And so we have reached the end of another year. Highlights
from the past twelve months are being compiled everywhere you look and there is
a sense of expectation for what we hope will occur in the next twelve months.
It is now almost three years since I made my first faltering
remarks on this blog and after nearly one-hundred-and-fifty Sundays I’m
starting to wonder if this might be the beginning of the end. Perhaps I ought instead
to consider this a sabbatical of sorts. Daft as it sounds I cannot quite imagine
not writing on here, it has become such a regular fixture of my week.
This blog has been a personal success and admittedly also a
selfish experience. Crafting these bits and pieces of stories has given me a
great deal of pleasure, but has probably been less of a delight for the
unfortunate souls who may have stumbled accidentally upon my haphazard
creations.
Over the past three years I have written more consistently
than I had in any of the years previously. Now, however, I feel like attempting the next challenge – writing that novella. I did not consider when I set myself
this goal back in November that ending my blog might be a consequence.
After some thought, however, I came to realise that the
quality of any writing I would produce in the next twelve months would probably
deteriorate. I don’t know if I have any readers, or if I’m only talking to
myself, but still I don’t want to waste anyone’s time by posting rubbish week
on week.
For the next twelve months, therefore, I shall be working at
that novella. Hopefully this year’s resolution will be as much fun to complete
as the one I made here three years ago. If you have, at any point, taken the
trouble to read my meagre scribbles then you deserve a hearty thank you. If I did
bribe you with cake to read this blog, then I shall probably be providing
similar edible incentives to read draft chapters in the coming year.
But, for now at least, I shall bid you adieu.
Sunday 29 December 2013
Sunday 22 December 2013
Christmas In Camelot
|
| British Library, Cotton MS Nero A.x, article 3, ff. 94v95. |
Christmas time. The king is home at Camelot
Among his many lords, all splendid men –
All the trusted brothers of the Round Table.
Ready for court revels and carefree pleasures.
Knights in great numbers at the tournament sports
Jousted with much joy, as gentle knights
Will do, then rode to the court for the carol-dances.
The festival lasted fifteen long days
Of great mirth with all the meat that they could manage.
Such clamour and merriment were amazing to hear:
By day a joyful noise, dancing at night –
A happiness that rang through rooms and halls
With lords and ladies pleasing themselves as they pleased.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Lines
37-49.
Sunday 15 December 2013
Empty Chairs And Empty Tables...
Yet again finding inspiration
on my regular walks – a house that was once crammed full of personal items is
now sadly deserted, with only the for sale board planted like a conquering flag
in the front garden.
As I walked into the house of my long-ago childhood it felt for a moment as if the fabric of the building had been shifted. It seemed to me that the rooms had moved, the corridors changed, as if the house was a giant Rubik’s Cube that someone had been playing with, before puzzled and defeated they had set it back down completely altered. Even as I searched through the memories of this place, coloured sepia by the photographs that captured them, I could not quite fix in my head how the rooms ought to have been.
I went through the first door I came to on my left. There was no reason to choose that door. There was no moment of sudden insight and clarity. It, like all the others, was a blank canvas to me. The peeling, yellowed-paint was merely a sad testament to the passage of time. The catch had not been fully clicked into place and the door opened almost eagerly with only the slightest touch.
The room was long though not especially wide and at the far end there was a pair of large glass doors. They looked like a trick of the eye, an illusion to make the room appear longer. The neat rectangle of grass outside became the natural extension of the neat rectangular room. The room was entirely empty perhaps explaining why my first impression was purely of rectangular proportion. There was no furniture to claim the empty walls and floors as their own. There were none of the trinkets, pictures or ornaments that I know had once covered every available surface. Their remembered presence, and their absence now, only emphasised the complete emptiness of the room.
Did I play on this floor at the feet of grown-ups? I cannot remember this room specifically, but the house had always seemed to me like a museum; a grand collection of memories and tokens. Time, like a thief, had stolen those memories and the items these rooms used to contain. Perhaps I am the only one left who can feel that loss and emptiness. An empty chair is only an empty chair if you have the expectation that someone should be sitting there and discover that they are not.
A stray beam of sunlight filtered through the smeared windows of the room. For that moment the room was brilliant gold, the air filled with shimmering glitter and something of the past seemed to return. The light mellowed and faded, however, as the clouds continued to pass in the outside world. The house returned to its faded glory, the dust hanging heavy and the rooms remaining empty.
As I walked into the house of my long-ago childhood it felt for a moment as if the fabric of the building had been shifted. It seemed to me that the rooms had moved, the corridors changed, as if the house was a giant Rubik’s Cube that someone had been playing with, before puzzled and defeated they had set it back down completely altered. Even as I searched through the memories of this place, coloured sepia by the photographs that captured them, I could not quite fix in my head how the rooms ought to have been.
I went through the first door I came to on my left. There was no reason to choose that door. There was no moment of sudden insight and clarity. It, like all the others, was a blank canvas to me. The peeling, yellowed-paint was merely a sad testament to the passage of time. The catch had not been fully clicked into place and the door opened almost eagerly with only the slightest touch.
The room was long though not especially wide and at the far end there was a pair of large glass doors. They looked like a trick of the eye, an illusion to make the room appear longer. The neat rectangle of grass outside became the natural extension of the neat rectangular room. The room was entirely empty perhaps explaining why my first impression was purely of rectangular proportion. There was no furniture to claim the empty walls and floors as their own. There were none of the trinkets, pictures or ornaments that I know had once covered every available surface. Their remembered presence, and their absence now, only emphasised the complete emptiness of the room.
Did I play on this floor at the feet of grown-ups? I cannot remember this room specifically, but the house had always seemed to me like a museum; a grand collection of memories and tokens. Time, like a thief, had stolen those memories and the items these rooms used to contain. Perhaps I am the only one left who can feel that loss and emptiness. An empty chair is only an empty chair if you have the expectation that someone should be sitting there and discover that they are not.
A stray beam of sunlight filtered through the smeared windows of the room. For that moment the room was brilliant gold, the air filled with shimmering glitter and something of the past seemed to return. The light mellowed and faded, however, as the clouds continued to pass in the outside world. The house returned to its faded glory, the dust hanging heavy and the rooms remaining empty.
Sunday 8 December 2013
I-Patch
The eagle-eyed among you may have noticed in recent months
the ‘patch count’ that has been slowly increasing in the side bar. Back in
April, with the prospect of several long train journeys to endure, I decided to
start making a patchwork blanket. (Wool, I reasoned, was much lighter to carry
than books).
Having reached the goal of fifty knitted rectangles I then stitched them together and attached a psychedelic array of tassels to create a warm and colourful blanket. The question of course now remains: what will I do on all those long train journeys in the future?
Having reached the goal of fifty knitted rectangles I then stitched them together and attached a psychedelic array of tassels to create a warm and colourful blanket. The question of course now remains: what will I do on all those long train journeys in the future?
Sunday 1 December 2013
Time For A Snack?
A bit of bloodthirsty cannibalism and a tree-eating horse...
 |
| Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, Annal for 1243. Cambridge, Corpus Christi College, Ms 16, (f. 166r). |
Sunday 24 November 2013
Mistaken Identity...
This set up for a
historical romantic-comedy was written some time ago on a whim before realising
that I can write neither romance nor comedy. It was promptly abandoned and
languished in a dark cupboard until I had the urge to tidy said cupboard. In an
attempt at ‘make do and mend’ I patched it up and hopefully the end result is
not too tatty...
With every step it was like the point of a dagger was being dragged across the soles of her feet. With every other step it felt like that dagger was pricking into the vulnerable sides of her toes. Rosalind Clare allowed herself only a brief, gleeful moment to imagine flinging the wretched shoes far, far away before focusing once again on putting one foot in front of the other. In normal circumstances she would have enjoyed the opportunity to take a solitary morning walk with the fresh spring sunlight gently gleaming against the delicate new shoots of bud and leaf. These, however, were not those circumstances.
It was as she took another step forward that she felt the right shoe begin to slip. It should have been impossible; they were crushingly tight and inflexible after all. Nevertheless the shoe was about to fall off and she desperately flexed her abused toes as she tried to cling onto the soft inner lining. It was all to no avail. The slipper slipped right off and landed rather predictably in a muddy puddle.
She was going to be in so much trouble.
“Oh you vile thing!” She stomped her foot before remembering too late that it was no longer shod. Her throbbing foot was now also cold and wet. “Argh!”
“It’s only a shoe.” The voice was impatiently sarcastic as was the expression of the man it belonged to. Rosalind scowled at the stranger, too upset to be appropriately embarrassed by her predicament.
“It not just a shoe!” She exclaimed heatedly. “It’s an incredibly expensive and fashionable shoe. In fact it’s one of a kind.” She was fairly certain he muttered something unpleasant under his breath about females and fashion but she was too agitated to care. “Now what am I going to do?” He was deliberately obtuse when he answered her rhetorical question.
“You could always wash it. Your skirts are so long I doubt anyone will be able to see them anyway.”
“I can’t wash it!” She practically screeched at him. “It’s just... It can’t be done.” She trailed off miserably. Rosalind was by now fully aware of the ridiculousness of the situation and she could feel the flush of delayed embarrassment heat her face.
“Oh for goodness sake.” The man bit off as he strode forward and plucked the shoe from the puddle.
“No!” She cried. “Don’t touch it - your hands!” As the man thrust the shoe toward her she realised that his hands were not encrusted with dirt and grime as she had expected. They were in fact perfectly nice hands. Elegantly tapered, with clean nails and few calluses, they were clearly not the hands of a common labourer.
“Well. Don’t you want your shoe back? Or don’t you want to get your precious hands dirty?” He was baiting her intentionally.
“Oh just give it here.” She said snatching the shoe away from him ungratefully and examining the damage. “She’s definitely going to make me pay for this.” Rosalind moaned plaintively to herself.
“Who?” The man asked rudely with unapologetic nosiness.
“Lady Judith. It’s her shoe.”
“Why on earth are you wearing her shoes?”
“Well it certainly wasn’t for fun.” Rosalind retorted crossly to the incredulous look he gave her aching feet. “They’re too tight for her to wear. As I have bigger feet she told me I had to stretch them.”
“You’re one of her servants?”
“I was, but after this she’ll either dismiss me outright or force me to pay her back.” Sudden understanding forced a delighted laugh past her lips. “Did you think I was a Lady?” Amusement smoothed away the previous ire she had felt for him.
“We’ll tell her it’s my fault.”
“That’s hardly going to help.”
“I’m not worried about paying for them.” He shrugged carelessly and she frowned at him, wondering if he realised exactly how expensive Lady Judith’s taste for shoes were.
“No I cannot accept that. This is my responsibility.”
“Nonsense. As I’m going to marry the woman it’s hardly of any consequence whether or not I’ve ruined a pair of her shoes. I can buy her another fifty pairs after all.” Rosalind nearly dropped the shoe back into the puddle. The man standing before her in plain homespun garments looked nothing like a powerful baron.
“You’re Fulk fitzGerald?” Forget hurling the shoes far, far away she suddenly wished that she could find herself even further away than that.
“Exactly, so why don’t we just keep this incident between ourselves.”
With every step it was like the point of a dagger was being dragged across the soles of her feet. With every other step it felt like that dagger was pricking into the vulnerable sides of her toes. Rosalind Clare allowed herself only a brief, gleeful moment to imagine flinging the wretched shoes far, far away before focusing once again on putting one foot in front of the other. In normal circumstances she would have enjoyed the opportunity to take a solitary morning walk with the fresh spring sunlight gently gleaming against the delicate new shoots of bud and leaf. These, however, were not those circumstances.
It was as she took another step forward that she felt the right shoe begin to slip. It should have been impossible; they were crushingly tight and inflexible after all. Nevertheless the shoe was about to fall off and she desperately flexed her abused toes as she tried to cling onto the soft inner lining. It was all to no avail. The slipper slipped right off and landed rather predictably in a muddy puddle.
She was going to be in so much trouble.
“Oh you vile thing!” She stomped her foot before remembering too late that it was no longer shod. Her throbbing foot was now also cold and wet. “Argh!”
“It’s only a shoe.” The voice was impatiently sarcastic as was the expression of the man it belonged to. Rosalind scowled at the stranger, too upset to be appropriately embarrassed by her predicament.
“It not just a shoe!” She exclaimed heatedly. “It’s an incredibly expensive and fashionable shoe. In fact it’s one of a kind.” She was fairly certain he muttered something unpleasant under his breath about females and fashion but she was too agitated to care. “Now what am I going to do?” He was deliberately obtuse when he answered her rhetorical question.
“You could always wash it. Your skirts are so long I doubt anyone will be able to see them anyway.”
“I can’t wash it!” She practically screeched at him. “It’s just... It can’t be done.” She trailed off miserably. Rosalind was by now fully aware of the ridiculousness of the situation and she could feel the flush of delayed embarrassment heat her face.
“Oh for goodness sake.” The man bit off as he strode forward and plucked the shoe from the puddle.
“No!” She cried. “Don’t touch it - your hands!” As the man thrust the shoe toward her she realised that his hands were not encrusted with dirt and grime as she had expected. They were in fact perfectly nice hands. Elegantly tapered, with clean nails and few calluses, they were clearly not the hands of a common labourer.
“Well. Don’t you want your shoe back? Or don’t you want to get your precious hands dirty?” He was baiting her intentionally.
“Oh just give it here.” She said snatching the shoe away from him ungratefully and examining the damage. “She’s definitely going to make me pay for this.” Rosalind moaned plaintively to herself.
“Who?” The man asked rudely with unapologetic nosiness.
“Lady Judith. It’s her shoe.”
“Why on earth are you wearing her shoes?”
“Well it certainly wasn’t for fun.” Rosalind retorted crossly to the incredulous look he gave her aching feet. “They’re too tight for her to wear. As I have bigger feet she told me I had to stretch them.”
“You’re one of her servants?”
“I was, but after this she’ll either dismiss me outright or force me to pay her back.” Sudden understanding forced a delighted laugh past her lips. “Did you think I was a Lady?” Amusement smoothed away the previous ire she had felt for him.
“We’ll tell her it’s my fault.”
“That’s hardly going to help.”
“I’m not worried about paying for them.” He shrugged carelessly and she frowned at him, wondering if he realised exactly how expensive Lady Judith’s taste for shoes were.
“No I cannot accept that. This is my responsibility.”
“Nonsense. As I’m going to marry the woman it’s hardly of any consequence whether or not I’ve ruined a pair of her shoes. I can buy her another fifty pairs after all.” Rosalind nearly dropped the shoe back into the puddle. The man standing before her in plain homespun garments looked nothing like a powerful baron.
“You’re Fulk fitzGerald?” Forget hurling the shoes far, far away she suddenly wished that she could find herself even further away than that.
“Exactly, so why don’t we just keep this incident between ourselves.”
Sunday 17 November 2013
Twenty-Five And Counting
This time next year I shall have celebrated another birthday
and will have reached the quarter of a century mark. For something that sounds
so significant I know already that I won’t feel any different. Logically, of
course, I know this because really I’ll only be a day older than I was the day
before. We celebrate the passing of a year, but I wonder now if the days in
between those celebrations are of more importance. If I want to wake up the
morning I turn twenty-five and feel different I am better off doing something in
the 364 days before my next birthday, rather than expecting an automatic annual
upgrade.
Seeing a picture of your two day old self certainly puts things into a strange perspective. It has made me reflect upon everything I ever said I would do by the time I was a grown up. A quarter of a century is sounding pretty grown up to me, yet I still find myself wondering sometimes when the life I imagined for myself might begin. This year I have decided to act on that feeling and try to achieve some of the wishes my younger self earnestly made. Obviously this takes an amount of careful thinking as I couldn’t choose the utterly ridiculous and implausible. For example I haven’t decided to travel the world, fall in love and immediately elope. I also didn’t want to make promises I couldn’t keep; I have learnt by now that I cannot change who I am and the bigger challenge will always be to respect that.
After all this careful thought I came up with three ‘wishes’ that I think I could realistically fulfil in the coming year:
Revisit Scotland and stay in a castle: Admittedly this wish had to be adapted as I originally told everyone that I was going to move to Scotland, live in a castle and keep a flock of sheep. Whilst this may still be on the boundary of improbable I am able to save the money needed to spend a weekend in a Scottish castle.
Write a novella: I started this blog nearly three years ago after realising that I hadn’t written anything substantial in a long time, despite that very week telling someone I was going to write a novel. For as long as I can remember I have said that I wanted to write a book and it seems to me time to finally do something about it.
Go swimming once a week: In the grand scheme of things this wish probably appears quite unremarkable. I can remember, however, always begging for an extra five minutes in the pool and confidently believing that I’d never stop swimming. Well now I’m old enough to get those extra five minutes so it seems silly not to enjoy them.
And so, dear reader, if I haven’t completed these wishes in the coming year then you must call me out on it. I want to be able to approach the next milestone knowing that I have achieved something. Instead of continuing to attach all my aspirations and wishes to an unknown future life, I want to try and start some of that life from today. Perhaps in time I can come to appreciate the everyday of now just as much as the idea of tomorrow.
Seeing a picture of your two day old self certainly puts things into a strange perspective. It has made me reflect upon everything I ever said I would do by the time I was a grown up. A quarter of a century is sounding pretty grown up to me, yet I still find myself wondering sometimes when the life I imagined for myself might begin. This year I have decided to act on that feeling and try to achieve some of the wishes my younger self earnestly made. Obviously this takes an amount of careful thinking as I couldn’t choose the utterly ridiculous and implausible. For example I haven’t decided to travel the world, fall in love and immediately elope. I also didn’t want to make promises I couldn’t keep; I have learnt by now that I cannot change who I am and the bigger challenge will always be to respect that.
After all this careful thought I came up with three ‘wishes’ that I think I could realistically fulfil in the coming year:
Revisit Scotland and stay in a castle: Admittedly this wish had to be adapted as I originally told everyone that I was going to move to Scotland, live in a castle and keep a flock of sheep. Whilst this may still be on the boundary of improbable I am able to save the money needed to spend a weekend in a Scottish castle.
Write a novella: I started this blog nearly three years ago after realising that I hadn’t written anything substantial in a long time, despite that very week telling someone I was going to write a novel. For as long as I can remember I have said that I wanted to write a book and it seems to me time to finally do something about it.
Go swimming once a week: In the grand scheme of things this wish probably appears quite unremarkable. I can remember, however, always begging for an extra five minutes in the pool and confidently believing that I’d never stop swimming. Well now I’m old enough to get those extra five minutes so it seems silly not to enjoy them.
And so, dear reader, if I haven’t completed these wishes in the coming year then you must call me out on it. I want to be able to approach the next milestone knowing that I have achieved something. Instead of continuing to attach all my aspirations and wishes to an unknown future life, I want to try and start some of that life from today. Perhaps in time I can come to appreciate the everyday of now just as much as the idea of tomorrow.
Sunday 10 November 2013
A Few Of My Favourite Things
Everyone ought to have a favourite book. There should be a
book on your shelf, mantelpiece or floor (or indeed wherever else you might keep
your books) that is a particularly battered paperback. The edges are scuffed
from where it has bounced around in a bag, there might be the accidental
tea-stain decorating the corner of a page, and there might even be multiple
copies from when you couldn’t resist a snazzy new cover design. A favourite book
is both well-thumbed and well-loved.
I have found that my favourite book has loved me nearly as well as I have loved it. It has nursed me through colds, heartache and pre-exam jitters. I have read Romancing Mr Bridgeton more times than can possibly be necessary and even now I can remember the first time that I found it on a library shelf. It is a story full of wit, hope and happy endings. I do not expect that this book would be everyone's cup of tea, and nor should it be. As I said everyone ought to have a favourite book of their own. But still I cannot quite resist the opportunity to share a little...
It was, in a word, thrilling. The world shook. Her heart
leaped. The moment was breathtaking. And, she was able to tell herself with
some satisfaction, the man in question – one Colin Bridgeton – felt precisely
the same way.
Oh, not the love part. He certainly didn’t fall in love with her in 1812 (and not in 1813, 1814, 1815, or – oh blast, not in all the years 1816-1822, either, and certainly not in 1823 when he was out of the country the whole time, anyway). But his earth shook, his heart leaped, and Penelope knew without a shadow of a doubt that his breath was taken away as well. For a good ten seconds.
Falling off a horse tended to do that to a man.
It occurred to her that it would have been nice if she could have said that she’d fallen in love with him as he kissed her hand before a dance, his green eyes twinkling devilishly while his fingers held hers just a little more tightly than was proper. Or maybe it could have happened as he rode boldly across a windswept moor, the (aforementioned) wind no deterrent as he (or rather, his horse) galloped ever closer, his (Colin’s, not the horse’s) only intention to reach her side.
But no, she had to go and fall in love with Colin Bridgeton when he fell off a horse and landed on his bottom in a mud puddle. It was highly irregular, and highly unromantic, but there was a certain poetic justice in that, since nothing was ever going to come of it.
Why waste romance on a love that would never be returned? Better to save the windswept-moor introductions for people who might actually have a future together.
I have found that my favourite book has loved me nearly as well as I have loved it. It has nursed me through colds, heartache and pre-exam jitters. I have read Romancing Mr Bridgeton more times than can possibly be necessary and even now I can remember the first time that I found it on a library shelf. It is a story full of wit, hope and happy endings. I do not expect that this book would be everyone's cup of tea, and nor should it be. As I said everyone ought to have a favourite book of their own. But still I cannot quite resist the opportunity to share a little...
*
On the sixth of April, in the year 1812 – precisely two days
before her sixteenth birthday – Penelope Featherington fell in love.
Oh, not the love part. He certainly didn’t fall in love with her in 1812 (and not in 1813, 1814, 1815, or – oh blast, not in all the years 1816-1822, either, and certainly not in 1823 when he was out of the country the whole time, anyway). But his earth shook, his heart leaped, and Penelope knew without a shadow of a doubt that his breath was taken away as well. For a good ten seconds.
Falling off a horse tended to do that to a man.
It occurred to her that it would have been nice if she could have said that she’d fallen in love with him as he kissed her hand before a dance, his green eyes twinkling devilishly while his fingers held hers just a little more tightly than was proper. Or maybe it could have happened as he rode boldly across a windswept moor, the (aforementioned) wind no deterrent as he (or rather, his horse) galloped ever closer, his (Colin’s, not the horse’s) only intention to reach her side.
But no, she had to go and fall in love with Colin Bridgeton when he fell off a horse and landed on his bottom in a mud puddle. It was highly irregular, and highly unromantic, but there was a certain poetic justice in that, since nothing was ever going to come of it.
Why waste romance on a love that would never be returned? Better to save the windswept-moor introductions for people who might actually have a future together.
*
Sunday 3 November 2013
Make Believe...
As a child I was
particularly melodramatic. If I wasn’t acting out a tortuous deathbed scene
with dolls, then I was fearfully envisioning the unknown horrors in the dark
corners of my bedroom, or pretending to be someone else entirely. (A Russian
princess was, for a long time, a personal favourite).
I’ve always considered my vivid imagination to mean either a) One day I will write a damned good novel. b) Perhaps if I were a little prettier and plenty louder I could consider acting. Or c) I am in fact stark raving mad.
And so this week, whether due to reminiscence or madness, I offer a little piece of melodrama. Imagine the kind of scene in which the characters look charming in cinematic soft-focus and there is a sudden emotional and dramatic swell of music...
Her steps across the inner bailey were hesitant. There was a battle raging deep within the heart of her, warring between the safety of ignorance and the fear of knowledge. The Earl had returned and news of his victorious campaign had quickly spread. Yet she knew that the price of victory had been paid with the lives of common men. Men like her husband. She did not know whether he would be among those trudging wearily through the gatehouse now or if he was buried in haste at some far off place.
Anxiety chilled her bones to numbness until she was unable to move forward, whilst her skin beneath the heavy wool gown prickled uncomfortably with sweat. She watched the moving mass of bloodied and soiled men with wide eyes, all the while her fingers tensed and clenched against the clasp of her cloak. There was no logic to her desperate search as her focus switched from first one face to another. Then her wild eyes centred on the only face that she had needed to see. In that moment she felt the relief loosen her muscles until she trembled. The jubilant clamour within the bailey seemed to quieten to a distant hum until all she could hear was the thud of her heart that matched the sound of her feet running towards him.
His own strong stride cut the distance between them. Her arms wound themselves around his neck as he encircled her waist and lifted her clear off the ground. He spun them around and around until their laughter became breathless with dizziness. Her hands fisted in the bedraggled length of his hair as her lips sought his. The kiss was hard and fierce, their teeth clashing a little in their rush to taste one another again after months of uncertainty. The metal links of his armour pressed painfully hard against the yielding softness of her body, but it only confirmed to her that he was truly there. No dream could feel so real.
“You came back to me.” Her words were muffled between them but he felt the slight tremor of her fingertips against the coarse growth of his beard. The hardships of the past months were evident beneath her touch. His bones were sharper under his skin and the puckered line of a scar disappeared below the protection of his armour. They were unwelcome reminders of what might have been lost.
“Always.” He pressed a reassuring kiss to the soft down of hair at the crown of her head. The perfumed water with which she had washed teased his senses. She would have fanned her hair across her shoulders like a mantle as she sat in front of the fire to dry the thick curls. It was a familiar ritual and the memory of it struck the core of him. He held her tight as if the impression of his arms would continue to hold her the next time they were parted. “Always.”
I’ve always considered my vivid imagination to mean either a) One day I will write a damned good novel. b) Perhaps if I were a little prettier and plenty louder I could consider acting. Or c) I am in fact stark raving mad.
And so this week, whether due to reminiscence or madness, I offer a little piece of melodrama. Imagine the kind of scene in which the characters look charming in cinematic soft-focus and there is a sudden emotional and dramatic swell of music...
*
Her steps across the inner bailey were hesitant. There was a battle raging deep within the heart of her, warring between the safety of ignorance and the fear of knowledge. The Earl had returned and news of his victorious campaign had quickly spread. Yet she knew that the price of victory had been paid with the lives of common men. Men like her husband. She did not know whether he would be among those trudging wearily through the gatehouse now or if he was buried in haste at some far off place.
Anxiety chilled her bones to numbness until she was unable to move forward, whilst her skin beneath the heavy wool gown prickled uncomfortably with sweat. She watched the moving mass of bloodied and soiled men with wide eyes, all the while her fingers tensed and clenched against the clasp of her cloak. There was no logic to her desperate search as her focus switched from first one face to another. Then her wild eyes centred on the only face that she had needed to see. In that moment she felt the relief loosen her muscles until she trembled. The jubilant clamour within the bailey seemed to quieten to a distant hum until all she could hear was the thud of her heart that matched the sound of her feet running towards him.
His own strong stride cut the distance between them. Her arms wound themselves around his neck as he encircled her waist and lifted her clear off the ground. He spun them around and around until their laughter became breathless with dizziness. Her hands fisted in the bedraggled length of his hair as her lips sought his. The kiss was hard and fierce, their teeth clashing a little in their rush to taste one another again after months of uncertainty. The metal links of his armour pressed painfully hard against the yielding softness of her body, but it only confirmed to her that he was truly there. No dream could feel so real.
“You came back to me.” Her words were muffled between them but he felt the slight tremor of her fingertips against the coarse growth of his beard. The hardships of the past months were evident beneath her touch. His bones were sharper under his skin and the puckered line of a scar disappeared below the protection of his armour. They were unwelcome reminders of what might have been lost.
“Always.” He pressed a reassuring kiss to the soft down of hair at the crown of her head. The perfumed water with which she had washed teased his senses. She would have fanned her hair across her shoulders like a mantle as she sat in front of the fire to dry the thick curls. It was a familiar ritual and the memory of it struck the core of him. He held her tight as if the impression of his arms would continue to hold her the next time they were parted. “Always.”
Sunday 27 October 2013
Capture The Castle
 |
| The gatehouse at Chepstow Castle built by William Marshal. |
 |
| Chepstow Castle on the River Wye. |
 |
| Marshal's Tower at Chepstow Castle. |
Sunday 20 October 2013
Quote Me
“You pierce my soul.
I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious
feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more
your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not
say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I
have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have
been, but never inconstant.”
Jane Austen, Persuasion
“I would sooner let
my beard grow to my waist and eat potatoes in Siberia.”
Tsar Alexander I
“Her mother was pecked
to death by pigeons.”
“That happens,”
Alexei said with a nod.
Both Harry and
Sebastian looked over at him in shock.
“It is not
accidental,” Alexei demurred.
“I may need to
revisit my desire to see Russia,” Sebastian said.
“Swift justice,”
Alexei stated. “It is the only way.”
Harry couldn’t
believe he was asking, but it had to be said. “Pigeons are swift?”
Alexi shrugged, quite
possibly the least clipped and precise gesture Harry had seen him make. “Justice is swift. The punishment, not so much.”
Julia Quinn, What Happens in London
“Do you think,
because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You
think wrong! - I have as much soul as you, - and full as much heart! And if God
had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard
for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you!”
Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre
“Hello Eyeore,” said Christopher
Robin, as he opened the door and came out. “How are you?”
“It’s snowing still,”
said Eyeore gloomily.
“So it is.”
“And freezing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” said Eyeore. “However,”
he said brightening up a little, “We haven’t had an earthquake lately.”
A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner
Sunday 13 October 2013
Morning Shadows III...
And oh look there’s
some more.
With her witness stowed in the back of a black-and-white with a couple of uniforms as his babysitters, Isobel was finally able to walk onto her crime scene. She strode past the privacy screens with a calm confidence that belied her earlier fragility. Whilst Thorne had pried into territory she considered deeply personal, she recognised that she had been the one to screw up. And she hated screwing up. Still, she wasn’t going to have a hissy fit about it. She would do her job, which is what she really should have been doing before.
“What do we have Nicole?” Her voice was brisk and level as she addressed the medical examiner. With her gaze steady she nodded an acknowledgement at Thorne.
“What happened to you? I didn’t know you were wrestling tigers as well as thieves and murderers now.” Isobel touched an absentminded finger to the scratch that decorated her jaw-line.
“The guy’s a possible witness. He looked more upset when I told him that he fights like a girl than when I charged him for assaulting an officer.”
“Huh. Men.” The doctor gave an amused snort as she wrote something on her clipboard. To Isobel Dr Nicole Allen was not only the most meticulous medical examiner in the city, she was also a good friend. Of a similar age they shared the same ambition that had driven their professional success. They had also shared many shots of tequila after shift whilst discussing mayhem, murder and men. On the surface, however, they couldn’t have been more different. Nicole flaunted her femininity and then proceeded to knock a man senseless with it. Despite the early hour her cosmetics were still applied with precision. She wore one of her typically short and bold suits, the matching skirt and jacket in an eye-popping red. Her hair was pulled back into a high sleek tail that swung as she spoke.
“This one’s pretty straight forward and neat as far as deaths go. Our victim is a white female in her mid twenties. She was strangled, I’d say probably by a man just from eyeballing the size of the marks around her neck. Time of death is between 1am and 3am. Apart from the cause of death this was a pretty and healthy young woman. There are no obvious defensive marks on the body and her fingernails are clean.”
“She knew him.” Isobel stated the unspoken conclusion as she crouched beside the prone body to get a closer look. “She’d been on a date – probably a second or third date – so she felt comfortable enough that she wouldn’t think twice about turning her back on him.” Her shoulders tightened as she felt Thorne’s watchful assessment. She swallowed back her irritation and endeavoured to verbalise her instinctive reasoning. “She’s wearing fuck-me heels. They’re the kind of shoe that a woman wears if she knows she’ll be shimmying out of that dress at some point during the evening. A first date is about impressions and she’d already decided what she thought of him and was going to act on it.”
“And since when were you such an authority on shoes?” Nicole glanced at Isobel’s battered and ugly boots with wry amusement.
“I interviewed this guy once on an old case. He had an outrageous collection of shoes that he’d ‘borrowed’ from women. It was quite an education.”
Ghoulish banter was an accepted part of crime scene procedure, a necessary tool to keep any kind of perspective. Thorne was, however, uncharacteristically subdued as he addressed the gathered personnel.
“She’s the daughter of a senator. There’s going to be a lot of pressure to solve this one fast and the media will be sure to get in our faces about it.” Stern and charismatic he made sure everyone heard and understood him. “I don’t want any leaks. There are always concerns about sensitive information in cases such as these. I don’t want to give them any rope with which to hang us. We will do our jobs efficiently and with due consideration.”
Isobel stood, stepping forward to speak. Usually the first to protest against the interference of politics in an investigation, she surprised them both by presenting a united front.
“Whatever we might think about these measures, a young woman is dead. It is for her that we stand now and we owe it to her to do a good job and find justice.” Isobel’s eyes met Thorne’s fleetingly as they stood shrouded in the morning shadows and together kept guard over the dead.
With her witness stowed in the back of a black-and-white with a couple of uniforms as his babysitters, Isobel was finally able to walk onto her crime scene. She strode past the privacy screens with a calm confidence that belied her earlier fragility. Whilst Thorne had pried into territory she considered deeply personal, she recognised that she had been the one to screw up. And she hated screwing up. Still, she wasn’t going to have a hissy fit about it. She would do her job, which is what she really should have been doing before.
“What do we have Nicole?” Her voice was brisk and level as she addressed the medical examiner. With her gaze steady she nodded an acknowledgement at Thorne.
“What happened to you? I didn’t know you were wrestling tigers as well as thieves and murderers now.” Isobel touched an absentminded finger to the scratch that decorated her jaw-line.
“The guy’s a possible witness. He looked more upset when I told him that he fights like a girl than when I charged him for assaulting an officer.”
“Huh. Men.” The doctor gave an amused snort as she wrote something on her clipboard. To Isobel Dr Nicole Allen was not only the most meticulous medical examiner in the city, she was also a good friend. Of a similar age they shared the same ambition that had driven their professional success. They had also shared many shots of tequila after shift whilst discussing mayhem, murder and men. On the surface, however, they couldn’t have been more different. Nicole flaunted her femininity and then proceeded to knock a man senseless with it. Despite the early hour her cosmetics were still applied with precision. She wore one of her typically short and bold suits, the matching skirt and jacket in an eye-popping red. Her hair was pulled back into a high sleek tail that swung as she spoke.
“This one’s pretty straight forward and neat as far as deaths go. Our victim is a white female in her mid twenties. She was strangled, I’d say probably by a man just from eyeballing the size of the marks around her neck. Time of death is between 1am and 3am. Apart from the cause of death this was a pretty and healthy young woman. There are no obvious defensive marks on the body and her fingernails are clean.”
“She knew him.” Isobel stated the unspoken conclusion as she crouched beside the prone body to get a closer look. “She’d been on a date – probably a second or third date – so she felt comfortable enough that she wouldn’t think twice about turning her back on him.” Her shoulders tightened as she felt Thorne’s watchful assessment. She swallowed back her irritation and endeavoured to verbalise her instinctive reasoning. “She’s wearing fuck-me heels. They’re the kind of shoe that a woman wears if she knows she’ll be shimmying out of that dress at some point during the evening. A first date is about impressions and she’d already decided what she thought of him and was going to act on it.”
“And since when were you such an authority on shoes?” Nicole glanced at Isobel’s battered and ugly boots with wry amusement.
“I interviewed this guy once on an old case. He had an outrageous collection of shoes that he’d ‘borrowed’ from women. It was quite an education.”
Ghoulish banter was an accepted part of crime scene procedure, a necessary tool to keep any kind of perspective. Thorne was, however, uncharacteristically subdued as he addressed the gathered personnel.
“She’s the daughter of a senator. There’s going to be a lot of pressure to solve this one fast and the media will be sure to get in our faces about it.” Stern and charismatic he made sure everyone heard and understood him. “I don’t want any leaks. There are always concerns about sensitive information in cases such as these. I don’t want to give them any rope with which to hang us. We will do our jobs efficiently and with due consideration.”
Isobel stood, stepping forward to speak. Usually the first to protest against the interference of politics in an investigation, she surprised them both by presenting a united front.
“Whatever we might think about these measures, a young woman is dead. It is for her that we stand now and we owe it to her to do a good job and find justice.” Isobel’s eyes met Thorne’s fleetingly as they stood shrouded in the morning shadows and together kept guard over the dead.
Sunday 6 October 2013
Morning Shadows II...
There wasn’t supposed
to be a continuation of this story as the first part seemed to me to form a neat
unit on its own. Yet I found myself writing more and so more there will be.
Isobel was kneeling over the suspect and securing the cuffs around his wrists by the time she heard Thorne’s hand-made Italian shoes beating a path towards them. The expensive leather was scuffed and soiled, and knowing how much this would bother him she felt mildly appeased. Though she hadn’t welcomed his interference, she grudgingly admitted to herself that his timely intervention had prevented her from losing the suspect. As she yanked the man none too gently to his feet she shot a conciliatory smile in Thorne’s direction. She was surprised to see an answering bite of temper hardening his features.
“What the fuck was that?” She fought hard not to recoil from the sharp edge of his anger. “What the fuck was that Isobel? You hare off after a suspect – who could have been armed – without alerting your partner. You put not only your own life at risk, but also the security of this case, through your recklessness.”
This was why getting entangled with another cop was a mistake, she reminded herself, it made every damn thing sticky by association.
“Back off Thorne. Just because we did the naked tango once it doesn’t give you the right to –”
“This has nothing to do with any personal feelings I may have held for you and everything to do with your ability as a cop.” Panic hit her like a bucket of frozen water. Mind blank she released her grip on the witness and swallowed back the bile that scratched at her throat. The reprimand was a threat to her very identity. If they took her badge then she didn’t know what would be left. “The Brass considered pulling you off this case, you know. They’ve heard about your erratic behaviour these past weeks. You’re not doing the job anymore. You’re jumpy and unfocused. Reckless. You hesitate before walking onto a crime scene.” Her ears were buzzing and she found herself unable to form a defence. “Your last big case was tough, I get it. But if you continue to refuse to see the department shrink and then go out there and mess it up, then you’re just asking to be pulled off active duty.”
“Thorne, I –” She hated the tremble in her voice that came from desperation. He had pulled the rug from under her feet by giving her a dressing down in front of a suspect and at a crime scene. Yet she felt the impact of his words more because she knew that he was right.
“The Captain and I, we went to bat for you Isobel. Don’t make me regret my decision.” There was nothing easygoing or charming about him now as he pinned her with a hard stare. He rarely flaunted his position and authority, but now she felt the full weight of it. “For now we’ll just pretend that we’re so in tune that I saw your signal to back you up. But if you pull a stunt like that again I’m not going to bother protecting your ass. Understood?”
He didn’t even bother to wait for her answer, turning abruptly on a smart heel and striding away, confident that he had made his point. For a moment she could only watch his back impotently. She felt shaken and vulnerable after having her weakness laid out before her. She wanted to ball her hands into fists and curse him in fury, but she felt only the empty ache of being in the wrong.
She was a cop first and foremost though, so she would pull it together and bring in her witness.
“Son of a bitch.” She huffed a weary sigh as she noticed that the witness had taken advantage of Thorne’s lecture and was creeping slowly away in an attempt at escape. “Take another step moron and I’ll shoot you in the leg and it’ll be the last painless step you take for quite a while. I’m in a real pisser of a mood right now, so don’t doubt that I’ll do it.” That made him pause. Marching over she secured him in a strong grip.
“Your boyfriend slapped you around good and proper back there.” He tried for sympathy, his smile marred by blood stained teeth. “My mama always said that’s no way to talk to a lady.” He had conveniently forgotten his own choice words for her several minutes before.
“Save it Romeo.” She managed to muster up a sneer, despite the dull throb in her leg that was beginning to make itself known. Pride was the only thing that stopped her limping away from the dirty alley and after Thorne.
Isobel was kneeling over the suspect and securing the cuffs around his wrists by the time she heard Thorne’s hand-made Italian shoes beating a path towards them. The expensive leather was scuffed and soiled, and knowing how much this would bother him she felt mildly appeased. Though she hadn’t welcomed his interference, she grudgingly admitted to herself that his timely intervention had prevented her from losing the suspect. As she yanked the man none too gently to his feet she shot a conciliatory smile in Thorne’s direction. She was surprised to see an answering bite of temper hardening his features.
“What the fuck was that?” She fought hard not to recoil from the sharp edge of his anger. “What the fuck was that Isobel? You hare off after a suspect – who could have been armed – without alerting your partner. You put not only your own life at risk, but also the security of this case, through your recklessness.”
This was why getting entangled with another cop was a mistake, she reminded herself, it made every damn thing sticky by association.
“Back off Thorne. Just because we did the naked tango once it doesn’t give you the right to –”
“This has nothing to do with any personal feelings I may have held for you and everything to do with your ability as a cop.” Panic hit her like a bucket of frozen water. Mind blank she released her grip on the witness and swallowed back the bile that scratched at her throat. The reprimand was a threat to her very identity. If they took her badge then she didn’t know what would be left. “The Brass considered pulling you off this case, you know. They’ve heard about your erratic behaviour these past weeks. You’re not doing the job anymore. You’re jumpy and unfocused. Reckless. You hesitate before walking onto a crime scene.” Her ears were buzzing and she found herself unable to form a defence. “Your last big case was tough, I get it. But if you continue to refuse to see the department shrink and then go out there and mess it up, then you’re just asking to be pulled off active duty.”
“Thorne, I –” She hated the tremble in her voice that came from desperation. He had pulled the rug from under her feet by giving her a dressing down in front of a suspect and at a crime scene. Yet she felt the impact of his words more because she knew that he was right.
“The Captain and I, we went to bat for you Isobel. Don’t make me regret my decision.” There was nothing easygoing or charming about him now as he pinned her with a hard stare. He rarely flaunted his position and authority, but now she felt the full weight of it. “For now we’ll just pretend that we’re so in tune that I saw your signal to back you up. But if you pull a stunt like that again I’m not going to bother protecting your ass. Understood?”
He didn’t even bother to wait for her answer, turning abruptly on a smart heel and striding away, confident that he had made his point. For a moment she could only watch his back impotently. She felt shaken and vulnerable after having her weakness laid out before her. She wanted to ball her hands into fists and curse him in fury, but she felt only the empty ache of being in the wrong.
She was a cop first and foremost though, so she would pull it together and bring in her witness.
“Son of a bitch.” She huffed a weary sigh as she noticed that the witness had taken advantage of Thorne’s lecture and was creeping slowly away in an attempt at escape. “Take another step moron and I’ll shoot you in the leg and it’ll be the last painless step you take for quite a while. I’m in a real pisser of a mood right now, so don’t doubt that I’ll do it.” That made him pause. Marching over she secured him in a strong grip.
“Your boyfriend slapped you around good and proper back there.” He tried for sympathy, his smile marred by blood stained teeth. “My mama always said that’s no way to talk to a lady.” He had conveniently forgotten his own choice words for her several minutes before.
“Save it Romeo.” She managed to muster up a sneer, despite the dull throb in her leg that was beginning to make itself known. Pride was the only thing that stopped her limping away from the dirty alley and after Thorne.
Sunday 29 September 2013
A Wild Secluded Scene
Tintern Abbey occupies the peculiar position of being almost
better known for its history as a ruin than as a medieval monastic building.
During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries it became a tourist attraction,
with Turner capturing the ruins in paint and Wordsworth writing his lines a few
miles above the Abbey. Yet Tintern was only the second Cistercian foundation in
Britain, the first in Wales, and several years earlier than the foundations of what
would become the powerful Yorkshire Cistercian houses.
It is perhaps not quite as impressive to look upon as some ruined
abbeys, but for myself its connections to my beloved William Marshal (through
patronage and the burial of his wife) and the sighting of some tiles were
enough to make my trip to Tintern particularly worthwhile.
 |
| Relaid medieval tiles in the Chapter House. |
 |
| East end of the Church. |
 |
| Tintern Abbey from the east. |
Sunday 22 September 2013
Morning Shadows...
With the medieval
seeming a whole lot like work at the moment, here’s an opening chapter in the
style of a standard Americanised crime/thriller, written with very little
actual knowledge of modern day law and order.
Autumn had got a jump on them this year. A few weeks before and the morning light would have already heralded the start of a new day, but now the street lamps had only just begun to wink out and all that was promised were the long and dark nights ahead. She shoved her chilled fingers into the meagre protection of her jacket pockets as her impatient stride ate up the pavement coloured copper by fallen leaves. The brisk walk and cool slap of air were a deliberate choice to cleanse the remnants of the nightmare from which she had been woken. Once the instinctive jolt of fear had ebbed she would be ready to confront death again.
For Detective Isobel Martin violent death was an everyday reality. She had thought after all her years on the job she had seen the worst that human beings could do to one another. Yet there were still depths of evil to be plumbed, as her last case had so savagely reminded her. Her pace hitched slightly as she took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the new crime scene that lay ahead. Nothing about her appearance betrayed any of the loss in confidence she may have felt. The grey of her eyes remained as impenetrable as the fog that dampened the air. An untidy halo of pale waves framed a strongly angular and determined face. Her slim, athletic form was straight and dignified beneath the plain outfit of cotton and denim. Nodding efficiently she held up her identification and passed beneath the tape.
It was a busy crime scene, despite the early hour. Half the city’s press were already braying on their doorstop intermingled with the crowds of curious and gawping. Death always liked to have an audience. Isobel frowned at the proximity of the crowd, but she could see that the uniforms had done their best to push them back. The out of hours phone call from her captain had been enough to alert her that this case was going to be both sensitive and played out in public. Screens had been erected to preserve the area and she could see the flash of the photographers cataloguing the scene beyond and the crouching shadow of the medical examiner. There were a lot of personnel on site, indicating that she hadn’t been the only one to receive a call. One nameless figure stood frozen and she felt an answering tug of pity and understanding.
“If you’re going spew the contents of your gut Officer, would you kindly do it away from my crime scene and those damned cameras.” She addressed the young man sharply, his uniform she noted still bore the shine of the Academy. He coloured violently, but her words had at least shaken the glazed horror from his youthful eyes.
“Tactful as ever I see.” The familiar amused voice had her fighting to keep the scowl from her face. She turned on an abrupt heel to confront Detective Frederick Thorne. Elegantly masculine in a three-piece suit he was the poster boy for the police department. His dark hair was swept artfully back from a face that smiled all too easily. Suave charm, however, disguised the perceptive intelligence of a good detective.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She didn’t pretend to be anything but annoyed. She’d managed to avoid him for several months. The last time they’d closed a case together there had been far too much alcohol, far fewer clothes and what could only be described as a bolt on her part. It only annoyed her further that the thought now occurred that she wouldn’t mind seeing him naked again.
“I got a call the same as you I imagine. Our murder is politically...delicate, shall we say.” Her eyes narrowed at the implication of his words. Though her tough bluntness was well respected, he had clearly been assigned as her partner for this case because diplomacy was required. “Darling Isobel –”
“Call me that again Thorne and I can promise you that your face won’t end up looking quite as pretty as it does now.” She struggled to contain the instinctive flare of aggression at his soft endearment. Even she was aware that the media would have a field day with a public disagreement between the primary investigators.
“You know there is something undeniably attractive about hot-headed females.” His arrogant smile definitely became more of a smirk and she rolled her eyes.
“Bite me.”
“There is nothing that would give me greater pleasure. Where would you like me to start?” He was left with the last word for her attempt at a fierce retort was cut off by the medical examiner’s efforts to gain their attention.
“Detectives! You’re going to want to see this.”
Smug was the only word to describe Thorne’s expression as he turned away and ambled toward the smartly polished doctor. Isobel did not immediately follow him, taking instead a moment to settle the nerves that had jerked to attention with the medical examiner’s ambiguous statement. The protective gloves remained clenched in her fist, her fingers playing restlessly with the rubber until it split. Murder was never clean, but there were some scenes that were worse than others. The mutilations from her previous case were still fresh enough in her mind to disrupt her sleep and trigger waves of clammy nausea. A shrink would undoubtedly tell her to take some time out, but work helped to push the lingering fear aside. Reaching for control now she allowed herself a pause to finish observing her surroundings.
Extra attentive in order to justify her lapse she saw something that had originally been overlooked. The face towards the back of the crowd was neither shocked nor curious. It was pale and anxious with a sheen of sweat and a knowing look in the eye. Instinct told her that he wasn’t the perpetrator of the crime, but he was probably a witness. Edging away, she made her approach stealthy and casual in order not to spook him. The sudden loud hail from a uniform made her wince. Her gaze met and held the panicked wide eyes of the suspect. He ran as if someone had sounded a starting gun.
“Shit.” She muttered with frustration before breaking off in swift pursuit.
The man was nimble, she gave him that. He weaved a route through the crowd and then amongst stationary cars before nipping down a back alley and shoving over a garbage bin to disrupt her path. Essentially she was fitter and faster than him, but the obstacles presented by city streets and deserted buildings only increased the likelihood of his escape.
A door was slammed shut in her face and the impact of her booted foot on the lock made little impression. Racing for the stairs she hurdled two or three at a time until she reached an exit. Bursting out onto a fire escape her eyes tracked the man’s course calculating that the delay had almost definitely cost her a witness. Undeterred she continued to charge full pelt down the rickety metal structure. Surprised she watched as her quarry halted mid flight and began to move back toward her. Confusion turned to irritation as she realised that Thorne had also pursued and now blocked the man’s exit. Seizing the opportunity, however, she leapt from the final platform and tackled the suspect to the ground. They both bounced and tumbled on the hard concrete and she grimaced as her knee took the brunt of the fall. The man struggled beneath her, lashing out with hands like claws. Exasperated she clipped him in the jaw with a solid fist.
“You crazy cop bitch.” He spat around a fat lip, his earlier anxiety melting beneath anger and the heat of pain. Isobel examined the rip in her jeans and the drops of his blood that now patterned her shirt. For the first time that morning she felt her spirits rise.
“That’s Detective Bitch to you, asshole.”
Autumn had got a jump on them this year. A few weeks before and the morning light would have already heralded the start of a new day, but now the street lamps had only just begun to wink out and all that was promised were the long and dark nights ahead. She shoved her chilled fingers into the meagre protection of her jacket pockets as her impatient stride ate up the pavement coloured copper by fallen leaves. The brisk walk and cool slap of air were a deliberate choice to cleanse the remnants of the nightmare from which she had been woken. Once the instinctive jolt of fear had ebbed she would be ready to confront death again.
For Detective Isobel Martin violent death was an everyday reality. She had thought after all her years on the job she had seen the worst that human beings could do to one another. Yet there were still depths of evil to be plumbed, as her last case had so savagely reminded her. Her pace hitched slightly as she took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the new crime scene that lay ahead. Nothing about her appearance betrayed any of the loss in confidence she may have felt. The grey of her eyes remained as impenetrable as the fog that dampened the air. An untidy halo of pale waves framed a strongly angular and determined face. Her slim, athletic form was straight and dignified beneath the plain outfit of cotton and denim. Nodding efficiently she held up her identification and passed beneath the tape.
It was a busy crime scene, despite the early hour. Half the city’s press were already braying on their doorstop intermingled with the crowds of curious and gawping. Death always liked to have an audience. Isobel frowned at the proximity of the crowd, but she could see that the uniforms had done their best to push them back. The out of hours phone call from her captain had been enough to alert her that this case was going to be both sensitive and played out in public. Screens had been erected to preserve the area and she could see the flash of the photographers cataloguing the scene beyond and the crouching shadow of the medical examiner. There were a lot of personnel on site, indicating that she hadn’t been the only one to receive a call. One nameless figure stood frozen and she felt an answering tug of pity and understanding.
“If you’re going spew the contents of your gut Officer, would you kindly do it away from my crime scene and those damned cameras.” She addressed the young man sharply, his uniform she noted still bore the shine of the Academy. He coloured violently, but her words had at least shaken the glazed horror from his youthful eyes.
“Tactful as ever I see.” The familiar amused voice had her fighting to keep the scowl from her face. She turned on an abrupt heel to confront Detective Frederick Thorne. Elegantly masculine in a three-piece suit he was the poster boy for the police department. His dark hair was swept artfully back from a face that smiled all too easily. Suave charm, however, disguised the perceptive intelligence of a good detective.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She didn’t pretend to be anything but annoyed. She’d managed to avoid him for several months. The last time they’d closed a case together there had been far too much alcohol, far fewer clothes and what could only be described as a bolt on her part. It only annoyed her further that the thought now occurred that she wouldn’t mind seeing him naked again.
“I got a call the same as you I imagine. Our murder is politically...delicate, shall we say.” Her eyes narrowed at the implication of his words. Though her tough bluntness was well respected, he had clearly been assigned as her partner for this case because diplomacy was required. “Darling Isobel –”
“Call me that again Thorne and I can promise you that your face won’t end up looking quite as pretty as it does now.” She struggled to contain the instinctive flare of aggression at his soft endearment. Even she was aware that the media would have a field day with a public disagreement between the primary investigators.
“You know there is something undeniably attractive about hot-headed females.” His arrogant smile definitely became more of a smirk and she rolled her eyes.
“Bite me.”
“There is nothing that would give me greater pleasure. Where would you like me to start?” He was left with the last word for her attempt at a fierce retort was cut off by the medical examiner’s efforts to gain their attention.
“Detectives! You’re going to want to see this.”
Smug was the only word to describe Thorne’s expression as he turned away and ambled toward the smartly polished doctor. Isobel did not immediately follow him, taking instead a moment to settle the nerves that had jerked to attention with the medical examiner’s ambiguous statement. The protective gloves remained clenched in her fist, her fingers playing restlessly with the rubber until it split. Murder was never clean, but there were some scenes that were worse than others. The mutilations from her previous case were still fresh enough in her mind to disrupt her sleep and trigger waves of clammy nausea. A shrink would undoubtedly tell her to take some time out, but work helped to push the lingering fear aside. Reaching for control now she allowed herself a pause to finish observing her surroundings.
Extra attentive in order to justify her lapse she saw something that had originally been overlooked. The face towards the back of the crowd was neither shocked nor curious. It was pale and anxious with a sheen of sweat and a knowing look in the eye. Instinct told her that he wasn’t the perpetrator of the crime, but he was probably a witness. Edging away, she made her approach stealthy and casual in order not to spook him. The sudden loud hail from a uniform made her wince. Her gaze met and held the panicked wide eyes of the suspect. He ran as if someone had sounded a starting gun.
“Shit.” She muttered with frustration before breaking off in swift pursuit.
The man was nimble, she gave him that. He weaved a route through the crowd and then amongst stationary cars before nipping down a back alley and shoving over a garbage bin to disrupt her path. Essentially she was fitter and faster than him, but the obstacles presented by city streets and deserted buildings only increased the likelihood of his escape.
A door was slammed shut in her face and the impact of her booted foot on the lock made little impression. Racing for the stairs she hurdled two or three at a time until she reached an exit. Bursting out onto a fire escape her eyes tracked the man’s course calculating that the delay had almost definitely cost her a witness. Undeterred she continued to charge full pelt down the rickety metal structure. Surprised she watched as her quarry halted mid flight and began to move back toward her. Confusion turned to irritation as she realised that Thorne had also pursued and now blocked the man’s exit. Seizing the opportunity, however, she leapt from the final platform and tackled the suspect to the ground. They both bounced and tumbled on the hard concrete and she grimaced as her knee took the brunt of the fall. The man struggled beneath her, lashing out with hands like claws. Exasperated she clipped him in the jaw with a solid fist.
“You crazy cop bitch.” He spat around a fat lip, his earlier anxiety melting beneath anger and the heat of pain. Isobel examined the rip in her jeans and the drops of his blood that now patterned her shirt. For the first time that morning she felt her spirits rise.
“That’s Detective Bitch to you, asshole.”
Sunday 15 September 2013
The Challenge...
In a quiet lull at
work, on the back of a discarded till receipt, I set myself a challenge – to
write a little scene before the next customer appeared . Making allowances for
finishing abruptly mid-sentence and a little polishing after the fact, here is
the result...
The first strokes of night-time brushed lazily across the wide canvas of sky. The palest hue of clear blue, only to be seen at the very extremities of a day, darkened progressively to indigo. The trees and hedgerows marking the boundary between her and the horizon appeared like shadow puppets, merely childish imitations of the true grandeur of nature. Punctuating the peacefulness of the slumbering countryside were whispered reminders of civilisation. Power cables stood tall like artificial trees interwoven across the landscape with their leafy counterparts. Lights waved and beckoned from far off places, tiny pinpricks like luminescent insects scurrying amongst dense foliage. Fences and walls criss-crossed one another until the land became a patchwork, earth broken into territories and generating neighbours. Resting her forehead against the coolness of the window, she allowed the murmuring vibrations of the moving train to rock her gently. She watched attentively as the images slipped by, as they merged and changed, and until the window framed an entirely new scene.
The first strokes of night-time brushed lazily across the wide canvas of sky. The palest hue of clear blue, only to be seen at the very extremities of a day, darkened progressively to indigo. The trees and hedgerows marking the boundary between her and the horizon appeared like shadow puppets, merely childish imitations of the true grandeur of nature. Punctuating the peacefulness of the slumbering countryside were whispered reminders of civilisation. Power cables stood tall like artificial trees interwoven across the landscape with their leafy counterparts. Lights waved and beckoned from far off places, tiny pinpricks like luminescent insects scurrying amongst dense foliage. Fences and walls criss-crossed one another until the land became a patchwork, earth broken into territories and generating neighbours. Resting her forehead against the coolness of the window, she allowed the murmuring vibrations of the moving train to rock her gently. She watched attentively as the images slipped by, as they merged and changed, and until the window framed an entirely new scene.
Sunday 8 September 2013
One Question...
An attempt at
futuristic fantasy, perhaps unfitting for the nature of this blog, but simply
because I hadn’t tried it before.
There was a small moth branded on the long curve of her neck. Even in the cavernous half-light its shimmering colour snared his attention. Its wings appeared to beat against her neck, fluttering lightly against her skin, just where a man’s mouth might like to caress. His opponent’s fist cracking against the right side of his face brought his focus back to the makeshift arena. Captain Alec Fisher coughed roughly, blood splattering with saliva across the beaten earth floor. He swept his tongue across his teeth to check for damage, whilst smearing the blood dribbling from his nose with the back of a hand. He smirked arrogantly at his opponent as if he had allowed the man a free punch, even though his cracked lip smarted at the movement and internally his irritation simmered.
She had, he was certain, used her augmented pheromones deliberately to divert his attention from the fight, though her ultimate objective remained unclear. There was amusement and challenge in her disconcerting bicoloured eyes as she circled the outside of the crowd like a predator. A stunner was strapped to her hip, which marked her out from the rest of the spectators who had been disarmed at the door. The moth-woman must work for the Spymaster. Resolutely he turned his mind and concentration back to defeating his opponent. He had a lot riding on the outcome of this fight.
The Spymaster held several fights like these every day in deserted warehouses and unused basements across the city. They were a means of whittling down the amount of supplicants brought to his door. The winner gained an audience and the opportunity to ask a single question. It was a rich prize. The Spymaster had in the past decade accrued an encyclopaedic knowledge of all that went on in the city and its environs. He was, undoubtedly, a criminal but there was nobody with enough power or influence to take him down. Alec, as an enforcer of the law, knew this firsthand. He had no ambition of entrapping the Spymaster; instead he was, like his opponent, simply fighting for the right to ask one question. He wanted the name of his suspect and he wanted it desperately enough to work outside the law to get it. Sometimes, he reasoned, you were forced to sup with the devil.
Military enhanced and trained before becoming an enforcer, Alec had immediately sized up his opponent and catalogued his weaknesses. They had been wrestling for some minutes, each getting in a few shots and keeping the burgeoning crowd entertained. Now, however, pissed off with the moth-woman’s tricks he stopped feigning difficulty. Knocking aside his opponent’s hand, Alec held onto his wrist and pivoted sharply, dislocating a weakened shoulder. Seizing advantage of the shriek of pain and instinctual grab for the injury he wrapped his arm about the man’s windpipe. It would have been easy enough to snap his neck, but he felt no real desire to kill his opponent. Alec had not anticipated that the man would knock them both backwards. As they tripped, legs entangling, he rolled with the momentum of the fall until he landed on top. Beneath him the man’s legs jerked and kicked as Alec reapplied the suffocating pressure to his throat. His eyes rolled back and he flopped into unconsciousness.
His body slick with sweat and muscles shaking from the adrenalin, Alec eased carefully back. He had barely regained his equanimity before a pair of shapely ankles appeared in his line of sight.
“Congratulations. The Spymaster will see you now.” It was the moth-woman, her speech direct and uncluttered. “Follow me.”
“I want my stuff back first.”
“After. The Spymaster does not like to be kept waiting.” The hint of annoyance underlying her command felt like a victory. Alec got to his feet lazily, using his size to unconsciously intimidate as he did during interrogations. He felt sure that he could have spanned her waist with the mere circle made by his two hands. She did not, however, appear fazed. Sexual awareness sparked as she slowly traced her gaze from the brazen masculinity of his bare chest to the trousers that rode low on his hips. His belt, amongst other items of clothing and possessions, had been confiscated. He had assumed it was to prevent the use of these objects as weapons during the fight, but now he wondered if there were ulterior motives.
The moth-woman had already turned away, weaving through the crowd, obviously expecting him to follow her with no further debate. Scowling he pursued, stupidly and painfully conscious of his bare, defenceless feet. The ebony of her hair took on a sheen of electric blue as the light around them began to subtly change. He had not had the opportunity to study her fully in the shadows of the basement, and as they reached ground level the strength of the daylight caused his eyes to crease, keeping her features indistinct. He would not be able to scan for her identity in the future. They left the building promptly and she strode business-like toward an unmarked transport shuttle with specially darkened windows.
“I hope you have your question ready, Captain.” His shoulders tensed at the use of his title, but he was not overly surprised that the Spymaster should know who he was. “Remember this is your only chance. One question, one answer.” She stopped before the passenger door, indicating that he was to go in alone. “Don’t waste it.”
There was a small moth branded on the long curve of her neck. Even in the cavernous half-light its shimmering colour snared his attention. Its wings appeared to beat against her neck, fluttering lightly against her skin, just where a man’s mouth might like to caress. His opponent’s fist cracking against the right side of his face brought his focus back to the makeshift arena. Captain Alec Fisher coughed roughly, blood splattering with saliva across the beaten earth floor. He swept his tongue across his teeth to check for damage, whilst smearing the blood dribbling from his nose with the back of a hand. He smirked arrogantly at his opponent as if he had allowed the man a free punch, even though his cracked lip smarted at the movement and internally his irritation simmered.
She had, he was certain, used her augmented pheromones deliberately to divert his attention from the fight, though her ultimate objective remained unclear. There was amusement and challenge in her disconcerting bicoloured eyes as she circled the outside of the crowd like a predator. A stunner was strapped to her hip, which marked her out from the rest of the spectators who had been disarmed at the door. The moth-woman must work for the Spymaster. Resolutely he turned his mind and concentration back to defeating his opponent. He had a lot riding on the outcome of this fight.
The Spymaster held several fights like these every day in deserted warehouses and unused basements across the city. They were a means of whittling down the amount of supplicants brought to his door. The winner gained an audience and the opportunity to ask a single question. It was a rich prize. The Spymaster had in the past decade accrued an encyclopaedic knowledge of all that went on in the city and its environs. He was, undoubtedly, a criminal but there was nobody with enough power or influence to take him down. Alec, as an enforcer of the law, knew this firsthand. He had no ambition of entrapping the Spymaster; instead he was, like his opponent, simply fighting for the right to ask one question. He wanted the name of his suspect and he wanted it desperately enough to work outside the law to get it. Sometimes, he reasoned, you were forced to sup with the devil.
Military enhanced and trained before becoming an enforcer, Alec had immediately sized up his opponent and catalogued his weaknesses. They had been wrestling for some minutes, each getting in a few shots and keeping the burgeoning crowd entertained. Now, however, pissed off with the moth-woman’s tricks he stopped feigning difficulty. Knocking aside his opponent’s hand, Alec held onto his wrist and pivoted sharply, dislocating a weakened shoulder. Seizing advantage of the shriek of pain and instinctual grab for the injury he wrapped his arm about the man’s windpipe. It would have been easy enough to snap his neck, but he felt no real desire to kill his opponent. Alec had not anticipated that the man would knock them both backwards. As they tripped, legs entangling, he rolled with the momentum of the fall until he landed on top. Beneath him the man’s legs jerked and kicked as Alec reapplied the suffocating pressure to his throat. His eyes rolled back and he flopped into unconsciousness.
His body slick with sweat and muscles shaking from the adrenalin, Alec eased carefully back. He had barely regained his equanimity before a pair of shapely ankles appeared in his line of sight.
“Congratulations. The Spymaster will see you now.” It was the moth-woman, her speech direct and uncluttered. “Follow me.”
“I want my stuff back first.”
“After. The Spymaster does not like to be kept waiting.” The hint of annoyance underlying her command felt like a victory. Alec got to his feet lazily, using his size to unconsciously intimidate as he did during interrogations. He felt sure that he could have spanned her waist with the mere circle made by his two hands. She did not, however, appear fazed. Sexual awareness sparked as she slowly traced her gaze from the brazen masculinity of his bare chest to the trousers that rode low on his hips. His belt, amongst other items of clothing and possessions, had been confiscated. He had assumed it was to prevent the use of these objects as weapons during the fight, but now he wondered if there were ulterior motives.
The moth-woman had already turned away, weaving through the crowd, obviously expecting him to follow her with no further debate. Scowling he pursued, stupidly and painfully conscious of his bare, defenceless feet. The ebony of her hair took on a sheen of electric blue as the light around them began to subtly change. He had not had the opportunity to study her fully in the shadows of the basement, and as they reached ground level the strength of the daylight caused his eyes to crease, keeping her features indistinct. He would not be able to scan for her identity in the future. They left the building promptly and she strode business-like toward an unmarked transport shuttle with specially darkened windows.
“I hope you have your question ready, Captain.” His shoulders tensed at the use of his title, but he was not overly surprised that the Spymaster should know who he was. “Remember this is your only chance. One question, one answer.” She stopped before the passenger door, indicating that he was to go in alone. “Don’t waste it.”
Sunday 1 September 2013
Monks & Vampires
 |
| Triforium level at the east end of Whitby Abbey. |
 |
| View of Whitby Abbey. |
 |
| Detail from the north transept of Whitby Abbey. |
Sunday 25 August 2013
Cliffhanger...
A single stone dribbled down the side of the rock-face and
sliced a jagged path across his weathered cheek. His lip curled against the
pitiful and momentary flinch of pain. A second stone, slightly larger in
diameter, thudded against his shoulder with bruising force. Olaf Spoonbeard did
not need a third stone to tell him that conditions on the mountain had taken a
turn from perilous to outright deadly.
“Jorund!” He bellowed against the fierce howl of the wind. “Rockfall!” He pushed himself tight against the craggy surface, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails as he scrabbled to find a strong purchase on the crumbling stones. He ducked his head, attempting to tuck his lumbering frame into as small a target as possible. Spoonbeard could only hope that his brother had heeded his warning and was able to take similar precautions. The rope between them remained slack at least, a sign that Jorund had not continued to climb too much further above him.
Over the animalistic screech and cry of the wind that buffeted against him and threatened to undermine his secure footing, Spoonbeard could hear the distant thunder of fragmenting rock. The avalanche fell upon them fast and it fell hard. The treacherous projectiles pelted down as if thrown by some fierce mountain god in a murderous rage. He gritted his teeth as a boulder slashed through the thick wool of his tunic and tore open his skin in a sudden burning flash. Cuts and scrapes would heal easily enough in time, Spoonbeard knew, but the principal danger to climbers was broken bones. If either he or Jorund were disabled here on the mountain, then neither of them would ever get down alive.
The temperamental mountain calmed as quickly as it had become riled. The shower of rocks began to ease, until finally only a few scattered lumps bumped their tremulous path downwards. As Spoonbeard began to relax tense muscles the rope around his waist went limp. He reacted instinctively before his mind had registered the full import of what had happened. Extending one arm he wrapped the rope around his wrist. The rope stretched taut as his brother fell past him and then recoiled as the fall was inhibited. Spoonbeard screamed as the recoil wrenched at his wrist and forearm snapping something deep inside.
“Jorund?” He waited desperately for a reply to his hoarse cry, but could distinguish none over the blood pumping furiously in his ears. Had Jorund been knocked senseless, or was his brother’s dead body tethered to the other end of the rope? Spoonbeard was faced with an impossible decision. He could hold on in the hope that Jorund would awaken and be fit to climb once more. Or he could sever the rope and drop the dead weight of his younger brother. Rationally Spoonbeard knew he could not wait indefinitely for his brother to move on his own accord. His body was already trembling from the strain and the slightest slip of the foot would send them both to their deaths. A sharp outcrop lay neatly aligned with his rope-bound wrist. It would be a simple enough matter to fray the rope that connected them.
Could Spoonbeard hold on or would he be forced to kill his brother?...
“Jorund!” He bellowed against the fierce howl of the wind. “Rockfall!” He pushed himself tight against the craggy surface, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails as he scrabbled to find a strong purchase on the crumbling stones. He ducked his head, attempting to tuck his lumbering frame into as small a target as possible. Spoonbeard could only hope that his brother had heeded his warning and was able to take similar precautions. The rope between them remained slack at least, a sign that Jorund had not continued to climb too much further above him.
Over the animalistic screech and cry of the wind that buffeted against him and threatened to undermine his secure footing, Spoonbeard could hear the distant thunder of fragmenting rock. The avalanche fell upon them fast and it fell hard. The treacherous projectiles pelted down as if thrown by some fierce mountain god in a murderous rage. He gritted his teeth as a boulder slashed through the thick wool of his tunic and tore open his skin in a sudden burning flash. Cuts and scrapes would heal easily enough in time, Spoonbeard knew, but the principal danger to climbers was broken bones. If either he or Jorund were disabled here on the mountain, then neither of them would ever get down alive.
The temperamental mountain calmed as quickly as it had become riled. The shower of rocks began to ease, until finally only a few scattered lumps bumped their tremulous path downwards. As Spoonbeard began to relax tense muscles the rope around his waist went limp. He reacted instinctively before his mind had registered the full import of what had happened. Extending one arm he wrapped the rope around his wrist. The rope stretched taut as his brother fell past him and then recoiled as the fall was inhibited. Spoonbeard screamed as the recoil wrenched at his wrist and forearm snapping something deep inside.
“Jorund?” He waited desperately for a reply to his hoarse cry, but could distinguish none over the blood pumping furiously in his ears. Had Jorund been knocked senseless, or was his brother’s dead body tethered to the other end of the rope? Spoonbeard was faced with an impossible decision. He could hold on in the hope that Jorund would awaken and be fit to climb once more. Or he could sever the rope and drop the dead weight of his younger brother. Rationally Spoonbeard knew he could not wait indefinitely for his brother to move on his own accord. His body was already trembling from the strain and the slightest slip of the foot would send them both to their deaths. A sharp outcrop lay neatly aligned with his rope-bound wrist. It would be a simple enough matter to fray the rope that connected them.
Could Spoonbeard hold on or would he be forced to kill his brother?...
Sunday 18 August 2013
Colour & Light
The Great East Window in York Minster is currently undergoing
a lengthy conservation programme. Yet every month visitors are able to see a
selection of its panels in the cleverly designed Orb at the east end of the
church. This gives you a truly extraordinary opportunity to see the medieval
glass up close like never before.
 |
| St John glimpses God in Majesty (11h). |
 |
| The Dragon gives power to the Beast (5a). |
 |
| The Mighty Angel and the Seven Thunders (8g). |
Sunday 11 August 2013
Sunday 4 August 2013
After The Silence...
Cornwall, 1921
The young woman was a picture of motion. The bag looped over one narrow shoulder swayed with every tap of her hip. A hat swung loosely in her hand as her arms matched the rhythm of her forceful stride. The material of her skirt stretched taut across her legs and then relaxed once again with each step. Yet as she walked down that carefully cobbled path it seemed to her as if time itself had ceased to move at all. The flower-heavy stems of wisteria still gently brushed across her shoulders, releasing its thick perfume as she twisted sharply to the right to reach the front door.
She rapped immediately, her fist rubbing more of the peeling blue paint off the tired wood. The decision having been made several days ago in London she did not pause to consider her actions now. After a short wait the door opened and a familiar voice spoke with quiet reserve.
“Good afternoon Madeline. I wondered when you’d come.” The young woman fidgeted with the brim of her hat, her smile of greeting merely a fleeting curve of her painted lips. She had been mildly taken aback by the other woman’s appearance. Age had given her a softness that had always been absent before. Grey strands muted what had once been dazzling gold, though the elegant twist of hair above her nape stayed the same. There was tiredness and resignation in the lines and discolouration of her skin, but the stiff peaks of her collarbone remained proud.
“I’d like to see Kit.” There was little discernible change in the other woman’s expression, but Madeline had known her well once. “I only wish to say goodbye, Rose.” Her tone was gentle and reassuring. “I shall be leaving England very soon. My fiancé works for the Foreign Office. You know I always dreamed of my very own Grand Tour when I was a girl.” Some of the tension eased around Rose’s mouth and she nodded her acknowledgment of what had truly been meant by those words. Madeline would not be taking Kit away again.
“I’ll make us some tea.” The benign statement was as polite an invitation as would ever be possible between the two women. As they settled in the well-appointed cottage kitchen Madeline felt yet again how precarious the passage of time could be. It had been almost seven years since she had first sat in this kitchen, Rose clattering about with the tea things and asking her how hellish the journey down had been. It was simply to have been a short holiday with a distant cousin to escape momentarily from parental disagreements. Neither of them could have perceived back then how such a small act of kindness could have fundamentally changed all their lives.
“You have to understand he’s not the same man anymore.” They both looked unconsciously towards the staircase when Rose’s solemn utterance rose above the chimes of their cups and saucers. “When they brought him back from the Front it’s as if they left a part of him there. He can’t see of course. Gas. But his mind wanders and he can be very...different.” Rose had been studying hard the score marks on the table as she spoke but now she looked directly at the younger woman. “He says things he doesn’t mean. He’s always sorry for them later. I just want – I just want you to know that.” Madeline fumbled for the right words, yet none of them seemed adequate.
“I am glad he is here with you.” She said finally, impulsively clasping the older woman’s hand. “I am so very glad he has you Rose.” Rose sat stiff and uncomfortable before extracting her hand carefully. There were some bonds that could never be mended and some actions that could never be forgiven. “You have always loved him so much better than I.” Madeline said softly as she toyed with a delicate teaspoon.
“He was never yours to love.” The words were sharp as was the metallic scrape when the ring on Rose’s finger caught on the tea tray. Madeline stood abruptly in an attempt to end the argument before it had begun. All the accusations and recriminations had been aired many years ago the night that Kit and Madeline had left together. It had been a short, idyllic summer for the lovers before the nightmare of war began. It was a war that had eventually returned the husband to his wife.
“I shall go see him now.” Madeline turned back uncertainly, however, when she reached the doorway. “Rose, I would never leave if I didn’t think he would be happiest here with you. Let go of the past. Our hearts have an astonishing and resilient capacity for love.”
The young woman was a picture of motion. The bag looped over one narrow shoulder swayed with every tap of her hip. A hat swung loosely in her hand as her arms matched the rhythm of her forceful stride. The material of her skirt stretched taut across her legs and then relaxed once again with each step. Yet as she walked down that carefully cobbled path it seemed to her as if time itself had ceased to move at all. The flower-heavy stems of wisteria still gently brushed across her shoulders, releasing its thick perfume as she twisted sharply to the right to reach the front door.
She rapped immediately, her fist rubbing more of the peeling blue paint off the tired wood. The decision having been made several days ago in London she did not pause to consider her actions now. After a short wait the door opened and a familiar voice spoke with quiet reserve.
“Good afternoon Madeline. I wondered when you’d come.” The young woman fidgeted with the brim of her hat, her smile of greeting merely a fleeting curve of her painted lips. She had been mildly taken aback by the other woman’s appearance. Age had given her a softness that had always been absent before. Grey strands muted what had once been dazzling gold, though the elegant twist of hair above her nape stayed the same. There was tiredness and resignation in the lines and discolouration of her skin, but the stiff peaks of her collarbone remained proud.
“I’d like to see Kit.” There was little discernible change in the other woman’s expression, but Madeline had known her well once. “I only wish to say goodbye, Rose.” Her tone was gentle and reassuring. “I shall be leaving England very soon. My fiancé works for the Foreign Office. You know I always dreamed of my very own Grand Tour when I was a girl.” Some of the tension eased around Rose’s mouth and she nodded her acknowledgment of what had truly been meant by those words. Madeline would not be taking Kit away again.
“I’ll make us some tea.” The benign statement was as polite an invitation as would ever be possible between the two women. As they settled in the well-appointed cottage kitchen Madeline felt yet again how precarious the passage of time could be. It had been almost seven years since she had first sat in this kitchen, Rose clattering about with the tea things and asking her how hellish the journey down had been. It was simply to have been a short holiday with a distant cousin to escape momentarily from parental disagreements. Neither of them could have perceived back then how such a small act of kindness could have fundamentally changed all their lives.
“You have to understand he’s not the same man anymore.” They both looked unconsciously towards the staircase when Rose’s solemn utterance rose above the chimes of their cups and saucers. “When they brought him back from the Front it’s as if they left a part of him there. He can’t see of course. Gas. But his mind wanders and he can be very...different.” Rose had been studying hard the score marks on the table as she spoke but now she looked directly at the younger woman. “He says things he doesn’t mean. He’s always sorry for them later. I just want – I just want you to know that.” Madeline fumbled for the right words, yet none of them seemed adequate.
“I am glad he is here with you.” She said finally, impulsively clasping the older woman’s hand. “I am so very glad he has you Rose.” Rose sat stiff and uncomfortable before extracting her hand carefully. There were some bonds that could never be mended and some actions that could never be forgiven. “You have always loved him so much better than I.” Madeline said softly as she toyed with a delicate teaspoon.
“He was never yours to love.” The words were sharp as was the metallic scrape when the ring on Rose’s finger caught on the tea tray. Madeline stood abruptly in an attempt to end the argument before it had begun. All the accusations and recriminations had been aired many years ago the night that Kit and Madeline had left together. It had been a short, idyllic summer for the lovers before the nightmare of war began. It was a war that had eventually returned the husband to his wife.
“I shall go see him now.” Madeline turned back uncertainly, however, when she reached the doorway. “Rose, I would never leave if I didn’t think he would be happiest here with you. Let go of the past. Our hearts have an astonishing and resilient capacity for love.”
Sunday 28 July 2013
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary And Thyme
 |
| Scarborough Castle's twelfth-century keep. |
 |
| Flowers growing wild on the defensive walls of Scarborough Castle. |
 |
| View of the North Sands from Scarborough Castle. |
Sunday 21 July 2013
The Chronicle of Eboracum VI...
Part Six – The Author’s
Note
The genesis of The Chronicle of Eboracum was extraordinarily simple. Having realised that my writing was becoming increasingly disjointed I decided that something drastic had to be done. I needed to write a story that had an ending. A simple feat you might think, aside from the debilitating panic that consumes me whenever I consider creating any form of conclusion. After many long walks to work, several delayed train journeys, and writing primarily on the back of till receipts, I had finally a severely disjointed but almost complete story.
Though primarily a work of utter fantasy this story is also akin to Frankenstein’s monster. It includes a patchwork of half-remembrances, obscure facts and more than a little desperation. Eboracum was the name of the Roman settlement which developed into the city we know today as York. Wallachia was the name of the kingdom that Vlad the Impaler ruled during the Middle Ages. Medieval bestiaries described the pard as a creature that could kill with a single leap. Meanwhile Costica was my exhausted brain latching onto the discarded coffee cup of a fellow traveller. There is also an actual plant called the Peruvian Sheep Eater (puya chilensis), which has recently bloomed at the RHS garden Wisley in Surrey, and acts in exactly the manner I described.
Am I pleased with my monstrous creation? There are so many things that ought to be better, so many ways it is inferior, and so many parts that are incomplete. Yet for the half-crazed scribbling of an author who seemingly cannot write the words THE END it is not an entirely bad effort. Whilst it may not be perfect my one hope is that it will help make the next story that much less painful to see to its proper conclusion.
The genesis of The Chronicle of Eboracum was extraordinarily simple. Having realised that my writing was becoming increasingly disjointed I decided that something drastic had to be done. I needed to write a story that had an ending. A simple feat you might think, aside from the debilitating panic that consumes me whenever I consider creating any form of conclusion. After many long walks to work, several delayed train journeys, and writing primarily on the back of till receipts, I had finally a severely disjointed but almost complete story.
Though primarily a work of utter fantasy this story is also akin to Frankenstein’s monster. It includes a patchwork of half-remembrances, obscure facts and more than a little desperation. Eboracum was the name of the Roman settlement which developed into the city we know today as York. Wallachia was the name of the kingdom that Vlad the Impaler ruled during the Middle Ages. Medieval bestiaries described the pard as a creature that could kill with a single leap. Meanwhile Costica was my exhausted brain latching onto the discarded coffee cup of a fellow traveller. There is also an actual plant called the Peruvian Sheep Eater (puya chilensis), which has recently bloomed at the RHS garden Wisley in Surrey, and acts in exactly the manner I described.
Am I pleased with my monstrous creation? There are so many things that ought to be better, so many ways it is inferior, and so many parts that are incomplete. Yet for the half-crazed scribbling of an author who seemingly cannot write the words THE END it is not an entirely bad effort. Whilst it may not be perfect my one hope is that it will help make the next story that much less painful to see to its proper conclusion.
Sunday 14 July 2013
The Chronicle of Eboracum V...
Part Five – The New
Age
The battle may have been won but there was still much that needed to be achieved before a quarter-century of Wallachian control could be entirely put to an end. Regents were installed and temporary governments elected as the western kingdoms sought to regain their independence. With the old ruling families annihilated by Aefon’s murderous ambitions it was not possible to return to the old way of things. Instead the liberated kingdoms celebrated and looked forward to the beginning of a new age.
There were also intense negotiations between Wallachia and the Lords. After the general’s demise on the Field of Firrs it was the mother of the boy-king who ruled in his stead. Fierce and proud she nevertheless understood that her husband’s armies had crumbled and the allied forces had chosen not to destroy Wallachia. The western kingdoms had no interest in domination. There were many voices of reason who insisted that no revenge would be enacted. The people of Wallachia were, in the main, innocent of the atrocities committed by Aefon and his generals. Negotiations remained ongoing for the settlement of suitable reparations and there was cautious discussion of a universal peace treaty.
For Benedik, however, the end of the battle signalled more simply the return home. He spent many hours on the rocky cliffs of his childhood watching the waves below crash and recede. He should not have been surprised, he supposed, to find that nature had not changed in his absence. When he had begun this journey he had decided to leave as soon as the fight was won. The people of Eboracum may have needed his martial prowess but they would be better off without him as king. Yet as the days passed he reacquainted himself with old friends, drank toasts to the prosperity of the kingdom and visited the unmarked burial place of his family. It seemed that he had constructed a life for himself here and the endless wandering within his soul felt finally at peace.
The Guardian had spoken the truth when she told him that he had needed to return. He smiled wryly to himself as he flicked his wrist and sent one of the stones in his hand tumbling down into the white spray of water.
“You will stay then?” It was as if he had summoned her with his thoughts. For a moment he continued to study the small rock in the palm of his hand, smoothing its rough surface with the pad of his thumb. He gave a great deal of thought to the equally small word before he gave it voice.
“Yes.” He turned to her, his eyes blinking furiously to adjust to the supernatural brightness that surrounded the Guardian. “I don’t know who I shall be or what I shall do, but whatever it is I belong here to this land.” His hand flattened to the ground as if he could feel the very heartbeat of the earth beneath him. “Thank you.” They were foolish words perhaps when spoken to a deity but they were honest ones. “You saved my life all those years ago and you came back for me. I see now that somehow I could never have stopped waiting or hoping.”
“You exceeded all our expectations. Your father always believed you would become greater than merely your name. In these past weeks you have proven yourself your own man. Greatness cannot be inherited nor is it a title. Everything that you are comes from within.”She laid a cool and gentle hand on his shoulder, the comfort easing through his bones like water. Her gown brushed across his arm as she turned and left, leaving an air of serenity in her wake.
Evening had arrived in Eboracum whilst Benedik had been meditating the future on the shoreline. There was a festival in full swing when he returned to the city. The people were dressed in their finery, no matter how shabby or outdated it had become in the intervening years. Food and wine rationing had been suspended for the night and everyone enjoyed the plentiful feast to its fullest.
He wove amongst the excited revellers and dancers, acknowledging their greetings with a friendly if somewhat distracted smile. He was close to the entrance of the royal citadel when he was stopped by an old friend. Viridian had been the son of a wealthy merchant and together they had got up to all sorts of pranks and mischief as boys. They had already slipped easily back into their old routine.
“Benedik! – Come my friend, have a drink.”
“Not yet. I have something I need to do first.” Viridian frowned, his handsome face flushed from too much of the fine wine.
“No!” He exclaimed petulantly, slinging a heavy arm across his friend’s shoulders. “Tonight there’s nothing more important to do than decide which girl you want to go home with.” He said winking meaningfully. “I reckon you’ve got a good chance, what with being the hero of Eboracum.”
“Later. I promise. But I want to make an announcement first.” Benedik distracted his friend with a fresh and over-filled goblet before making his escape. Once he had reached the throne room, however, he began to wish he’d had that drink.
Up until now he had managed to avoid entering the room. The last time he had stood there his family’s blood had stained the stone-flagged floor. He could still remember his mother’s lifeless body spread heavily across his younger siblings as she had fruitlessly attempted to protect them. Yet as he confronted the darkness it was clear that the room was not the monster he had created in his memories. It was an echoing shell, gutted by the Wallachian principals who had governed in Aefon’s place. Little was recognisable of the chamber in which he had also learnt at his father’s feet about duty, honour and courage. Time had wrought its changes on this room as visibly as it had on him. Benedik breathed deeply, settling the jangling of his nerves and trembling of his fingers. It was time to look forward to the future instead of constantly looking back.
Stepping out onto the royal balcony he quietly watched the revellers below him for several minutes. As a few faces started to turn and look up curiously at him, Benedik began to address the crowd.
“Citizens of Eboracum!” His voice carried in the stillness of the night air. A few of the more vocal members of the gathering gave a cheer at his appearance. He suspected that Viridian was amongst them. They were hushed impatiently by the others. “I want to thank you. Without each and every one of you we would not be here to celebrate tonight. A new age is dawning throughout the western kingdoms and we are a part of that change. My father was a great king, but I am not my father. I will not rule as his successor simply because I carry his name. Eboracum will be free to choose its king on merit.” He trailed off, realising that he had been gripping the balustrade fiercely with white knuckles. Pushing away from the railings he had half turned when there was a loud cry from amongst the crowd.
“King Benedik!” The single voice was joined by three and then ten others as the cry spread until finally it deafened him. He was to be the king that the people had chosen. There would of course still be many intricacies to cope with come the morning, but for now Benedik allowed the tears to flow unchecked. This was not the end of his journey, which he had begun so many weeks before as the Nomad, but merely the beginning of a new chronicle for himself and for Eboracum.
The battle may have been won but there was still much that needed to be achieved before a quarter-century of Wallachian control could be entirely put to an end. Regents were installed and temporary governments elected as the western kingdoms sought to regain their independence. With the old ruling families annihilated by Aefon’s murderous ambitions it was not possible to return to the old way of things. Instead the liberated kingdoms celebrated and looked forward to the beginning of a new age.
There were also intense negotiations between Wallachia and the Lords. After the general’s demise on the Field of Firrs it was the mother of the boy-king who ruled in his stead. Fierce and proud she nevertheless understood that her husband’s armies had crumbled and the allied forces had chosen not to destroy Wallachia. The western kingdoms had no interest in domination. There were many voices of reason who insisted that no revenge would be enacted. The people of Wallachia were, in the main, innocent of the atrocities committed by Aefon and his generals. Negotiations remained ongoing for the settlement of suitable reparations and there was cautious discussion of a universal peace treaty.
For Benedik, however, the end of the battle signalled more simply the return home. He spent many hours on the rocky cliffs of his childhood watching the waves below crash and recede. He should not have been surprised, he supposed, to find that nature had not changed in his absence. When he had begun this journey he had decided to leave as soon as the fight was won. The people of Eboracum may have needed his martial prowess but they would be better off without him as king. Yet as the days passed he reacquainted himself with old friends, drank toasts to the prosperity of the kingdom and visited the unmarked burial place of his family. It seemed that he had constructed a life for himself here and the endless wandering within his soul felt finally at peace.
The Guardian had spoken the truth when she told him that he had needed to return. He smiled wryly to himself as he flicked his wrist and sent one of the stones in his hand tumbling down into the white spray of water.
“You will stay then?” It was as if he had summoned her with his thoughts. For a moment he continued to study the small rock in the palm of his hand, smoothing its rough surface with the pad of his thumb. He gave a great deal of thought to the equally small word before he gave it voice.
“Yes.” He turned to her, his eyes blinking furiously to adjust to the supernatural brightness that surrounded the Guardian. “I don’t know who I shall be or what I shall do, but whatever it is I belong here to this land.” His hand flattened to the ground as if he could feel the very heartbeat of the earth beneath him. “Thank you.” They were foolish words perhaps when spoken to a deity but they were honest ones. “You saved my life all those years ago and you came back for me. I see now that somehow I could never have stopped waiting or hoping.”
“You exceeded all our expectations. Your father always believed you would become greater than merely your name. In these past weeks you have proven yourself your own man. Greatness cannot be inherited nor is it a title. Everything that you are comes from within.”She laid a cool and gentle hand on his shoulder, the comfort easing through his bones like water. Her gown brushed across his arm as she turned and left, leaving an air of serenity in her wake.
Evening had arrived in Eboracum whilst Benedik had been meditating the future on the shoreline. There was a festival in full swing when he returned to the city. The people were dressed in their finery, no matter how shabby or outdated it had become in the intervening years. Food and wine rationing had been suspended for the night and everyone enjoyed the plentiful feast to its fullest.
He wove amongst the excited revellers and dancers, acknowledging their greetings with a friendly if somewhat distracted smile. He was close to the entrance of the royal citadel when he was stopped by an old friend. Viridian had been the son of a wealthy merchant and together they had got up to all sorts of pranks and mischief as boys. They had already slipped easily back into their old routine.
“Benedik! – Come my friend, have a drink.”
“Not yet. I have something I need to do first.” Viridian frowned, his handsome face flushed from too much of the fine wine.
“No!” He exclaimed petulantly, slinging a heavy arm across his friend’s shoulders. “Tonight there’s nothing more important to do than decide which girl you want to go home with.” He said winking meaningfully. “I reckon you’ve got a good chance, what with being the hero of Eboracum.”
“Later. I promise. But I want to make an announcement first.” Benedik distracted his friend with a fresh and over-filled goblet before making his escape. Once he had reached the throne room, however, he began to wish he’d had that drink.
Up until now he had managed to avoid entering the room. The last time he had stood there his family’s blood had stained the stone-flagged floor. He could still remember his mother’s lifeless body spread heavily across his younger siblings as she had fruitlessly attempted to protect them. Yet as he confronted the darkness it was clear that the room was not the monster he had created in his memories. It was an echoing shell, gutted by the Wallachian principals who had governed in Aefon’s place. Little was recognisable of the chamber in which he had also learnt at his father’s feet about duty, honour and courage. Time had wrought its changes on this room as visibly as it had on him. Benedik breathed deeply, settling the jangling of his nerves and trembling of his fingers. It was time to look forward to the future instead of constantly looking back.
Stepping out onto the royal balcony he quietly watched the revellers below him for several minutes. As a few faces started to turn and look up curiously at him, Benedik began to address the crowd.
“Citizens of Eboracum!” His voice carried in the stillness of the night air. A few of the more vocal members of the gathering gave a cheer at his appearance. He suspected that Viridian was amongst them. They were hushed impatiently by the others. “I want to thank you. Without each and every one of you we would not be here to celebrate tonight. A new age is dawning throughout the western kingdoms and we are a part of that change. My father was a great king, but I am not my father. I will not rule as his successor simply because I carry his name. Eboracum will be free to choose its king on merit.” He trailed off, realising that he had been gripping the balustrade fiercely with white knuckles. Pushing away from the railings he had half turned when there was a loud cry from amongst the crowd.
“King Benedik!” The single voice was joined by three and then ten others as the cry spread until finally it deafened him. He was to be the king that the people had chosen. There would of course still be many intricacies to cope with come the morning, but for now Benedik allowed the tears to flow unchecked. This was not the end of his journey, which he had begun so many weeks before as the Nomad, but merely the beginning of a new chronicle for himself and for Eboracum.
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