Discovering My Past

Isabeau will be released in the German Amazon store on Oct. 14th, 2014 by Amazon Crossing.

Imagine how exciting it would feel to discover that many years after you’d written a historically based series of novels that several of the people you’d written about were your very own ancestors.

For weeks after I saw the movie Braveheart in 1995, my thoughts kept drifting back to two of the characters: Robert the Bruce, the eventual King of Scots, and Isabella of France, the wife of Edward II, who later became the King of England. I couldn’t stop thinking about them and wondering about their role in history. I didn’t know why Isabella and Robert were more fascinating to me than any other historical figures. They just were. They became like an itch I had to scratch.  I had to write about them.

I had no clue then what an ambitious undertaking that was going to be – or how many hours in my day and years of my life it would eventually consume. I became obsessed with research, taking enough notes to write a doctoral dissertation. I even went so far as to visit England and Scotland on two different occasions.

And on odd thing happened to me on those trips. Several times, I would stop, look around me, and get this strange sense that I’d been there before. Like I knew this place, these hills, this castle, that road in the distance.

After my books came out on Amazon, readers began to ask if I was descended from any of the people I’d written about. I honestly didn’t know. I had a family tree on paper that went back to the 1700’s, when some of my mother’s family came to America, but that was it. There were some Gordons in it, who I knew were Scottish.

It took me awhile to get around to checking further. I began to research my ancestry online, tracing each branch back as far as I could – and hitting a lot of dead ends. Sometimes the records just weren’t there, or they’d been lost along the way. So I’d dabble in the genealogy in my spare time, not really expecting to find anything notable.

Then one day, I traced a Scottish family branch all the way back to Robert the Bruce. It was absolutely surreal. It made me feel like all those years of writing in obscurity were worth it. I kept digging and eventually discovered another line that traced back to English roots. My jaw hit the ground when Edward III, son of Edward II and Queen Isabella, turned up. Hah. I did have royal blood after all.

I’ve since had a lot of readers e-mail me to tell me that they, too, are descended from the characters in my books and that reading about them brought special meaning to their own ancestry. It thrills me to know that my stories have inspired others to investigate their own ancestry. I still find it hard to believe that long after I’d written about Isabella and her contemporaries that many of them were actually my ancestors. Maybe there was a reason I felt called to write their story after all?

Until later,

Gemi

Isabeau: German Edition

Look! It's almost here!

I am proud to announce that the German language edition of Isabeau will be released by Amazon Crossing in mid October at amazon.de.

Click here to view it in the German Amazon store.

I am truly grateful for this opportunity to reach new readers. The journey to bring this to fruition  has been virtually seamless, from acquisition to translation to cover art. The folks at Amazon Crossing are simply the bomb. And the best part is that all this took less than a year - lightning speed in the world of publishing.

This is something I wouldn't have imagined a year ago. And to think, just five years ago I was pretty sure the chances of Isabella's story ever being read were slim to none. Then I learned about Amazon's self-publishing venture, KDP (then DTP), Kindle Direct Publishing. So I released it into the world, hoping for the best, expecting nothing. And, to be cliche, the rest was history. What I thought was the low point of my hopes to be a published author was actually the beginning of a new leg of my journey and the chance to reach even more readers than I ever dreamed possible.

This is so surreal, but ... squeeee! Isn't that cover GORGEOUS?!

Until later,
Gemi

Isabeau Is Only 99 Cents!

Isabeau: A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer, is just 99 cents on Kindle for a limited time!

Buy now on Amazon.com

 The story of Queen Isabella, who sought revenge on her husband Edward II, and her lover Sir Roger Mortimer, who masterminded the invasion in 1326 that accomplished it.


     "As I made my way across the floor, I overheard Edward mumble above the rustle of my skirt’s fabric: “I am no man’s chattel. I swear on my life ... there will be requital.”
      With that utterance, any hope I might have held – for lasting peace, for my children’s future – crumbled into a dust so fine that even the slightest whisper of civil war would blow it away without a trace."


Happy reading,
Gemi

Book Signing - Springfield Writes Author Fair - April 26th

      

Hey All! I'll be at the Springfield Writes Author Fair, with signed paperbacks of all my books available. 

Hope to meet some of you there!

Date/time: Saturday, April 26th, 2014 / 1:00-4:00 PM

Location: Clark County Public Library—201 South Fountain Avenue, Springfield, Ohio

Until later,
Gemi

100,000+ E-books Sold!

(Nala the Once-Feral-Cat with my seven novels to date.)

It's official! This past month, I surpassed 100,000 e-books sold. I completely missed the momentous day, since life beyond the keyboard keeps me busy. Thankfully, my husband is obsessed with Excel spreadsheets, because I stopped checking daily sales months ago. On bad sales days, I'd begin to spiral into a funk, sure that the glory days were over. On good sales days, it was too easy to just keep clicking 'refresh' on that KDP report page to the detriment of time spent productively. So I now let him do the bookkeeping and every 2-4 days I check totals, just to see what the recent trend is.

The majority of those sales were through Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing program, although I also distribute to Nook, Kobo and iTunes via Draft2Digital. Paperback sales have exceeded 1,500 units total and I've recently launched my first audiobook, Uneasy Lies the Crown, narrated by Kyle McCarley.

In June of 2012 I blogged about my journey to 50,000 Kindle Books Sold. The next 50,000 definitely came quicker, but this year has had its ups and downs. I released two more books in that time. Uneasy Lies the Crown was my 6th and sales out of the gate were lower than any of my previous releases. After I slapped myself around a bit and chose a course of action, I tried putting it in the KDP Select program, which meant withdrawing it from other digital book sales channels. I've since given away over 60,000 copies of that Kindle book and the exposure has helped immensely with other sales, as well as with sales of the audiobook.

It took longer than I expected to write and publish In the Time of Kings, book #7, because ... Well, because I was having a mental meltdown. After putting out six books in three years, to say that I was burnt out was an understatement. Researching historical fiction and then checking, double-checking and re-checking facts is very labor intensive. In fact, I'd compare writing each of those books to completing a master's thesis. Or all six to three PhD dissertations.

So when I decided to transition to something with a modern storyline, I fretted that readers might be disappointed. Or that it would just plain suck. For months, I distracted myself with any activity at hand - re-organizing the basement, cleaning off my husband's desk (that was frightening!), training dogs, training for a half-marathon, gardening ... Eventually, I ran out of things to do. So it was either write again - or get a 9 to 5 job. How sobering. I love to write. What was I afraid of? Failure. Hmph. I've been there before. So what?

It took me awhile to work out the kinks in the plot for ITOK, but in the end it was a matter of just sitting down and thinking it through. The best part was that I got to write my own ending. The depressing part about writing epic biographicals is that the hero always dies at the end. This time, I was in control. That was both daunting and liberating.

Happily, I can report that In the Time of Kings is selling well and getting a warm reception. It's a new twist on time travel romance. Will there be a follow-up? I haven't decided yet, but it's possible.

I couldn't have gotten here without the thousands of readers that have bought, downloaded, and reviewed the books and recommended them to others, as well as my beta readers, cover artists, editors, proofreaders and a husband who has supported my dream for well over a decade. So a great big, super, wonderful, fabulous, ginormous THANK YOU!!! to everyone who has helped me get here.

Until later,
Gemi

New look, same book

I've wanted to give Isabeau a makeover for ages and finally did it! Actually, the mega talented Steven Novak , illustrator and cover artist extraordinaire, did it.

I sent him the synopsis, a very brief description of Queen Isabella and we batted around a few ideas. He came up with this concept on the first try. A few tweaks later and I had a stunning new cover that is more consistent in its layout with the sequel, The King Must Die. I couldn't be happier!

So for those of you who momentarily exclaimed, "What? Another new book already?!" Uh, sorry, but no. Just a new cover. I still need to upload the updated files to the printer for the paperback version, but the changes have already been made for the e-book on Amazon and other retailers.

As for what I'm working on for my next book... let me just say to expect something a little 'different'.

Until later,
Gemi

The King Must Die - Now available on Kindle!... and where to find more great Historical Fiction

Just a quick note to let everyone know that The King Must Die (the sequel to Isabeau) is now available for $3.99 on Kindle and at Smashwords:

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Smashwords (Epub, LRF, PDB)



I'd also like to mention two authors' collectives that I belong to which specialize in Historical Fiction. You can find everything there from Ancient civilizations to 20th century war fiction, mysteries, westerns and historical fantasy. Check out their amazing selections to find more great new reads:

Historical Fiction eBooks

Past Times Books


Happy reading,
Gemi

Guest blogging today over here >>>

I know, I've been very, very quiet lately. Working tirelessly to get the next novel ready. I'm happy to say The King Must Die, the follow-up sequel to Isabeau, is now with the editor and my amazing cover guy is working his magic. The book will be available by April. More news as it comes.

Meanwhile, I popped into Val-Rae Christensen's blog today to write about Isabella of France (Isabeau) in her series Flawed Heroines.

Check out some of the other features there this week, including posts by Rebecca Lochlann, Val-Rae Christensen, Gev Sweeney, and M. Louisa Locke!

Until later,
Gemi

IPPY Award for Isabeau and a Giveaway for The Crown in the Heather

I'm excited to announce that Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer, won the IPPY Silver Medal for Historical Fiction! There were over 4,000 total entries for this year's IPPYs (Independent Publisher Book Awards). Medals were given out on May 23rd in New York City. Unfortunately I couldn't be there, but I'm looking forward to receiving my 'bling' in the mail soon. This is a great honor, as it's the only contest that Isabeau has been entered in and there was a lot of competition, so it's had me floating on a cloud for weeks now. For anyone who's wondering - yes, there is a sequel to Isabeau in the works and, um, yeah, it just might answer some unresolved issues about the whole Isabella/Roger/Edward thing. *grin*

If you haven't yet snagged a copy of The Crown in the Heather, here's you chance to win one over at Historical Fiction Obsession. Just click here, follow her blog or tweet the link and leave a comment.

I first found out about Kimberly's review of The Crown in the Heather via Google Alerts (technology is a wonderful, wonderful thing). She also did a review for Isabeau. To say that I'm thrilled to have such an enthusiastic advocate for my work in a prolific book blogger like Kimberly is a GINORMOUS understatement.

If you've already read and enjoyed CITH, share the link or tell your friends. Meanwhile, I'm going into my writing cave because there are people waiting on me. Oh, the pressure!

Happy reading,
Gemi

Read an e-book week and more!

Did you know it's read an e-book week? For more details, check out The Brooklyn Scribbler.

Today's Kindle Nation Daily E-book of the Day is . . . Worth Dying For! Of all the e-book-specific blogs out there, this is perhaps the most comprehensive and informative one of all. It's a great way to find out about bargain books and new releases. So sign up for it, you Kindle-addicts, if you haven't already. Hats off to Stephen Windwalker for doing such a professional job putting it together.

The proof for the paperback of Worth Dying For is on its way. Hopefully, it'll be completely error-free (yeah, right). There's an awesome lion rampant on the back cover. Graphic designer Lance Ganey rocks!

I'll be hanging out at the Enon Historical Society building (the old Enon Library, off Dayton Rd. in Enon, Ohio, behind the village offices) today Sunday, March 6th from 2-4 p.m. Grab a free bookmark and if you want to buy either The Crown in the Heather or Isabeau - or just have me sign a copy you already own, do stop by. Meanwhile, for the next few hours I'll be trying to think up witty and erudite things to scribble above my signature.

Happy e-reading,
Gemi

#SampleSunday - Isabeau, Ch. 8

Isabeau

Ch. 8
Isabella: Tynemouth Priory, 1322

(Isabella and her damsels flee from an approaching band of Scots.)

Beyond the cliffs where the Benedictine priory sat, a rising wind lashed at the blue-black sea, churning the waves into foamy peaks. Against the ragged shoreline, the raging waves crashed in sprays of white. Then, broken and hushed, they retreated seaward in defeat. At the northern edge of the horizon, the sky had already begun to darken again.

I looked once more toward the priory, wondering if I should order us back to wait until tomorrow, but with a glance Patrice banished my thoughts. She did not want to relive York, nor did I.

My men-at-arms lifted the small rowing boat from behind a sand dune and carried it forward on their shoulders. I waited on shore while they rowed my damsels out in twos and threes to board the ship. The youngest of my damsels, Cecilia de Leygrave who was fifteen, hovered at my elbow, already blanched in complexion.

“You do not like to sail, Cecilia?” I asked cautiously.

Tremulous, she cast her brown eyes toward the lowering horizon. “Oh, I have not sailed much. Once before maybe. I was little then, so I don’t remember much of it. But I do not like storms, my lady. I do not like being wet or cold or standing out in the lightning. Ida told me once about her cousin who was struck by lightning—there was nothing left of him but a pile of ashes in his boots and the ring from his finger. And I have heard there are monsters in the sea that follow ships. That they especially follow ships with women on them.”

It was strange to see the usually witty and tittering Cecilia so terror-stricken. I hung an arm over her shaking shoulders and forced a laugh. “Was it Ida who told you about the sea monsters who devour women? She is full of silly stories. Well, I have never seen a sea monster, nor have I ever known anyone who has. It is simply a tavern tale told by old sailors to make themselves sound braver than they are. So you needn’t worry about monsters, Cecilia. They don’t exist. Besides, I have hired the best sailors and the fastest ship north of London. We will arrive somewhere safe sooner than you know.”

But I stretched the truth. The ship I had commissioned for our rescue was one that had recently been blown back by storms. A sodden and battered crew had crudely mended its sails, sliced by the gale. The hull had received a hasty caulking of moss and a spotty daubing of pitch. Its seaworthiness was highly suspect, but taking ship was no surer a fated death than remaining at Tynemouth.

She pressed her fingertips together in a hasty prayer. “I am to be betrothed to a squire from Oxford. A good man, I’m told. He sent me this.” She splayed the fingers of her left hand and wiggled them to show a ring of tarnished silver set with a milky blue stone. A pretty bauble, it was nothing of great value. To her, however, it was a treasure.

“Very beautiful.” I leaned close to peer at it. “So you have not met?”

She twisted the ring on her finger. Then, deciding it was loose, she switched it to another finger. “No, but he writes. I have one of the monks read them to me. It is . . . embarrassing sometimes, what he says, to hear a holy man say it. But he sounds most kind.”

Two soldiers each extended a hand to help us into the little rowing boat that reeked of fish. “A very important trait for a husband to have. You will be happy.” I hooked my arm through hers and together we walked into the foamy rush of cold waves that wrapped about our feet. The boat rocked as we each stepped into it. We plunked down on a rowing thwart in the front and the two soldiers took the back, leaving the oarsman in the middle. I hugged Cecilia close. As I did so, I saw, far to the south and high up at the edge of the cliffs . . . a line of horsemen, armed. Their silhouettes cut stark and ominous against a gray veiling of clouds. The tips of their spears jabbed at the sky as they rode hard and fast along the thin lip of earth.

The oarsman pulled hard, grunting, and we slipped away from shore. My heart tumbled in fear with each jerk of the oars. Most of my damsels, including Patrice and Juliana, had already boarded the broad-bellied merchant ship that would take us down the coast to safety, but three others still waited on shore for the rowing boat to return for them.

Cecilia bit fiercely at her lip as we lurched toward the bobbing ship, each wave knocking our tiny boat back almost as far as the oarsman could manage to advance.

“He will be in York, waiting for me.” Her voice was barely a whisper above the roar of waves around us. Rain began to fall suddenly, heavily, stabbing at my shoulders and back. Cecilia crouched down before me and tucked her head tight against my bosom to keep the rain out of her eyes.

I did not think to ask what her betrothed’s name was, so fixed was my attention on the horse-men now leaning back in their saddles to plunge rapidly down the steep trail toward the shore. “Do not worry, Cecilia. The brunt of the storm is to the north. Away from us.”

But there was a closer fate to the south, closing fast. The last of my damsels were quaking in a tight huddle at the edge of an angry sea. A remnant of my guard, four men, waited with them. A small garrison had remained at the priory, thinking that if anyone came to attack, they would approach by the road to the west. Lightning cracked overhead. One of the soldiers glanced up at the cliffs. In the flickering light, sword blades glinted. I could now make out the round, studded shields affixed to their forearms—the targes of Scots. And at the lead a man with wild black tresses that fell to his shoulders. With his sword thrust out before him, he raised himself up out of his stirrups and closed on those below like a demon of the night.
The garrison soldier let out a cry to stand in defense. The black-haired Scotsman cocked his arm back and leaned out hard to the side. His blade slashed through the darkness and severed the man’s bare neck. The soldier who had given the warning was forever silenced. His head bounced in front of the terrified clutch of women and rolled to the water’s edge. The man’s torso swayed until a gust of wind finally pushed it over.

Above the crash of thunder, I could not hear the screams that followed.

#SampleSunday - Isabeau, Ch. 6

When I began to write about Queen Isabella, the wife of King Edward II of England, the story at first was solely in her voice. But there were gaps in it - huge holes in time and plot. The only way to bridge those gaps and give the story the dimension it needed was to allow Roger Mortimer to have his own voice. So Isabeau became as much Isabella's story as it was Roger's. I'll admit, by today's standards he's a bit of a chauvinist, but he also felt strong connections to certain people in his life, one of them being his uncle, Roger of Chirk.

Here's part of a scene from Ch. 6 of Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. Roger, his son Edmund and his uncle have submitted to King Edward II and been taken prisoner. They arrive at the Tower of London to await their fate:

*****

I was not spoken to again until we reached the inner bailey of the Tower of London. There, they snatched the blanket away and pitched me sideways from the wagon. My elbow and chest slammed against the cobbles. Air was sucked from my lungs. Before I could draw breath, Edmund landed across my legs, tumbled over, and banged his head on the stones. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, but a long hiss of pain escaped his mouth. I choked and sputtered as I fought to breathe. Then I saw another shadow wobbling above me. There was an irascible grunt, followed by a spit and a curse.

They hurled my uncle from the wagon. My torso broke his fall; only he did not land with the lithe reactions of my son, but the dead weight of an old man stiff in the joints. I tried to inhale, but his weight crushed me. My lungs would not expand. Down low my ribs burned with pain, as though someone had plunged a flaming poker into me.

“Get . . . off,” I gasped.

They hoisted him to his feet and began to drag him away.

I tucked my right elbow beneath me to roll over, but the pain burst through me again. With my hands still bound, I could not push myself up with either of them. The scrape of fading footsteps urged me to try again. I lifted my other shoulder and turned my head enough to see, in the silver etchings of a winter night, my uncle being escorted toward one of the tower doors. A virulent sneer tore from his lips.

“May you rot in hell!” he shouted at me. His crackling voice echoed off the high walls like the shattering of glass. They shoved him headlong through the doorway. He cursed again. The door slammed shut. Then . . . the sound of a beating. His profane oaths were muffled by fist blows, until at last they faded to heavy sobs and drawn-out whimpers.

On his knees, Edmund shook his head. Slowly, he turned his face toward me. A trickle of blood traced its way from the indent of his temple to the ridge of his cheekbone. “He did not mean it,” he said barely above a whisper.

At that, one of the guards seized him by the back of his shirt, yanked him to his feet and slammed a fist into his belly. “Keep your mouth shut, you hear?”

Edmund crumpled against the wagon, his eyes squeezed tight in pain. Before he could recover, they hooked their hands beneath each of his arms and were taking him away, too. Had I any breath to spare, I would have called after him. With stoic courage, Edmund lifted his head, picked up his feet, and kept silent so they would not give him the same pummeling they had given his great uncle. He was escorted to the same door, but when it was opened there was neither sight nor sound of my uncle. Edmund dodged to the side to avoid being slammed into the doorway as they jostled him through.

Vaguely, I was aware of the clop of hooves, the wagon rattling away over the stones, a barking of orders, the groaning of a gate, and the slow murmur of deep voices from behind me.

“—the Lanthorn Tower. There is a room for him there. Mind you, no one is to speak to him.”

Measured footsteps approached me from behind. I felt a pair of hands lift me carefully up until I was sitting. I winced involuntarily.

A man in full mail and wearing the king’s red and gold stepped around me and sank to his haunches. His balding head, bare of coif or helmet, was fringed with close shorn chestnut locks and streaked with the first white hairs of middle age. “A bit bruised, aren’t you?” He began to probe about my head with lightly jabbing fingers and worked his way down my neck and shoulders. When he came to my last two ribs on the right, I clenched my jaw, but there was a little groan deep inside my throat he must have heard, for he drew his hands away and stood. “Take him away. And see to his injuries. ‘Tis the king who says whether he lives or dies, and when, not us.”

Silently, I thanked him for that grace, however morbid.

*****

Meanwhile, I'm the Guest Writer over at the web site of historical fiction author Fred Nath. Fred's book, The Cyclist, is a poignant tale of World War II France and is the first in a trilogy. It was an Editor's Choice selection in the February 2011 issue of the Historical Novel Society's Historical Novels Review and reveals a different (and very human) side of war. Check out Fred's web site for more information!

Happy reading,
Gemi

Sample Sunday: Isabeau

Following is a scene from Ch. 3 of my book Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. Isabella has been away on pilgrimage and has been told by her husband, King Edward II, to take lodging at Leeds Castle. But hostilities between Edward and his barons have risen to an inferno. On this particular day, it dawns on Isabella that everything in her life as about to change:

Leeds Castle – October, 1321

Two swans, wing to wing, their bills tucked to their downy breasts, floated across the lake encircling Leeds Castle. The ripples of their wake broke the mirrored surface in a broadening fan. A bank of white rolled across my view, obscuring the limewashed walls beyond and the helmeted figures that watched us from the crenels of the uppermost towers. Even the sun, climbing toward its pinnacle now, had not chased away the morning mist.

While I had gone to Canterbury and knelt before the shrine of Thomas Becket a week past, Edward had ridden out to the Isle of Thanet—where he met Hugh Despenser. I know this not because he admitted it, but because he went with such haste and purpose that it left me no doubt. While he made to return to London, he ordered me to come here to Leeds Castle, “To befriend and forgive,” he had written. And so I came, even though the pretense of my visit was as flaccid as a wet rope. I considered it a diplomatic gesture, if nothing more. This morning, however, I had awoken with my bowels churning. The day, I feared, would not end well. My breath hung trapped in a cloud before me in the damp air. Draping the reins of my gray palfrey across the horn of my saddle, I called my newest squire to me. Arnaud de Mone parted from the rest of my guard, some thirty armed men, and came to stand before me.

“You sent word ahead as soon as we left Canterbury, requesting lodging for us?”

He nodded. Pearlescent beads of moisture shimmered among the golden ringlets of his hair. Although young—and temptingly beautiful—he had, in a very short span, proven himself devoted. “I did, my lady.”

“And just now—you asked that we be permitted entrance?”

“I did.”

“And what was Lord Badlesmere’s reply? They have had ample time to prepare for our arrival. Why have they kept us waiting?”

“Lord Badlesmere is not inside, my queen.”

“Then who refuses us?”

“Lady Badlesmere. She says that her husband gave the fortress into her care with firm orders that no one, for any reason, was to be permitted entrance.”

“But I am not no one!” I protested impulsively. How dare she? Indeed, I traveled with armed guards, but that was only a precaution. I had not come here to take possession of the fortress, but to engender harmony. That had been clear in my message. Why must even the simplest of good intentions be suspect? Edward had given in to strict demands. Pardons had been issued. The peace may have yet been a fragile one, but it was peace. Trust first had to be a matter of practice before it could become belief. This . . . this disobedience threatened that very premise to the core. If she would not do it willingly, then Lady Badlesmere would need to be forced to open up her home. “Go back to the gate. Tell her that her queen demands entrance and lodging.”

Arnaud moved a foot, hesitating. “If . . . if she refuses?”

My mare twitched her ears, as if she, too, awaited my response. “We go back to London. This will be dealt with later.” By Edward—who would not likely find it in him to be lenient this time.

He dipped his head in a nod and trotted away. With a detachment of two dozen soldiers, he rode across the narrow bridge of land connecting the mainland to the island on which Leeds Castle sat and up to the gate. A guard appeared at a crenel atop the gatehouse. Arnaud shouted my orders. I could not make out the guard’s reply, but it had the terse ring of a warning. Arnaud stood his ground and repeated my demands. The guard disappeared.

A moment later, one of my mounted soldiers behind him snapped back in his saddle, an arrow protruding from his chest. Clutching at the shaft, he uprighted himself. Blood poured between his fingers. He swayed, then slumped to the side, his other hand still entwined in the reins. As the wounded man tumbled to the ground, his horse wheeled around, feeling the sudden yank of its bit. Unable to scramble free, the man threw an arm over his head. But too late. An iron-shod hoof circled through the air and cracked squarely against his skull, shattering it like an eggshell beneath the blow of a hammer.

I gaped in horror, barely able to comprehend what I had just seen.

Then, the air hissed. Arrows sailed above the breaking mist, arced downward and plunged into flesh. Two horses went down, pinning their riders. Another man fell from his mount, eyes wide in death. His party trapped on the narrow tongue of land, Arnaud flailed an arm, signaling retreat. But even as they turned to go without ever having put up a fight, another volley of arrows sang their requiem. The causeway was too narrow to allow them to all flee at once. Corpses clogged the way.

I could not move or speak. A dozen dead or wounded lay scattered before the gate and along the land bridge. One man staggered to his feet and took two steps before he was struck through the neck. Another behind him, his way blocked, leapt into the water, desperate to escape. His head bobbed above the surface, then flew back as an arrow pierced his cheek. Blood sprayed around him. With a drawn-out gurgle, he slipped below, crimson bubbles marking the spot where he had last drawn air.

Trumpeting in alarm, the swans beat their wings and arose in a cloud of white above the silver-dark water. Sleek necks stretched out before them, they ascended, going higher, higher. Above the pandemonium unfolding in the mist. Away from the massacre.

The remaining men cleared the causeway and rounded the lake with a rumble of shouts. When Arnaud came to me, he said nothing, but grabbed my reins and led me away.

My heart thudded in my throat. Hooves clattered around me. Taunts rang out from the castle.

The moans of the dying fell away behind me. But I could not look back.

It had begun.

Happy reading,
Gemi