The Story behind the Story #HistNov #SampleSunday

I had not intended to write ‘Beguiled’. I had just finished writing the third part of ‘The Lost King’ and was resting it. I had planned the second part of ‘Artful’ and begun to write a few chapters of it.

One morning I woke and fancied writing about a woman. I had not written about a woman as a central character in any of my novels until Agnes in ‘Outcasts.’  Now I wanted to make a woman the central character of a short story. So I started writing. Within minutes a new person had leaped off the page and seized my imagination. I think she may have beguiled me a little as well. Below is how she did it.

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 servant but I caught the eye of Anne Boleyn when she was newly crowned. I was good at singing, could dance like an elf and made her laugh and think. She made me one of her Maids of Honour 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.

I did not know her name at first. She had several before I settled on Alice Petherton. I am very careful about my choice of names. I try not to have characters with similar names or even starting with the same letter. I think that can lead to confusion in a novel. I often change the names of my lead characters as I write until I find one which suits them best.

I also find a name often helps shape the character. This was certainly the case with Alice. She took on a more fixed personality with her name.

What did I find beguiling about her? I thought she was typical of the strong minded women who too often got neglected by the writers of history and by male novelists. She is also very much a Renaissance women. She is well-educated, sharp-witted and not prepared to live a role as prescribed as her ancestors. (Not that I know anything about Alice’s ancestors. Perhaps I never will.)

She is also very Machiavellian. I always thought that Anne Boleyn was Machiavellian but as I wrote more of the novel I found out that her successor, Jane Seymour, was possibly even more so. But Alice will outshine even them in the arts of duplicity and self-survival.

How could she not? She has to beat Henry VIII in the field of love. And still keep her head.

Related articles

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Talking with Paul Dorset

Today I’m delighted to start once again with my series of talks with authors. There’s lots of interesting talks in the pipeline.

I’m kicking thing off with Paul Dorset who was one of the first authors to interview me and whose blog is a great source of advice and inspiration.

Martin: Before we look at you as a writer I wonder if you could tell us which authors have had the greatest influence upon you?

 Paul: Growing up it was all sorts of Sci-Fi and Fantasy writers. I was a prolific reader and I enjoyed almost everything I could get my hands on. As I got older I went through several stages of different authors, including Stephen King, Kate Elliott, George RR Martin, Robin Hobb and Jacqueline Carey. I like books that keep you reading and leave you wanting more.

When did you first know that you wanted to be a writer?  Was there a specific event that made you decide?

 Not an event as such, but I had been toying with the idea of writing a book for about five years before I actually put pen to paper for the first time (after writing a couple of smaller pieces).

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

I always get a kick out of being published and seeing my name in print!

Who in your early life would be most impressed by your writing and why?

My English teacher told me I would never pass my English exams. I think my grammar is now somewhat improved. However, even at school I was always writing small pieces of fantasy prose.

If someone had the power to look into your creative mind what would they see?

Heck, even I don’t know what goes on there sometimes! There are always a hundred stories and pieces of plots rolling around. Unfortunately I never get the dedicated time I need to get everything out and down on paper. Eventually some of the ideas meld together and real weird things end up on paper!

Are you a plotter and planner or do you take an idea and just run with it?

I’m a plotter – and proud of it. I could never approach writing any other way. However, that’s not to say I don’t have ideas as I’m actually writing my novel – in fact I do, and I usually incorporate those new ideas into my plot.

Which research tools, sources and web-sites do you find most useful in your writing?

There’s nothing in particular I use for research, even though I do quite a lot of it. As for actually writing, I use Scrivener.

That brings us neatly on to the next question. You use Scrivener software and your enthusiasm was instrumental in getting me to try it. How has it affected your approach to writing?

Scrivener allows me to plan my novels far more effectively than when I was using Word. Now I can write my plot points (imagine small index cards), and then attach the actual manuscript part to that card. This makes it really simple to move parts of the novel around or change a specific part very simply. This really isn’t possible on a Word document of over 50,000 words! Overall, I just feel so much more comfortable using Scrivener. I wish I had discovered it ten years ago!

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

The last couple of years have proved challenging to me and have forced me to re-think my approach to writing. I am trying to turn out 300,000 plus words a year and so I need plenty of time to actually write. The problem is that I have a day job that takes up almost 12 hours of my day. I used to write first thing in the morning (5am to 6am), but I can’t do that any more. So now I have to write from around 5pm to 6pm. Because I’m a plotter, at least I can write about 1500 words in that time. I try and write 10,000 words a week when I’m actually in manuscript writing mode. As for the rituals, I listen to classical or light music with no lyrics. It helps me get into my space.

Tell me your thoughts on the role of marketing for an author?

Help, I need a marketer. Help! I don’t have the time to do anything like a decent job. However, I previously hired a marketing firm to help me and the end result left me with a very sore taste in my mouth. The jury is still out on this one.

Which of your characters amuses you most and why?

In my Fergus Fedderfeeny books, I wrote a character named Sofia (one half of the Gwillville Mafia) and she makes me laugh just thinking about her. I loved writing the scenes that involved her.

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

Be true to yourself. Write the book you’ve always wanted to write, just for you, and then after you have edited it, read it back as if it was written for someone else. Then rewrite all the boring bits!

What is your next writing project?

 I have the first two parts of an upcoming Sci-Fi series being released over the summer. I’m very excited about these books which are a small departure from what I usually write. And currently I am writing the first in a trilogy sequel to my novella, Ryann. As I said, 300,000 words a year keeps me busy!

Thanks very much, Paul, it’s been a pleasure to talk with you.

Paul’s blog is well worth subscribing to; it’s full of tips and advice. Be sure to take a look.

 Bio

Paul Dorset was born in Poole, Dorset in England but has been living in America since 1995. He has been writing for many years and some of his early works were published in ‘teen advice’ columns. He has also had many technical articles published, mostly in the field of Computing.

Paul currently lives in the Pacific Northwest but has traveled extensively and worked many times with teens and youth groups. It is this background combined with a vivid imagination that has enabled him to weave a tapestry of magic into complete novels. His first epic fantasy series, aimed at young adults, is entitled ‘The Southern Lands’. However, the storyline is more than exciting enough to keep adults turning pages as the story unfolds.

Paul is a father of five who has worked as a computer consultant for more than 30 years. His publications include fantasy novels for ages 12-plus, how-to books for adults, and dark paranormal thrillers for ages 16+. He incorporates his extensive experience in computers – and his insightful perspective on the possibilities therein – in novels that include layers of contemporary intrigue, romance and mystery.

You can follow his blog at http://blog.pauldorset.com

 

Links

Twitter: @jcx27

Facebook: http://facebook.com/pdorset27

Blog: http://blog.pauldorset.com

Website: http://pauldorset.com

A book on Amazon: Ryann

 

 

Battle of the Gods

We witnessed a colossal battle in the heavens last night.

First Zeus threw down his lightning across the Mediterranean Sea, vaunting his supremacy over sky, sea and earth. Time and again the blinding streaks crackled across the sky, seeming to fracture the invisible ropes which hold our universe together.

 

Then, long minutes later, there came an answering rumble from the north. Thor the Thunder God had been awoken from his slumber and grumbling angrily took up his hammer, Mjölnir, and strode south to meet the challenge.

It was an epic confrontation. Zeus would leap out from his
hiding place beyond the clouds, searing the sky and eye with his jagged armaments. Then Thor would respond, the rolling beating of his thunder sounding like fifty thousand horses galloping across the sky. More lightning, more thunder claps, the air scintillating with power and fury.

Zeus seemed to be almost playing with his opponent, darting across the heavens, hurling his weapons and slipping away. Thor was indignant and bellicose, bragging of his potency yet wrong-footed by his more nimble opponent.

But still the battle went on, both deities refusing to cede mastery to the other. Both were intent on slogging it out for the edification of the mortals watching below; mouths agape and in awe.

It seemed to be like some commentary on my recent experience. My wife and I had spent a long weekend back in England, visiting relatives.

England felt as bitter cold as the Scandinavia of Thor. The winds blew into the bone,
the cold was so intense it seemed to clutch at our blood. Even when the sky was
blue there felt the promise of dismal weather.

A good half of the English people who served us in shops and cafes were either distant or disengaged. A few were friendly, a few happy and helpful, but most seemed taciturn and dour, as if their minds and hearts were elsewhere. They seemed to be looking at me from beyond a barricade. The shop workers from Eastern Europe were different, good-natured and willing to engage and joke, happy to show something of the life behind the shield.

Back in France, the air was warm and gentle, the light brighter and more revealing. The bus driver was friendly. We bought some food to take away from a young woman working in the café next door who suggested we take our bags up to our apartment while she got our meals ready for us. When I returned a few minutes later we talked about learning different languages while she wrapped up the food. As I went into our apartment block a neighbour stopped me and asked me to tell my wife that she would be returning to a club they both go to next year, or maybe next week. I still need to improve my French.

So the battle in the skies last night mirrors the battle within me.

I was born and brought up in England and much of my thought and mind was shaped by it. But I no longer feel at home with its grey clouds and the dark sardonic nature of its people. I love the light and vivacity of the south, the outdoor living, the readiness to engage and smile.

Thor or Zeus? Heimdall or Hermes?

A little of both north and south, a little of neither. A man of the twentieth century, living in the twenty first and writing about ancient times.

Aren’t I the luck one?

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.

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Beguiled Part 3. #SampleSunday #Histnov #amwriting

I hurried along the corridors of the Palace.

It was growing dark, the sun had just set and the threatening storm was painting the sky a morbid grey. It was not yet twilight but that time of threat and promise was close. Rush lights and candles had been lit by the unseen hands of servants and they flickered in the draught. Strange, I thought, they give less light now than when the night has settled fully. In the half light they flickered sickly like Will o’ the Wisps beguiling unwary travellers to their doom.

Even though I had never been near to it I knew how to find the King’s Study. Hampton Court Palace was vast and many people got lost within it, even some who had lived here for a while. But I had made a map of the Palace in my head, plotting its warren of chambers and halls and corridors.

My bedroom was on the top floor overlooking the Lower Court. To get to the King’s Study was a long walk; down several stair-cases, along the corridor next to the Kitchens, through the Great Hall and past the Watching Chamber where the King’s Guards were quartered. I walked as fast as I could, determined to keep the King waiting for as little time as possible.

My breath was coming fast as I crossed the Great Hall, whether from my speed or from thought of being alone with the King. I turned left and passed by the Watching Chamber where I could hear the low conversation of bored men. I forced myself to walk even faster as I passed the Pages Quarters for I knew the Pages’ eyes were quick and their tongues even quicker. No doubt the boy who the King had sent to summon me was even now the centre of attention, basking in the temporary notoriety from the gossip he brought to his fellows.

I turned right into the Gallery and slowed my walk. It would not do to arrive at the King’s Study with heaving breast and reddened face. I could not afford to tarry long, of course, but I forced my feet to stop and took breath. I leaned my face against a window to try to cool it. The gathering wind rattled the glass in its frame and it vibrated against my skin. I waited until I felt the flush leave my face and stepped out towards my rendezvous. I stood outside the door to the Study and composed myself, patting at my hair and checking my bodice to make sure it was not in disarray.

I knocked upon the door, a knock as quiet and gentle as my heart was loud and hammering. I waited for a moment in the silence and then I heard the single word, ‘Come.’

I entered the Study and curtsied. My eyes blinked in amazement. The wall was lined with books. I had never seen so many in my life, could barely imagine that so many had been written and printed. The smell of old leather was heavy in the air yet not unpleasant. A large table stood in the middle of the room with four chairs placed around it. In the far right was another door which led, I imagined, to a second chamber. On the longest wall stood a large fireplace with a fierce blaze burning in a deep grate. To one side of this were two easy chairs, with a small table between them. The room was warm as an August afternoon.

There was no sign of King Henry or so I thought at first. Then suddenly I saw him. He stood in an alcove in one of the bookshelves, an alcove so deep it almost hid him. If he had kept the figure of his earlier years it would indeed have done so.

‘So you have come at last, Alice Petherton,’ the King said.

What did he mean by this? Was I supposed to come to him the week before, after our meeting in the garden? Had I been expected to come to him without his command?

‘I came immediately I was summoned,’ I said.

‘We sent our Page to you some while ago,’ he said. ‘Your King is surprised he has been kept waiting.’

‘It is a goodly way from my chamber, Your Majesty,’ I said. ‘And it took me a while to find my book of verse.’

‘It took you a while?’ He held out his hand for the volume. ‘I assumed it would be your constant companion.’

‘I read many books, Your Majesty.’

I paused, wondering whether to risk saying what was in my thoughts. I took a deep breath. ‘And besides, I had to wash myself.’

He stared at me, his eyes suddenly hard. ‘You kept your monarch waiting while you washed yourself?’

He walked away from the alcove and flung himself into one of the chairs by the fire. I bit my lip, aware that tears were forming in my eyes.

Henry saw this and I saw his eyes flicker with amusement.

‘The King is glad of it,’ he said at last. ‘He applauds you for it. Cleanliness is something the King takes very seriously.’

He gestured towards the other chair. ‘Sit, Alice Petherton and tell me which of the Earl of Surrey’s poems you best like.’

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

I continue to work on my new Tudor novel. Alice Petherton has got me as beguiled as the title of the book. Once I have written the first draft of this I will go back in time for more more than four centuries and do the final edit of the third part of my Edgar Atheling novel, ‘The Lost King: Mercenary.

I am resuming my series of talks with authors shortly. I am also starting a series looking at the Writing Spaces of my fellow authors. Looking forward to that.

My books are available on e-readers, through most retailers. I am hoping to publish Artful for the first time on Kobo, Nook, Apple and Sony shortly.

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My Writing Space

I have lived in many homes and had a variety of writing places. I have found that those which seemed least pleasant often led to me being more creative and productive. I wrote my first collection of short stories crammed into a tiny dark place beneath stairs, my first novel hunched over a table in a dark corner of a room. When I set up my study to perfection I found myself perversely seeking out other places to write. Perhaps I know sub-consciously that that my work sometimes suffered in too perfect a setting.

I studied Neuro-Linguistic Processing, NLP, under Robert Dilts in California and he has a theory which perhaps explains this. He suggests that the best way to be creative is to use what he has termed The Disney Strategy.

There are three stages to the Disney Strategy. 1. Dreaming up ideas. 2. Turning the dream into reality. 3. Sternly evaluating and criticising what you have produced. You then go through the cycle again until you are happy with what you’ve produced.

Sounds familiar? Writers might call it Planning, Writing and Editing.

Dilts further suggests that different settings are best for each stage in the process.

1. Dreaming up ideas. An open, playful space is best. Look up and allow yourself time and space to dream with a child-like sense of the possible.
2. Turning the dream into reality. A well equipped space where you can really focus on the work with the best of equipment and without distraction. Lean forward to the task and get on with it.
3. Evaluating and criticising. As uncomfortable space as you can find. Make yourself miserable and you’ll be more likely to discover your mistakes.

So here’s my current writing space. Or rather spaces.

I get my best ideas when I’m outside, on the terrace which overlooks the town and sea or, better still, in a café with the buzz of the world swirling past but leaving me undisturbed. My favourite place currently is the Cocoon Café where the owner and his waitress are welcoming and friendly.

As people walk past I scan their faces, conjuring up minor characters from their appearance and the things which appear to be concerning them. I also dream my best dreams when I’m lying down, in bed or in a reclining chair on the terrace. I look up at the skies and nothing can stop the ideas from flowing across me.

I turn my ideas into reality by working in the apartment. I use a good PC and have started to use some excellent writing software called Scrivener. I also have access to the finest research tool any writer could need, the world wide web. More than that, I have a circle of friends and colleagues from across the world, courtesy of this blog, Twitter and other social media.

The view looks over the town of Menton and Mediterranean Sea but I rarely find I am distracted by this. But to make sure I’m not I turn myself to the blank wall. The only thing I can see is a poster of a horseman from Siena on a mission from one town to another.

Sometimes, when the weather’s good like today I sneak out onto the terrace and write.

I evaluate and criticise by reading my work late at night. I would do it somewhere uncomfortable if I could but we live in a two room apartment and space is limited. Late at night when I’m tired and grumpy is about as good, or should I say bad, as I can find.

So there we have it. My work space. Or rather my working spaces.

I’m starting a series of author’s Work Spaces on this blog in a couple of weeks. I hope you enjoy reading about other author’s workspaces. I’m looking forward to it.

Everything has changed. #SampleSunday #HistNov

I cannot recall much about the cold winter of 1067.  Snow fell heavily and ice seized the ponds and streams near the house where Oswald, Godwin and I were lodged.   I wrote a message to Duke William asking that my dog Rip be sent to me but received no reply.  I missed him more each day for he would have loved to run after snowballs and roll in the drifts.  Then, at the beginning of February, a party of Normans appeared at our door.  At their head was Robert de Comines, one of William’s leading barons.  He was tall and as tough looking as a bear and at close quarters he smelled like one as well.  A jagged white scar ran from his temple to his jaw and it was said that the Frenchman who had given it to him was still clinging to life in the cess-pit of de Comines’ castle, fifteen years after the battle.

He scowled at me as he entered the hall and threw the letter I had written down upon the table.

‘You want your dog back, I see.’  He sneered.  ‘You would do well to remember that when you seek favours from your lord you should address him properly.  He is King William.’  He pointed to where I had written the word Duke.  ‘King William.  King of England.  My king.  Your king.  Remember it.’

He stared menacingly at Oswald.  ‘You must learn to tutor the youngster better, Englishman,’ he said.  ‘Or we will find a fitter guide for him.’

He strode to the door, nodded to one of the soldiers and left.  The soldier slipped out of the door, then returned and dropped a bundle on the floor.  I heard a snuffling from the bundle and pulled back the cover.  A huge bark sounded in my ear.

‘Rip,’ I cried.  He leapt out and began to lick my face from chin to brow.

Finally the days began to warm and lengthen and the catkins appeared upon the trees.  But there was less joy for me at the approach of spring than there had been in the past.  Godwin, Rip and I began to spend most of our time out of doors but wherever we went Norman soldiers lumbered after us.  They were unfriendly shadows, ones we could shake off no more than our own familiar ones.

One morning in mid-March, Godwin and I were skimming stones across the mill pond when one of the soldiers hurried down towards us.  ‘The King is here,’ he said.  ‘He commands your presence.’

I nodded and skimmed one last stone into the water.  I began to walk back to the house and then stopped.  This was the first time that I had heard the word king and thought, not of Harold, not of myself, but of William.  I was stunned by this realisation.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Godwin.

I nodded.  ‘I’ve just realised how everything has changed, and me along with it.’

Godwin frowned.  ‘I guess we will all have to get used to it,’ he said.

I glanced at him.  It was the first time I fully realised that I was not the only one who had been grieving for the passing of our old world.

English: William I, Duke of Normandy (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We entered the hall and found King William perched on the edge of the table.  He was deep in conversation with fitz Osbern.  Scribes sat near by, feverishly scrawling out commands upon parchment.

William looked up as we entered.  ‘You grow taller, Edgar,’ he said.  ‘They must be feeding you well.’

‘I cannot complain,’ I said.  ‘My lord,’ I added, after a pause.

William noticed the delay and his eyes gleamed.  He held my glance for a long moment and then quickly stood up.

A sudden fear gripped me, I felt like turning and running away.  But I remained where I was.  ‘You sent for me, lord,’ I said.

‘I did,’ he said.  He clapped his hands together and smiled.  ‘I have been long away from Normandy and it is time that I returned to see that all things are in order.  I would like you to accompany me.  We will not be away from England for very long.’

I said nothing immediately.  I didn’t think for a moment that he was requesting I go with him or that there was any way that I could refuse.   But I knew somehow that the manner of my going would be important to me.  ‘I am honoured, lord,’ I said after a moment.  ‘In what way can I serve you when we are there?’

William laughed and clapped his hand upon my shoulder.  ‘Do you hear that, fitz Osbern?’ he said.  ‘Earl Edwin thought he would be taken to Caen in chains.  Not Edgar.  He wants to know how he can serve me.’

‘He seems to have a good head on his shoulders,’ said the steward, gruffly but not unkindly.

‘Mark that, Edgar,’ said William.  ‘Praise from William fitz Osbern.  Treasure the memory, note who is here so that they can bear witness in the future.’  He gazed at me long.  ‘He is almost always right.’

‘Always,’ said fitz Osbern, ‘always.’

William laughed out loud.  It was genuine laughter and so infectious that, despite myself, I started to laugh with him.

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

The Lost King: Resistance is available on all e-readers.  The third novel in the series will be available later this year.

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Envoys from Duke William #SampleSunday #histfic

From the Norman army three men came riding slowly across the meadows towards us.  The two men at the front were dressed like holy men, although underneath the garments of one I thought I could detect a glimpse of mail.  The third, a herald holding a flag of truce, was dressed in full chain mail, a great black cloak billowing behind him.

A detail from the Bayeux Tapestry illustrating Norman knights in combat half a century before David’s reign. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

‘Envoys from Duke William,’ said Oswald quietly.  ‘But I do not think they are coming to sue for peace.’

Suddenly, with a tumult of hooves, the three men approached our foremost ranks.  They halted a few yards away and one rode forward and called in a clear loud voice.  ‘I come to parlay with the leaders of the English.’

I stared in utter astonishment.  The envoy was Archbishop Stigand.

‘He must have been captured,’ I mumbled.

Oswald shook his head.  ‘He must be a traitor,’ he said.

For a long breath no one in the English army moved.  Then one horse stepped out from our centre and stood facing the Norman envoys.  It was Morcar.  A second horse broke ranks further to the left and trotted along the front of our army.  I could see even from this distance that it was Edwin.  When he reached his brother they bent their heads together for a while.  Then, together they trotted out until they were half way between our men and the Normans.  The five men spoke together for what seemed an age.

I heard a warning voice speak urgently in my head.  ‘I should be there,’ I said to Oswald.

Oswald shook his head once.  He did not speak but his hand reached out and grasped firm hold of my horse’s bridle.

Still the five men spoke together, their words a mystery to all the host of men watching.  Then Morcar looked down the ranks.  He kicked savagely at the flanks of his horse and came racing towards me.  I felt Oswald’s grip tighten.  Behind me I heard a long, low scraping noise.  My Housecarls were sliding their swords from their scabbards.

I gazed intently at Morcar when he got close.  His face looked drained of all blood and there was a strange, fay look in his eyes.  ‘Edgar,’ he said quietly, ‘these men are envoys from the Normans.  One is Odo of Bayeux, half-brother of Duke William.  The other is Archbishop Stigand.  They say that Duke William desires no more bloodshed and that he will embrace peace if we submit to him and acknowledge him to be our king.’

‘But I am the king,’ I said.  My lips felt like ice.

Morcar did not answer.  I looked up at Oswald.  He stared impassively ahead, avoiding my gaze.

I turned back to the earl.  ‘Morcar, tell me what I should do.  I am the King of the English.  The Witan proclaimed me so and I am of the blood of Alfred.  Surely we should fight?  What do you think?  What should we do?’

For a long minute Morcar did not answer.  Then he glanced back at the ranks of Englishmen as if weighing up their strength and courage.

‘Morcar?’ I whispered.

He shook his head sadly.  ‘Our best warriors were slain at Hastings,’ he said quietly, ‘and our greatest captain lies dead beside them.  We have no warrior like Harold here to lead us.  Until today I thought we should fight but now I see the strength of the Normans I begin to doubt.  My brother is older and wiser than I and he counsels that we submit to Duke William.’

He paused and said bitterly.  ‘Archbishop Stigand has done so already.’

Tears flooded my eyes.  The world receded into a silent mist and all I could feel was the scalding heat of the tears and the sickness in my heart.

A gloved hand reached out for my shoulder.  ‘You are brave young Edgar,’ said Morcar.  ‘But the time for bravery is past.  Now you must be wise as well.  We must submit to the Normans.’

I blinked the greyness away from my eyes and gazed at him.  ‘What must I do?’ I asked.

‘Ride with me to the envoys and they will take our message to Duke William.’

‘No,’ said Oswald.

Morcar’s eyes flashed angrily.

‘Be silent,’ he said.  ‘What business is it of yours to speak?’

‘Edgar’s safety is my business,’ Oswald said.  A low growl sounded from a hundred throats behind me.  Morcar glanced quickly at the Housecarls and lifted his hand to placate Oswald’s anger.

‘So what would you have us do with him?’ he said.  ‘Do you think that Duke William will be happy to see his rival for the throne slip away from this field?’

‘That is Duke William’s concern and not mine,’ said Oswald.

Morcar leaned across his saddle and spoke close to Oswald’s face.  ‘Well it is my concern.  Duke William is not the only one who wishes to avert bloodshed.  I have fought two battles already this year and watched too many brave men drown in their own blood.  Do you wish for more deaths upon your soul?  Do you wish it upon Edgar’s?’

‘Stop,’ I cried.  ‘Stop quarrelling.’

I turned to Oswald and shook my head.  ‘I think that Morcar is right,’ I said at last.  ‘Harold is not here with us.  And I do not think that you will allow me to lead the charge.  So I shall go to the Normans and I shall submit to them.  But I would like you to come with me, please.’  Then I began to sob.

Straight away Morcar spurred his horse forward and held his shield across my face.  No one except Oswald and him saw me weep.  I do not know how long I cried but at length I felt Morcar smooth my hair.  ‘Have done, Edgar.  We must go to the Normans.’

I wiped my nose and nodded.

I felt dazed as our horses trudged along the line towards the envoys.  I rode in the middle with Oswald to my right and Morcar to my left.  Behind us, unbidden, came a score or more of my Housecarls.  At length we reached the centre of our army.  Edwin glanced swiftly at his brother who nodded once.  We lined up facing the Normans.  On their left was Archbishop Stigand, on the right the silent warrior cloaked in black and in the middle the lean figure of a man of god dressed in chain.  He stepped forward a pace and stared at me.

‘Bishop Odo,’ Edwin said to him, ‘this is Edgar Atheling, grandson of Edmund Ironside.  Will you take a message to Duke William that Edgar and the Earls Edwin and Morcar submit to him.’

Odo stared impassively at Edwin for a moment and then turned to the silent man who sat beside him.  ‘They submit to you, my brother, they submit.’

The man cloaked in black pulled off his helmet.

‘I accept your submission,’ he said.  ‘Be my loyal subjects and I shall be your just king.’

I was face to face with Duke William of Normandy.  He held the gaze of Edwin for a while, then looked Morcar up and down.  At last he turned to look upon me.  I was transfixed by his stare as if he was holding me captive merely with his eyes.  He seemed to be trying to delve into my soul, to scan my every thought.  I was a mouse cowering, ears flattened, watching helpless as the hawk swooped down to clutch.

‘I shall be a father to you, Edgar,’ he said at last.

I shuddered.

And then I felt immense gratitude flood over me.

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

 This sample is from The Lost King: Resistance, the story of Edgar Atheling’s long battle against the Norman invaders .  It is available as an ebook on a large range of readers including Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Sony Reader, Tablets and PCs.

Use modern technology to transport you to an ancient world.

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EDITING: THE LONG DAY’S JOURNEY TO IMPROVEMENT

I never used to like editing my writing.  In point of fact, I didn’t really know how to edit properly.   I was always aware of Hemingway’s scatological description of his first draft although he seems to be working away quite happily in this picture.

My approach to editing changed when I bought two books by Sol Stein, ‘Solutions for Writers’ and ‘Solutions for Novelists.’  In these he outlined his approach to editing, including a very smart and powerful model using what he calls ‘Triage.’  In this you fix the biggest things first.  These include your characters and their motivation, scenes and overall flow of the story.  Then you should look at more general points including the language used, the rhythm of the piece, tightening up the story and inconsistencies.  Finally you should look at the nuts and bolts of the writing including imprecision of language, confusion in dialogue and things which interrupt the suspension of disbelief.

This is just a quick overview, I’ll say more about Stein’s approach in a later post.

But what is clear is that editing is a long process, that it takes several stages and it can be every bit as creative as the initial writing.

This is the process I use.

1. My editing takes place even when I’m writing my first draft.  I re-read what I wrote the day before and fix anything which needs fixing.
2. Once I’ve finished my first draft I leave it for a month or so.  This leaves me enough space for me to re-read it with fresh eyes.
3. I read the draft quickly and note down anything which works well and doesn’t work so well.  Is the story strong enough?  Are the characters’ motivations realistic and clear?  Are there any parts where the story is sagging?  Are there themes which need to be heightened?  Are there any characters who shouldn’t be there or who are missing?  Are the chapters and scenes in the right order?
4. Then I read it through more slowly, looking for weak style, repetitive words, confusion of narrative or dialogue.  I often find it useful to read out loud when I come across a troubling part.
5. I then read the story in a different format.  First of all I use the Read function in Word.  This puts the manuscript into two pages which is more like a book.  It is surprising how different a view this gives.  I use this for copy-editing, particularly typos and punctuation errors.
6. Then I transfer it to my Kindle and read it on this, making any changes as I go along.  I may also print it out on paper and look at the manuscript in this format as well.
7. When I have made all my corrections I give the draft to my wife to read.  She is a skilled and tenacious reader.  We argue about plot, character and motivation which gives me good ideas on improving the overall shape of the novel.  And she has an eagle eye for typos and punctuation mistakes!
8. I rewrite the manuscript again.  I read it on Kindle once more.  Then I publish.

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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