into a living breathing three-dimensional character. I learned from Roberta Gellis that it was possible to write romantic historical stories and remain true to the period.

Sharon Kay Penman, now a dear friend, was also one of my influences. Her contribution was to show me that it was also possible to write about real people and tell their story in an entertaining way without warping history.

My other main influence was Dorothy Dunnett. As well as the amazing research and the fabulous characters, Dunnett’s use of language blew me away. She’s in a league of her own. I may never be able to write like Dorothy Dunnett, but I always feel that reading her work helps me to raise my game. Fortunately although I am inspired by other authors, I don’t tend to pick up their voices when it comes to my own writing.

One of the joys of being an historical novelist is that you can range over space and time.  What made you choose the Medieval period for your novels?

It’s a long story but I’ll give you the short version! The first reason is that I was inspired at junior school by a particularly excellent history teacher who brought the subject to life in the classroom. I only had her for one year though and that year coincided with medieval study, so that gave the period an advantage.

Later in my teens I fell for a handsome knight in a children’s TV programme. I began writing what initially started out as a piece of fan fiction but quickly changed into my own tale.  I had to research the medieval period because I wanted the background to feel as real as possible. The more I researched the more interested I became and the more I want to write about those times. I have been studying for several decades now and the more I research the more I realise how much I don’t know, and the passion for the period continues. If I were to start writing about another time, the amount of research I would need to do to bring myself up to scratch would be phenomenal.

Some historical novelists are very strict about historical accuracy while others are willing to modify history to suit their novel.  Where do you stand on this?

Aha! The poisoned chalice question!  I’m one of the strict ones. I say if you need to modify history to suit the story then you’re actually not a good enough writer. A good writer will find a way that tells a terrific story without having to modify history. I add the big caveat that obviously we all have to use our imaginations and we can’t know everything. We are products of the 20th and 21st centuries and with the best will in the world we are coping with our own mindsets even while trying to put ourselves in theirs.

Part of the fun of writing for me is the challenge of finding a way round the knotty problem of telling a story when the history seems to be getting in the way. It’s like putting a puzzle together and usually once I’ve thought outside the box and reorganised the story pieces, I find something that’s a good fit, and it’s very rewarding. I think the more research you do in the background the easier it becomes to fit story and history together. You should never dump your historical research into a novel, but your research will inform how you write it and the more you research, the easier the writing and the story will become.

The other thing is that you are writing for a wide audience of readers who all have their own foibles and expectations to bring to the experience. Some will demand intense historical authenticity. Others are just in it for the story. The best thing to do is write for both types of readers. That way those who like their accuracy can relax and those who just want story can be on the edge of their seats and loving the ride.

Of course you can sometimes find the attempt to be authentic is a double edged sword.  I received a review of one of my novels where the reader said it was a fairy tale because they didn’t have side saddles in the 12^th century.  But they did and I have primary source provenance.  It goes back to the author not being able to legislate for what the reader brings of themselves to the experience.

Are you someone who plans and plots your novels very carefully or do you follow where the pen takes you?

I write about real people these days so the basic route map is laid out for me. I know where I’m going, but I don’t always know the scenery until I write it, and sometimes there are digressions along the route. I do write a very detailed synopsis at the start of the project, but it is still more like ‘guidelines really’ to quote Captain Barbossa in Pirates of the Caribbean. I research as I write and sometimes the research will throw up something that means I need to digress from my initial synopsis – but that’s not a problem; it’s all part of the fun.

How do you research your novels? 

It’s a multistrand approach. I research the absolute need-to-know detail at the outset when I’m writing my synopsis and first three chapters. Then I continue to research while I’m writing the rest of the novel. I research the primary sources and from as many different angles as possible. When I was researching LADY OF THE ENGLISH, I looked at the chroniclers who were for the Empress Matilda and those who were against her and pro-King Stephen. This helped me get a rounded view of proceedings. I also research primary source social documents to get a handle on mindset and daily life.  I look at academic secondary sources both the political and the social. I use reference works of which I have an extensive library, and also the Internet.

I go to various locations involved in the novels where I take photographs, pick up the guidebooks and walk the grounds. Even if there’s not a lot left one still gets a sense of atmosphere. I re-enact with an early medieval society called Regia Anglorum. This too helps me get a feel for the period. It brings history out of the textbook and into 3-D and is a vitally important research tools far as I’m concerned.

More controversially I use the psychic. If one believes in it then it’s a hotwire to the past. If one doesn’t, then it’s a superb way of accessing otherwise hidden realms of imagination. I have the material vetted by a professor of medieval cultural history. I am told that it’s medieval mindset coming through, so wherever it comes from that’s good enough for me.  Striving to get the mindset right is one of the holy grails of historical fiction!

Which of your characters has surprised you most and why?

I think John Marshal in A PLACE BEYOND COURAGE. He was the father of my hero William Marshal in THE GREATEST KNIGHT and THE SCARLET LION and he had something of a bad reputation. He is famous for going back on his word when his son was a hostage and under threat of death. He is supposed to have said that his enemies could go ahead and hang the boy because he had the anvils and hammers to get better sons. I was curious as to what would make a father say this about his own child. What were the circumstances behind the story? What I discovered very much overturned the accepted history and showed me that John Marshal had been judged through modern eyes and not the mindset of his own period. When I went searching I found a very different story, and just had to tell it.

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

A typical writing day is a long one! It’s probably best if you ask me what is a typical writing week as days tend to vary. I work seven days a week most weeks of the year. I get up, have breakfast with my husband who is retired. Then I head to my office which is a converted bedroom. I log onto the Internet and check my e-mails and Twitter. I then head to Facebook and for my followers I post a research book of the day, a research fact of the day, and the opening line from my current work in progress. Then I’ll embark on a couple of hours work. During that time I will pop in and out of Facebook and Twitter to check my feeds and answer as necessary. I’ll take a lunch break of about three quarters of an hour during which I’ll read for pleasure. If it’s a day at home then I’m back at work for the afternoon.

Work doesn’t just involve writing a novel, it also involves things like this interview, which I’ve been working on for over an hour now. Replies to queries. Blog posts. More Facebook and Twitter interaction. I’m published in both the UK and the USA by different publishers and they’ll both want input from me. For example at the moment I am writing a new novel for my UK publisher having just handed in the previous one. That has been sent back to me for copyediting. Meanwhile my American publisher has also sent me a backlist novel for editing, so I have to fit this into my working day as well. I’ll stop to cook an evening meal and do more reading and chat to my husband. Then back to work until about 11:30 pm. After that I’ll unwind for an hour or so by watching a film or TV programme. Then to bed to read for a short while and lights out about 1.30.

On a non full working day, it’s the routine as mentioned above, but I’ll go out and do the grocery shop, go to the gym or see a friend for a couple of hours. Sometimes I walk the dogs with my husband. Quite often I have to go out and give talks. Next week for example I have to take an afternoon out to give a talk at a library on Tuesday, and then I’m away in London to give another talk on Thursday so that’s almost a full working day taken out. So it’s not all about writing a novel. It’s about all the peripherals going round the writing. It’s extreme multitasking!

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

That’s hard to say. There have been quite a few highlights.  Perhaps I can list a few of them. All of them are experiences I would never have had if not for my writing.

1. Having THE WILD HUNT accepted for publication and then the novel going on to win an award which was presented to me by HRH the Prince of Wales at an event in London.

2. Going on (anarchic!) breakfast TV when THE CHAMPION was shortlisted for an award.

3. Having a reader write to me and say that he’d loved one of my novels and his only complaint was that it wasn’t nice to make a grown man cry on the train!

4. Having another reader write to me who is an usher at the House of Lords and inviting me to take a personal guided tour of the Houses of Parliament and House of Lords. What an experience that was!

5. Discovering William Marshal and his family. They have become a lifelong passion

6. Winning the Romantic Novelists Association award in 2011 for the best historical novel of the year with TO DEFY A KING

7. Having THE GREATEST KNIGHT become a New York Times and USA Today bestseller

If you were to give advice to someone thinking of writing a novel what would it be?

Don’t think, get on and do it. Write from the heart and write for the sheer pleasure of the words and story. The rest will follow. Make sure that you read voraciously and eclectically. This will help you find your own voice and will show you what’s out there. It will also help you develop your personal built in editor. Writing like flying improves with the number of bum on seat hours you undertake. It also improves with the amount of reading you do. I heard one very famous lady author of historical fiction say that reading ‘trashy novels’ would ruin your voice. That’s utter rubbish. One person’s ‘trashy novel’ is another person’s marvellous read. Just enjoy reading whatever you want and you find it will help you to write in the long term.

What is your next writing project?

I’m currently engaged in a long-term project to write three novels about Eleanor of Aquitaine. THE SUMMER QUEEN will be published next June and I’m busy working on the middle novel of the trilogy THE WINTER CROWN. As each novel takes me approximately 18 months to write, I am going to be busy for a while yet! I do have a couple of ideas for after that, but I’m not saying what!

Thanks very much for talking with me today, Elizabeth.  It’s been fascinating.

********

To find out more about Elizabeth and her books please check out the following links:

My website www.elizabethchadwick.com

My main blog.  http://livingthehistoryelizabethchadwick.blogspot.co.uk/

My Twitter name @chadwickauthor

Part 9 of my new Crusades novel. #SampleSunday #HistNov

CHAPTER 4  THE FIELD OF HATTIN

THE END OF THE ARMY

The Frankish nobles stared at the carnage.

The plain was covered with the corpses of men-at-arms.  The loss of foot-soldiers was to be expected, if not on this scale.  What horrified the nobles was that a thousand knights had also been slain.

King Guy glanced at the scatter of men close by.  They were overcome by thirst, wounds and despair.  They could fight no longer.

The sun tormented those left alive, especially the wounded.  Their groans carried far across the plain.  Only the carrion birds were not dismayed by the sound.  They circled patiently, waiting until the dying gave up the struggle and the battle-field grew still.

There was one strength still remaining to the Christians.  Raymond of Tripoli had maintained command of a few of his troops, a hundred in all, knights and foot-soldiers.

The King called across the heaps of dead, commanding him to attack the Saracen army.

Raymond looked across the field of dead; disbelieving, despairing.  His dislike of Guy was deep-seated.  He had long argued against his determination to force war upon Saladin.  But he never thought the man’s folly would lead to this.

He stared for a moment at Guy.  He turned and looked at Saladin’s army and then at his own pitiful remnant of men.  Then he laughed; a laugh of desperation and bitter scorn.

Raymond sheathed his sword and forced his men to harvest their courage and whatever weapons they could find.

‘Mount up,’ Raymond cried.  ‘Find a horse and mount up.  Even foot-soldiers, even if you’ve never ridden before, mount up.’

The Saracen host, thirty thousand warriors, was drawn up in a crescent in front of them.  Raymond took a deep breath and led his hundred men towards them.

The ground was strewn with Christian corpses.  His men turned their heads when they saw they were about to ride over stricken friends or comrades.  But Raymond increased the pace and the horsemen moved into a canter.  The two armies were close now and he cried out, summoning his men to their final hopeless charge.

He drew his sword and aimed it at the nearest emir.  But as he did so, with unbelievable skill, the Saracens veered away.  A gap opened up allowing the tiny force to ride through the army unmolested to safety.

On the other side of the battle-field Balian of Ibelin realised that all eyes were on the charge of his friend Count Raymond.  He seized this brief opportunity to lead his last four followers to safety.

The Saracen army reformed and came to a halt a furlong away from King Guy and the rest of the Frankish lords.

Two men, the leaders of the victorious army, walked their horses a dozen paces in front of their warriors and gazed upon their stricken foe.

 *******

Saladin walked alone across the battle field.    Most of the nobility of the Kingdom had been captured, including King Guy.  Only Raymond’s force and four men led by Balian of Ibelin had escaped.

All around him lay the corpses of the army of Jerusalem, twenty thousand soldiers and knights, the entire defensive force of the Kingdom.

Saladin turned to the south, his eyes peering across the bleak hills.  Now, finally, he could unleash the storm upon Jerusalem.

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Back to England

Tomorrow we’re going back to England again.  This was our scheduled break to see my father, son and his family.  We had hoped to introduce my dad to my grand-daughter but because of dad’s double heart-attack he is still in hospital so that is no longer possible.

A disappointment for everyone.

Still, we’re seeing friends in London before going off to the West Country to see the family.  Looking forward to going to a BIG bookshop or two in London before we leave.

I love me Kindle and my Sony Reader but there’s nothing quite like the smell of a bookshop.

I’m using the wonderful wizardry of WordPress to post the next extract of my new novel on Sunday.  Getting very excited as I hope I’ll be able to keep to my (self-imposed) deadline of publishing the novel by the end of November.

 

Part 8 of my Crusades novel. #SampleSunday #HistNov

At that point John saw Alexius, the money-changer, and pointed him out, anxious to change the topic of conversation.

Alexius beckoned them over.  ‘Englishmen, if you have no other plans, please join me.  I leave tomorrow for Constantinople and may not see you again.’

‘Constantinople?’

‘Yes, I go to an important meeting.  I am part of a family enterprise which trades across the Empire and the Muslim lands.  My brother summons us all to account every three years.’

Agnes brought two more plates containing a rich stew with a strange aromatic smell.

‘What is this?’ John asked.

‘Goat cooked in spices,’ she answered.

‘It looks lovely.’

‘I wonder what it tastes like.’ Simon muttered when she had left.

‘It tastes very good,’ said Alexius.  ‘Agnes is a wonderful cook.  And she has a lovely arse.’

John stared at him in astonishment.

‘I can say this,’ said Alexius self-indulgently.  ‘I am an old man and young people allow me liberties.  Perhaps they shouldn’t.’

Agnes returned and placed a jug of ale upon the table.  ‘Young people also have good hearing,’ she said.  She grabbed a lock of the old Greek’s hair and shook it.

‘Ah,’ Alexius said, feigning dismay, ‘I am found out.’

‘You will be thrown out if my husband hears.’

Alexius chuckled.  ‘He comes now, Princess.  Here, Bernard.  I was just telling our English friends that Agnes has a beautiful arse.’

Bernard came over and gazed at his wife.  Then he leant close to Alexius.  ‘She has.  But unlike me, who can see her arse in all its naked glory, you can see it only through her skirts.’

‘How do you know I have not seen her exactly as you do?’ Alexius asked, his eyes narrowing.

‘Because I know that you are a creature of lies and fantasies.’  He tapped the old man lightly upon the cheek and took a sip of his wine.

Alexius laughed, his eyes, twinkling with mischief.

Bernard glanced at the Ferriers.  ‘How do you come to be eating with this old scoundrel?’

‘He changed some money for us,’ Simon said.

‘What?’  Bernard gave a sharp look at the old man.

Alexius opened his hands wide.  ‘The boys were with them.  I realised they were your guests.  They got a fair price.’

Bernard drew up a stool.  ‘See that they continue to do so.’

‘Of course,’ Alexius said.  ‘After all, they may be your relatives.’

‘Relatives?’  John glanced at Bernard.

‘Not mine,’ Bernard said.  ‘I’m a Frank through and through.’

He grinned and bent closer to them.

‘But my wife,’ he continued, ‘is descended from an Englishman; her great-grandfather, Robert.  He came to the Holy Land with a man called Edgar who claimed he was the rightful king of England.  Edgar was the heir of the ancient Saxon kings but William the Conqueror stole the throne from him.  Family legend says that Edgar was Robert’s father, though he did not realise this.’

John and Simon exchanged quick glances.  They had heard a similar tale themselves but had thought it a fabrication.

‘And Robert settled and raised a family,’ said Alexius.  ‘Here in Jerusalem.’

‘He had a child,’ said Bernard.  ‘Agnes’ grandfather.’

He gave a self-satisfied smile.

‘But that was not the end of the story,’ said Alexius.  ‘Robert was captured by the Saracens.  They must have realised he was the son of King Edgar even if his father didn’t.’

‘Whether or no,’ said Bernard, ‘Robert was killed for not renouncing his faith.’  He made a cutting motion against his neck.  ‘Bloody fool.  What does religion matter compared to your own neck?  The Saracens would have welcomed him, a man of his blood.  He might have even become an emir.’

Agnes had returned with a beaker of wine and a plate of food for her husband.

‘That old story,’ she said with a smile.  ‘That’s all it is, a story.’

‘Some stories contain a kernel of truth,’ said Alexius.  ‘Is not your own brother, Robert, named for your ancestor?’

‘If this story had any truth I wouldn’t be running around cooking food for old men and a hungry husband.  I’d be living in a palace and sleeping in a bed of finest feathers.’

She put the plate down in front of her husband.

‘Wonderful,’ Bernard said, wiping his hands upon his filthy apron and bending to his plate with enthusiasm.  He blew a kiss at Agnes who raised her eyes to the heavens.

‘With a headboard of cedar wood,’ she said as she went back to the kitchen.

Alexius passed Bernard a chunk of bread.  ‘What news, dear friend?’

Bernard looked around the room.  ‘It’s quiet, very quiet.  There are pilgrims true enough but it doesn’t make up for the army leaving the city.  My takings are down.’

‘You know where to come if you have need.’

‘Thank you.’  Bernard dipped his bread in the stew, turning it slowly to collect the juices.  He glanced up at Alexius with a questioning look.

Alexius raised his hand to stop him from saying more.  He turned towards the cousins.  ‘And how do the English like Jerusalem?’ he asked.

John paused.  ‘It is not as I imagined it to be.’

‘And how did you imagine it?’

‘I’m not sure now.  More ancient, more holy.’

Alexius laughed.  ‘It feels more holy now than when the troops are quartered here.  Much quieter at any rate.’  He helped himself to more wine.

‘You pilgrims think that Jerusalem is a place where angels fly and saints tread,’ said Bernard.  ‘In fact it’s where different worlds collide and it breeds both saints and demons.’

Alexius placed his hand upon John’s arm.  ‘Bernard is right.  As a pilgrim you must find grace where you can.  It does not reside in the stone walls of Jerusalem.  Perhaps it resides in your own heart.’

John felt his eyes moisten at the words and bent to his meal to hide it.  Can he read my soul he wondered?  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alexius nod to himself.

‘And what of your news, old goat?’ Bernard asked.

Alexius stared out of the door at the streets.  ‘My scales are frenzied, Bernard.  The exchange is in turmoil, prices careering like wild bulls.’  He picked up his wine and peered into it as it seeking to find something within.

‘This is just a symptom,’ he continued.  ‘Rumour is bleak.’

‘What rumour?’ Simon asked.

‘Of anguish and of wars,’ Alexius answered.

‘The day we came to the city,’ Simon said, ‘we saw an army leaving by the same gate.  What was it?’

‘That was the army of Jerusalem,’ Bernard said.  ‘Every last warrior in the kingdom.  Twelve hundred knights and twenty thousand foot-soldiers.’

John frowned.  ‘And where are all these men of blood going?’

‘To defeat Saladin,’ Bernard answered.  ‘Or be defeated by him.’

**********

The novel will be published at the end of the month on Kindle, Nook and other e-readers.

 

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Talking with Ben Kane #HistNov

Today I’m delighted to be talking with Ben Kane.  Ben brings the ancient world of the Roman Republic to life in his The Forgotten Legion trilogy and novels about the most feared enemies of the Republic, Hannibal and Spartacus.

Martin: Before we focus on your own books could you tell us about the fiction which has most inspired and influenced you?

Ben: *Thinks hard* Rosemary Sutcliff, for her own iconic book The Eagle of the Ninth. I first read that when I was about nine or ten, and the story has stayed with me ever since. Wilbur Smith, for his amazing books and stories of Africa. In particular, his book The Sunbird, which is an alternate history of some of the survivors of the sack of Carthage. Bernard Cornwell, for his Sharpe novels, which made me realise that series of novels about soldiers were not only popular, but really good fun to read. JRR Tolkien, for the Lord of the Rings – need I say more? Guy Gavriel Kay, for his outstanding Summer Tree trilogy. Of all the fantasy novels I have read, and there have been many, these were some of the finest.

Why Rome and why the focus on Rome’s adversaries?

I am interested in all periods of history, but particularly ancient history. When I decided first to write books about soldiers set in the past, I wasn’t sure whether I’d write about Romans or Vikings. This was in 2001, and one of the first books I saw in Waterstone’s at the time was the first or second in Bernard Cornwell’s Alfred series. I thought to myself, ‘Damn it, if he is going to write about that period, I can’t.’ Of course that is not true, but that was one of the deciding factors for me to write about Rome.

As for writing about Rome’s adversaries, well that sort of happened by accident. The plotline for The Forgotten Legion is about underdogs, and I was very interested in the Etruscans, whose civilisation was overtaken by Rome. Before I knew it, I was writing the book from the point of view of those at the bottom of the social ladder. I guess I continued the trend through the trilogy. However, when I decided to write the books about the second Punic War, I was not intending just to write about Rome’s adversaries. What I wanted to do was to present a story that showed two peoples engaged in a conflict with each other; two peoples who were very similar to each other; and how members of those races could actually be friends with each other in different circumstances.

Did you intend to write the books as series when you first thought of them?

Yes I did, with the exception of my Spartacus novels. That was supposed to be just one book, but when I was about a hundred thousand words into the story, I realised that there was no way I could finish the amazing tale in just one book. I rang her editor, and asked if she minded me writing a second one. She laughed and said that was a brilliant idea. So far, it seems to have worked!

How do you plan your novels?

I used to not to plan at all. Nowadays, when I read some authors saying that they never plan their books, I laugh out loud. The reason for this is that I went seriously astray during the writing of my second novel, The Silver Eagle. I cannot believe that I am alone in having this happen to me. Thanks to my editor, who is extremely tough, I had to rewrite 25% of the book – twice! This meant that I went way over my deadline. The whole experience was most unpleasant.

Since then, I’ve been very careful to plan all of my novels. Generally, I plot out each chapter of the entire way through the book before I write a single word. Often, some of the chapters change as I write the book, but the important thing is to have a solid strand that holds the story together, which keeps me and my writing in line.

Have you been surprised by any themes which have emerged in your writing? 

Yes indeed. An example: I had never really thought about slavery before, but as I wrote my Forgotten Legion trilogy, I realised how much I hated the idea of it. This was something I had not expected. I look back now and realise that some of this passed through into the writing, which was a mistake, because in ancient times nobody would have thought twice about slavery. It was just a part of life, like having a washing machine to do our washing for us today rather than having a slave to do the same thing.

What has been the most exciting part of your journey as a writer?

Without doubt, the day in August 2007 when my agent rang me and told me that six major publishers were bidding for my first novel, The Forgotten Legion!

Do you have a favourite character in your novels and, if so, why?

Of all the characters in my novels, I think that Hanno in the Hannibal books is my favourite, but only by a small margin over Carbo, who is a character in the Spartacus books. I like Hanno because the odds are always stacked against him, but somehow he still manages to survive. Carbo came about completely by accident. I had already planned out the Spartacus book, and he wasn’t in it. Something made me decide to put a major Roman character into the story, because I wanted to show that not every Roman would have thought Spartacus was an evil monster; I also needed somebody who can survive the final battle!

Women are often the silent voices in history.  I thought Fabiola was a great creation, full of drive and courage.  How would you describe your approach to female characters?

As a man, I’m not sure how to answer that! However, I think it is very important to have a major female character in every book. As you mentioned, we know very little of women in ancient history. Very few names of Roman women that have survived in comparison to men. It is difficult to write their stories in books that are mostly about soldiers and battles, but I do my best. Many of the novels of this type do not share any female characters at all; if they do, they are often just cardboard cutouts. Hopefully, this means that in my books are a little bit different, so that more female readers might be attracted to read them.

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

There is no such thing as a typical writing day for me any more! There used to be, but in the last eighteen months or so I find it difficult to find sustained periods to write. I work from Monday to Friday, generally from 9 AM to 5 PM or so. However, this has to be flexible, as I have more and more things to deal with such as emails from readers, emails from publishers, research, Twitter, Facebook and so on. In order to keep up the momentum, I set myself a daily word count. This used to be 2000 words a day, but I have had to reduce it to 1500. If I have not met this total by 5 PM, I come back out to work after my kids are in bed and keep going until I hit it.

I have no writing rituals that I know of!

Finally, Ben, what is your next writing project?

I am currently writing the sequel to Hannibal: Enemy of Rome. There will be four books in total in this series, and the one I am writing is called Fields of Blood. It will be published in the UK in the summer of 2013.

Thanks very much for a fascinating talk, Ben.

If you’d like to know more about Ben and his books please click on the links he has provided below.

My website address is: www.benkane.net

My Twitter username is @BenKaneAuthor.

My Facebook page can be found at: https://www.facebook.com/benkanebooks

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

My next talk will be with Elizabeth Chadwick, author of a wide range of historical novels including The Greatest Knight, To Defy a King and Lady of the English.

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Part 7 of my Crusades novel. #SampleSunday #Histnov

The next morning the Ferriers climbed up to the battlements by the Golden Gate at the eastern part of the city.

John had spent a restless night, tormented by the sight of Agnes in the courtyard and tormented even more by his thoughts concerning her.  It was imperative that he find some sense of salvation, however feeble.

They walked north for a few paces until John stopped and looked towards the east.  His hands grasped the stone of the walls as though he was holding on to them for fear of falling.

‘The Mount of Olives,’ he said, in a voice made thick with emotion.

The sun shone on the trees which crammed the slopes of the mount.  It looked a rich and wholesome place.  John felt he should avert his eyes from this and stare down instead to Gethsemane to try to snatch a glimpse of Christ’s agony the night before the crucifixion.

He bent his head and gasped.

‘It looks lovely,’ he said in surprise.

‘The mountain?’ Simon asked.

‘No Gethsemane.  I thought it would look bleak and awful, tortured by the memory of Christ’s anguish.’

‘You seem disappointed.’

‘I am.’  He shook his head.  ‘I came to Jerusalem to seek redemption for my sin.  How can I do this when the city is rich and pleasant, the sights a marvel and a wonder?’

Simon drummed his fingers upon the battlements.  ‘Perhaps you are misguided John.  Perhaps you can get redemption from things of beauty as much as from the ugly and the bitter.’

John shook his head angrily.  ‘Beautiful things are a danger, the snares of Satan.’

‘Yet God put them on the Earth.’

‘As a test.’

Simon sighed and closed his eyes.  ‘I can’t agree with you, John.  Beauty is to be enjoyed and loved.  Even Christ chose to spend his last night on Earth in the garden below.  Who are you to be different?’

‘I am a sinner.  Christ was not.’

‘We are all sinners.’  He smiled.  ‘I for one would very much like to sin with a certain woman.’

John straightened.  ‘Who do you mean?’

‘You know.’  He paused and grinned at John.  ‘The lovely Agnes.’

John did not answer.  His mind raced, his thoughts skittering like starlings in a flock.  ‘She is married,’ he said at last, coldly.

‘That does not stop her being beautiful.’

‘You must not think such a thing.  She belongs to another.’

‘That does not stop her being beautiful.’

’She is the mother of two children.’

‘That does not stop her being beautiful.’

‘We are guests in her home for God’s sake.’

‘That gives me opportunity.  And by the way, you just blasphemed.’

John was speechless with rage.  He turned away from Simon.  Christ help me, he thought, Christ help me.  Simon agreed to come on this pilgrimage with me, he has been my loyal and constant companion.  Christ help me, Christ help him.

His thundering heart began to calm.  He turned back to Simon and held out his hand.

Simon stared at it.  ‘What is this for?’

‘Take it.’

‘You offer me your hand as if you had done me wrong.’

John hesitated, desperately thinking of something to say to hide the truth.  ‘I offer you my hand because I love you and I do not wish you to seduce the lady Agnes.’

Simon smiled.

John could not tell whether it was a smile of friendship or mockery.  Or perhaps of gratification that he had guessed the state of affairs correctly.

After a brief moment Simon took John’s hand.

 *****

They arrived back at the inn in time for the noon-day meal.  They were accosted by a blind man sitting by the entrance.  John pulled out his purse and began to search for a suitable coin.  Simon took the opportunity to slip straight into the inn.

As soon as he entered Bernard called him over.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Simon,’ he said.  ‘Some English pilgrims have arrived and they are drinking like they’ve never seen ale before.  I’ve told them to quieten down but they don’t understand.  Will you talk to them?’

Simon strolled over and listened for a while before returning.  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t understand them.  They speak English.’

‘But you are English.’

‘Yes.  But I only speak French.  Both my parents are of Norman stock.  John may be able to help, his mother was English.  He can speak the language like a native though he pretends not to.’

Bernard frowned.  ‘Is speaking English something to be ashamed of?’

‘It’s nothing to be proud of.’

Bernard shook his head.  He saw John walk in and hurried over to seek his aid.  Simon could see that John was reluctant but in the end he agreed and went over to the Englishmen and spoke to them.  There were lots of jeers and cat-calls but, nevertheless, they quietened down and even agreed to pay for the ale they had already consumed.

‘Thank you,’ Bernard said.  ‘Some of us in Jerusalem speak Arabic as well as French but I had not realised that it was the same in other lands.’

‘England is a bit like Jerusalem,’ John said.  ‘It was conquered by foreigners and now the English feel like strangers in their own land.’

‘He always says this,’ Simon said.  ‘But it doesn’t stop him acting like a Norman when it suits him.  Nor his brother Hugh who is one of Prince Richard’s right-hand men.  And you can be sure that Richard has little time for the English.’

‘So are you English or Norman?’ Bernard asked.

‘Our ancestor came over with the first King Henry,’ John said.  ‘He was an ordinary man, a blacksmith.   He never called himself English though.  His son, our grand-father was the first to do so.’

Bernard shook his head and pointed out the loud party of English pilgrims.  ‘And what would they think of you?’ he asked.

‘They would think we were their betters,’ Simon said.

‘But they’d be wrong,’ John said.  ‘We are no richer than they and have no greater power or influence.’

‘But we speak French, cousin,’ Simon said.  ‘And that still makes a difference.’

At that point John saw Alexius, the money-changer, and pointed him out, anxious to change the topic of conversation.

*****

The novel will be published in ebook format later in November.

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