#SampleSunday (Twitter) - Worth Dying For

This week's #SampleSunday is from Ch. 15 of Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy: Book II). [For anyone who's wondering, no, you don't have to read the books in order.]

The year is 1307 and Robert the Bruce and his men are living a transient life in the hills and Highlands of Scotland. If it's not Englishmen they're battling or evading, it's other Scots. Near Slioch the Earl of Buchan's army has trailed them down, but with Robert gravely ill, they can no longer flee and must stand and fight. Robert looks to his younger brother, the impetuous Edward Bruce, to lead his men:

Edward was right. I could not sit my horse. He held my limp, burning body to his chest as he sought to preserve me and gave me his cloak. I cannot say that I slept in such a precarious state, propped up in the saddle semi-conscious with naught but Edward’s cramping arms to save me the fall, but I remembered very little of our flight. When we forded a river and the frozen waters cut across my lower legs I was shocked into temporary mental acuity. But just as fast, my mind, echoing the failing strength in my body, dimmed to darkness. Water brought to my lips invoked endless retching. Food had not passed my lips for a week. I recognized the haunting whisper of Death’s specter as it breathed at my neck. I had seen the spirit’s impending visit on my grandfather’s ashen face in his fleeting days and I knew by other’s reactions that that was how I must have looked. By Christmas Day, I could not rise. My heart told me to listen to my dreams and live. My head told me to listen to my body and just let go.

As the snow tumbled down and deep upon the earth, my men straggled uphill, numb and weary. Boyd carried me in his arms and laid me on a thick piling of furs beneath an outcrop of rock, so that the snow would not bury me. I turned my stiff, aching neck to look. There, far beyond a boggy stretch of turf lay a village, wasted and emptied―though whether our work or Buchan’s or perhaps even Pembroke’s I could not tell. Edward began to array our men on the hillside, archers to the fore. And there in the distance . . . the men of Buchan marching forward, straining to churn their legs through the impeding drifts, their horses snorting clouds of ice.

Gil, who knew Latin better than any among us, sank to his knees at my side and began to utter, “ . . . terra sicut in coelo . . . dimitte nobis . . . nos inducas in tentationem . . .”

He made the sign of the cross above me, glanced quickly over his shoulder, laid his hand on my chest and started again. “Pater noster qui―”

I laid my trembling blue fingers over his. “When did you take vows, Gil? Do I look so near to death?”

He feigned a smile, but it slipped away under the shadow of his beak-like nose. My brother-in-law Neil Campbell, his longsword dangling from one hairy-knuckled hand, hovered grimly over Gil’s shoulder.

“Tomorrow will find you hale, my king,” Neil insisted. “For now―Buchan, he is across the way. Rumors were amuck that you were already dead. That is why they’ve waited so long to come after us. They dared not while they believed you among us. But now, we’ve nowhere left to run. Our legs refuse to carry us any further.”

“Time to use your arms, Neil,” I told him hoarsely. “Time to fight.”

“Aye.” Neil tightened one of the carrying straps of his studded round shield and stood.

“Neil?”

“Aye?”

“For Mary.”

The name touched on some strength deep and latent within him. He drew breath, raising his shoulders, and nodded. “And Elizabeth.”

Before his sentimental side got the better of him, Neil took off scrambling sideways along the hill. I gestured to Gil to bend nearer to me.

Our archers ran their calloused fingers over their strings for one last test, then jabbed their missiles into the packed snow at their feet. They were well practiced and my faith in them was unfailing. But Buchan had archers, too, and no matter how stray or true the aim on either side, Scots would die this day.

“Edward―bring Edward,” I whispered into Gil’s scarlet-rimmed ear. I tried to raise my head, but the downward pull was too great, my power too little. “Tell him . . . I have a wish.”

Gil left me. It was only a moment and yet more than an eternity when Edward’s hulking shadow appeared above me. He studied me in his callous, cursory manner, half love, half hate, then knelt slowly beside me. There was not a thread of fear abiding in his conscience―only the cool glimmer of ambition at seeing his older sibling, that which stood between him and glory, heartbeats from death.

He bowed his head and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Your wish?” he prompted.

Of all of us this past year, he had fought the hardest and most dangerously, and yet he appeared unscathed, stronger, damn invincible.

I looked him straight in the eye and raised two fingers. Then I lowered one and said, “First, if you must go on without me, that you will finish what I started.”

“That goes without saying, Robert. And?”

My hand began to shake and I let it fall to my chest. “Put me on my horse. Let me lead them one more time.”

He scoffed at me. “And let you fall to an arrow? No.”

“Edward, I am going to die here anyway. You know . . .”

He abandoned me with a surly glance. Ever defiant. Tenfold more so toward me than the rest of humanity. And yet . . .

I watched as Buchan’s archers scurried forth. The call went up:

“Take aim!”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Far, far silence resounding of mortality and snow all around, blinding to the sight.

“Pull!”

Happy reading,
Gemi

Why we love bad dogs

Last week, I went to the back door to let the dogs in and two of the three who were out came running in faster than usual. They both gave me those looks that said, "We don't know nuffin'." A muffled bark beckoned from around the corner of the house. Another bad sign.

So, since I already had my coat on because we were on our way to the YMCA, I ventured outside. Turns out our dog Mazda (the dirty, squinty-eyed one above) managed to dig herself a hole under the sidewalk next to our garage, piled up the dirt behind her and was stuck there for two hours while my husband and I tried to claw through the permafrost to rescue her. She was not the first to excavate in that particular spot. A half-sister and a niece have made a nice wide cavern that we keep filling up with rubble. I suppose they like the challenge, because then they just dig around it. (On a side note, this is the dogs' yard. Humans are only allowed in to mow and remove doo-doo.)

We thought about leaving her for awhile to teach her a lesson, but it was about -10 degrees with the windchill and we didn't want any of our neighbors calling the humane society on us. For an hour I scratched at the dirt with a tiny garden tool, but I could only dig deeper, not wider. I lured her with bologna, telling her how 'good' she was for every inch she wiggled out, but she could obviously sense the mounting tension in my voice that said, "I could just strangle you." So after 60 minutes of this, she had actually sucked herself deeper inside. Not what I intended.

My husband finally got a sledgehammer and dislodged one of those concrete blocks next to her. Covered in dirt, she went straight into the kennel while we resumed our plans for the day --- two hours late. In reward for her naughtiness, my daughter gave her a bath the next day. I'm sure she made the connection. Digging = bath = bad. Right?

We tell her she's rotten and she grins back at us, but for some odd reason we still love her.

I'll be checking in only sporadically over the next couple of months here, as I'll be having way too much fun in botany or anatomy class. Then, thank goodness, I'll be done with that and back to a normal life - finally!

Meanwhile, I was over recently at Kindle Author doing an interview.

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

Sample Sunday - The Crown in the Heather

If you're on Twitter, there's a great way to discover new writers! Just search under #SampleSunday and add any other hash tags you'd like (#historicalfiction, #YA, etc.) to help you refine your search. This will take you to a sample of an author's writing. I'll be checking them out today, retweeting those that catch my eye.

So without further ado, here is my installment from The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy: Book I). The year is 1296 and Robert the Bruce is at Lochmaben awaiting the birth of his first child with his wife Isabella of Mar. But as it was back in those days, childbirth was a precarious event. What should have been a joyous event was often bittersweet:

My eyes swept toward the great four-postered bed across the room. On the far side, the old midwife, Alice, wiped delicately at Isabella’s white brow with a cloth. And nearer to me, at the foot of her bed, Father Malachi . . . performing last rites.

“Dear God in heaven,” I uttered. “No, please, no.”

The priest daubed the soles of Isabella’s feet with holy oil as he blessed her soul to heaven’s keeping. I drifted past him, the iron tang of blood filling my nose and mouth. A great blotch of red-brown stained the sheets on which she lay. Over her bloated belly and bare legs someone had draped a blanket in modesty. Her shift, wet with the slickness of birth, clung to her full breasts in dark, sodden wrinkles.

Stunned, I knelt beside her and took her hand, still warm, in mine. Sweat glistened like a fine sheen of hoarfrost upon her cheeks. The only color in her face was a mask of red encircling closed eyes. Her waist-length hair, once fair and shining, lay across her pillow in twisted, lackluster strands. I stroked her fingers, even as I sensed them stiffening, and bent my head to my forearm.

My Isabella, she cannot be . . . No, no, it isn’t possible. This is not right. Did her eyelids not flutter just now? Her chest rise in the slightest of breaths? Was that twitch beneath my fingertips not the faint pulse of blood streaming through her veins?

A wail of lament ripped from my gut, but I clenched my jaw fiercely, trapping the knife of pain in my throat. My hands began to tremble, then my arms and shoulders, until soon my whole body shook uncontrollably.

“Marjorie,” came a hoarse whisper.

A long moment later, I swallowed back the hard knot in my throat and looked up through bleary eyes. “What?”

“Marjorie, my lord,” Alice murmured, a sorrowful smile on her thin lips. “Lady Isabella’s last wish was that you should name the child Marjorie—after your mother.”

With quivering fingers, I pushed away tears. But like a fresh cut doused with vinegar, their sting remained.

“If . . .” My voice cracked with grief. “If that was her wish.” I glanced at the tiny babe swaddled tightly in the curve of Ljot’s arms.

Father Malachi touched my shoulder. “The godparents should be summoned, my lord. If I remember, you chose your oldest brother, Edward. And your sister . . . Mary, was it? I will send to Lochmaben for them. We can perform the christening as soon as they arrive.”

Christening? How could I take joy in the baptism of a child in the same week I was to bury my wife? More often, it was the mother who lived and the child who died, as Ljot’s did. If only this babe had—

God forgive me. How can I even think such wickedness?

Then I heard the slurp and grunt of my daughter’s vigorous suckling and soon her bittersweet cries rent the air.

“Marjorie,” I repeated.

Until later,
Gemi

Somewhere, somebody needs your help

In the past couple of years, while I was contemplating whether or not to go the indie route in publishing my books, a very wise voice appeared on the scene over at Authonomy.com. Her name was April Hamilton and she had started up a website called Publetariat as an online community and resource for indie authors. She was among the first to herald indie publishing as a legitimate course for authors and an alternative to the traditional publishing scene. She spent many, many hours on Authonomy sharing information about what self-publishing is and is not. Although most writers there were curious to find out more, a handful of them believed that indie publishing was for those who would never find success anyway and would only ever end up selling to their friends and relatives. April always kept a cool head and never resorted to emotional outbursts,always maintaining the utmost level of professionalism. I quickly got the impression that not only was she very knowledgeable, but also very selfless with that knowledge.

I spent hours on her website and following the links there to learn as much as I could before finally making the brave decision to publish my own books. Without her, and many like her, I may never have done so. Six months into the venture and I'm now earning enough from e-book sales to pay off my monthly satellite internet bill, my phone landline and take the family out for dinner every now and then. It ain't a lot, but it's something and the added bonus is that I can actually call myself a writer because my books are being read by complete strangers.

But back to April Hamilton. This past week, she posted this: Is Publetariat Worth a Dollar to You? To summarize it, she was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year, her husband left her and her business went under. Struggling to make ends meet, she is also facing foreclosure. So she's asking for help - a dollar or whatever can be spared, to help her family and the website stay afloat. You can donate at Publetariat via PayPal or purchase one of April Hamilton's books.

I firmly believe that if you do your best to spread good karma that it will one day come back to you. I also realize there are many, many other people and animals in the world who need a helping hand at times. So find someone in need, give up your Double Mocha Grande' Latte for a day and throw your change in the Salvation Army kettle or whatever cause you believe in. I've been eating cheap at A&W lately and shoving my change and spare bills in the Humane Society piggy bank there. Meanwhile, have faith in the Universe, then, that the same kindness will come back to you when you need it. But that good karma has to start somewhere - why not with you?

Merry Christmas!

Gemi

Sample Sunday (#ss on Twitter)

Although I've been brewing a couple of other blog posts in my gray matter, they keep getting delayed by studying and writing a term paper. Next week my college course will be over and I'll be unfettered, so in the meanwhile here's a quick mention for the new Sample Sunday.

If you're on Twitter and are looking for new reading material from indie authors, just search for #SampleSunday or #ss and you'll find oodles of reading samples recommended by other readers and indie authors. The great thing about indie books, particularly on Kindle or other e-reading devices, is that they're usually very CHEAP!

Here's the link to David Wiseheart's (Kindle Author) blog post about it: http://kindle-author.blogspot.com/2010/12/what-is-samplesunday.html.

If you find one you like, feel free to retweet it.

Until later,
Gemi