At the edge of the carefully cultivated parkland which surrounded the summer palace of the rulers of Harkera, just outside the white-walled city of Cressida, lay a huge expanse of woodland in which nature was given great freedom of expression in return for allowing the monarchs of Harkera and their chosen guests, the privilege of hunting there. Not that the privilege was granted freely – it had to be earned. It was a playground for those whose reactions were fast and whose sinews were strong – those who wished to be tested against the wild.
Karlynne knew that it was not a proper wild forest because there were men who took care of it – vergers and warders, gamekeepers and huntsmen, employed to make sure that the main paths were always kept clear and that there were always plenty of wild game to be hunted by the monarch’s noble visitors. But it was almost a proper forest, such as the ones she had read about in her books where winged ponies and talking animals lived. She had been told never to go there because it was home to dangerous animals, tizarts, therloons and seminarls and dangerous men – land-pirates Turla called them – men who would come to steal the animals and who would be just as happy to steal young girls who were foolish enough to wander into the hunting park alone.
But today the forest did not look at all menacing or dangerous and it would not be the first time Karlynne had ridden there alone with no one any the wiser. It beckoned to her, mysterious and inviting beneath the early summer sky and Turla was sitting in her room resting her aching bones having told Karlynne she should do as she pleased for the afternoon.
With a brief and ephemeral flash of guilt, she reminded herself that was not strictly true. Turla had told her to take one of the grooms if she went riding, but when she had got to the stables to find her favourite pony, Mischief, all the grooms had been busy. Being far too considerate to interrupt their work for her own pleasure, she had sent one of the boys for Mischief’s tack and had saddled him herself, riding out unnoticed.
It was a glorious feeling to canter across the park alone, she who was never allowed anywhere unescorted, and the simple joy of freedom made her laugh aloud. In truth, she had not really intended to go into the forest at all that day, but once she had reached the edge of the open parkland, the fringe of trees with its inviting paths had beckoned her in. Now, she rode beneath the canopy of leaves, thrilling at her own daring and filled with a delicious excitement. Her books and Turla’s tales from nursery days onwards, had always been full of enchanted forests, with magicians, talking animals and handsome young men who always turned out to be the long-lost son of some noble who invariably needed rescue from a dire enchantment, by the hands of a beautiful princess. After which they would fall in love and live happily ever after.
Karlynne decided that she was the perfect heroine for such a romance. Turla had often told her that she looked just like her mother, who everyone said was beautiful, so she must be beautiful too and at nearly twelve years old she was certainly young. Every credential met, she was bound to find adventure, romance and true love sooner or later – and where better to look than in the forest? Not that she expected talking animals and magicians here, of course, they were only in stories – but you never knew and the forest certainly seemed a place for adventure.
She had been riding for quite a while when she found the path had narrowed on either side so the trees and bushes seemed to press in on her and in places Mischief had to push past springy undergrowth and waving tendrils of grasping plant life. Karlynne realised it was getting towards the time she would normally share a small afternoon treat with Turla and began to wish she had thought to bring some food with her: adventuring seemed to make one feel hungry.
She was just wondering whether she ought not to turn back and see if Old Peddy in the kitchens had baked a seed cake for her today, when a bird flew up from immediately under Mischief’s front legs. The pony shied back, its stubby ears flattening and Karlynne, using all the horsemanship she had learned, took several moments to get him back under control with a firm hand and a soothing voice.
It was then she heard the noise – a sound in the bushes to one side, as if something were pushing through the undergrowth towards her – something big and heavy. For a moment she sat frozen in the saddle, scarcely daring to breathe, her mind full of every tale she had ever heard about ferocious monsters which lived in wild forests. In her mind, it transformed in rapid succession from a fire-breathing dragon, to a towering giant, to a hideous five-headed serpent. The silence that followed the sounds seemed to last forever and Karlynne heard the pounding of her own heart which seemed, suddenly so loud that she was convinced it must echo through the trees.
She was just beginning to reassure herself that whatever was there must have gone, when something erupted from the bushes close behind Mischief – something huge and dark, with long fangs that glittered yellow against its open black mouth.
Screaming with terror, she raked her heels into Mischief’s glossy flank, but there was no need. The pony had already sprung forward like an arrow released from a bow and was thundering down the path with the monster slavering at his heels. Karlynne clung on to the saddle, flattening her body along the pony’s broad neck to avoid the low branches that threatened to sweep her from his back. She did not dare to look back to see the reality of the dark horror she had so briefly glimpsed, but she could hear its rasping breath and the soft thump of its paws upon the hard earth track.
Mischief plunged over a stream and as he landed, Karlynne nearly fell, another scream forming in her throat, but she choked on it and all that emerged was a sob of pure terror. She closed her eyes and prayed to the gods with all her heart, willing the pony to run faster.

From Times of Change, book two of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

The call of the wind on the darkest night
The whisper of summer breeze
The sound of a skein of geese in flight
The movement of leaves on a tree
The dance of a barefoot child at play
The tears of the sorrowful and strong
The piper greeting the close of day
Are all notes in my lady’s song
Where hands on strings make music bright
Where nightingales serenade the light
Where unseen orchestras play
Where dancing demons skitter by
Where eagles dip their wings and fly
Where the goddess has feet of clay
The whisper of breath across my cheek
The touch of a sound like a bell
Is my lady strong or is she weak
Is this heaven or is it hell
I no longer know and I no longer care
As the song in the winter wind ruffles my hair
And I follow my lady so bright and so fair
And the sound of her singing strips my soul bare
The call of the wind on the darkest night
The whisper of breeze in July
Her song is why I stand and fight
The reason I live or I die

© Jane Jago 

So. Who the feck invented holidays or vacations as the French and our colonial cousins call them?

And to what purpose?

I mean. Pack a suitcase with your most impractical clothing, load up your kindle with romantic novels (pauses to evacuate the bit of sick in the back of throat), leave your best mate in kennels, sit in a tin can in the sky, then spend two weeks beside a pool crammed alongside half a thousand red, sweaty people.

Why?

Can somebody just tell me why?

• My house is nice, so why would I want to leave it?
• Gyp is excellent company, so why would I want to leave him?
• I can cook. I have a dishwasher and a hoover and a washing machine. Sometimes I even use them.
• I hate hot sun. I hate sangria. I hate swimming pools. And I’m not too fond of the human race.

So please why?

Maybe I can just about get it if you are a working person.  Some time away from the grindstone I can understand. Though you could have that in the comfort of your own home, you know. Also, the allure of having somebody do your chores for two weeks must be enormous. But with what you spend on a holiday you could probably afford to have somebody come and do your chores every week. (Just saying.) 

What I can find no justification for whatsoever is the likes of my neighbour – who we will call Mabel to protect the innocent – who regularly packs her roll-along and gets on a coach with fifty or so other crumblies and heads off to the delights of Skegness, or Blackpool, or Weymouth, or… 

What the heck is that all about? Hours and hours in a tin box that smells of breath mints, mothballs and haemorrhoid cream – with the added delight of a courier in an ill-fitting blazer (with mismatched dentures and a very sketchy idea of the holiday itinerary and any places of interest en route). Hotel rooms with brushed nylon sheets. All-you-can eat lunchtime buffets. Cream teas with stale scones. Three-course ‘evening meals’ with canned soup and arctic roll. Not in this life.

Two years ago a well-meaning (but stupid) granddaughter-in-law bought yours truly a ticket for a coach trip up the Rhine valley. I have since forgiven her. Just. And, as it was Mabel’s eightieth, the ticket didn’t go to waste.

In essence then. Holidays are the province of the bored, the feckless, and those whose lives don’t suit them.

 My advice? Forget the costas. Spend your money on booze, fags and good food – and sort your frigging life out.

I’m now off to the wine bar where it’s grab a granny night…

Bottoms up!

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…

When you write you are no longer you
Not constrained by the things you can’t do
With no limitation
But imagination
And no longer imprisoned by true

Jane Jago

“It is entirely in your own hands archbishop,” the slender red-haired woman in the huge gilded chair spoke coldly and deliberately, “but you and your confederates have ensured that the majority of the populace believes in one virgin birth so I fail to see your problem.”
The ancient, and cadaverously thin, prelate stared at her for a long moment while the muscles in his jaw worked. He obviously wanted to say something but in the end he lacked the courage and subsided into fulminating silence.
“And you Master Cecil. Do you have nothing to say?”
The richly clad figure of Her Majesty’s spymaster in chief bowed floridly.
“This, your Majesty, is either a master stroke or the biggest mistake a reigning monarch ever made. With the greatest respect, we will not know which it is for many months yet.”
“Agreed, there is an element of risk but I would know whether you are with us in our great endeavour.”
Cecil dropped his world-weary pose and bowed his head.
“To death and beyond, Majesty. To death and beyond.”
“You can serve us best by remaining alive,” the Queen spoke with some asperity although her narrow dark eyes warmed a little as they rested on Cecil’s beaky face.
The third man came forward and bent the knee before his sovereign.
“Parliament will uphold whatever your majesty chooses to do.”
“My lord Essex was ever the gentleman,” the Queen laughed although it was a mirthless sound. “The lords temporal range themselves alongside us, as does Master Cecil’s organisation, which just leaves the lords spiritual to declare.”
Essex looked at the cleric with something akin to loathing.
“You are either with us, my lord archbishop, or you are against us. We have no time for you to mull over your decision.”
The stubborn old man in the cope and mitre stared at his queen.
“Do you even begin to know what you are asking?”
She regarded him for a long moment.
“We are perfectly well aware. But what would you have us do? Marry England to some foreign prince? Elevate one of our noble families above the others?”
The archbishop looked at her marble pale features with dawning respect.
“No, Majesty, I would have you do neither of those.”
“Then give me an alternative.”
The old man bowed his head.
“There is none. I stand corrected. The church ranges itself beside you.”
“Good.You may all leave us now.”
The three men bowed themselves out of the room and as soon as they had closed the door behind them the figure in the huge chair allowed her shoulders to sag just a little. A large sandy-haired man, dressed plainly in leather and homespun, stepped out from behind the rich hangings and came to kneel at her feet. She smiled down at him.
“It appears,” she said carefully, “that our plan has the support it needs. Now it is for you to do your part.”
He lifted one small foot in his large, calloused hand and brought it to his lips.

In due time Gloriana, the virgin queen, gave birth to a strapping red-haired son. She called him Henry after her great father, and he ruled wisely and well as did his own son and the son of his son, and the son of the son of his son….

© jane jago

They had lived in the shadow of the castle all their lives.

In more ways than one.

Lord Rancard was their protector and their employer and the brothers never forgot it. There had been the day their mother lay close to death and Lord Rancard had sent his own physician. And the day Glebit wed Gelis, Lord Rancard sent them a purse of silver.

So when the army of peasants arrived declaring the town free and Lord Rancard a traitor, the brothers acted.

No one would have suspected the nightsoil team that left the town that day included noble blood.

E.M. Swift-Hook

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…

To write is a struggle they opine
And if that’s how they do it, that’s fine
But that’s not my way
As I write every day
When under the auspice of wine.

Jane Jago

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

askhole (noun) – mouth

beliveable (adjective) – of a fixer-up house, the state it will attain in about five years

brois (noun) – compulsive liar

canservative (adjective) – self-serving (see brois)

carrit (noun) – measure of orangeness 

delsion (noun) – unsatisfactory explanation 

drafth (adverb) – to drag out unnecessarily as in his accusation was both drafth and probably baseless

freght (noun) – someone else’s luggage found where you expected your own to be

hadnsome (adjective) – a man who may have been good looking in his youth, who is now rather jaded and ragged at the edges

lotal (adjective) – humourless and with a leaning towards religious obsession (Example: The Lotal Singing Nuns of Saint Crumplesham)

otherircumstances (noun) – puzzling twist in a fantasy story usually heralded by the arrival of a mysterious wizard

plitics (noun) – the shenanigans in government that surprise the electorate so much they can’t even say ‘oh’

pointsome (adjective) – handsome, but only in small areas of the body (eg navel, or the baby toe on the left foot)

prinisple (noun) – one of a number of redundant nipples

politcal (adjective) of cake, heavy and tasteless

qween (noun) – very old woman who likes a nip of gin

reep (noun) – the cry of the lesser-spotted blabberbird

somaething (verb) – trying to smoke a damp cigarette

trcik (noun) – a special karate move

uwswall (verb) – the rinsing of one’s mouth at the dentist

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Like a shy creature of the wild, sleep eluded her. Jaelya’s thoughts drifted, against her will, until those time-worn ghosts that hovered about her, led her gently along the paths of unwilling memory to the beginning of everything.
It was, of course, Alize who had been there then.
Her first awareness of life had been of holding Alize’s hand on that day as if she had been flung into the world fully-formed at the age of three. Even now she could still see clearly the high beamed roof, with its painted and vaulted ceiling, arching over the huge black and white slabs of stone which paved the floor. She had stood in the doorway, as if looking into the universe from outside, one hand holding onto a small bundle of clothes and the other gripping Alize’s as hand tightly as if her life depended upon it.
She conjured the scene easily, untarnished by the passage of years. The long table, taller than herself then, the chairs which had seemed made for giants, the fireplace which looked large enough to roast a good-sized ox and the faint, musty, smell of cold ashes and old books. Seated at the table, a heavy bound book open before him and a remote screen set up to one side, sat a boy with a mop of curly hair who had looked up as they entered. To the Jaelya in the memory, he had seemed so grown up himself but he cannot have been much more than five summers her senior.
Feeling confused, she had looked up at the figure of Alize towering beside her and the face that had looked down at her contained blue eyes that seemed to embrace the world and all the stars beyond. Jaelya felt as though she might be swallowed up in their depths, but somehow the thought made her feel safe rather than frightened. Then Alize’s gaze moved from herself to the boy, who got to his feet and was standing quietly behind the table, his square face framed by unruly golden curls.
“Child, this is your sister. Her name is Jaelya and I want you to take care of her.”
The boy had been staring at her with open curiosity as if wondering what manner of creature she might be, but at Alize’s words a miracle happened and his face broke into the most gentle and wonderful smile.
“My sister,” he breathed the words as a triumphal declaration rather than as any kind of question and then the boy had come across to her, his hands held out in welcome, his honey-coloured eyes lit up by the brilliant smile that was for her alone. “Hello, Jae. I am your brother and I’m always going to keep you safe.”
And in that moment Jaelya loved him with a fierce devotion, a devotion which all the years between and all the tests and burdens of those years had done nothing to diminish. So why was it, as she lay now in the dreamless darkness, that the thought of his returning to Harkera filled her heart with nothing but apprehension?

From Transgressor 2: Times of Change a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook

The wooden bedstead had been in the family for more generations than anyone knew. Almost as long as the rambling farmhouse which each generation had rebuilt and extended to suit its needs.

The bedstead had been the place where family members had been conceived, come into this world and eventually left it. The old stained oak headboard bore the marks of usage like proud scars.

But all things change eventually.

The latest generation thought the old bedstead too chunky, dark and unfashionable. So they replaced it with a stylish pine bed from Ikea – and had a bonfire in the garden.

E.M. Swift-Hook