Dear Reader Who Writes,

I will admit to having sipped on a small soupcon of eggnog over the festivities and today I was less than delighted to find Mumsie glaring at me over the breakfast table with something between pity and incredulity. “Gods Moons! How can you get to be so old and not know how to deal with a hangover?” She pushed her glass over to me. its interesting aroma of bath salts and battery-acid curling the hairs on the inside of my nasal cavities. Mummy was without mercy. “Stop pulling a face and drink it. Hair of the dog.”

The flavour was indeed not unakin to canine fur, if it had been marinaded in fecal matter and turpentine. However, maternal wisdom won through and having consumed her panacea I am now sitting sprightly in my writing cave and able to share with you the hard-won fruits of my years as a writer-in-waiting. But now, dear RWW, it is you who are the bridesmaid and I the gushing bridegroom of the Muses.

So, to business. The new year is creeping fast upon us and it behoves us all to pay heed to the ancient traditions of this especial time. No, I do not mean carrying a black cat over your shoulder backwards across the threshold of your house, or hailing your neighbour with gibberish at midnight, or singing Scottish songs about those acquaintances from the past you most certainly do want to forget. No. I mean the important tradition of making a New Year’s Resolution for your literary year ahead.

It needs to be something that encapsulates in a single intention all your writing aspirations and plans for the forthcoming twelve months. When deciding what is fitting, be not modest or parsimonious about your talent. Set yourself the greatest goal you can imagine, scale the heights of ambition, unleash the inner yearning to follow your dreams and commit yourself to that and that alone.

I will keep to myself my own resolution for the coming year as it might undermine the determination you bring to your own or even lead you astray from your petty path in some vain attempt to mimic mine. But here are a few I consider might be fitting for you, my students.

• Resolve to study all of The Thinking Quill lessons.
• Begin writing a novella.
• Complete a haiku.
• Peruse A-G in a thesaurus.
• Purchase and read “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” by Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.
• Buy some pens with glittery pastel-coloured ink so your writing looks like unicorn faeces. This will add magic to those moments when you look in blank incomprehension at the notes you wrote in the depths of the night.
• Start each morning with a free dance expressing the joy of being alive.
• Take up yoga or pilates – whichever you did not plan to do last year but never started.

Choose well and be sure to keep it, disciple, that way lies the path to true authorship.

Happy New Year!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

We challenged you to write 500 words or less of flash fiction in the world of Dai and Julia with the prize to the winner of an ecopy of The First Dai and Julia Omnibus.  The judge was not either of the authors but a beta reader of the series. So, with no more ado here in winning order:

1. DYING TO BE DEAD – Joyce Hertzoff

The body wasn’t cold yet when Dai Llewellyn arrived on the scene. He extracted his identipad from his tunic and photographed the body in situ. Brin arrived moments later, and Dai turned and nodded.
Brin squatted, placing three fingers on the deceased’s neck. “Definitely dead.”
“Obviously.” Dai sighed. “The fifth this fortnight.”
“Sixth. I’m afraid we have a serial killer on our hands here in Viriconium. And unlike The Ripper, this one is killing wealthy patrician woman here to explore.”
“But not Britons.”
Brin shook his head.
Julia came around the corner, her boots making more noise than a woman of her short stature should. “Another one?”
The two men nodded.
“Who would want them dead?”
Dai studied her. “You think someone’s hired an assassin to kill them all?”
“It’s possible. I’ve heard of husbands hiring cut-throats to kill their wives when they tire of them.”
“You think the husbands of these women wanted to end their lives?” Brin’s eyes and mouth were wide.
Julia pursed her lips momentarily. “Let me ask amongst my Roman friends, listen to gossip.”
“Why you?” Brin’s brow furrowed.
“I have connections you don’t.” She smiled. “They’ll tell me things they’d never tell you.”

***
In less than a week she had the results of her investigation. “You won’t believe this,” she told Dai. “A man has offered to kill anyone tired of this life.”
“You mean, the women asked him to kill them?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” She shivered.
“Who is this man? Do you have a name?” Dai asked.
“That’s the biggest surprise of all.” She paused to increase the dramatic effect. “He’s a vigiles named Dru Evans.”
Dai gasped. “A vigiles? You’re sure?”
She nodded. “So, what do you suggest we do?”
“We need evidence. We should catch him in the act.”
She grinned. “And I know how.”
“What? No! You’re not going to approach him.”
“Who else?” She smirked. “Relax, Dai, Edbert is never far away from me.”
“Just don’t get yourself abducted. Again.”
“I don’t intend to.” She patted his cheek, then left, Edbert trailing behind.
***
Her sources told her Evans was assigned to the east end of Viriconium. Not the best part of the city. Dressed in the least-patrician stola she owned, she walked the main street and a few side streets until she saw the vigiles. “Are you Dru Evans?” she asked.
He looked her over and smiled. “I am. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been told your just the man to help me.” She sniffed. “You see, my physician told me I’m dying a slow and painful death. I…I want to end it now.”
“Domina, I believe you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“No, I’m sure you’re the man I seek.”
He smiled. “It will cost you.”
“I expect to pay. How much?”
He told her the amount, and she promised to return within the hour with the money. What she didn’t say was she’d be accompanied by the Submagistratus.

Joyce Hertzoff retired in 2008 after 45 years in the scientific information business and turned from fact-based literature to fantasy - but it's still tinged sometimes with science. She has short stories published in anthologies, Book 1 and 2 of The Crystal Odyssey Series: The Crimson Orb and Under Two Moons and A Bite of the Apple: Portal Adventures Book 1. Joyce lives in New Mexico with her husband. The window wall at the back of her house has a wonderful view of the foothills of the Sandia Mountains.

2. DYING FOR A FIX – Ian Bristow

Deep below the bustling streets of Londinium, a dark room flashed with the blue light of a blinking computer monitor.
“Dominus, We’ve got an incoming message from Atticus.”
Licking opiate residue off his fingers, a broad man limped forward. “Put him though.”
Attticus’ anxious face appeared on the screen. “I don’t like sending reports while I’m still at work.”
“I think you’ll find I care very little what you do and don’t like. If you want to see her again, you will do as you’re told, Atticus. Who got you that job as secretarius?”
His brow wrought with worry, Atticus nodded several times and glanced around again. “Alright, Hook-Beak has helped Julia again. His guys have done some research for her, but I didn’t hear anything about the opium trade into Rome. Sounded like children were involved.”
“Children? Could be a code word… After the hit my operations took in the caves, I cannot afford another bout of such carelessness. I never should have let the moron Pulcher off his leash. The blunder has cost me months of planning and more than one of my best connections. And what’s more, those bastards Llewellyn and Cartivel are switched on to the fact that we use non-motor vehicles for transport. They’ll swoop in to check on any similar-looking caravans from now on.”
“Perhaps that could be used to your advantage … Dominus…” Atticus trailed off. At least the idiot knew how to read an expression.
“Speak out of turn again, and I stop feeding her. She means the world to you and nothing to me. You would do well to remember the position you’re in, Atticus.”
“I meant no disrespect, Dominus.”
“You think me a fool? If you are willing to betray those you care about for me, you will certainly betray me for them. I don’t need your opinions or suggestions. I made it explicitly clear what I want from you.”
He turned away from the monitor and told the man at the computer to end the message. “I think dear Atticus’ usefulness has run its course. See that he is killed on his way home from work tonight.”
Shooting pain coursed up his leg as he started for his office, causing him to grimace. He pulled a metal container out of his coat pocket and reached in for a tar-like black ball, relishing the pain relief this latest batch of opium granted him as he stuck the ball in his cheek and sucked on it like a sweet.
After taking a moment to savor his reprieve, he ambled to his office and sat at his desk. Before his conversation with Atticus, he had been unsure how to rebuild his operations, but the idea of using what Dia and Bryn thought they knew to his advantage was a truly inspired one. And with Atticus silenced, there would be nobody to leak the information.
Praeclarum.

3. DAI AND JULIA AT THE GAMES – Bryan Pentelow

It was a steep climb to the top of the ridge and the view into the Vale of Usk, but at least it would be downhill from here to the fort at Caerleon. Dai let the horses have a breather before they had to brace the weight of the cart on the way down. Julia jumped of the cart and walked back and forth to ease the imprint of the rough plank which formed the seat of the cart. It had made a deep impression on her posterior over the last hours as, with Dai leading the horses they had laboured up the track.
“Need a massage love?” he grinned at her as she rubbed the tenderness away.
“Not from your rough paws.” she retorted.
“Come girl, up you get or we’ll not make the fort before the sun dips and I would rather be inside the lines than out with the locals in these parts.”
Julia climbed back onto the cart and folded a sack on the seat in the hope of a little comfort.
It was a relief when the legionary stepped through the gate and challenged them. Dai’s quick reply and salute assured them entry and directions to the inn for their nights lodging. Over their evening meal of roast Welsh lamb they discussed the following days sport at the arena. Caerleon had a good name for the quality of its games.
It had been Julia’s idea to take in the games at the fort on the way to visit some of Dai’s relations along the coast and a day at the arena had appealed.
When the sun climbed over the hills they were up checking on the horses. After a light breakfast of porridge with dates and some bread and cheese they walked across from the garrison to the amphitheatre to watch the fighters practice. There were a dozen men exercising and sparing with wooden or blunted weapons and the couple watched from the tiers of seats to assess the skills and strength of the contestants. Julia was impressed by a huge Nubian with a trident and net but Dai said he was too slow and pointed to an olive skinned Thracian with a small round shield and gladius whose lightning reactions were a pleasure to watch.
The first match of the games was the Nubian against Gaul with an axe. It was a slow contest which the Gaul won by slipping under the net and cutting the Nubians tendons with a single strike. They had to wait till the final bout for the Thracian, matched against a Germanic brute with shield and mace. The mace bearer should smash the smaller man but speed and skill began to wear down the giant. The Thracian seemed to stumble and the mace came down towards his helmet. At the last second he dodged and ran up the Germans shield to bury his sword between the giant’s shoulders. Dai collected his bet and Julia was impressed with the winnings.

Many thanks to all who entered and we hope everyone enjoyed reading these as much as we did!

Jane Jago  & E.M. Swift-Hook

This is the opening of Sprocket and the Heart of the North by Bryan Pentelow.

In the North lived a very skilled glass maker by name Cedric. There were many glass makers but only this one was a Dragon Friend and made Dragon Glass.

His workshops, on the edge of a great forest, were large and many of the local people worked for him or supplied him with the materials he needed.

The secret of his success was dragon fire. He loved the fiery creatures and treated them with kindness and respect. In return they gave him all the fire and heat he needed to work his art and skill with the hot treacly mix of melted sand and other trace elements which made his glass so special.

Because of the dragon fire, used to melt and form the glass, it became very tough and resilient. Cooking vessels never cracked on the fire and were easy to clean after use. Lamps that he made burned brighter and their candles lasted longer. It was however his sculptures which made him famous.

These beautiful objects formed from crystal threads and woven sheets as fine as gossamer captured the light of sun and moon and spun it into ever changing spectrums which dazzled the eye and made men’s hearts sore. Each work was different and enclosed in a globe of glass like a soap bubble but was so strong that even a blow from a hammer or sword left no mark.

Everyone wanted his glass products and wealthy men and kings came from far and wide to marvel at the beauty and artistry of his work. He was offered wealth beyond the dreams of most men but would only sell to those with pure intentions and one piece was not for sale at any price.

The Heart of the North was his master piece. Not large or ornately showy.  A globe, barely a hand’s span in diameter, it pulsed with an inner fire and warmed the spirit of any that looked into its depths. When asked about it he would shrug, and simply say it was the beating heart of the land, then smile and turn back to his work.

One night, when thunder hammered the high fells and lightening splintered the darkness into blinding shards, a hammering came at his door. He roused himself from the comforting fireside and went to see who would venture out that terrible night. As he crossed the room light blazed around the solid oak door and it crashed open almost bursting from its massive iron hinges. A tall cloaked figure with burning red eyes loomed in the doorway then strode into the room brushing the glass maker aside. Finding nobody else in sight he turned back to Cedric and demanded he give up his best work. The glass maker refused and the stranger became incandescent with rage.

When morning came, with skies swept to a clear cold blue by the night’s storm winds, the villagers found Cedric’s cottage in ruins and the glass maker lying crushed beneath a heavy beam. It took five strong men to lift the huge trunk of oak from his body but life still beat faintly in his shattered chest. They carried him gently to his workshop and placed him near the kiln to give him warmth. The village healer was called and came with her herbs and potions but after a brief examination of his injuries she shook her head in sorrow and bade them make his last moments as comfortable as possible. Knelling beside him they asked what had happened but all he could gasp was that the Heart was lost and woe would come of it.

A crowd scoured the ruin of the cottage and though many of his prized pieces were found there was no sign of the small treasure that was his finest creation.

When his end finally came two large dragons, one a deep red the other a pure white, flew silently down to the workshop and asked that the body be brought out. Four of his workers wrapped him in a sheet and carried him into the light of the setting sun, placing him in front of the huge beasts. The dragons bowed low over the body and remained silent and still for several moments, then took hold of the sheet in their talons and leapt into the darkening, sky carrying the remains of Cedric with them.

With The Heart and its maker gone the village lost its purpose. People no longer came to trade for there was little to trade. In less than a year all its inhabitants had drifted away and the buildings were no more than tumbled heaps of moss covered rubble. No dragons came, in fact very few were seen anywhere in the land and soon they became no more than a folk myth.

The Heart had gone from the North and sorrow and decay took its place.

You can find out more about Bryan Pentelow and his books on his website.

Q1: What is your favourite traditional British food?

This has to be the Full English, or on my rare forays to Northern Ireland an Ulster Fry. These fine examples of a coronary on a plate have been the back bone and muscle of the British working man for generations. They may have died early but with a smile on their grease smeared lips. This feast is also enjoyed by two of the main characters in the Sprocket Sagas, Mr Brassroyd and his faithful English Bull terrier Mrs Mumbly. Cooked on a huge oil fired cast iron range in the kitchen of 7 Pudding Founders Lane, there is nothing Mrs Mumbly likes better than slices of bread fried golden brown and crispy in bacon fat.

Q2: Are you a dog person or a cat person?

Without a doubt, a dog person. My childhood companion was a wire-haired fox terrier. This small fierce animal had a truly warped personality. It would ignore any dog smaller than she was and leap, fangs bared by any dog larger. When our children were growing up we were bequeathed a second hand three legged Golden Labrador by an elderly couple who lived across the road and were moving to Spain. This dog which often played in our garden with our children simply arrived with his bowl and basket and within two days was a permanent fixture. Docile and loving by nature he was the ideal pet with only two down sides. Labradors shed hail 365 days a year and this one would beg desperately for the box when we had a pizza and then turn into the original dog in the manger in defence of his prize.

Q3: What do you think the best thing would be about living in a world where dragons exist?

In my Dragon World time passes at a faster rate than on our world so you can double the length of the weekends while not missing more than a couple of hours at home.

My dragons, though many are huge and most are fire breathing are vegetarians so don’t eat people. They are sentient and powerful telepaths so no problems with communication or learning difficult languages. Let’s be honest humans just don’t have enough fangs to speak dragon properly. Dragons live for centuries and with the ease of mind to mind contact History would be a fascinating experience, getting actual eyewitness accounts of things and happenings which we can only speculate about. But best of all would be the fireworks. Dragons are an explosion looking for somewhere to happen and will put on a pyrotechnic display at the drop of a hat, literally to let off steam. You could have the sort of displays that would make New Years Eve along the Thames pale into insignificance. What a treat.

Finally just for Jane:

I an old and a dragon to boot
And find humans a bit of a hoot
Though I’m covered in scales
And harder than nails
You find me incredibly cute.

About Bryan:

I was conceived in Dorset born in Northamptonshire and now live in Yorkshire. My early life, starting in 1947, was relatively pastoral, growing up in a small town tainted with shoe factories, but surrounded by rolling countryside. My parents determined that my sister and I should not follow them onto the factory floor of the Boot and Shoe trade, chivvied and encouraged us to get a reasonably good education, and despite our best efforts to ignore this, some of it rubbed off.

My teen years were made more entertaining by the combination of the US air force and a Lambretta motor scooter. These enabled me to explore the world of R&B music. As part of a distinctly amateur rock group which played predominately black music to mainly black audiences in the PX clubs of the plethora of American Air Bases which dotted my part of East Anglia. These establishments also provided access to cigarettes, alcohol and ten pin bowling at prices which were affordable due to the excellent exchange rate and US government subsidy. My thanks, to America, for making teen angst bearable by providing very necessary distractions.

Following three years of glorious irresponsibility, at a teacher training college in South Wales, I qualified as a teacher and proceeded to make children’s lives less than exciting. Due to the miserable pay scales of that time I gave up moulding personalities and became a sales rep for an educational supplies company. This move doubled my pay and provided a free car. Oh Joy.

Since then I have muddled my way through the world of work in various capacities and industries while managing to provide a home for my wife and two children (one of each). Now is the best bit, I am retired and blessed with the Fearsome Four, my grandchildren, three girls and a boy, who do their best to drive me insane and make me tearfully proud by turns.

So now I write. I write for my own amazement (Science Fiction) and the entertainment of the Fearsome Four (The Sprocket Sagas) both of which seem to be liked by some wonderful people who have taken the time to read and review my books.

I have always been a keen reader despite being labelled of remedial grade in primary school and now try to pay forward by reviewing the books I consume like a starveling at a banquet. What goes around comes around. Long live the reviewers.

You can find Bryan Pentelow on Goodreads and on his own Website.

“I’m tired of trying to see the good in people.” Clarence stalked around the pen with his wattles waving distractedly. You get fond of people and they just go away and leave you. Last week there were five thousand turkeys in the barns. Yesterday there were five hundred. Today there is just me.”
The only other occupants of the fifteen-acre field eyed him in something like contempt. “Didn’t the same happen last year?” Gloria asked waspishly.
Clarence stopped and looked down at the fat little chicken and her sister.
“Did it?”
“Yes, Clarence, it did.” In contrast to Gloria’s waspishness, Florence just sounded tired. “And the year before.”
He looked puzzled.
“I don’t remember.”
“No you never remember. But it’s always the same. From now until the winters end it will be just the three of us. Then there will be baby turkeys. Then they will grow up. Then they will go away.”
“But why. Where do they go.”
Gloria came as close to a shrug as a chicken can.
“We should know…”

The two humans who sat on the fence looked at the trio with some amusement.
“Have you never wondered what they think?” the man was feeling whimsical.
“Does poultry think,” his companion leaned on his shoulder.
“Presumably. On some level they must. Ergo, do they wonder where the rest of the turkeys go?”
“You may as well ask if that turkey cock wonders why he is still alive.”
“He might not wonder, but I do.”
“He was a mistake. We only sell hen birds. And the hatcheries aren’t supposed to send anything else. But three years ago he arrived with the girls. Dad thought it would be interesting to keep him and see just how big a turkey can get. But he pined on his own, so we got him the chickens for company.”
“How compassionate.”
“It’s no good you looking at me like that, and at least our birds have a decent life.”
“What there is of it.”
The woman lifted a pettish shoulder and they fell silent.

No more was said until the turkey cock stalked across the field to where they sat.
“Poor old boy,” the man said. “I wouldn’t like it if somebody took you away and replaced you with a chimpanze.”
His companion laughed and moved into his embrace.

Clarence peered shortsightedly up at them.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “Can you tell me where my chums have gone? The chickens are very nice, but a chap wants his own kind, doncha know.”
But they all they heard was gobble gobble, and the women threw him a handful of grain from her pocket.
He ignored the corn. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but I did ask you an important question.”
Of course they didn’t answer, and in the end he gave a doleful sniff and went to back to where Gloria and Florence were scratching in the dirt and squabbling over earthworms.

©️jane jago 2017

As the year turns,
An arbitrary date.
We make vows,
Give hostages to fate.
I will do this.
Or I will not do that.
I will exercise.
I will not grow fat.
We bargain,
To better our own lot.
If I keep this
I give happiness a shot.
As the year turns,
And daily we grow older
We make promises
In fear of growing colder

©️ jane jago 2017

The first thing to say is that this list is not an exclusive list of all the great Indie books out there – or even all the great indie books we have read this year. It is a well-considered recommended reading list of books we have enjoyed in the last twelve months, consciously spanning genres. So whilst this is most decidedly a list of excellence it is not claiming to be definitive or anything like.

The second thing to say is, we recommend these books wholeheartedly and if you have yet to read them you should consider doing so if they are in a genre you enjoy.

So, onto the list. This is given in alphabetical order of author name and there is no ranking. All are stonking good reads.

The Working Title Blog 5 Star Golden Reads for 2017

The Gaia Effect – Claire Buss
That rare beast, a dystopian book with a real glow of hope.

Vengeance of Snails – Chrys Cymri
It could honestly have been any or all of the Penny White novels, but this was chosen for being the darkest.

The Dying Of Mother Seed – India Emerald
This is one of those stories you can’t say much about without spoilers, just that India is the mistress of the twist in the tale.

Austism – Dwayne Fry
This story tackles prejudice face on. It’s wrenching, but humorous too.

A Time Of Need – Brent A Harris
This truly engaging ‘what if’ that takes a tilt at American history

Murder in Absentia – Assaph Mehr
A Roman-style whodunit in a world with magic.

Selia’s Promise – Christina McMullen
A truly frightening view of the future, read it and be afraid.

Hand and Talon – Melonie Purcell
Fabulous fantasy and with strong characters.

Druid’s Portal – Cindy Tomamichel
Time-travel romance back to Roman times which challenges a lot of our assumptions about the nature of history.

Zombie Turkeys – Andy Zach
Wonderful dry humour and social comment – and zombie turkeys!

And here’s to another year of great reading in 2018!

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

It was deep midwinter just days short of his eighth nameday when they told Edgar FitzJohn his father was believed dead. His stepmother came to his bedside in the dark of the night. She came alone, and with her glorious hair unbound. When he sat up blinking she bent to kiss his brow.
“Can you be brave?” she whispered.
“I can try.”
She reached to ruffle his straight, black hair. “Do not give up hope. If you will trust me then we can hope that all will be well in the end.” She showed him a little charm such as women wear on bracelets, in the shape of a Welsh harp. “Should anybody show you such a token as this, then you may trust them.” She pulled him into her arms and hugged him fiercely, before stealing away again.

The next morning, he awoke to a great bustle. Mother’s father and her brother had arrived from the city, and it seemed to Edgar that the place was full of big red-faced blond-bearded giants who were most efficiently taking over. He thought to question, but his stepmother’s closed face, and her visit in the darkest hours, kept him silent. His grandfather looked down at him, and smiled a wolffish smile.
“Isn’t this one about ready for fostering?” although his voice seemed casual, Edgar could sense some deep inner excitement.
“He is indeed,” Mother answered coolly. “In fact he leaves on the morrow. He goes to my lord’s sister in Lancaster.”
Grandfather chewed his lip and spluttered, but could think of no useful response. Uncle Aled moved to smooth over the situation. “Excuse our father. It is the surprise. We did not know of this.”
Mother lifted one of her smooth, white shoulders. “How should you know? The arrangement was made long since.”

On the morrow, Edgar set out, clad warmly in wool and leather, mounted on a surefooted pony, and guarded by six of his ‘grandfather’s’ surly Saxons. They rode in uncomfortable silence.

After spending the night at a wayside inn, the party entered the forest at first light. One of the Saxons shivered.
“I mislike this place,” he growled.
“It’s worse in summer,” the oldest member of his escort opined, “at least you can see what is coming to attack you when the trees are bare.”

Of course he was wrong. They saw nothing until the dark figures sprung up out of the loam. It was a brief, dirty, fight, which left four Saxons dead and two wounded, but walking. Edgar found himself pulled firmly from the back of his mount and pushed down into the dark soil. He might have fought, but his captor showed him a ring in the semblance of a Welsh harp. The dark men quickly caught the Saxons’ horses, but somehow Edgar’s pony seemed to escape them and it careered off into the forest dragging something in its wake. The least hurt of the Saxon warriors looked at the fleeing pony with something like dread in his eyes.
“Do you know who that is?” Receiving no answer he ploughed on. “That’s the grandson of Eudric the Red, that is.”
“Was,” one of the folk grunted. “Will be dead by now. If you want to stay alive, walk.”
The two Saxons walked, and nobody moved until they had gone out of sight and earshot.

After that things happened so fast that Edgar could only remain quiet and allow himself to be borne along on a human tide.

Back at Castle Borso, the chatelaine shut herself in her rooms to mourn the death of her husband and his son, whilst her father and brother dug themselves firmly into position as the castellan and master at arms.

This matters stood a full twelvemonth later, when the Castellan intercepted a letter addressed to his daughter. He read it and hissed his displeasure. Aled looked up from where he sprawled on the hearthrug in company with his wolfhounds.
“What?”
The old man threw the letter into his lap. “We are to make ready for visitors.”
“Visitors indeed. Now I suggest you seal this up and have it delivered to my sister. We don’t want her to be able to tell the Queen’s Majesty that she did not receive it.”
His father grunted, but obeyed.

What the Queen’s letter neglected to mention was that she was bringing John FitzJohn with her to reclaim his property. Those Saxons who survived the purge were turned, naked into the cold with prices on their heads.

As the castle prepared for a joyous Yuletide, the lady looked into her husband’s deep dark eyes and smiled a secret smile.
“Will you come for a ride?”
He looked puzzled but readily agreed. They set out with only two trusted guards, one of whom led a laden packhorse.

John quirked a mobile brow, and his lady laughed, high and clear.
“These are people to whom we owe a debt.” Then she closed her mouth firmly and urged her mare to a canter. They followed a rough track up out of the fertile valley and onto the springy moorland turf.

It was about an hour’s ride in the crisp winter air until they came to an isolated farmstead. In the yard a dog barked, and a broad-shouldered tow-headed man came to the gate. Seeing who it was, he relaxed, and bowed before opening up to admit his visitors. He whistled two notes and a tall dark-haired youngster came charging out of the house. John stared for a second, then all but fell from his saddle. In an instant, he had the boy in his arms and was laughing and crying at the same time.
“They told me you were dead.”
“Aye. And they told us you were dead, Father. But Mother didn’t trust them. So she hid me.”
John turned to his wife. She dimpled demurely.
“I told you I had a Yuletide gift for you, my love.”

©️ Jane Jago 2017

I am old, and today my bones ache
And I’m sloughing my skin like a snake
My wrinkles are saggy
My arse very baggy
I think I’ll just stay home and bake

© jane jago 2017