Get Lost, Won't You?

I mentioned in my most recent post that I was starting a fun little event on my oldest Internet project, the fourteen-year old Yahoogroup Ghostletters. The idea was to invite people to play survivors of a plane crash on a deserted island, á la LOST. The big difference would be, as with Ghostletters itself, that all the participants would be historical or fictional characters, and certainly not limited to humans... or even earthlings.

Only a few days in and the event is already a roaring success! Not only have some pretty darn interesting characters showed up on the island, we now have four or fice different ways they got there!

Here's a sample:

1. There is a wookie starship that just made sure the airplane that crashed did not kill any of the passengers.


2. Watching them is some sort of secret military installation whose may be one of possible causes of the crash.


3. An Irish Republican Army soldier from the 1920s thinks an explosive he had in his duffle did the damage.


4. Admiral Richard E. Byrd, the famous Antarctic explorer, who was flying the plane, thinks one of the engines stalled.


5. A white cat owned by each and every one of Henry VIII's wives finds herself in an unusually large sandbox.


6. More than one of the other survivors floated in.. a medieval era healer was shipwrecked and a tipsy bottle imp came in a corked bottle of Irish whiskey.


7. A well-known Breton mercenary froma certain wonderful novel I could name thinks he is dreaming.


8. There are three nuns looking for people to help.


9. Three people just evicted from their Georgia rental house, which they trashed before they left, think they are in Florida.


10. And it's just a matter of time until more turn up.

Taking a swig from the whiskey bottle, the IRA soldier gets an unexpected mouthful of Chauncey the Bottle Imp, whose Irish patois is even thicker than his own. The Breton mercenary chalks the event up to it being such an odd dream.. and what is that flashing over on that hill? Sun on a sword blade? Or light reflecting off binoculars?

Now how can you resist? You can come and read and jump in when the spirit moves you. Or you can jump in now. Just go to http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ghostletters and get in on the fun.

We call it creative writing at its most engaging.. how about at its most just plain a gas?

Guest Post: To Believe Or Not To Believe? The Challenge of First Person Narratives, by Brandy Purdy

Guest post by Brandy Purdy, author of The Confession of Piers Gaveston and The Boleyn Wife, to be released in February 2010 by Kensington Books.

Dear Reader, when you pick up a historical novel written in the first person, recounting the life story of a famous figure from the past from their perspective, do you believe the tale they spin? Not, in my opinion, if the author has done their job correctly. A first person novel is like P.T. Barnum's autobiography, you shouldn't just take it with a grain of salt, you should have the entire shaker at your elbow.

We all want to be liked and show ourselves in the most favorable and sympathetic light. In any first person account the person telling the story is centerstage—the star demanding their right to twinkle and shine. And their view of the world and other people may be jaundiced.

For instance, when the two parties in a failed relationship tell their story, more often than not, they will both be the victim, the wronged one, and if they do, perchance, accept blame, it will most likely be sugarcoated. I've sometimes found this is a point readers miss.

In my novel THE CONFESSION OF PIERS GAVESTON I am often criticized for depicting King Edward II as lacking in character, of making him appear shallow, one-dimensional, or caricaturish. This was done by intention, the story is being told by Piers Gaveston as he looks back upon his life and a relationship that he finds, in the end, has brought him nothing but sorrow. It's a bitter view as recounted by a disenchanted and disillusioned man trying to justify his life and whitewash his mistakes and flaws as the end draws nigh. My narrator is an unreliable man, and it is for the reader to decide how much of his story is true or false, black or white, or shades of gray.

As a lifelong lover of historical fiction, I have always felt the hallmark of a good first person novel is that it makes the reader wonder how much is true and how much is biased. To believe or not to believe the storyteller? That is the question.

You can contact Brandy Purdy through her website at www.brandypurdy.com.

The Talking Book Marketing Blues

I woke up this morning,
And sat down at my desk.
I thought of my novel,
And how I did my best.

I wrote of my characters,
And made them so real,
But sometimes it feels
Like I'm spinning my wheels.

I got the talkin' book marketing blues.

The book's got a great cover,
So the bookstore guy said,
But even he only gave me
A dollar a head

For my tome of a novel
Of passion and war,
And I wonder sometimes
What is it all for?

I got the talkin' book marketing blues.

I know it's too soon
To give up on this dream.
It's been only six months
Since my book made the scene.

I think I'm doing everything
To get out the word
I've gotten reviews
And their praise reassures.

I got the talkin' book marketing blues.

I made a great trailer
And it's up on YouTube
I blog like a demon
I'm spreadin' the news.

I even left copies
With the donated books
Hoping the readers
Would tell other folks.

I got the talkin' book marketing blues.

I started a book group
And they read the book
I suppose I should be happy
And not be so shook

I just wish I knew
What else I can
To spread the good word
About what I loved to do.

I got the talkin' book marketing blues.

So tell me your secrets
You big-seller writers,
How did you tell them
Those big novel buyers

That they'd love what they read
Of your eloquent words
Of kings and of warriors
Of a romantic old world.

I got the talkin' book marketing blues.

Wifmann Swap

Welcome to another episode of "Wifmann Swap"! This week we have sent Ethelberga of Lundenwic to spend some time with a Norman family, while Matilda of Rouen will the time in the Saxon woman's timber household.

Ranulf, the Norman husband, gets an immediate rebuff from Ethelberha when he tries to exercise his droit de seigneur. He goes off hunting in the New Forest while his children, Jehan and Alys are horrified to find themselves assigned to chores around the castle. Jehan is sent to help sheer the sheep while Alys learns to practice the highly boring task of spinning with a drop spindle and distaff. "But my mother says a lady's must be preserved for fine work such as embroidery. Ethelberga replies, "Hlaefdiges aren't afraid to get their hands dirty. I swear, I don't know how you people ever conquered us."

Meanwhile Matilda is virtually frozen in place. Wulfstan actually stays home and works on the farm, sleeps in the same room as his wife and expects her to do the hard work alongside her. He seems annoyed when she meekly goes along with whatever he says, causing him to compplain, "Ethelberga has a mind of her own." Matilda defers as well to young Athelwick who is as stunned as she is and winds up going to the cow byre to hide, suspecting some sort of trick. Milthryth shakes her head at the tapestry work Matilda wants her to to share. "Can't you do anything useful?" she asks her temporary Mom.

Then comes the rules change. Matilda puts her foot down. The men's and women's chambers are separated. Wulfstan must cut his hair and shave off his beard. He must spend the day with other men, hunting or fighting, with Athelwick in tow. Milthyth must stop running and playing and sit quietly and learn her place. In the castle Ranulf finds his daughter and Ethelberga underfoot in what used to be the men's quarters. The hall now has a wall loom, and there is flax and wool everywhere. Ethelberga unsuccessfully tries to get him to help her with the cheesemaking. Jehan runs away rather than giver up his horse to fight in a shield-wall and Alys is timidly beginning to like these rights she has.

As a result of his refusal to play the game, Ranulf and Matilda lose the prize money. Wulfstan and Ethelberga plan to spend it on a plank floor for their wattle cottage.

Reference Librarians Sit at the Right Hand of God

Or maybe it's "God sits at the right hand of reference librarians". I love reference librarians. Can you tell?

Just yesterday I had a truly wonderful experience with the AskaLibrarian online service at King County Library Service. The librarian helping me was a fellow named Carson. Besides the fact that he knew where to look, what tools to use, how to be creative in thinking what other sources he could consult.. he was just so darned pleasant and enthusiastic about it. I find that reference librarians are more often than not as love with history and its hidden treasures as I am. The difference is is that they can access them better than I can.

Given that much of my life is spent boring total strangers with the wonders of Anglo Saxon England, to have someone like Carson getting enthused about finding out who was abbess of Romsey Abbey in the year 985 was gratifying.. maybe even soothing. Neither of us was ever able to pin down the actual dates but we sure had fun and learned a lot of other things along the way. When we ended our online chat session, Carson said he had to go but he was so involved in the search he would continue and get in touch with me by email. He did, this morning, with all sorts of other wonderful bits of information. I found out several things I will be able to use in the current novel and one or more of the sequels. Abbess Ethelflaed liked to sing psalms in the middle of the night in the icy winter waters of the Test... naked, though that would hardly matter. My bard, O'Quill, might find that embarrassing if he happened across her then. And her successor, Elwina, was warned about a Danish raid by a miraculous voice. I wonder if it had an Irish accent?

I certainly have had numerous equally fulfilling experiences with reference librarians. I think the group of them at the Bellevue Regional Library have gotten an impromptu education on the delights of Anglo Saxon England out of me, but they sure seemed to enjoy it! Being severely bisually impaired I think I appreciate these resourceful folks more than most. Even if I had the time and skills, the research I could do on my own is tiny. It's better now, with my BookReader and the one I discovered the University of Washington Bothell library has, but no electronic device will ever match the capacity, wit and willingness of the brain of a reference librarian.

Wouldn't it be nice if every "expert" shared knowledge so earnestly and eagerly?

Fabulous Blog Award

My genuine thanks to Carla Nayland of Carla Nayland Historical Fiction for awarding this blog the "Fabulous Blog Award"! Anything nice Carla says about me is a meaningful thing to hear!

I am to list five obsessions and then five more people with fabulous blogs.

Obsessions

1. Anglo Saxon England and anything related to its people, history and culture. Just ask anyone who has spent more than ten minutes with me. I find a way to bring it up, come what may.
2. Irish anything, especially the music -- see my Celtic music station online at Radio Dé Danaan and history, particularly the history of Irish rebellion.
3. Historical fiction, of course, and in particular that which takes place in the Middle Ages. See my site medieval-novels.com and my Let's Read Historical Novels online book group. This includes fostering the supply of historical novels in alternate formats for severely visually imapired readers such as myself.
4. My family, which includes my adored husband Jim and our even more adored cats, Stanzi, Kitkat, Mr. Hata and MacDhui.
5. My oldest friends, the characters in An Involuntary King. Lawrence, Josephine, Shannon, Rory, and the rest have been as real to me for the past 45 years as most DNA-bearing folks have been.

Next Recipients of the Award

I could've added a sixth obsession.. obsessing over how to choose just five fabulous blogs and bloggers!

1. Greta Marlow
2. Anne Gilbert
3. Susan Higginbotham
4. Liam Gilar
5. Davd Spender

---

Don't miss my other post today!!! It's right below or just click "older posts" if it is not.

You + Blurbs = Amazon Gift Certificate!

Take a look through medieval-novels.com and you will see a lot of books. Over 1,200 of them, and all of them novels set in the Middle Ages.

But you will also see that many of them list little more than title and author. We want to fix that, and we would like your help. We will happily reward you for that help!

We are prepared to pay you fifty cents for every blurb you find for a book that has none at all. Your reward will come in the form of an Amazon.com gift certificate. The minimum is ten blurbs, therefore a minimum of $5.00. The more you send us, the more you will earn.

If you would like to do this, you will have to drop us a note and say what books you will find blurbs for -- just so we don't get two or three for the same book. You might, for instance, offer to provide blurbs -- that is one to three sentences describing the plot of each novel -- for two authors listed in Mysteries.

If you have any questions, do let me know. And if you would like to do this, just write to me and tell me which books you want dibs on. I will reply and let you know if you should go ahead. We can only reward those blurbs we gave the go ahead on, so don't get started unless you hear from me.

Write to me at hawthorne@nanhawthorne.com .
Or you can call me at 425-487-1140 -- I am in the Pacific time zone.

The site is http://www.medieval-novels.com .

If you read the book and can write an original blurb from memory, then terrific. If not and you can find a brief blurb on, say, Amazon.com, then great.

We are also looking for information on books not already on the site. See http://www.medieval-novels.com/about.htm for a submission form. These will not be subject to reward unless we prearrange for this.

NOTE: Our site is limited to novels set between 500 and 1600 AD give or take a few years set anywhere in the world. Movies and TV shows and books listed in the "Fantasy, Alternate History and Then and Now Mysteries" are not eligible for the reward. Only listings without blurbs are eligible and will be counted once even if the book is listed in more than one place. You are not limited to books listed on Amazon, but can include books from any source, press, library, etc. Let me know if you need clarification.

Nan Hawthorne

The Secrets of a Good Marriage: Maid Marian

[I hereby extend an invitation to other historical fiction bloggers to take up this question with historical or literary figures of interest to them! Not every choice will represent a truly happy marriage. For instance, I am sure Edward II's queen can give advice based on negative experience! If you don't have a blog, I will be happy to post your list here.]

Maid Marian

Well, first of all by my very name you should know I am not married. Even if I stayed a maiden after marriage, heaven forfend, no one would call me "Maid Marian". But Robin and I have been together as a couple if not with a consummated marriage, so I can imagine what a married woman would take from my wisdom.

1. Be patient with a man who is aware of his duty. I know the Scripture says a woman, and I assume a man, should cleave unto their marriage, but come on, the King is bound to trump that duty. Robin had to go to the Holy Land with the Lionheart. It would have done no good to nag him about it.

2. Wait for him while he is in the army. He may not be celibate, but giv4en the possible consequences you will have to be.

3. Don't marry a man for his social rank or money. You never know when those will be taken from him, or for that matter, tossed aside by him.

4. Stand by your man. Even if you are Prince John's ward.

5. Be flexible. You might want to live at Huntington Castle, but your marriage may not turn out that way.

6. Keep your camping skills honed.

7. Get along with his friends.

8. Don't marry a man whose politics you don't share, or stay away from the topic.

9. Don't give up on him. You don't want him coming back from the Holy Land the second time to find you've taken a job as an abbess.

10. When your man's back is really up against the wall, be prepared to help him out with a quick exit whatever it costs you. You never know when those herbalist skills will come in handy.

"The History of Ireland in Music" for St. Patrick's Day

A message from Shannon O'Neill:

Tune in this week to Radio Dé Danaan online for "A History of ireland in Music", a two hour and 45 minute repearing program of everything from the ancient standing stones to The Troubles in Northern Ireland as commemorated in music and poetry.

Vist the Radio Dé Danaan blog for more information and a widget where you can listen to this stirring and fascinating history.

And I'll be after thanking ye for dropping by, so I will.

Shannon O'Neill

A Plea to Writers of Horror and Mysteries

To all my fellow novelists, including historical novelists, and in particular those who write mysteries and horror fiction, I offer this heartfelt plea.

I beg you, when you seek to enhance the creepiness factor of the atmosphere of your chilling tale -- leave people with disabilities out of it, OK?

I just finished reading Philippa Gregory's The Wise Woman. It is a horror novel, though it took me some time to figure out that was why it was so unceasingly grim. When I cam to the realization I forgave the book some of its odder aspects, but one item that had puzzled me now really ticked me off. There is a character, David, whom the "heroine" Alys assumes at first to be a jester, but he turns out to be a seneschal and canny as all get out. It was understanding that the novel was paranormal horror that explained to me why he was in the story. He was there to help make it creepier.

How often do authors use people with disabilities to add to the creepiness factor? I remember in Tom Tryon's The Dark Secret of Harvest Home the first eerie scene involves the main character, just moved to the scary New England town, keeps hearing someone reading aloud from The Three Musketeers. Oh my God, it's coming from the house next door! The protagonist is creeped out, but he finally takes his courage in his hands and goes over to find out what arcane practice is going on. It turns out, as I know of course, that his nextdoor neighbor is blind. And, horrors, he's listening to a Tallkign Book!!! If this is the sort of thing that scares you, come on over to my house. I have a book going all the time.

I am sure if we put our heads together we could list dozens of characters in books we have read who are disabled in some way and who are there to add to the creepiness of the story. If you throw fat people in for good measure, you will find many, many more. Stephen King is not above it, or he used not to be, with the superhuman but nevertheless ideal victim of the blind radio broadcaster in Black House. Now that King is himself legally blind, I wonder if he regrets that choice?

Maybe it's hard to understand why this offends me. The easiest way to get this across to you is to ask you to choose some other group of people to put in those roles. My guess is that you will find the characters unsatisfyingly uncreepy or downright offensive in their stereotypes. The thing is, just being disabled, or fat or gay or old, does not make one creepy or sinister or threatening. Here, I'll ask my husband. As a blind person am I creepy? He answered, "No! Who says you're creepy?"

If you don't believe him, come on over. Let's see if I creep you out. If not, I guess you will just have to be a good writer without using easy gimmicks.

Getting One's Isms Mixed Up

Just now I am reading Philippa Gregory's The Wise Woman. Once it hit me it is a horror novel, I started cutting it a little more slack for its plot's unremitting unpleasantness.

Clearly this story is one of many dozens about how men had all the power and women had to use uniquely devious or extraordinary female power just to survive. The protagonist comes right out and thinks this and acts, in her case, by using a combination of the Top Two.. sex and witchcraft.

Whenever this theme comes up I sigh. The characters themselves, though immersed in the truith of the matter, seem to miss one important point. For them, as for just about every woman in history, there is an ism that trumps sexism, and that is classism. One line of thought by Alice, the sixteen year old "heroine" is that men always win and always get their way, including the two queens Henry VIII has disposed of so far. Lady Katherine is about to go the way of Queen Katherine of Aragon, and Alice smugly nods to herself a sort of "there they go again!" Sisterhood is powerful, and all those other lovely early 1970s slogans.

But, but, but... I say.. the only person in this spectrum who is over all women, and I mean that authority-wise though I am sure he tried his darnedest in other ways too, is Henry. Even pitiful Lady Katherine has it all over the peasants in her world, and not just the females. The slogan should be more like "Down with Imperialism" rather than the one about Sisterhood.

Why do women persist in overlooking the all-pervading and entirely trumping aspect of classism? Is that we want the privileges and therefore ignore the issues more germane to everyday life? Are we afraid if we focus too much on classism our available men will be crude swearing men with lentils in their beards and the smell of cabbage about them rather than lovely pretty sweet smelling guys like, urk, Lord Hugo? My guess is that it's the first option.. we want sexual equality, but stay away from our social distinctions.

And another thing.. the next person who questions how my erotic heroine Juliana knew so much about sex at twenty-something needs to take a look at this book.. boy howdy! Alice seems to know a great deal for a teenager who has spent a life of isolation with an old woman in the woods and then in a convent. You go, Juliana!

My 200th Post

After the Reunion, Part 3

Shannon knew that Rory could not stay away from the queen for more than a day or two. "Like a moth to a flame, so he is," he muttered to himself. And he knew as soon as those delicate wings of his were singed at the edges again, his and Rory's time on their own was at an end.

It was good to see the man's reunion with the king. Whatever Shannon had thought of Lawrence in the past, he saw him now for the warm and tender man he was when not faced with a threat. He clearly did not see the tall gangly storyteller as a threat, for his smiling bear hug almost lifted the Ulsterman off his feet. Nor did it take long before Lawrence and his queen had clasped each of Rory's arms to propel him back to the children's lodging.

Shannon hung back, letting them all have their reunion. He was not overlooked however. Josephine saw her children set to climbing all over Rory, then glanced up to see Shannon leaning idly in the doorway. She came over to him.

"Is it not a blessing, praise God, to have him back?" she said as she put her arms around him. Like she, he was nowhere near as tall as the two other men, and their time together during Gadfrid's short reign had put them on a much on an almost equal footing. Not that Shannon ever was subservient. It was, as he said, "not me way."

Shannon smiled back into her eyes. "It is, indeed it is. As long as he was gone, thought I did he must be dead. Then there he was, grand and bonny, just in the nick of time." He put one arm around her shoulders, causing Lawrence's bright smile to flicker momentarily. Josephine looked back up at her husband with a frank face, and the king shrugged and turned his attention back to Rory and the children.

Shannon whispered into the queen's ear, "Now did Himself tell you how he came to be in that monastery?"

Josephine looked blank. "Lindisfarne? He followed me there. Oh, you mean the one where he was taken after the hanging? No, we have not spoken about it. 'Tis too unpleasant a topic. Why? Has he not told you?"

Shannon shook his head, "Nay, he did so, and he does not know all of what happened. I suppose we shall be after never learning what passed. But I am curious about one thing.."

Josephine stopped her slow walk to where the children were prattling at Rory and waited for Shannon's question.

The children caught sight of Shannon and Tavish crowed, "Shaddod!" which started the rush of four little sets feet up to Shannon and four sets of arms to throw about his legs. Shannon gave the queen a "we can talk later" wink and crouched to gather the little ones in his own arms.

"Watch the lute, now them, don't smash it," he cried, laughing.

At dinner Lawrence quizzed Rory about his last meeting with Elerde. Josephine was off conferring with the steward at the moment. "Heading north, you say? What did he say about m y wife."

Rory looked back at him earnestly. "He said to go to her, nothing more."

"And he had his men with him?"

"Aye, all of them that I recall."

Lawrence took a gulp of wine and asked, "And none of them said anything to you?"

Rory shook his head. "Nay, save that they were that surprised and happy to see me not dead."

Lawrence sat back in his ornately carved chair. "What did happen, Rory? By the time we knew you were taken by O'Donnell we believed it was too late to rescue you."

Rory waved the implicit guilt away. "I am that certain 'twould have been by then."

Lawrence looked uneasy. "Shannon told us. Told us about O'Donnell's.. interest in you that is. Is that what happened, what he wanted you to, that he did...?"

Rory put the king out of his embarrassed misery. "Aye, he wanted me for a lover. But it did not happen. Should I have been so inclined, I should not have wished to.. with O'Donnell."

Lawrence lifted one eyebrow. "But you are not so drawn, so why you did not submit is not important." He was giving Rory a way to avoid expressing his vow to be true to Josephine. Although everyone knew of it, including Lawrence, he was the one person who did not want to discuss it.

Rory considered the king levelly for a moment. "He had a lover of his own, a Scot. methinks that was who saw me away from my peril."

Lawrence held up his cup for more wine as the servant passed along with a pitcher. "There was a man, with O'Donnell, in that final battle."

Rory looked up from his trencher. "Not tall but well made, dark hair and beard? Not as dark of the Breton lord?"

Lawrence nodded. "Aye. When O'Donnell was killed, the man avenged him on the killer. That was my lady's cousin Ioruert. Then Ruallauh killed him."

Rory looked aghast. "MacDhui killed Ioruert. Ochon." He put his face in his hands.

The days went on, each person struggling to return to a normal life. Two years of danger, of bloody battle, of estrangement and loss left them all stunned. Further there was much to catch up on, simple tales of how they all got on, but many as well that were almost as difficult in the telling than they were in living. Lawrence grew so grim as Josephine related her journey after the ambush on the Lincoln road through the usurping and her escape that she found herself leaving out the tenser moments, which only made him angry.

Shannon and Rory spent the first days making the rounds of the Celts who lived near Lawrencium, but slowly a tension developed between them. Shannon saw Rory watching him with a frown whenever he got drunk. For his part, Rory would catch Shannon giving him a speculative but reserved looked, the reason for which he hoped he did not know. That was the one thing he did not want to explain, not to anyone.

Shannon was drinking a great deal, almost continuously. In a time where the accustomed drink was ale for breakfast, dinner, and supper, one had to drink a good deal and stick to the ale from the last of the typical three brewings from the malted barley which had a much higher alcohol content. Shannon did both. Further, he did not hold his drink well, was a stumble down, sloppy drunk whose behavior amused most, but not Rory.

Rory made his mind up to speak to Leofwen's healer friend. He found her outside the back of the alehouse helping Leofwen with her baking. The woman stood up with her hands pressed to her lower back. "So now you have a question too?" she groaned.

At Rory's blank look, she realized he was not aware that Shannon had approached her earlier that day. "Shannon was at me with questions about you. He was curious about your injuries and how they would have healed. I told him I could know nothing without talking to you and examining those injuries." As she spoke he came up to him and was fingering his left eye whose orbital bone had broken badly enough to make his cheek deformed and his eyelid droop. She tut-tutted over. "This really is too bad. And you such a handsome man."

"Shannon spoke to you? What did he want to know?" Rory's blood ran chill.

The healer ran her hands down Rory's arms and torso. "Your cracked ribs seem to be healing. What's wrong with your knee?" She stopped and registered his question. "He wanted to know how long it would take for injuries like yours to heal."

Rory frowned. "I see," he said quietly. He turned around and walked around the edge of the alehouse.

"Wait!" the healer called. "Was there something..."

Leofwen and she exchanged looks. Leofwen confided, "Shannon thinks Rory stayed away longer than he needed to."

The healer crossed her arms over her chest. "Why would he do that?"

Leofwen shrugged. "You know that Shannon went through hell thinking Rory was gone. If it is true that Rory did not come and did not even send word, then all that suffering need not have happened."

The healer gazed at her friend open-mouthed. "No it need not have! I don't understand. Why hasn't Shannon asked??"

Leofwen pressed her lips tight together. "I think Shannon is afraid to. He thinks it might be something he would rather not know."

Continues...

medieval-novels.com Update

Jim is on a business trip today and tomorrow, and I thought that made a convenient marathon time for updating the medieval-novels.com web site. Of course I took most of today fiddling with the new look of the site. I had an idea of coming up with some dramatic columns et cetera but will have to do a lot more work to get what I came up with to be dramatic. Still, it's pretty.

Tomorrow's post will be the 200th one on this blog. I plan to put the next scenes in my After the Reunion series. Rory and Shannon will visit the stronghold, with an awkward moment for Rory in the offing. Hope you enjoy.

Murder, Treachery, Love Children... Oh My!

Historical timeline pursuant to writing my next novel. Corrections welcome!

954 Eric Bloodaxe driven out of Northumbria, his death, end of Danelaw.
King of England: Eadred

957 Edgar crowned King of all lands north of the Thames.
King of England: Edwy/Eadweg
Bishop of Winchester: Aelfsige

958 Aelfsige translated to Archbishop of Canterbury

1 October 959 Edgar becomes King of England at death of his older brother, Edwy.
Edgar recalls Dunstan from Flanders?
King of England: Edgar
Bishop of Winchester: Beorhthelm

960 Dunstan created Archbishop of Canterbury

962 Son Edward born to Edgar and Æthelflæd Eneda.  

963 Bishop of Winchester: Aethelwold (to 984)964
Edgar marries Ælfthryth, the daughter of Ordgar, ealdorman of Devon, and widow of Æthelwold, Ealdorman of East Anglia.  

965 Birth of Ethelraed – earliest likely date.

973 Actual coronation of Edgar. Cool Fact: Ritual used is essentially the one still used today.
Six Kings submit to his rule.

8 July 975 Death of King Edgar.

975 Edward the Martyr becomes King of England.
Comet followed by famine.
King of England: Edward II

975-978 Unrest as nobles wrested control of lands taken from them and given to monasteries by Edgar.

March 978 Edward murdered at Corfe Castle in Dorset. He was buried at Shaftsbury Abbey in 980.  

978 Ethelraed becomes King of England
King of England: Ethelraed

980 Viking raiders attacked Hampshire, Thanet, and Cheshire.

981 Viking raids on Devon and Cornwall   

982 Viking raids on Dorset.
Tensions growing between English and Norman courts due to Norman support of Danes.  

984 Death of Bishop Aethelwold on 1 August 984, with whom Ethelraed was very close.
Bishop of Winchester: Aelfheah II (to 1006)985
Ethelraed marries Aelfgifu, daughter of Thored, earl of Northumbria.
Our story begins.  

986-1002 Ethelraed and Aelfgifu have ten children between 986 and 1002, including Edmund Ironside between 988-93.  

988 Battle with Vikings in southwest.  

10 August 991 Battle of Maldon in Essex. Vikings win.  

991 Pope John XV forces peace treaty between England and Normandy, ratified in Rouen.  
Ethelraed agrees to pay 10,000 pounds to Vikings to secure peace in southeast.
Viking raids continue. 

993 Danish raiders burn Romsey and Romsey Abbey to the ground.  

994 Ethelraed meets with Viking leader, Olaf Tryggvason, to arrange another peace. Pays 22,000 pounds more for peace.Olaf Tryggvason formally becomes Christian with Ethelraed as his sponsor. Agrees to permanent peace, which he keeps.Former Viking raiders become mercenaries for England.  

997-1000 Escalation of Danish raids, very likely mercenaries turning on their employer.  

1000 Danes leave for Normandy.  

1002 Aelfgifu dies February 1002.
Ethelraed marries Emma of Normandy, sister of Richard II, Duke of Normandy  

1009-121014? Sweyn takes over England and Danish rule begins   

More to come.

Once Upon a Time... Part I

Once upon a time there were two very young people living in a dilapidated hovel in an area that would some day be called East Wellow. Their names were Edwy and Luba. They were brother and sister, as well as husband and wife. One day when Luba was very near her time to birth their first child, Edwy left her alone to hunt for food and a fur to warm their little baby.

He never came back.

Our Character Panel Reports Some Research

Pictured: Leofwen

Leofwen bustled about the alehouse preparing the potage for the day's guests. At one long table near a narrow window whose shutters were open, ;Rory and Aedan sat with their heads together. Rory looked at her with admiration as she pored over a strip of parchment, reading aloud what was scratched there. Rory had never learned to read.

"There doesn't seem to be anything certain about the date of King AEthelraed's first wedding. The Author can probably choose any year in the early 980s."

Rory nodded. "When was their first child born?" He watched as Aedan drew her finger down a column of text

"Ummm, it doesn't say. AEthelstan was the first. The seond is Edmund Ironsides. It says he was born around 988. They aren't sure though." She looked up into the clear blue eyes that always took her breath away.

"Och, then I imagine the marriage was no more than two years prior. D'ye think we could say 986?"

Aedan considered, her lower lip thrust up against her upper, and nodded. "I think we can say that. The queen's name was AElfgifu." She looked down at the parchment again. "So Sean's mystery would be from about the early to mid-960s..."

Rory admired the way her soft brown hair waved wher it ecaped from her headdress. He knew she had been wed briefly, that her first husband died and there were no children. That was why she wore the headdress. Her sister Ystradwel, unmarried and a maiden, need not cover her hair. He wished Aedan left her hair flowing as well. He longed to touch... "So who was king then?" he quickly censored his own thoughts.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

"What?" Rory asked, leaning over as if he could see and read what surprised her. Leofwen heard the the exchange and came to stand by them , her broom clutched in two hands.

"Edgar! Edgar the Peaceable." Aedan read.

Leofwen chuckled. "AEthelred's and Edward's father. None too peaceable, though he put an end to the heptarchy peaceably enough."

Rory looked up puzzled. "Wasn't he the one who...?" he began.

Leofwen replied, "Kidnapped the nun? Oh aye. Wulfthryth, she was, a nun at Wilton. St. Edith was their daughter. Got himself in hot water with St. Dunstan, but that didn't stop the old man from letting himself be made Bishop of this and that and finally Archbishop of Canterbrigge.""

"So what was going on in Wessex in say, 960-965? Rory prompted.

"Not a lot of information here..." Aedan began. She looked up at Leofwen. "My family came from Cumbria, but you lived here all your life, didn't you?"

Leofwen leaned her broom against the wall and took a seat next to her. "After I was teleported from Lincolnshire in the lat 8th century, after the first novel, aye."

"Do you remember what went on after 960 here?"

Leofwen reached for Rory's bowl of ale and took a sip before answering. "Hmm, I know Edgar stuck around for another ten year's or so. He got Edward the Martyr on his wife, AEthelflaed, then our noble AEthelraed on his second or third wife, Ælfthryth, depending on who's counting." Rory raised an eyebrow at the mocking tone she used on the word "noble". "Then later on there was a comet and a famine and the Danes came and..."

Aedan interrupted. "Sounds like we need to do more research and another blog post."

How I Wrote at Sixteen

An Involuntary King started out as "The Story", with the same basic characters and conflicts, along with quite a bit more. That we briefly called it "Faithful Forever" should receive a spit take if you read the various affairs the king and queen had. Here is a "scene", what we called individual stories, written in 1968 -- the dates of the stories always corresponded to the real date the story was written. Needless to say, there were a few changes prior to publication of the novel... ahem...

September 768

Life was gayer than usual. Although Josephine and Lawrence were always happy and content together, just not much occurred in Lawrencium. Christenlande's (the old name for Críslicland) capital tended to be a bit on the dull side. Both the King and Queen felt it. There was an occasional feast, and a lot of scandals, but otherwise all they did was sit in court trying to look pleasant.

But now! Lawrence had set for mid-September a tournament, and had invited the Lord of Brittany and his knights. The Frenchman had quickly accepted, and soon enough arrived, with much of his household. Lawrence now spent much time bragging about "formidable English steel, only outshone by the valor of English knights," et cetera, and the Queen was frequently with the Breton ladies, discussing fashions, the news from France, and particularly the new king, Charles, who was said to very handsome, brace, and courteous.

Lawrence had a habit of calling his wife by different names, depending upon his present mood. When he was either very stern or emotional, it was Josephine, when affectionate, Jo, when in polite company, My Lady, or My Dearest Queen. When he was excited, it was Josie, sentimental, Sunshine, and when he was being melodramatic, it was Josephina.. Well now he was calling her "Josie" and beaming from ear to ear.

In the kitchens, beef, mutton, hams and venison were roasting. One couldn't begin to count the loaves of bread and barrels of wine. And not only was the feast to be great, but the garb of the guests and hosts was quite dazzling. There was silk, fur, brocade, cloth of gold, jewelry and tons of other things. For once Lawrence swerved from his traditional garments and donned a fine silver-embroidered green silk tunic, over a white silk shirt. His shoes were fine leather, with engraved straps. He wore and emerald medallion, many rings, and his gold crown. He wore no hose, not caring for them, but his shoe straps bound his leg to the knee. Josephine was ravishing in a clinging gray dress of gossamer-like cloth, low cut at the breast, embroidered with silver and set with topaz. She wore a pearl necklace and her gray silk coif had pearls sewed on it with silver thread. She, of course, wore her topaz rings. Though the Frenchman were elegant in their rare attire, there were no two as handsome as the King and Queen.

The first day of the tournament had been quite pleasant, and the guests and hosts set into their feast joyously. It was only a tourney, so naturally the lances had been blunted and the swords covered with dull covers. The only injuries had been a few broken fingers, and a rib or two. Shannon had attempted a bout, and had been promptly been unhorsed and badly shaken. When the day was over, those among the remaining English contenders were Lawrence, Percy, and Christophe. The last had roughly accepted kind plea to join his side, although it hardly mattered. No real challenges hand been made yet, except an angry quarrel between two young knights, which was discouraged, and assuaged quickly.

Now on the evening of the second day, the King and Queen sat at the head of the great hall, conversing happily with the lord of Brittany and his pretty young wife. Josephine looked out over the crowded hall and smiled and the enjoyment everyone seemed to feel. Her eyes sought out Shannon. Now, Tramtrist had become the most favored of the minstrels, but she saw Shannon where she knew he would be, amongst a group of children, who were laughing and singing with him, although many of the Breton children spoke no English.

In the midst of the merriment, a young Frenchman strode up form the back of the hall. He knelt quickly to the King, and then kissed the hem of Queen's skirts. Tilting his face to her, she know had full view of his face, and she gasped. She threw a frightened, helpless look at Shannon. He shook his head and pointed to the man, but the Queen grimly nodded.

The knight stood. He threw his gauntlet at the King's feet, and looked down coolly. Lawrence laughed, but the look angered hi, and he asked sharply what the grievance of the man was. The knight said only, " I am Elerde, Knight of Brittany."

A shiver went through the room. Just recently it had been made publicly known that Sir Elerde intended to have the thing he'd desired so long - the Queen. He'd just challenged her lord to a combat to the death.

Lawrence's face became flushed and his eyes were sharp with fury. He picked up the gauntlet and with all his strength, crushed it. Elerde tried to hide his uneasiness at this, and said calmly, "Tomorrow, then?" and threw an amorous glance at the Queen. She shuddered and clung to the King as they both watched Elerde leave the hall.

That evening, the King paced the floor of the royal chambers. The Queen sat on the bed, weeping. Shannon acme and tired to calm the King, who merely said coldly, "Save thy breath for comforting thy Queen. I cannot be calmed." Shannon had tried both, but finally left, having failed.

The next day, the Queen requested that the Irishman and his wife sit with her in her pavilion. She was nearly distraught with anxiety and lack of sleep. She pressed Shannon's hand close in hers, while on the other side, he held Heather close.

A few minor battles were fought, and finally Lawrence and Elerde advanced onto the tourney field and lowered their lances to her. Then they went to opposite sides of the field and began the tilting. It was eight tilts before Lawrence took a slight wound on his shoulder, and dismounted to continue with sword. For a long time the fought, both taking some bad blows, until the battle turned obviously to Lawrence's favor. Soon he had Sir Elerde at his mercy. Shannon felt himself clutched from both sides, as Lawrence raised his sword, but threw it aside. Unlacing his helmet, he swore loudly and threw it aside also. Then he rose, and hotly walked off to his squires. But suddenly, Elerde was also, and grabbing the sword, threw himself at Lawrence. Guards carried him away to the dungeons, quickly, but Lawrence was left on his face in the dirt, unconscious, the back of his head crimson with blood.

Josephine fainted away, and as she and Lawrence were carried to their respective chambers, Shannon tried to comfort Heather who was weeping her heart out.

When Josephine aroused, she was hysterical, but she was soon called down. She was led up the privy stairway to the King's chambers. Her face went white when she saw him, in their bed. He was heavily bandaged, his taut face pallid and his breathing irregular. The leech said the King was very near to death, having been struck very strongly with the hilt of his own sword, not the blade as she had feared. She knew Elerde's action was purely despair, but she had to hate the men who had done this to her love.

As it went, Sean's mother was found to have special knowledge of medicines. It was thanks to her that four hours later, the King ceased to die, and slept almost peacefully. Jo dismissed all in the room, and curling up beside Lawrence, wept herself to sleep.

Image above: Elerde and Lawrence, drawn when I was sixteen also.

More like this if you can stand it at http://www.nanhawthorne.com/aik/ .

Fan Fiction Is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

Coming to my Great Realization this past week I thought about how to achieve my goal of getting my An Involuntary King characters out into the world with lives of their own. The original idea, way back in 1964, was for my friend Laura and me to keep writing the stories, and my idea was to get others involved. I was partially successful. Linda Laaksonen supplied a wife for Shannon O'Neill and some other characters from a Scottish village called Connery. Suellen, who was almost my step-sister, initially created Sir Michael, who in my hands became the tragic lover of Samir al Tamid, a Saracen adn first partner of MacDhui. So the concept was there to share the characters and the stories with other creative people. And recently a woman on my Let's Read Historical Novels group told me she wished she had been there when I was trying to rope people into my storytelling. The stage looked to be being set.

Other authors have said they are reluctant to hand characters over to other people to make decisions.. but in my case, even the writing of the novel I consulted the famous Laura about actions of Josephine and Elerde. I figure, too, that someone else is unlikely to make as much of a mess as I myself did... having Lawrence have a mistress, or Laura did, having Josephine fall in love with a certain Sir Robert de Riffet. (The king banishes himself for a year for poisoning the guy.) We each wrote a couple melodramatic death scenes as well. That never changed the dcirtual reality of the characters for me before. Why would it now?

To take this a step further, the collaborative writing group Ghostletters offered an opportunity for siome uniwue crossover. Shannon spent some time on Encelatus, a moon of Saturn, with a young friend written by another person. She borrowed my character Ishaq to have him wandering the streets of the lunar colony. Shannon and Rory gave a concert for a group of vampires living in France. And Shannon again had a lost weekend with an immortal Scotswoman named Jireen. This all happened while I was writing the novel.

So it turns out Jack Graham, the wonderful fellow who worked with me on the battle scenes in my novel, has a hankering to reform Elerde, the "tragi-nasty" would-be lover of the queen in my book, and is putting together a story about him where he reaches the brink of despair and is saved and finds love.

I said to Jack, "If you did that, it would be a fulfillment of a dream fro me.. for my characters to so engage someone s/he decides to write about them. I set out to find the best way to make this possible, gaining myself some praise from one of the moderators of the site fanfiction.net, who commented that it was refreshing to meet an author who encouraged people to write about her characters. There is a category there now for An Involuntary King, though it will not actually appear publicly until a story is uploaded.

Not hubris.. or even conceit.. there are a few people who really want to do this. Finally!

Now I am just waiting for the slash fiction to start.. who will it be? Lawrence and Rory? ;)

The End of My Writing Career.. and the Beginning of my Career As a Temple Priestess

I came to an important conclusion yesterday. I don't really want a writing career as I formerly understood the concept. I thought that because I was able to pull together such a good novel from my mission to gibe the characters from Laura's and my old stories that this meant I was a Writer. I know I can write.. I have known that for years. But what I thought was implicit in my success is that not only can I write other stories and characters but that I should. Now I am not sure that really is what I should do.

My original purpose in writing An Involuntary King was to take the characters that existed mostly only in my own head and make them real to others. I found my old friend who had developed them with me and discovered she had not even thought of them for years. Clearly they were not the life force of their own they were and are to me. My husband knew all about them now, thanks to typing all the the old stories for me, and I got a taste from his reaction to the characters, dear sweet man that he is, of what they could offer other reeaders. I started writing about them, adding a more mature insight into their lives and motivations. Then I realized anew how important they h ad been and always were to me. So I gave them an existence beyond myself. I won't last forever. They can.

Thanks to what I learned yesterday and what I realize today has lurked under the surface of my attempts to write other books is that being a novelist was n3ever the prime mover. The characters and writing about them was. So why do anything else? Why relinquish the role I cherish most, that of being the temple priestess to their lives?

Non-writers may find this all odd. They are fictional! These people never existed! Writers will get it though.. get that there is no lack of reality to these vivid characters, these old friends of mine. It's time for the chanting, the libation in the temple. Sacrifice? It doesn't feel like one.

So Random Acts goes on the shelf to wait for its own time.. since it is almost all written, why toss it? Those who have read it liked it. And Adam and Jacques will be translated almost in the spiritual sense to mix with my archetypes of the strong but thoughtful general, the loving but self-absorbed beauty, the intense and driven mercenary, the too good for his own good bard and the innocent wastrel. Their clones may take ovber the story for a while, in a later time and a real setting, but the originals will never let me shelve them. I have already started telling their story here on this blog. The paranormal mysteries in late 10th century Wessex exist and will be my ne project.. starting today

What sweet contentment I feel, back in my proper role again. And how grateful I am to Jim, who last night heard my plans and smiled and affirmed he had know it all along.

Now I just have to break the news to my characters. I think they will be pleased... and a little smug.

My Novel Gets a Tarot Reading

Recently I had a tarot reading from Alexandra Chauron of Earthshod about whom I heard on NPE's Morning Edition. (Listen to interview.)

I asked about the best way I can foster the success of my novel. My regular readers here know that An Involuntary King is much more than a book to me. It is a quest to show my appreciation for and love for -- and share -- characters I developed and who were my constant friends in my tuurbulent teen years. I wrote the novel to give Lawrence, Josephine, Shannon, Rory, and yes, even Elerde lives not dependent on mine. I wanted to know how to make this a reality.

Alexandra told me right up front that she was surprised at all the Major Arcana cards that came up in the reading. I didn't tell her this happens to me all the time. I have always gotten lots of these. She said what this meant to her is that the book is itself a strong separate entity that will drive what happens to it, and that I should trust that energy. The way she put it is that the book is steering itself. The entire experience of writing the book was like that, as if collectively my characters and the stories about them were born more than merely crafted. And the birth metaphor extends to how emotional and at times painful the whole process was for me.

The first card, the "question",was The Fool, not at all a negative but instead new ventures, trust, innocence of a sort. Purity, or as my old Asatry friend said, clarity of intent, a concept by which Thyre Karing set great store.

Not surprising then that the card that came up for my past was the 8 of Cups inverted. Birthing the novel helped me grow and break through to another level. One result of writing the book was that I came to understand that writing was what either I just want or indeed was meant to do, that nothing should stand int the way. That in itself was a glorious but painful realization, since it was possible that other parts of my life might have to be sacrificed. The fact is that my very strong marriage teetered for a while, emerging stronger than before. Further, I now know myself to be a good, even excellent writer of fiction, something I had not expected in spite of my past love for it.

The Magician card points to timing and strength. I wrote this book when it should have been written. I was ready, the stories and characters were ready, the reading world is ready. I must trust this, trust my gut that this is true. This also has to do with the trickiness of communication, being sure that what I was saying by writing this n ovel is understood and for me not to be surprised if it iis not always accepted for what it is. That sounds like the old debate about historical fiction and historical accuracy. Some have looked at my book and not understood that it isn't typical historical fiction. It is more about these characters' reality to me than any particular time or setting. Abnd this has not always "taken" with some readers.

Accepting this, I must nevertheless consider the Temperance card, coming in the position of my immediate future. Impatience will do me and the book no good. I must be genrle, accepting, and work on continuing m y own growth as related to this wonderful new path to my life. My destiny card, The Hierophant, amplifies this. It says, "Things take time. Organize yourself, deal with bnarriers one by one. Know my priorities." I know that since my book came out in Septmeber I have been like a rubber ball, bouncing here and there trying to ddecide what to do next.

The Empress inverted represents me right now. Strength again, but having to take a leadership role and be an authority, something that I am not so compfortbable with. It is associated with other cards, Alexandra told me, which point to creative abundance, making choices that will not squander it, looking to people well-disposed to my purpose to help me get the word out. I need to pay attention to what writing the book reflected from me and be true to that. What this all means to me is that I could go off half-cocked writing this, that and everything, but unless it comes from that same place in me that my novel came from it won't work. Once I knwo that everything will break loose, start rolling and picking up speed on its own.

I should look to a fair-haired man to help me, and this is clearly the love of my life, my husband Jim, who first fostered this project long before it had even occvured to me to do it. He typed up my old stories so I could read them, then suggested I use the characters on Ghostletters. When it became apparent I was writing a novel, he did everything he could to encourage me and still does. I have not always been properly grateful. I know that I owe my very soul to to his love and nuruting.

Since I had one minute left, Alexandra invited me to ask a further question. I asked her if this inevitability of the project meant I should stick with the original mission and not be misdirected. She was very postive about this being the case. I have been thinking about my "writing career" and working on other projects unconnected to my old stories.. and I see now that my original mission, to serve my old and faithful companions, is where I need toconcentrate.

So, in sum, by its very existence my novel was a force of its own, it wrote me, I didn't write it. So long as I am clear on the power of this realization and not try to make it something it is not, such as a "writing career", it will move along with its own momentum. If I trust it and let it tell me what is needed and not get in the way, Lawrence and our mutual companions will achieve everything they desire.. and I want too.

I think I behan to trust my instincts and my novel's prompting when I decided to contact Alexandra. Whether she told my "fortune" or helped me get back in touch with what I already knew is irrelevant. This was what I needed.

---

Note: Interesting, I already have some of the tarot card images to illustrate this post because they were what Brandy Purdy called for in her book trailer for The Confession of Piers Gaveston.

After the Reunion Continued

[Continued from An Involuntary King: The Tale Continues.]

Shannon woke with a start. He moaned, pulled himself to a sitting position on the alehouse floor, and put his head in his hands. The little light in the room was nevertheless blinding to his hung-over eyes.

“Now are ye not a sorry sight, me lad,” came a voice from the doorway that led to the brew room.

Shannon whipped his head about, causing a wave of nausea to surge up from his belly. “Rory!” he choked out. He struggled to his feet and made a straight line to the bucket kept in the corner for the purpose. While he retched he heard soft laughter from behind him.

“Glad, so I am, to see how ye welcome me home.” A cloth appeared at Shannon’s shoulder, and he took it and wiped his mouth. He turned round eyes on the very tall man who reached to help him stand.

“Ruarín!” Shannon stared up into his friend’s face. He remembered the day before and Rory’s return with the queen and her children on the boat. He remembered the ruin of Rory’s face and reached to touch his cheek where it was misshapen .

“Let’s get ye a wee bit of ale to restore ye.” Rory took his elbow, and Shannon let him lead him to a bench by the firepit.

Leofwen came in from the brew room with a clay bowl and a pitcher. She clucked her tongue and shook her head at Shannon. “God’s blood, man, what a way to welcome your long lost friend back to the world of the living.”

Shannon smiled weakly. “That’s what he said.” He gratefully took the bowl and drank. “None for ye, then ?” he said to Rory, who sat down next to him.

“Nay, ‘tis not to me taste any longer,” Rory said in his gentle voice.

Leofwen took her leave,, giving the two Ulstermen some time alone. Shannon was gazing at Rory, a look of wonder on his face. “I recall ye telling a tale to the alehouse about being hanged for spying. That is not what happened, is it?”

Rory sighed. “Nay, it was not. Methinks ye know the purpose O’Donnell had in taking me.”

“I know he wanted you, like a man wants a woman. That was no mystery. We knew that of him of old. With Master Ishaq.” He nodded slowly, looking at Rory’s averted face. “He pressed his desires, then, I see. And either those desires were cruel or ye rejected him.”

Rory smiled wryly and cast down his eyes. “I did more than reject them. I hurt the man.”

Shannon paused, then gave a sharp laugh. “Good on ye, me lad.”

“But that be why I was beaten, so it is. “ He looked up sideways into Shannon’s considering stare. “And why I was to be hanged.”

Shannon refilled his bowl. “Then how.. how did ye escape? The soldiers in Hucknall, they were sure you were after being hanged.”

Rory sat up straight and shook his head. “I can’t tell you, for I do not know meself. At one point I thought I had been hanged. I saw a man hanging from a tree and thought it was me. Then I found meself being nursed in a monastery near Grantham. I can only guess.” Seeing the other man’s expectant look, he went on. “There was a Scotsman, O’Donnell’s lieutenant, who must have arranged for someone else to hang in me place.”

“Why? Why should O’Donnell’s lieutenant help you?”

With a shrug of his thin shoulders, Rory replied, “I don’t know. But it is all I can think of.” He turned curious eyes on Shannon. “Does anyone know what happened to them. To O’Donnell and to MacDhui?”

Shannon shook his head, his mop of red curls dancing on his scalp as he did. “I know the king said O’Donnell was killed in the battle for Ratherwood, but he said nothing of the other.” He added, “Now wait, there was another. The man who killed the queen’s cousin after he killed O’Donnell.”

“MacDhui would do that, avenge his… commander, that is. Which cousin?”

“The youngest, Ioruert.”

Rory winced. “Ochon, Ochon,” he moaned. He looked towards the outer door of the alehouse. “Then me lady had sad news at her homecoming as well as glad.”

Shannon reached for the pitcher again. He noted Rory’s look of disapproval but made as if he had not. “What happened to the mercenary, Lord Elerde?”

With a sigh, Rory answered, “Methinks the lady sent him packing. He was on his way north with his men when I saw him. She was at the Holy Isle, alone but for her children.”

Shannon gave him a considering look. “Ah, about time, that is.” He seemed to think something over. “Ruari,” he ventured, using the Gaelic form of his friend’s name. “Ye should be thinking of leaving as well. “ He saw Rory’s sharp look of panic. “She has but one love, and ye know it. Time ye were leaving her to it.”

Rory glared at him, then glanced away.


Up in the fortress on the bluff, the king could not take his eyes off his wife and their children. They all sat in the queen’s own chamber where the children slept the night before. The nursery was too painful a reminder of their captivity under the usurper,. As it was, they did not want their parents to leave them to go to the king’s chamber. All six, children and parents had crowded into the bed to sleep the first night together. Lawrence and his beloved were content. There was time for their more intimate reunion later.

“My love, do you know what happened to Rory? Why he is alive?” Lawrence asked her.

She glanced up at him distractedly. “Nay, just that he escaped. I do not think he wants to remember.”

Peter, who sat on the floor playing with his cat, Ducky, with a piece of string, looked up. “Where is Rory, Mama?”

Josephine smiled warmly at her eldest son. “He will come see you today, I am sure of it. He just wanted to see Shannon first.”

Peter nodded slowly, going back to playing with the cat. “Ow!” he cried. “He scratched me!”

Lawrence stood and gently picked up the cat. “Time for play to be over. Let your mother see that scratch.” He took the cat to the door and put it outseide.

Josephine was already examining the hand, declaring the wound minor and healing it with a motherly kiss. “It did not even break the skin. You will be all right. Why don’t you take your sisters and brother to the Hall for something to eat?”

She saw her husband’s face cloud as he reluctantly let the children go. Once the door was closed, however, he turned back to her and put his arms around her. He put his face in her hair near her ear and took in a long, deep breath. “Oh Josie, I thought I might never hold you like this again.”

She settled gratefully into him. “I never believed what they told me, that you were dead. I knew that if you had died, I would have felt it.”

He pulled his face back. She saw the pain in his eyes. “I thought I saw you killed. On the ramparts. They tossed a woman over them in your clothing to make me believe it was you.”

Josephine reached to his cheek and stroked it with the flat of her palm. “Oh my dear, my dear, how horrible.” She reached up to pull his head down to hers and put her lips on his lips. She tasted the tang of tears in his mouth. His kiss grew more insistent.

“Josie, Josie, I need you,” he whispered roughly into her ear.

“Aye, my darling, I need you as well.”

Lawrence tore himself away only long enough to throw the latch on the door. By the time he was back, she was stretched on the bed waiting for him.


“Sweeting…” he hesitated later, as she lay with her cheek on his chest, still reeling from the intensity of their conjugation. “Where is the Breton?”

He felt her go stiff. Then she said in a light voice. “Gone. I sent him away.”

She felt his nod against the top of her head. “Good,” was all he said. But unbeknownst to her he had a look of grateful relief on his face. He tightened his arms around her.

To be continued.

See more stories at An Involuntary King, Welcome to Críslicland.

Not Always Merry-hearted

I use the screen name merryheart or merryhearted on a lot of web sites. It is for a specific reason. It describes me. When I was writing for a careers web site I came to the conclusion that the two best qualifications one can bring to an interview are confidence and cheerfulness. This is particularly true, I think, for people with disabilities, for whom the careers site was intended. And whether modern science has to be thanked for it or not, both are pretty typical traits of mine.. particularly cheerfulness.

Today I am dragging my emotional ass, however. I have a good reason. My darling kitty cat, Mr. Hata, has to have major surgery on his.. well.. his thing. I love that cat to distraction. I just can't stand to think he is in pain or even discomfort.

I have reason to feel good today, in spite of that, as I have another gratifying review, this one on Writer's Daily Grind. The author is Anne Gilbert, a woman who knows her Anglo Saxon England, so it is particularly satisfying to read her praise of my research. She also picked up on the origin story.. my friend's and my development of these characters as kids... which not everyone seems to quite get.

And I have gotten both useful and complimentary reads on my alter ego, Nicol Harrity's manuscript, Random Acts. Tomorrow I plan to query about a call for submissions for novellas involving gay people in the military and a story I would like to write for them.

Spent a little time on Facebook this morning and found some old friends.. what a wonder that is!

I may have to stop doing book trailers.. I wake up in the night and can't go to sleep because it is so fun to script the things.. I just lie therre worrying about where I will find pictures I can use. The next one for my novel will be "One woman.. Three men.. All three want to protect her.. One wants to keep her.. and One will do anything he can to get her." Now if I could just draw...

Tomorrow evening is the March Let's Read Historical Novels meeting. Y'all come! We read Celia Hayes' Adelsverein The Gathering for this one, and it is such a good book that the already fun online get-together should be even more fun. I am already reading April's book, Michael Curtis Ford's The Ten Thousand.

Come to think of it, the narrator on that book is so dout and everybody just got killed in the book so maybe that's another reason to be down.

Sigh.

Book Trailer for Brandy Purdy's "The Confession of Piers Gaveston"