The sort of afternoon where bees drone lazily and even geeks feel the pull of nature. The oracle and Watson had just enjoyed scones and cream donated by the wife of an important man who had had his certainties shifted by the old woman and her mountain.
Watson stretched lazily. “You never did finish telling me how you came to stay here.”
“No. I didn’t, did I?” She grinned and he was put in mind of a crocodile in a zoo that had terrified him when he was a small child. “Now where was I?”
Having come to understand that the oracle possessed a mind like a gin trap, Watson wasn’t actually surprised when she homed in on the exact moment when she broke off her story.
“Yes. Right. Anyway. Once the consortium that owns this place understood I was preparing to up sticks they came in with a much better offer. So I stayed.”
“Do they pay you?”
“Yup. I’ve got a nice little nest egg against the day winters up here get too hard for me. Plus, of course I get good food delivered and my living cave is snug and cozy…”
She stopped talking at the sound of laboured breathing from the vertiginous path from the valley gate.
“Scram, boy. And remind me to find out why the bell ain’t working properly.”
He shot into the cave where he composed himself to listen.
The head that appeared over the ridge was balding and red, and glistened with sweat. The rest of the figure was spare and muscular and dressed in the serviceable gear of a well-to-do working farmer. Watson thought he looked rather more sensible than the average supplicant. But looks can be deceiving.
The man bowed and put the basket he was carrying at the oracle’s feet.
“Fresh bread. Our best cheese. Honey from the apple orchard.” Then he stood and sort of scraped his boots on the gravelly ground.
The oracle’s laugh wasn’t unkind, and when she spoke it was without her usual mockery.
“What can the mountain do for you?”
“A man needs a son.” He blurted it out then said no more.
“We could debate that point, but if we pretend I agree with you how is that the business of the Oracle of High Places?”
“Because my wife has given me only daughters.”
“Five, I believe.”
He nodded. “But a man needs sons to carry on his name. It don’t matter if he loves his daughters they say. It don’t matter if he…” He stopped speaking and his face was a study in misery. But he pulled himself together and carried on though it obviously cost him dear. “I have been advised to put Bertha aside and take another wife.”
The oracle hissed. “Advised. By whom?”
“My neighbour. Who put aside his barren wife and took a young widow. She was brought to bed of a fine son last month.”
The oracle sighed and Watson saw the second she rolled her eyes back in her head, because the farmer lost his ruddy colour. She spoke in the rolling cadences of the oracle and her voice echoed around the hilltop.
“Beware the advice of fools. Your way does not march with that of a man who is giving his name to bastard seed.”
She stopped speaking while the man in front of her squawked and shuffled his feet.
“But. But. But…”
“But what?” The oracle was using her normal person acerbic voice.
“The mountain said…”
Then he bethought himself and closed his mouth.
The oracle chuckled. “Oh. One of them things was it?”
He nodded mutely. “Seems like I won’t be getting a son to leave the farm to.” He sounded as if the news weighed him down greatly.
The oracle laughed. “You’ve years in you yet. Go home and await the birth of the tribe of grandsons I see in your future. Don’t be blaming your wife for what fate decreed.”
Watson saw the farmer smile. “That’s true. And me and the old girl have been through a lot together. I wasn’t looking forward to life without her.”
Then he bowed deeply before hurrying off, a much happier man than when he arrived.
The oracle turned her spectacularly gummy grin on Watson.
“You’d have thought a farmer would have a better grasp of biology…”

Jane Jago

You said. When I die
If you see a butterfly
And it lands on your hand
You will come to understand
It will be, the soul of me
Come from far beyond to see
Your dear face, with a living eye
Which is why, butterflies, make me cry

jane jago 2023

Dermot and his brothers had been diggers all their lives. They earned their living digging, but they also dug for fun. Thus it was that the summer solstice saw them underground on The Plain setting to rights some tunnelling that was in more than the usual disrepair. 
They were making good time so they stopped for a supper of doorstep sandwiches and ochre coloured tea with condensed milk from Erkie’s thermos. When they finished, Dermot, who was a being of few words, belched and cocked a thumb at the workings. 
It was a goodish while later when their pickaxes hit rock. Or, to be more accurate, they hit one rock that stood smack in their way. It was a big one and seemed to have been driven right through the workings. Erkie give it an experimental shove and it rocked slightly.
“It’s as loose as a rotten tooth,” he grunted. “Do us take ‘n out?”
They looked to Dermot who licked the rock and sniffed carefully around the soil at its base. For a minute he frowned, as if trying to call something to mind, then he shrugged his meaty shoulders and gave Erkie and the lads an upward pointing thumb.
They set to work, scrabbling and scrooging in the dirt. To the uninitiated their approach would have looked shambolic, but there must have been some science involved, as the stone slowly began to list to one side. 
“Aisy do it boys,” Erkie recommended, “us don’t want ‘n down here in the tunnel with we.”
The wisdom of this was generally acknowledged and the work slowed to a snail’s pace.
Above ground in the predawn darkness the men in white robes danced around the stones. The Henge had been there since before the ancestors of their ancestors, but the Druids still came there on certain nights to enact their rituals and pray for the souls of those who had already gone to the God. As the sun began to rise the dancers felt movement beneath their feet. This was not something they had ever known before and one by one they grew still and a little afraid. As the light reached the standing stones they watched, with a sense of horror that reached deep into their souls as the giant that was the king stone rocked on his foundations and began to tilt drunkenly. The High Druid would have rushed forward but his acolytes held him back by main force.
It was as well they did, because there came a sort of a sucking sound from the bowels of the earth and the stone that had stood proud for millennia fell to one side with an earth-shattering crash. As it hit one of the sarsen stones it cracked along its mighty length and dropped to the greensward in two sharp-edged pieces.
In the absolute silence that followed this disaster a brown face poked its way out of the earth beside where the stone had stood and a pair of bright, brown eyes blinked in the dawn light.
Dermot took in the scene of devastation, the broken stone, the weeping druids, and the rising sun that no longer lit the king stone in glory. He was so moved that he used up two days’ worth of words in one go.
“Oh bugger,” he said, before disappearing into the tunnel and signalling his crew to get back to work.

©️jane jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Wednesday lunchtime meant a meeting of the committee of the Ladies’ Association and even more than the usual amount of irritatingly halfwitted ‘ideas’ to attract ‘new blood’. Em had, in the end, just vetoed the lot – which hadn’t done much for her personal popularity, but at least it headed off any of the possible complications that any sort of blood would bring to the equation.
However, the meeting had ended with a bucketload of bitchiness and backbiting, and Em actually felt tired enough that Agnes’ Parthian shot on leaving had made more impression than it would have done on a better day.
“Anyway Emmeline Vanderbilt, we aren’t quorate any more. How can we be a seven when there are only six of us? It’s been more than a year since Florence passed. And you’ve yet to do your duty.”
Em had replied with a spectacularly rude gesture she would probably regret if she thought about it. So she drove home deliberately thinking only about the dilatoriness of the council in the matter of the bats in the belfry. It was, she thought, time for a ‘gentle reminder’.
But when she got to her house there was a far more pressing problem blocking the driveway. It was her supermarket delivery. On the wrong day. At the wrong time. The delivery driver, who knew her of old, cringed as the Citroen missed the back of his van by about three centimetres.
Em leapt from the driving seat like a scalded cat. “You are here today because?”
“Because I’m delivering your groceries.” he essayed a smile that sort of slid off his face as Em placed her hands on her skinny hips.
“I can see that. But why today?”
“Somebody cocked up?” the driver hazarded.
“Indeed somebody did. And it wasn’t me.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. Will I take this lot away then?”
“What? And have the next available delivery slot be three weeks Thursday at five am? No. Bring it in and I’ll check it off my list.”
The driver winced but began unloading. By the time he had the second box out of the van Em had in front of her incontrovertible proof he should’ve been at her house at eight am. Tomorrow. She ground her teeth and went straight for live chat. 
“You might as well put the kettle on as you are going nowhere until I get this sorted.”
The driver shrunk even further into his skin, making him look like a pissed-off tortoise, but he moved the kettle onto the hot plate before stoically carrying on with his unloading. When he finished, Em handed him a printed list.
“You want to check my delivery for me, while I explain to Morag in Edinburgh why it’s not acceptable to move my delivery slot without telling me. Oh and make a pot of tea while you are at it.”
Being aware that he wasn’t going to get away before Em was satisfied, he obliged. Once the  tea was properly brewed, he poured two mugs, handing one to his ‘hostess’ and burying his own nose in the other before getting on with checking the goods against the order.
He had just about finished his check when Em gave a satisfied chuckle. “I thought she’d see it my way in the end. Now. How much of the delivery is wrong?”
The driver indicated a neat pile at the end of the table.
“That much.”
“And how much of that is sensible replacement?”
“Ummm. About none.”
“Right, scoot it this way and grab yourself a biscuit. Brown tin on the dresser.”
He grabbed the tin and sat down, morosely eating ginger biscuits while he tried to calculate how far behind this little fracas was likely to have made him. He reckoned it’d be the best part of two hours before he escaped and his mind’s eye saw the darts match and a buxom barmaid he very much admired disappearing over the horizon. He sighed gustily and Em flicked a hand at him. He subsided into injured silence, whilst Em carried on castigating the unfortunate Morag.
Twenty-five minutes later she sat back in her chair.
“Are you still here, man?”
“Until you move your car from behind the van here is where I’ll remain.”
“Oh yes. I’d forgotten that.”
He knew she wasn’t the type of female to forget anything, but he also understood that anything other than absolute obedience wasn’t going to get him released to finish his deliveries in time to at least get a pint before last orders. This being the case he ducked his head.
“Am I taking this lot back?” He indicated the pile of incorrect goods with a thumb.
Em showed two rows of excellent teeth in a wolfish grin. “No. You’re leaving them. I’m just not paying for them. Now. Where’s my cold stuff?”
“Fridge and freezer. I don’t like to see waste.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Em looked at the unprepossessing driver whose uniform fleece and steel-toe-capped boots only served to emphasise his skinny wrinkled frame. She felt unusual stirrings of guilt and scrabbled in her handbag for a tip. She rooted out a twenty and shoved it at him. 
“Here. Get yourself a pint  and a pasty.”
She whisked out of the kitchen and was backing the Citroen out of the drive by the time he managed to gather his scattered wits…
Once he was gone, Em found herself unaccountably depressed and not even the prospect of a battle of wills with the laodicean council employee tasked with the collection of data on protected species offered any prospect of joy. She was just wondering whether or not to phone Agnes and offer an olive branch when the cheerful pipping of a car horn lifted her from her lethargy. 
It was Agnes.
Of course it was.
Agnes and a box of fresh doughnuts. Dumping the doughnuts on the table Em’s oldest friend pulled the kettle onto the hot plate.
“Sorry Em. I was bang out of order.”
“Me too. I’m just a bit out of sorts right now. And I’m not entirely sure why.”
“Me too and me neither.”
“There’s something isn’t there?”
“Yes. There is. Ruby says she has been feeling irritable in her skin ever since this vicar came to the parish. Reckons there is something not right about him.”
“What? Even more not right than being very well aware that he’s wet dream material for every impressionable female for miles around? And not above making use of it!”
“Apparently. And she is very far from being an imaginative type. If it had been Petunia…”
“Indeed.”
Em became aware of a thought that had been itching away in the back of her head for days. Maybe Erasmus would help. But she kept that thought to herself as Agnes wasn’t really a bat person. Instead of giving voice to a very nebulous idea she helped herself to a large jam doughnut and made two tall mugs of the special tea that she and her sisters used to sustain themselves.
An hour later Agnes set off home and Em felt very much better. So much so that she reached out a hand for the phone intending to sort out the council once and for all. But before she could pick it up it uttered its shrill command for her attention. Leaving it to ring five times she looked at the number and for a moment she thought it was Florence Maybush calling her from beyond the grave. Em mentally admonished herself before picking up the receiver in a not entirely steady hand.
“Em Vanderbilt speaking.”
The voice at the other end of the line was fussy and wispy and bore traces of London hidden under its careful middle-class modulation.
“Good afternoon Ms Vanderbilt, my name is Virginia Cropper and I have recently moved into Maybush Cottage.”
That explained the number and Em felt a surge of relief. She injected cautious bonhomie into her voice.
“Welcome to Little Botheringham, Mrs Cropper.”
There was a verbal buzzing noise from the phone.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said ‘Mzzz’. I’m not married. Well, not anymore and even when I was I wasn’t Mrs. Cropper that’s my… Oh well, I’m sure you aren’t interested in all that. I’m wittering. Don’t mind me.”
Em was glad she was on the phone and her smile wouldn’t show.
“Then welcome to Little Botheringham, Ms. Cropper,” she corrected.
“Oh. Thank you. It seems a beautiful place and I’m sure I’m settling in well. I was calling because I understand that you are the person to speak to about joining the Ladies’ Society.”
A small voice in Em’s head laughed sardonically at the thought of another ‘lady’ from that address, but she kept her voice neutral.
“New members are always welcome. Our next meeting is on the first of the month in the village hall at seven pm. Just pop along and I’ll be delighted to sign you up.”
“Oh. Right. Thank you.”
“We will look forward to seeing you.”
Em put the phone down and suppressed an inward sigh. This female didn’t sound a bit her sort, but the society needed new membership. Consigning the woman to the back of her mind Em geared herself up for an enjoyable verbal punch-up with the county council as represented by the dragon who woman-ed the switchboard and the lazy sods in animal protection.

Part 5 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

I can’t stand bloody freesias. Had them in my wedding bouquet. They were white and pink and smelled like summer and happy ever after.

Only I ain’t gonna get neither by the looks.

I’m stuck here in perpetual winter, and the asshole I was stupid enough to marry has sashayed off back to his momma in sunny Florida.

Last week he sent me the divorce papers I been kind of expecting. I signed them and found myself smiling for the first time in months.

This morning my big bear of a neighbour brought me freesias. These ones smelled like hope.

©️Jane Jago 

Summertime is the perfect time for sitting outside and enjoying a good read!

So here are some specially selected short reads for you to enjoy on those sunny days – and all are FREE to good homes for the next five days through the midsummer days of 21 – 25 June!

All at Sea
A weekend on a super yacht turns very ugly.
Thriller with modern-day pirates.

The Newsreader
The man they call ‘sex on legs’ has a secret.
Urban Mythology

Honorine
Sometimes being beautiful isn’t enough.
Historical Fantasy

Maybe
Sometimes we walk the very edges of reality.
Occult Horror

Dying for a Poppy
Organised crime and an anti-Roman British terror group pull Dai and Julia into danger.
Alternate History Whodunnit

Dying for a Vacation
Antiquities are being stolen and Dai’s investigations uncover a conspiracy with danger to Julia.
Alternate History Whodunnit

All books from Jane Jago – some with a little help from E.M. Swift-Hook!

Adana was the always super-happy kind of person that Tanisha would avoid if possible. But it was impossible when she was your boss. 

“Good morning, Nisha, another wonderful morning!” Adana gushed.

Tanisha, who’d overslept and been late dropping the kids at school said nothing.

Mid-morning Adana came in with a punnet and tipped it into a bowl.

“There. Healthy and sweet. Life is a bowl of cherries.”

Tanisha wondered why it was Adana always got the ripe ones and herself the sour. So she forgave herself for having a little smirk when Adana chipped a tooth on a cherry stone.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Somewhere high in some mountains near you lives the Oracle…

It was morning and the light on the mountain was a peculiar shade of orange. The oracle sat dozing on her wooden ‘throne’, where she looked like nothing so much as pile of motheaten rags. She woke with a start, jerking a grimy thumb at her amanuenses.
“You run along inside, Watson. We’ve visitors coming.”
He didn’t understand how she knew there were folks coming, but he trusted her instincts so he ran. He was about to sit in his usual observation post when she spoke in a soft, but carrying, voice.
“Further in, boy, this lot have good eyesight.”
He went, scrambling up a stone staircase to the ledge where he slept and sitting quietly beside a narrow slit in the rock.
The three men who approached the oracle were big and bulky, with spreading tattoos and what even Watson could recognise as gymnasium muscles. He thought they might be abusive towards the oracle, but he reckoned without the power of legend.
The trio bowed briefly, but respectfully. One took a single step closer to the throne.
“Old mother, we would consult with you.”
“With me? Or with the voice of the mountain?”
“Are they not one and the same?”
“Sometimes they are. Sometimes they are not.”
The man rubbed a hand across his shaven head. “What sort of an answer is that?”
“It’s no more than the simple truth.”
The man’s chin jutted and he glared at her. Watson was pretty sure the oracle was meeting his angry eyes with her own cold, emotionless gaze.
“Why do you not fear me?”
Her laughter was derisive. “I fear nothing when I have my feet on the earth of the mountain. Least of all an ‘alpha male’ whose courage wasn’t sufficient to come to me alone.”
“Old woman, I could snap your neck like a twig.”
The oracle lifted her voice and it echoed all around the little plateau like the notes of a tolling bell.
“Set aside thine arrogance man child. Thou art not first in the eyes of any but thyself. Thy fast cars and houses do not make of thee a man, and if thou dost not mend thy ways thy followers will fail like vines in a drought. Thou and thine are not meat nor drink to the world. Begone from this place and learn humility.”
The oracle stopped speaking and the big man hissed.
“What’s to stop me killing you out of hand?”
Before the oracle had chance to answer, one of the man’s two followers started to scream, thin and high.
“What? What is the matter with you. Embarrassing me by screaming like a girl.”
The man just kept on screaming as a huge spider made its way across his chest, stopping at his throat. All three men froze, with the screamer barely daring to breathe, never mind make any noise. A tear ran down his face and the spider extruded a long tongue to lick at the salt.
It was the oracle who broke the silence.
“You consulted the mountain. Now leave while you still can.”
The spider whisked up into the treetops and the big man clenched his fists.
The shotgun she always kept hidden in her drowsy skirts bellowed, and the men broke and ran.
Once they were well down the slippery scree-littered path, the oracle laughed her wheezy laugh.
“The spider is animatronic,” she said. “It’s a test of courage. Them three failed dismally.”
Watson couldn’t disagree…

The Oracle foresees she will return next week…

Jane Jago

June comes in beauty, decked out with flowers
Bluebells and harebells, buttercups and celandine
Bringing us days with long daylight hours
And lily-of-the-valley and sweet columbine

Every hedgerow and meadow is blooming
Poppies and daisies, cornflower and chamomile
Gardeners know midsummer is looming
Forget-me-nots, campion and hoary cinqfoil

Summer is coming with all nature’s glory
Comfrey and clover, valerian and marigold
Wildflowers blooming tell their own story
Agrimony, saxifrage, and dandelions bold.

So out in the fields and gardens, we ramble
Pansy and tansy, willowherb and cow parsley
Braving the sun and the rain and the brambles
For foxgloves and meadowsweet and bird’s foot trefoil.

E.M. Swift-Hook

England, September 1642.
The King has raised his standard in Nottingham to summon those loyal to the crown to fight for him against his own Parliament.
Gideon Lennox, a lawyer from London, accepts the job of delivering a message to the brutal and enigmatic mercenary commander, Philip Lord. However, he has no idea about the dangerous world he is about to step into…

The moment he entered the alehouse Gideon Lennox knew he had made a mistake.
The air was thick with smoke as the hearth had a poorly set chimney. Mingled into the smoke was the flat malt scent of cheap ale, the reek of crude tobacco and rancid mutton from the spluttering rushlights. Beneath it all was the human taint of sweat, vomit and piss.
Chatter and laughter faded as he opened the door. By the time he took a pace within, every head turned in his direction. He became acutely aware of how his lawyer’s clothing must make him appear in a place like this.
If things had gone as planned, he would have been here in daylight, but his mare had a loose shoe and he had wasted a couple of hours finding a farrier to restore it. If he hadn’t been running out of time to fulfil his commission, he might have chosen the wiser course of seeking a respectable inn overnight, rather than chancing his fortune here after dark.
Patches of light punctuated the gloom but showed no one who matched the description of his quarry: It is a simple task. You will know him when you find him. He is distinctive. White hair, hook nose and eyes that the ladies would pluck to set into rings if they could.
The room was silent. Cheerful conversation replaced by hostile coldness. These were unsettled times and the rule of law was far from secure—especially here where the sons and grandsons of border reivers had never fully neglected their violent heritage.
Gideon pretended not to notice. He continued forward, trying to draw reassurance from the length of steel he wore on his hip and trying not to recall the scathing comments of his fencing master regarding his ability to wield it. It was too late to regret allowing the man provided by his employer for his protection to wait outside.
A middle-aged woman emerged from the shadows with a jug of ale and a nearly toothless smile.
“How may I be of service, good sir?”
At least Gideon hoped that was what she said. The mix of dialect and missing teeth made for an accent so thick she could have been cursing him for all he knew. He mustered a return smile for her benefit and pitched his voice to carry to the whole room.
“I am making some enquiries, which will be both to my profit and that of your guests—so a drink for all here, if you please. Then if you have a private room, I will have my ale there and be glad to reward any man who may wish to bring me news of one called Philip Lord.”
He had expected the promise of free drink would take a little of the chill from the atmosphere. It usually did. But the woman stared at him and shook her head. Benches scraped as a number of the men stood up. Glancing around, Gideon realised belatedly it was a long way back to the door.
A man blocked his retreat. His muscles would have made a blacksmith weep, although no one would ever envy his face. ‘Homely’ was probably how his mother described him, but Gideon doubted the rest of the world would be that kind. At least not behind his back.
“Philip Lord?” echoed the gargoyle. “Not a name we’ve heard before in these parts. So you can be on your way.”
“Then you have done me a favour indeed,” Gideon said lightly, although his heart was thudding hard. “I can take my leave without wasting the time of any here. Thank you for that.”
He took an experimental step towards the door and its human barricade. The gargoyle showed no sign of moving. Instead, his facial expression shifted into something that might, on any normal face, have been a smile.
“But maybe your—uh—friend comes by one day. If you tell us your name, we could let him know you’re looking for him.”
“You’re too kind,” said Gideon, his mouth dry. It seemed foolish to think a London lawyer would get any consideration from such people. “You can say Sir Bartholomew Coupland wishes to speak with him.”
A hand with a grip like a manacle seized his wrist from behind and before he could react beyond a gasp, his sword vanished from its scabbard, and he was spun around. Off-balance, he staggered back into a solid wall of muscle, losing his hat in the process. A powerful forearm wedged under his chin. The gargoyle’s other huge hand gripped both Gideon’s wrists together behind his back.
The hostess picked up a rushlight. By the yellow flickering glow Gideon stared into a face framed by hair so pale it looked white. The face had gemstone-clear aquamarine eyes that held no trace of emotion as they studied Gideon from behind a finely shaped patrician nose.
Yes. This face was certainly distinctive. Distinctive in a manner that would have women turning to look twice and men wishing they could have a similar distinction. A moment later the face was transformed by a predatory smile of even, white teeth.
He was taller than Gideon himself. His body was well proportioned, and he carried himself as a man with full confidence in his own ability. Gideon placed him somewhere in his early to mid-thirties.
His clothing, by which so much about a man could generally be judged, was extravagant in cut, typical of the new breed of military man, returned from Europe at the first whiff of powder smoke. A pistol was stuck negligently into a broad crimson sash. On his left hip was a long-bladed sword, basket hilted, with a pommel that was curved on the top and had two small triangular points. It looked well used and cared for, the tool of a craftsman. Gideon’s own sword, though it had cost him a deep purse, was like a lady’s embroidery needle next to it.
Gideon needed no introduction to tell him that he had found Philip Lord. The realisation froze the blood in his veins.
“I would know your secret, Sir Bartholomew. It will make me more gold than the alchemists’ stone.”
His accent was northern English but subdued beneath educated southern tones, with traces from across Europe and the Mediterranean. As exotic as the immaculately groomed appearance of its owner.
“My s-secret?”
“The secret of regaining lost youth. Although I think most would prefer to keep their original face rather than find a stranger staring back at them from the mirror.” The chilling gaze flicked to the man holding Gideon. “But there might be those who would welcome the chance to be recast as someone new and start afresh. Eh, Thomson?”
Which earned some laughter. But Gideon stayed silent, his mind spinning with fear, trying to seek firm ground.
“Coupland sent you to find me,” Lord made it a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“What are you worth to him in one piece?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Just answer the question,” said the Gargoyle. The arm muscle at Gideon’s throat tightened making it harder for him to breathe.
“Thomson,” Lord said, his tone one of amused tolerance. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but let the man get some air beneath his ribs so he may speak.”
The pressure at his throat eased and Gideon gasped. The thick, alehouse atmosphere that invaded his lungs was as welcome as a spring breeze. Philip Lord moved closer, any trace of humour gone, his eyes as merciless as the North Sea in winter.
“Since you are clearly not Sir Bartholomew, who are you?”
“Gid—Gideon Lennox. I am a lawyer.”
At the slightest nod from Lord, Gideon found himself suddenly free and nearly collapsed to his knees at the abrupt release. A strong hand gripped his arm and steadied him, brief and impersonal.
“Thompson, tell Shiraz to deal with the man who was with him.”
A draught of clean air marked the opening of the door as the gargoyle left.
“Gentlemen,” Philip Lord made an elaborate gesture to include all within the room. “We have rehearsed the steps of this dance. Make ready.”
There was a swirl of purposeful movement as Gideon was steered towards the rear of the alehouse.

From The Mercenary’s Blade by Eleanor Swift-Hook – only 99p/c on Kindle. It is the first book in Lord’s Legacy, a six-book series set in the opening months of the First English Civil War.

Art by Ian Bristow.