The tale of a bold knight, a valiant steed, an innocent maiden and a cunning dragon…

The voice in Barney’s head was a thought breathless. “The old bastard likes a head shot. Can you trust me enough to sit absolutely still and let go of your lance at my word?”
“I can.”
“Right. Couch your lance.”
Barney did as he was bid, although he couldn’t help noticing that the king was a giant of a man astride a horse that made Salazar look like a Shetland Pony. The lance pointing unerringly at his eyes bore a barbed head, and if it hadn’t been for his trust in Salazar’s wisdom, Barney rather thought he might have either soiled his underwear, or fainted. Or both. Just as he though the king’s lance might be about to take off his head, Salazar swerved subtly towards the oncoming juggernaut, and the point of the king’s lance bypassed Barney’s helmet and went over his right shoulder. Even His Majesty wasn’t strong enough to keep a hold of a lance that was being dragged away by his opponent’s body. As soon as the king let go of his weapon Salazar spoke.
“Fumble your lance now.”
Barney allowed his lance to fall to the ground and spoke urgently.
“Salazar. Could you possibly come up lame right about now?”
“Oh yes. Very good. Why did I not think of that. I come up lame and we have to retire. His Majesty wins and everyone is happy.”
As soon as Barney felt the big horse begin to favour his right foreleg he started waving his arms as theatrically as possible. He took off his helmet and sat bareheaded in the late afternoon sunlight. Salazar turned around slowly, and as though in pain. The king, mounted on his land leviathan, came to where they waited. He removed his golden helm and spoke formally.
“Do you say you cannot carry on, sir knight?”
Barney bent his head and hoped his mouth wouldn’t get him into trouble.
“I do so aver, my liege. The noble beast upon whose back I ride has somehow incurred injury at the lists, and I would not cause further pain to him by continuing. I cede this contest to the better man.”
He felt Salazar’s approval, so assumed he must have got the thing approximately right.
The king threw back his head and laughed long and loud. Then he stroked his coarse black beard with one huge hand. “Very well, I accept your offer and retire from the lists undefeated.” He turned his horse and headed for the largest and gaudiest of the pavilions where a female figure in a brightly purple dress stood holding a gauzy scarf in her hands. She looked a bit odd to Barney, at one second she was as beautiful and carefree as a May morning, the next dumpy and hard of feature and pushing out of her gown in much the manner of a sausage bursting from its skin.
“Don’t look,” Salazar spoke bracingly, “the Lady has some problems with her chosen appearance. She can’t sustain it.”
“No indeed. But now.”
At that point a crowd of servants arrived bringing a portable mounting block. Barney heaved himself to the ground and led the limping stallion back to their own pavilion. While the valets removed Barney’s armour piece by piece the grooms dealt with Salazar’s needs.
Barney was dressed in a loose woollen robe and Salazar sported an unnecessary (but entirely necessary in another sense) bandage on his right hock, when the ‘door’ opened to admit an expensively-dressed middle-aged man with a high-bridged nose – and a high opinion of his own consequence by the way he peered down that nose.
“His name’s Marplot and he’s a sort of a fixer for knights errant. Knows where the dragons and small wars are to be found. You outrank him, so no need to be polite.”
Barney decided that politeness, at least at the outset, was a better notion, but he also thought he should be cool and a bit lofty. Accordingly, he raised one eyebrow at the unannounced visitor and remained seated on the only chair in the tent.
“Ah, Marplot. Do come in. Did I send for you?”
The man looked uneasy. “Umm. No. But the Queen’s Majesty… She… Umm.. Well… She sent me to…”
Then he stopped speaking.
Barney sighed inwardly. He might not have been used to kings and queens and knights and tournaments, but he was an expert in bored wives. He turned his best manly smile on Marplot.
“Thank you. I’m sure you will know precisely what to say to the Queen’s Majesty.”
Marplot looked uneasy. “You don’t seem too worried that she won’t be able to keep your tryst for this evening.”
“It doesn’t,” Barney dropped his voice to a stage whisper, “behove any gentleman to question the word of any lady, leave alone the Queen’s Majesty. So you just trot along and say that Sir Barnabas was, of course, cut to the quick, but he understands that affairs of state must take precedence over affairs of the heart.”

This adventure of Barney and Salazar will continue next week…

His friend told him a huge secret
That could affect her life
She asked him to safely keep it
So he only told his wife

When his wife heard of the sinner
She promised not to tell
Her three closest friends, at dinner
Swore to keep it as well

And each the promise truly kept
Save those they’d trust the most
And all they told were well adept
To keep the secret close

Thus the secret was soon made known
And all around the town
What had been spoken to just one
Was widely spoken now…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dai carefully unfolded the hanging and held it up for Aelwen to inspect. She put her head on one side and her brow drew into tight lines, as if she were a critic appraising the latest offering from an acclaimed artist.
The thing was lovely. From the carefully beaded knotwork pattern that bordered the edge to the gloriously vivid designs. It glittered in the light as the brilliant colours of the glass beads were both muted and set off by the softer metallic looking ones in silver and gold effect.
Satisfied, Aelwen then felt the hem where the carefully placed weights were sewn in disguised by quilting and the braided fringe.
“What are they made of, the weights?”
“In the past we’d have used lead,” Marta told her, but today we use stainless steel.” She reached over to a box and pulled some of the contents out so Aelwen could see. “Here take one.”
Warmed by the spiced tea (a local blend of fourteen fruits, herbs and spices, half-price Saturnalia special and an extra discount for the dominus if he’ll take two packs—so he did), they paid for their purchases. The hanging was wrapped in tissue paper and popped into one of the paper bags that the workshop had printed with their own name and logo (probably onsite, Dai decided), the Llewllyns took their leave.
As Dai was guiding the all wheel out of the gate, he caught sight of Marta, in the rear view, back in the doorway of the workshop and waving enthusiastically. She looked red faced and took a few steps out into the yard. Dai lifted a hand in farewell and a moment later they were around the corner and beginning the precarious descent.
They were about halfway down when Aelwen said, decisively, “I liked that shop and the spiced tea. But not the dogs. And do you think mam will like that hanging?”
“I think she will love it.”
Aelwen smiled then her face fell.
“I wanted some pictures to show where we went to get it.”
Dai heard the tone and knew what the outcome would be, but tried anyway.
“If we go back we’ll be very late, cath fach. And your nain is cooking for you, remember.”
The silence and the drooping head were more than he could bear. Then he saw a pull in a short way ahead, which offered a stunning vista from the zig-zag road. He was already decelerating as he said, “Why don’t we get some pictures of the view here? That would be much more spectacular?”
It was touch and go if the alternative would wash with Aelwen, but maybe the thought of her grandmother’s baking fresh from the oven was enough to sway the balance, because she nodded as Dai parked up.
The wind was cold, but not bitter. Not yet carrying the smell and taste of snow. Instead it brought hints of coal smoke from the hearths of the cottages below, looking like dolls’ houses with toy goats and chickens in the garden. Aelwen fussed around for a couple of minutes like a professional portrait photographer, positioning Dai and getting him to help her with the settings so she could zoom in to show the more distant mountains, capped by cloud.
But they were eventually back in the all wheel and driving back along the narrow mountain road.
Dai didn’t think anything of it when he saw a rugged and long-lived allwheel barrelling up the slope towards them. There were a few isolated farmsteads along potholed tracks which turned off the decently surfaced road. But when it showed no sign of slowing, he silently cursed the arrogance of the locals and their assumption of right of way and aimed his vehicle for the passing place between them.
Incredibly, the allwheel coming up accelerated, almost as if it wanted to cut him off from reaching the wider bit of road. Suddenly aware that he had no other choice to avoid the mad driver, he speeded up too, and for a moment it was as if they were playing a game of chicken. He just pulled out of the way as the other vehicle reached them, but at the last moment it slid and there was a shriek of tortured metal and a scream from Aelwen as the two vehicles graunched together.
Aelwen screamed again and Dai swore, fighting to turn the allwheel back onto the road as the cliffedge approached at a frightening speed.

From Dying for a Present, a Dai and Julia Mystery novella by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

The strawberries are red and sweet
Their bright juice stains his lips with bliss
And when he lays him down, replete
The wanton breeze steals just one kiss

©️jane jago

Take a handful of talented writers and a whole bunch of free and discounted books. That’s going to make Friday the 13th a lucky day…

Here’s a sample of Sam Nero PI by Jane Jago just one of the great titles and authors you can read absolutely free…

The moment she walked into my office, I knew she was trouble. Any private eye worth his salt knows that a dame like that in a dive like this spells trouble for somebody.
She was classy, and way out of my orbit. Even the sound of silk on silk as she crossed her legs spoke of money beyond my imagination. She uncrossed those legs, leaned forward, and pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of her handbag. I took my cue, lighting the end of her cigarette with my brass Zippo.
Leaning back in the tatty office chair, my visitor smiled a feline smile. She smoked in silence for a moment, and it crossed my mind that she looked as out of place as an orchid in a ditch.
When she spoke, her voice was almost as wealthy as her appearance. It was smoky, and sexy, and carefully modulated.
“If a person wanted to have somebody rubbed out, where would that person go?”
“The eraser factory?”
She leaned back and blew a smoke ring. “Very funny, Mister Nero. But I asked you a serious question.”
“I’m a private investigator, not a facilitator.”
My visitor laughed, low and husky. “Very good. And I’m not asking you to facilitate a murder. I’m asking you to investigate one.”
I leaned my elbows on the desk. “Aren’t the police investigating?”
“No. Or I wouldn’t be slumming it.”
“Two questions. Who died? And why not some up-level investigator with a shiny office and an even shinier reputation?”
She stared at me before leaning forward and stubbing out her cigarette with vicious little stabs. I couldn’t help noticing the perfection of her manicure and mentally pricing the job at more than what I earned in a month.
“Not so stupid, then.” Her voice lost some of its melody and grated a little on the ear. “I came to you because I heard you were honest, and maybe not afraid of getting your hands dirty. And who died? Lefty Galento. My father.”
It was my turn to stare. Then I spoke in carefully neutral tones. “Lefty died of natural causes.”

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A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

He sometimes wondered if they knew what their fate was, but then again he couldn’t believe them intelligent enough to understand the nuances. And anyway he gave them a good life, didn’t he? They had food, warm beds and plenty of outdoor space to run around in. 

His life mate rather thought the strange noises they made were some sort of rudimentary speech, but as a female she was prone to odd notions and improbable fancies.

He was prepared to indulge her, though, as she produced litter after litter of healthy young.

All of whom were raised on hooman meat.

©jj 2022

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Never say ‘I have not never’
Double negatives really ain’t clever
If your proofreading sucks
And you don’t give a ****
You may not get your Pulitzer ever

Jane Jago

I write my diaries daily, with details of my exercise and of the flowers, birds, and small animals we see in the gardens. I write nothing private or personal, as I am sure the keepers read my writings to ensure I am doing no wrong. The diaries are small red-bound books, about the size of the palm of my hand, with thin yellowish paper. I write with black ink and when a pen grows dry the keepers bring me another.
The books I am given to read are, I think, carefully chosen not to upset the even tenor of our lives. They are mostly stories of the old world, before the bombs and the plagues, and are often about animals, or such supernatural beings as flowered in the imagination of writers all those years ago. I miss the library in the place I was before, where I was permitted to read what I liked, so long as I remained quiet and cooperative. I learned much, but I never speak of it. The books I am now allowed reside on a shelf in the small sitting room which number eight and I have taken for our own. My diaries, however, live on a little writing desk beside my bed. I am lucky enough to have a bedroom to myself, as do number eight and two other girls. This is a privilege granted to us because we behave well, and never cause our keepers any trouble.
When matron visits at new moon, our names are never in the book for chastisement; we are always praised and held up as an example of the decorous behaviour expected in those who breed for the aristocracy.
If the keepers knew our innermost thoughts, we would be less petted. If they knew how we hate them, and how much we loathe their use of us, I think we would both be dead by now. But they do not, and we keep up our facade of colourless amiability in the hope that one day their carelessness will give us an opportunity to escape. It is a forlorn enough hope, but one we cling to.
From time to time there have been raids on this place. Breeders are a valuable commodity, and it is our guess that our masters are not the only ones who would make use of fertile wombs. When raiders come, we are hustled into a windowless, soundproof room, where we wait. Sometimes we wait for hours. Sometimes we wait for days. One time we waited so long that supplies were running low, and we began to fear we had been forgotten. When they finally let us out, all our old keepers were gone. One of the new ones let slip that their predecessors had either been killed or taken.
Since then, eight and I take care to be where the keepers cannot find us when the raid warnings sound. Unless we are heavy with child, we can easily climb the garden wall and hide among the servants. If climbing is out of the question, we take little-known passageways and conceal ourselves in curtained niches, or in the attics that run the length of this sprawling building. The first time we avoided the panic room, we thought there would be punishment coming our way, but the keepers only seemed pleased that we were back in our beds when the raid was over. We theorise that they would be punished for losing sight of us and so they choose to overlook this one misdemeanour in our otherwise blameless lives.
Sometimes, there have been questions about our seeming passivity, but we have grown wise to the signs of these, and we know what to say to which of our keepers to keep the curiosity of others at bay. We are always courteous to the keepers, and the midwives, and the many servants who buzz around the place largely ignored. Betimes, there have been new girls come among us who have had a mind to trouble. We have always seen the signs early, and ensured such as they leave us well alone. Eight is big and strong, and knows how to give pain without leaving a mark on the victim’s skin. I am not so big, but it is soon learned that anyone challenging me can expect to suffer subtle, but dangerous vengeance. If they are unable to find fuel for their malice among their fellow breeders, some of these disaffected girls have sought to have servants punished for imagined, or imaginary, infractions. We have thought this unfair, and spoken of the wrongness of the accusations with those among our keepers who are charged with discipline. We have always been believed. Mayhap we have made enemies, but we have also made friends. The friendship of servants is a better thing for our comfort and safety than the double-faced affections of most of our peers.

From The Barefoot Runners by Jane Jago.

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Write one for children they said
And I jumped in right over my head
But the youth of today
Wears your patience away
And right now I wish I was dead

Jane Jago

They set off, not following the road, but heading uphill onto the high common land where sheep and goats roamed, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of yellow gorse.
For Julia, the ride was enchantment. She had her arms around the man she loved and her cheek resting on his back, and all the while they passed through the greenest and, she thought, the loveliest landscape she had ever seen. The only bar to complete enjoyment was the increasing rigidity in Dai’s shoulders as they neared his family home. 
They came down from the hillside onto an obviously well-travelled road, and not many minutes later Dai stopped the vehicle beside a wide white-painted gate. He screwed around to look at her.
“This is it,” he said somewhat grimly.
“Smile, love,” she admonished. “You don’t want to upset your mother.”
His face softened as he looked at her, then he got off the vehicle and opened one leaf of the gate. 
It was a long approach to the house and Julia was surprised to be passing through vineyards where the harvest was in full swing.
“I never made the connection,” she said in a voice of awe. “I knew your family were wine merchants with a vintner’s in Viriconium. I should have thought that maybe you have your own wines.”
“We don’t sell wine. It’s brandy. Distilled on the property.”
“Oh my. Why didn’t I know that?”
He managed an eloquent shrug as the all-terrain drew to a silent halt in front of a long, low stone-built house. Somebody must have been watching out, because the door opened and a little group of people hurried out to greet them.
First came a middle-aged woman with a coronet of jet-black braids and a pair of piercing blue eyes. She could only be Dai’s mother, Olwen, and everybody else hung back to allow her to greet her only child. He leapt off the vehicle and grasped his mother in a boisterous hug, lifting her quite off the ground and burying his face in her neck. She hugged him back for a long moment before putting her hands on either side of his face and kissing his cheeks. 
“Put me down and introduce your wife,” she scolded but Julia could see the tears of joy that sparkled unshed in her eyes.
Dai obligingly set Olwen on her feet and turned to lift a laughing Julia from the all-terrain.
“I’m sure I should be able to get myself off this thing, I just couldn’t figure out how.”
“Your legs aren’t long enough.” 
He kissed her lovingly before taking her hand and leading her to where his family waited.
“This is my wife, Julia,” he said with simple pride. Then he ticked off names on his fingers. “My mother, Olwen. Brother, Hywel. My sister-in-law Enya. And these are my nephews Merfyn, Angwyn, Brychan and….” he looked at the babe in Enya’s arms questioningly.
His brother grinned. “Oh. Him. That’s Dai.”
Dai strode over and smote his brother on the shoulder.
“You never did?”
“We did,” it was Enya who spoke. She looked at Julia. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Julia walked over and looked at the baby’s fair face. She blinked away a tear.
“No. I think it’s lovely. And I may not be able… We may never be….” she stopped and Dai came to stand behind her with his hands on her shoulders. 
Enya smiled a sweet smile.
“Would you like to hold him?”
Julia nodded mutely and Enya put the baby in her arms.

From Dying for a Poppy by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook