The cathedral bell tolled from its tower, beckoning weary travellers to rest. It had been the landmark guiding Rob’s course for some hours and he knew that somewhere in its shadow a young woman was waiting. Thoughts of Anne had kept him going, urging his mount to keep up a ground eating pace over the frozen ground. He had to see her even though the news he carried burdened his soul.

As he let the exhausted animal walk over the bridge, he could see the failing sunlight catching on the River Wear so it gleamed like a dark satin ribbon looping around the high ground dominated by castle and cathedral. Snow-burdened rain began falling in heavy drops. Some found their way past the collar of his cassaque and down his neck, the rest were oiling the cobbles to a dull gleam beneath the hooves of his horse.

A strong smell of good Newcastle coal filled the dusk as behind the closed doors and shuttered windows of the houses lining the narrow street, wise folk kept to their hearths. But Rob was feeling far from wise as he pushed his tired mount the last hundred yards up the hill and into the Market Square where the welcome warmth of an inn awaited them both. Tonight he needed rest, his wounds were sore and aching in the cold, but tomorrow he must find Anne and tell her what had happened to her brother.

That there had been a battle and he wouldn’t be coming home.

E.M. Swift-Hook

She knew it made good sense. Great-aunt Tiffany had given an understanding smile and patted her hands, folded like pinioned birds in her lap.

“It will keep the money in the family and it’s not like Cousin Richard is a monster or anything.”

Not a monster.

No.

Kind, but thirty years older than her and smelling of foot powder and stale pipe tobacco. 

At the altar, he took her hand.

“You alright, m’dear? We can call it all off. Even now. I’m an old bear but not a grumpy one.”

For a moment she hesitated.

“My old bear,” she said.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook is a Fortune’s Fools short story. Tegwyth used to receive gifts at Midwinter, until she became one herself. Alone in the snow, she will do anything to survive because of the one thing that matters most to her…

The loaf was within reach now. But so was the coat and it was that Tegwyth slid carefully from the stool first, looping it around her and under her cloak out of sight. Then she reached out again for the bread.

“I really wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

It was the bearded man. He had moved away from the fire, perhaps so the other two could get to know each other – or perhaps, feeling simply not wanted there anymore. Either way, he now stood on the far side of the table. His face hard, although his voice sounded more as if he were offering her friendly advice than any threat. But she had just become a thief – she had stolen his coat, its warmth so good around her, the warmth of life in the bitter cold of winter. And the price of theft, even if she had been free and not hunted as an escaped slave, was death.

For a moment she thought to run. To flee. Break away. Rush for the door and out into the snow. But as if he could read her thoughts, the bearded man had taken a step to the side so she would have to pass him to be able to leave. His hand curled on a strange looking item clipped onto his belt. But as he moved and light fell on her face, his expression changed. It seemed to soften, as the warmth of the sun softens the hard packed ice. His hand moved away from his belt and he shook his head.

“Sweet truth and dare, you’re only a bloody child,” he said. And reaching past her he picked up the loaf. Tegwyth wondered when he would notice she had taken his coat, maybe he would see the flash of brilliant colour through one of the holes in her cloak, maybe he –

“Here, you hungry? Eat this and I’ll get you some hot soup to go with it.”

Her hands closed over the bread. It felt soft and smelled of yeast and grain – and life.

E.M. Swift-Hook 

A Midwinter Miracle is available on Audible,  as an ebook and paperback and can be purchased from Amazon, Kobo, iTunes and Googleplay. This special edition has typographic art and cover design by Zora Marie.

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

When a gal from the WI
Was asked why the glint in her eye
She replied with a grin
That it isn’t a sin
To put plenty of gin in your pies

© jane jago

The Sparkly Badgers’ Christmas Anthology is a wonderful selection of festive tales to cheer your Yule and benefit a very worthy charity for the disabled as well!

From ‘A Badger Christmas Carol’ by C.H. Clepitt and Claire Buss

It was said that it was the death of his wife that made Michael McAllister hate the badgers. Her passing, complications from emphysema, cast a bleak cloud over Greenwood Farm. She was the one who used to care for the animals, not just the farm animals, but the wildlife and in particular the family of badgers who lived in the thicket at the bottom of their fields. Michael resented the fact that the disease ridden badgers were still alive when his beloved wife was dead. And without her kindness to temper his mean streak, Michael gained a reputation in the village as a miserable skinflint who would do anything for a quick payout. These days the people, and the wildlife, stay well away from Greenwood Farm, which was fine with Michael. They were not welcome anyway.
It was bitterly cold Christmas Eve morning, made colder by McAllister’s refusal to warm the farm house for the estate meeting. Electricity wasn’t cheap, and he could wear more clothes if he needed to. Roberts, the gamekeeper, pulled his sheepskin jacket up around his ears and blew on his hands, waiting to be given the list of tasks to complete today.
“I saw fox prints last night, Roberts,” McAllister snapped without so much as a good morning. “A whole family of the blighters. If I lose any more chickens, you’ll be out on your ear!”
“Sir.” Roberts was noncommittal but made a mental note to leave some food out for the vixen. She’d recently had cubs and these were lean times. He’d also check the chicken wire on the coops. It wouldn’t do to lose any of the hens.
“I want the rat traps re-filled and the rabbit snares doubled. And stop putting out seeds for the blasted pheasants. They’ll get too fat to fly and there’ll be nothing to shoot next Spring.” McAllister glared at Roberts. “What? Why are you looking at me in that pathetic way?”
“Sorry, Sir, it’s just… It’s Christmas Eve,” Roberts began
“And?”
“Tis the season?” Roberts replied weakly. If Catherine had still been alive, the farm house would’ve been full of light and laughter as they planned what treats they would leave for the animals on Christmas Eve. She had been delighted when he reported the appearance of a badger sett. She would’ve loved seeing the cubs being born.
“Poppycock!” McAllister banged his hand on the table top. “I suppose you’ll be wanting time off tomorrow.”
“If at all convenient, Sir,” Roberts shifted awkwardly on the spot.
“It’s not convenient! It’s not at all convenient!” McAllister’s voice became high pitched with incredulity.  “But I suppose you must or you’ll have all the social media morons after me.  Trial by website, load of nonsense…” He turned his glare onto Roberts. “But you will finish these jobs before leaving today.” And he flung a barely legible list onto the table.
Roberts’ heart sank as he saw at the top of the list the words ‘lay badger traps’.

A Festive Bite of… Claire Buss

Q1:What are the essential ingredients for a festive story in your opinion?
Me personally I like snow on Christmas Eve, a bit of Santa magic, mince pies and tinsel, fairy lights and presents, love and warmth and forgiveness and of course, a Christmas miracle.

Q2:What do you most want to find under your Christmas tree this year?
I want a piano but considering I live in a teeny tiny flat I don’t think I’m going to get one this year. I hope for books, I always hope for books but don’t always get them. Anything else is icing.

Q3:Christmas pudding or Christmas cake and why?
Both I’m afraid. Christmas pudding has to be lit with brandy after Christmas dinner and eaten boiling hot with cream and then, and this is the important part, the rest must be put in the fridge to go solid and then eaten on Boxing Day and thereafter with natural yoghurt. Christmas cake is started in November on stir-up Sunday and then fed until marzipan and icing time. I then cut it into pieces, half goes to hubby’s work, rest gets frozen in bits and I end up eating Christmas cake until at least Easter but I don’t mind. It has to have nuts and cherries in it and I stick my marzipan on with marmalade because I don’t care for apricots. And it has to be royal icing and not fondant.

The perfect gift this festive season, The Sparkly Badgers’ Christmas Anthology is sold in aid of The Avon Riding Centre.

The face smiled, belying the words it spoke.

“We have decided it’s not in our commercial interests to allow you to continue to use those chips in your tech.”

Targena drew a sharp breath.

“Is there nothing we…?”

“The decision’s been taken at the highest level and is final. All future shipments are cancelled.”

A moment later the smiling face vanished from the screen.

Targena sighed then picked up her phone and spoke into it.

“You have your funds, professor.”

It took less than a year to develop a superior chip and wipe the smile off that face for good.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.

VI

There were two other men in the hot bath, lazily reclined and talking in low voices. They were both, Dai could not fail to notice, wearing heavy Patrician rings so even when naked they were still marked out as superior beings, paunches and all.
“It is incredible who they allow in here nowadays,” one said, his eyes flicking contemptuously over Dai. “Shouldn’t be allowed.”
“I didn’t think natives were allowed in these baths – never seen one before, anyway,” his companion agreed. “I’ll have a word with the curator, we can get it removed.”
Dai was grateful the heat had already made his skin very flushed or hIS reactIon to their words might have been visible, as it was he decided it was not worth creating an issue that might fall back on Julia to deal with as she was the one who had signed him in as her guest. That was the only way any non-Roman would be allowed in a public premises deemed ‘sub aquila’ – where you had to walk under the eagle on the portico to get inside, and it meant she was personally responsible for his behaviour. So, instead, he curtailed his bathing and pulled himself out of the pool on the far side to from where the Romans lounged.
He had to walk past them to leave the pool room and as he did so, one made a crude gesture with one finger, his patrician’s ring glinting gold. Dai froze mid stride and turned back, fists balling as he did so.
“At least,” he said tightly, “I have a real dick and not just a picture of one on a ring.”
The water beside him erupted and he decided not to wait whilst the two heaved themselves from the water like bull seals onto a rock. Forgoing Roman tradition, Dai bypassed the cold bath and dressed quickly, vaguely aware of one of the two praetorians explaining to his irate fellow bathers that if anyone was going to be ejected from the baths it would be them and not the esteemed guest of their Tribune’s foster-sister.
He was still red-faced and not feeling happy when he stepped out of the lift an
d into the rooftop restaurant where he was meeting Julia. It was the sort of place that on his own meagre salary he would have struggled to pay for a starter. There were waving fronds of palm trees and wall sized tanks of tropical fish, a central water feature and tables both sheltered in the gigantic greenhouse or available on an open terrace overlooking the Tamesis.
Dai found mention of Julia’s name had him led by a silent servitor to one of the more secluded tables, made almost completely private by the positioning of various flowering shrubs. He ordered a jug of the house Falernian and hoped it would appeal to Julia’s palate. The menu made him feel a strong nostalgia for his usual favourite eating- out option. But he somehow doubted they would run to a garum and chip butty in this establishment.
He read through the ‘Prandium’ menu and wondered if he should settle for dove, or thrush, or splash out on a peacock salad. He usually preferred to avoid larger fowl when eating anything Roman as you never knew what it might be stuffed with, but this promised ‘Wafer thin curls of delicate roast peacock flesh, braised with honey and served on a bed of rocket and watercress.’
It seemed the best of an unattractive range of options. He wondered if Julia would want something more traditional and pondered the idea of watching her crunching baby mouse bones. It occurred to him, then, with a slight shock of surprise, that he could forgive her even that. He glanced at his wristphone and realised more time had passed than he had thought since they had parted; and she should be joining him any moment. The thought tripped up his heartbeat and he poured a glass of the Falernian, sipping at it to try and distract himself.
He was reaching to fill up the glass for a second time, then stopped and checked the time again. Unless she had decided to go for a full- on makeover, surely she should have been finished by now? Then he remembered something so stunningly simple his blood ran cold.
Marcella Tullia Junius was a woman.
He left the restaurant at a run, almost throwing the distraught servitor demanding payment out of his path. Using his wristphone he first contacted Edbert, who barely let him finish before swearing loudly and breaking off the call. Guessing that meant the burly Saxon had not seen her either, he quickly informed the praetorians so they could hopefully prevent Edbert bursting into a room full of naked Roman matrons. The screams told him he was too late.
They were all too late.
Julia had vanished.

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Words by Jane Jago, the picture that inspired this dark piece is by the incredibly multi-talented Ian Bristow.

The Pain,
Lightless, black as night
It Burns,
Salt water scores your skin
Red Eyes,
Have pity not, nor sight
They Stare,
Yet understand your sin
Your Prayer,
For sight of that far home
Too Far,
Too lost beneath the deep 
Your Wish,
To be no more alone
His Answer,
The last and final sleep

©️JJ 2019

‘Dying to be Born’ is one of the exclusive bonus short stories The Third Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook which is out now!

The Insulae Nero was in the poorer end of Viriconium. One of a number of squat blocks with an external staircase leading to each floor’s front balcony. In some attempt to create an impression of a pleasant environment, the blocks were set out in quadrangles around what might have once been central gardens, but which now had the odd broken piece of playground equipment and banks of overgrown weeds with litter blowing through like tumbleweed.
Had this been in Londinium, Dai would have regarded it as decent enough non-Citizen accommodation. Indeed both himself and Bryn had lived in insulae not so very different from these in their time there. But here in Viriconium, it was anything but. They had parked up on the edge of the estate under a security camera and walked through attracting attention from local dogs and children. The adults saw them and seemed to either melt away or lurk threateningly as if daring them to approach. At one point a bottle smashed close behind them, but they just kept walking.
“Hello, SI Cartivel.” The speaker detached himself from the insula wall he’d been supporting and stepped into their path. Beneath a mop of dark brown curly hair, he was thin faced, with one ear and one nostril pierced. His tunic and trews seemed too stylish for the locale. Dai moved his hand to push back his jacket intending to both grip and reveal the nerve whip at his belt. But beside him he felt rather than saw Bryn sink into the casual stance that offered no aggression but left him ready to respond to any attack. Unlike Dai’s approach, Bryn’s was de-escalatory. Taking his lead from the man who knew this area best, Dai let his hand drop back.
“Hello Cas. Not your usual playground. You been barred from the Dog and Onion again?” Bryn sounded almost as if he cared.
The man called Cas, hawked and spat as if the name tasted bad. “You know I don’t run with the Broanan’s SI Cartivel, they are not nice people. And I’m here visiting my *llys-tad.”
“Which one would that be? You had a few growing up, so I’ve heard.”
Cas pulled his face into an expression of sorrowful hurt.
“What are you implying about my mother, SI Cartivel? She was a good woman. The best. Gave me a good upbringing.”
“I heard she was a generous soul,” Bryn agreed mildly. “Just a shame she weren’t so successful at teaching you the difference between right and wrong.”
“You insult me,” Cas sounded pained. “I’m a good man. I look after my own. There’s never been any crime laid at my door.”
“Well that is because you just feed on the profits of other people’s crime, isn’t it. Cas? You point them where to go and when. They do the deed and you sell it on. Worse thing is it’s the local kids you get to do it. They don’t even understand the consequences. You know we’ll get you for it one day.”
“Is that a threat, SI Cartivel? My lawyer told me you aren’t supposed to threaten me. I could report you for it. Get you suspended.”
“No, it’s not a threat,” Bryn told him, his tone still mild and amicable. “In your case, Cas, it’s a promise.”
He walked on and Dai stayed put, fixing the curly haired man with a cold glare until he turned away and loped off towards one of the insulae.
“Nice place,” Dai said when he’d caught up with Bryn. “Not sure I’d want to come visiting alone after dark.”
“Cas Ofydd is a cunnus. But a clever one. If he’d put that intelligence into something honest he’d have made good. Instead, he uses it to recruit kids to commit crimes he sets up for them. But there is never anything to link him to it all except their word if we catch them. I’ve seen the court send two teens to the arena in the last year thanks to that bastard, though that was as much the Magistratus’ fault in pressing the letter of the law on them when he could have chosen not to.”
“The Magistratus feels he has no choice.” Dai wondered why he was defending his superior. Perhaps because he had faced some really difficult judgements himself and knew how hard it was to draw the line in the right place. He got no reply and was left with the impression he had somehow failed a test.
“The people here are used to seeing authority coming in hard with nerve whips and menaces,” Bryn explained as he led the way up the stairs of one of the blocks. He gestured along the first balcony. “Most of the front doors have been forced so often they don’t lock properly anymore, so it’s not too hard if someone wants to walk in and take stuff.”
“Forced by…?”
Bryn shrugged and jogged up the next flight of steps.
“Most often Aiofe’s lot or one of her competitors collecting on illegal loans, though it is as likely to be the angry drunken ex-spouse or the drug-warped teenager who forgot their key. And our boys and girls, of course, though we only do it when they refuse to open up.”
He turned onto the next landing and made his way along the exposed balcony. Faces stared at them from the windows beside the doors – those that weren’t boarded over.
“This,” Bryn said stopping outside a door that had several cracks in it and a hole where the lock should be, “is Villa Gillie. A commodious residence with views over the local park…” he paused to gesture dramatically to the small square of mud and weeds with a couple of vandalised benches, “and built-in air seasonal air-conditioning.” Bryn put his hand above the absent lock, hooked his fingers through it and held it, braced against the frame. Then he knocked hard on the door a couple of times.
There was no reply so after a few moments, he knocked again a bit harder. The window beside the door was still in existence and a face appeared there briefly. Bryn let go of the door and it swung slightly open as he did so.

*llys-tad – step-father

You can pick up your copy of The Third Dai and Julia Omnibus as an ebook or in paperback right now!

I like it when the nights grow long
When darkness cloaks the place 
When folk like I can creep and hide
And none can see our face
I like it when the grasses crack
With frosty scratching sound
And those who walk home late at night 
Are always looking round
I like to frighten and appall
To make the breath hitch deeply
But what I like the most of all
Is to wear a smile that’s creepy

©jj 2019