Blood on White Mountain by Eleanor Swift-Hook, a story of prophecy, battle and betrayal, is just one of 11 stories inspired by great works of art in Masterworks from the Historical Writers Forum.

Why did you choose to write ‘Blood on White Mountain’?

I wrote Blood on White Mountain as the origin story of one of the characters who features strongly in my Lord’s Legacy series of books. But the picture that inspired me is one that has haunted me since I first came upon it. Young Soldier by Frans Hals Junior. The poignancy of the image of a young man, still in his teens head bowed as he holds a carbine and looks at the soldier’s equipment he must soon don. It was the fate of millions of young men in Europe in the 17th century as the continent was ripped apart by the religious division that had come from the Reformation, complicated by political and dynastic ruptures. Half a million of them would die in the battles of the Thirty Years War. To me, it was important to try and humanise that impossible-to-imagine number.

The heroine of the story is Kate, she is not a historical figure, so who is she?

Kate is Lady Catherine de Bouqulement. Only child of an Anglo-Irish earl and an English mother, she was orphaned young and made a ward for the English lands she had inherited from her mother, her father’s lands and title going to a very distant cousin. King James granted her wardship to Lord and Lady Harington who were the guardians of his daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Raising the princess was a very costly business and as James had little money, Kate’s wardship and the income from her lands were meant to help offset that great expense. Unlike many wards whose lands and persons were much abused, the Haringtons stewarded her lands well, benefitting from their income, whilst providing Kate herself with a good home.
Kate became a favourite of Princess Elizabeth. So when the Haringtons travelled to Heidelberg after Elizabeth’s marriage to Frederick, Elector Palatine in 1613, she insisted Kate went with them. Kate stayed in the household of the Electress Palatine and went with her as one of her ladies when Frederick accepted the Crown of Bohemia (Czechia) in 1619.
We meet her in Prague in the autumn of 1620 when she is fifteen years old…

Blood on White Mountain

In 17th-Century Bohemia (modern Czechia), it was a given that the elected King of Bohemia would always be the Habsburg ruler of the Holy Roman Empire. But the emperor being a Catholic and most Bohemians being Protestants, the Bohemian parliament rejected the emperor’s rule. Instead, in 1619, they invited the leading Protestant prince of the empire, Elector Frederick V of the Palatinate and his wife Electress Elizabeth, who was the daughter of King James of Great Britain, to become the King and Queen of Bohemia.
A year later an army was marching towards Prague, seeking to reclaim Bohemia for the emperor…

Had she been foolish to come here?
Paní Zdislava Jelenková was tall, almost as tall as Kate, who was often teased about her height. Her hair concealed beneath a wimple, Paní Jelenková wore a deep blue velvet gown with pendulous sleeves over a dove grey silk kirtle, a fashion from centuries past. To Kate’s eyes she had stepped out of a stained-glass window in St. Vitus cathedral.
The scent of a strange incense with dark undertones grew stronger as they climbed one narrow flight of stairs, then another. At the top of that was a doorway, over which hung a heavy curtain. Paní Jelenková seized it in one hand, turning so the black fabric was drawn across her body, and glared at Kate.
“When we enter this room, you will be silent,” she said, her German heavily accented. “You will not speak unless I ask you to. This is for your own protection. The forces at work here are easily disturbed. Do you understand?”
The intensity of her tone held Kate silent. She gave a small nod.
Her dark gaze raking over Kate once more, Zdislava Jelenková turned away and through the door. One step and she released the curtain.
Kate blinked as the incense rolled out, stinging her eyes. The room she had glimpsed beyond the heavy fabric was in complete darkness even though it was not far from the middle of the day. A prickle of apprehension shivered down her spine. Annoyed at herself, Kate pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the dark.
Once within, it was not completely lightless. A candle burned on a round table in the centre of the room. Instead of four walls this room had six, all hung with the same dark velvet as curtained the door, embroidered with strange symbols. Some Kate knew, those of the planets and the twelve houses of the Zodiac, but many she didn’t recognise.
Draped in her antiquated gown, Zdislava Jelenková seemed to have grown in stature where she stood on the far side of the room, her skirts fading into shadow, her face glowing in the candlelight.
The hair on Kate’s forearms pricked and tiny paws of cold crept across the flesh between her shoulder blades.
It had been more than foolish to come here.

Masterworks is available now.

You can find out more about Eleanor and her Lord’s Legacy series of books on her website.

Granny has something important to say about Halloween, so pin back your lug holes, sit down, shut up and listen!

Now I have your attention, let’s think about Halloween.
This is the night when, according to superstition, the veil between here and wherever is at its thinnest. So what do people do? They dress little Testosterone and Menopause in ‘supernatural’ costumes and they send them out to knock on the front doors of total strangers crying ‘twick or tweet’.
In what alternative universe is that a good idea?
Has nobody read Hansel and Gretel?
The opportunity for deeply disturbing adult behaviour is there for all to see. But no. What does the great British public do? It opens its fricking door and dispenses sweeties willy-nilly.
Then, just as you are fifty quid lighter for the night, and at last even the most persistent of winkie has been put to bed, the door knocking becomes rougher in character and the local teenage males come out to do a bit of extortion – with menaces.
These bastards don’t bother to even pretend they are in costume, and they really won’t be satisfied with a mini Mars bar. Mostly they want ciggies or beer, although one or two will expect a fiver in their greasy palms in order that they won’t throw eggs and flour at your front door, or accidentally key your car, or tie a firework to your cat’s tail.
From the depths of my armchair this seems too close to blackmail to be acceptable, and I determined to put an end to such behaviour once and for all.
I am in the fortunate position of: one – being wholly nerveless; two – having more hefty grandsons and nephews than you could shake a shitty stick at,
Conceive of the scene, my friends, local thugs beat a tattoo on elderly lady’s front door. It opens with an eerie creak and a huge figure with a gimp mask stands in a sulphurously lit hallway.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” it says in a voice like a winter hailstorm. “Do come in…”
Exit thugs stage left. Pursued by creatures whose faces gleam green in the streetlights.
We don’t see trick-or-treaters after dark these days…

Take this exclusive opportunity to consult the wisdom of the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Aries
This sign needs a short sharp name to ram home when you have to shout at them to get their attention. Which you will – a lot. Anne, John, Kim or Gilles might be good choices.

Taurus
Bullish folk need names that are going to bear repetition – a lot of repetiton. So something that sounds nice to say like Alexander, Yolanda, Beatrice or Grayson.

Gemini
Twin names are always a good call for Gemini, even if you only have the one, it will always feel like there is another lurking about. Good choices might be Romulus and/or Remus, Chloe and/or Zoe.

Cancer
Crabs definitely do better in life when they have names that have a seaside feel to them. Marina, Piers, Sandy, or Ocean would be good options to consider.

Leo
The lion self-regards as the monarch of the zodiac so needs a very noble name. Try for something that sounds pompous and you are bound to succeed. Marmaduke, Regina, Balthazar and Hermione spring to mind.

Virgo
Be sure you name them after someone chaste and intelligent. Saints or might offer good inspiration. Ignatius, Benedict, Hildegard and Brigid, for example.

Libra
A well balanced name is a must for any Libran. It need not repeat but it does need to rhyme within if not. You could try Zsazsa, Lily, Brenden or Chester.

Scorpio
Names of famous murderers will really fit a Scorpio – and help give them a role model to aspire to, perhaps. Lucretia, Caligula, Dexter or Lizzie might be good choices.

Sagittarius
Of course you need to try for an equine link for your Sagittarian. Good choices might be Philip, Horsa, Epona or Rosalind.

Capricorn
The goat of the zodiac needs a nice woolly name. You can try Barbara, Aran, Jason, or Agnes.

Aquarius
Naming an Aquarian is always a challenge. You simply can’t choose something weird enough for them! Perhaps you might consider Zadok, Melpomene, Ramesses or Xiomara.

Pisces
There needs to be water in a Piscean name, just a splash will do, but they can become very dry without it. Victoria, Angel, Niagara and Iguazu could all be good choices.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

It’s a trick of the forest light
They do it with mirrors and stuff
Or it could be the beer I had tonight
I knew it was horrible rough
It‘s only a man in a long blue coat
He’ll leave if I wait long enough
But fear of the magic caught my throat
And I crumbled like dandelion fluff

JJ 2023

As a (more or less) retired whore with an address book full of the names (carefully coded) and preferences of powerful men from all across the globe, I suppose it was only a matter of time before I was offered money – a truly obscene amount of money – to write my memoirs.

Being a sensible sort, with her declining years to provide, for I accepted the advance and started writing. But, you know what, I may be an exceptional shag, but as a writer I suck.
*giggles rudely*
No matter how hard I tried, my sordidly erotic life just sounded like a fucking shopping list. I offered the men in suits their money back. But they refused.
“That’s okay,” they said, “we’ll get you a ghost writer”.

And that was another joke. The first one they sent me looked about eighteen and wore a fluffy angora jumper. Having established that she had never even heard of most of the things I did on a regular basis, I sent her away with a few quid for her trouble. The second try was even worse, some sleazy slag who writes porno for a living and who was getting her rocks off just looking at me. I didn’t even let that one in the door.

There was silence for a couple weeks, then I was asked if I minded working with a guy. Which made me laugh. For a moment the suit making the proposition looked at me like I was stupid or something. Then he got the joke. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to do himself a mischief. When he had calmed down he kissed my hand and left, promising to send ‘George’ the very next morning.

Promptly at eight-thirty, before I had even had coffee, the door buzzed. A tall, dark guy with a briefcase and horn-rimmed spectacles stood on the step.
“George?” I hazarded a guess.
He nodded and I buzzed him in.
“Breakfast?” I offered waving a hand at the bacon and things.
“No thanks.” His voice was deep and melodious.

He sat at the table and watched my culinary muddle for about three minutes before removing the frying pan from my grasp and motioning me to be seated. He put a mug of perfectly made coffee in front of me, followed in short order by a full English breakfast.
“You,” he said, “need a housekeeper.”
“If I ever get this effing book finished, I might even be able to afford one.”
He showed me a lot of very white, very even teeth.
“You American?” I asked.
“I am, but how did you know? I don’t think I have an accent.”
“You don’t, it’s the dentistry. In my business you tend to look at teeth carefully.”
It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in, but when they did I was rewarded with his pleasingly masculine laughter. “And that”, he remarked with a broad grin, “is the first line of your book…”

We soon settled into a rhythm. George arrived promptly at eight-thirty every morning. He cooked my breakfast and we worked until three when he bowed his head, clicked his heels and left.

Inside a month, we had volume one of my memoirs nailed. It was racy, funny, human, and silly, and not a bit how anybody envisaged a whore’s memoirs. It was also an instant bestseller.

I tried to thank George, but he waved away my words.
“Just doing my job.”
We got stuck into volume two.

By the time we were halfway through writing volume three, I was twenty years old in my memoirs, and forty-seven and wealthy in real life.

Somehow, I never got around to employing a housekeeper, and George still cooked my breakfast and tidied the kitchen before we started work.

I did, however, have a cleaner and it became apparent that I also needed a secretary. My publisher found me Miss Jackson, who was newly retired, and bored and willing to work three afternoons a week. She looked like the worst sort of dried-up spinster, and I was perfectly prepared to hate her. Only appearances can be deceptive. She had about the filthiest sense of humour I have ever encountered and we got along fine.

She and George, on the other hand, eyed each other like tomcats on the back fence. I said little to either, merely determining to keep them apart. As Miss Jackson started her day as George finished his, they really only met on the doorstep. Even so, they managed to build up a head of real dislike, although neither ever said a word to me. I broached the subject with a George once, but he snapped his teeth together hard and I desisted.

I think the situation may have gone on indefinitely had I not discovered the date of Miss Jackson’s birthday and decided to take the old girl out for a treat. When we finished our work that evening I presented her with a birthday card, and a Waterstones voucher, and I suggested pie and mash at my local. We had a blast, and she obviously drunk a deal more than she was used to. As I poured her into a taxi she put a hand on my arm.
“That George,” she said more than a little indistinctly. “You need to find out just what he is. If he’s human I will…” Then she shut her mouth firmly.
I paid the cabby and walked home. Deep in thought.

I was just at the door when I felt cool breath on my neck. I turned, but there was nobody to be seen. I guess I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t, even before I caught the faintest whiff of mouthwash and aftershave.
“George. Stop pissing about.”
Then he was in front of me. Looking sheepish.
“You had better come in.”
He followed me in silence, and I was of no mind to say anything quite yet.

Inside the apartment I was in no mood to let him off the hook so I pointed to a chair.
“Sit.”
He was the picture of misery as he folded his long frame into an upright chair.
“Okay buster,” I said severely, “you don’t eat, you don’t drink, you never have a day off sick, and you frighten Miss J shitless. Just what are you?”
He stared at me. “If you noticed all of that why have you never said anything before?”
I crossed my arms in front of my impressive breasts.
“I asked first.”
He looked into my eyes for a moment then squared his shoulders.
“I’m a ghost…” his voice was barely more than a whisper.
That was too much for me and I felt the giggles starting deep in my belly.

Only I could have wound up with a ghost writer who really was a fucking ghost.

When I got myself together, George was looking at me as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
“I take it that means you are not about to run screaming from the room.”
“It does, mate. I’m only worried that you will disappear now I know.”
He thought for a moment, then smiled broadly. “I don’t have to, not if you still want me. I could even move in…”
“Okay. But no sneaking up on Miss J. I don’t want the poor old biddy having a conniption fit in my gaff.”
He grinned, a bit nastily, but hastened to give me his promise.

That being a Friday. I didn’t see hide nor hair of my secretary until Monday. She crept in looking more than a bit sheepish and I couldn’t help laughing at the mortified expression on her face.
“Sit down you silly old bat,” I said affectionately. “Sit down and tell me why you don’t trust George.”
She sat, picking at the sleeve of her muddy brown cardigan with nervous fingers. I watched her for a moment then felt so sorry for her manifest discomfort that I caved in.
“Okay. Never mind. Let’s just get to work. I don’t need to know.”
Her eyes raised to meet mine and she actually chuckled.
“You are right, you don’t need to know. But as you have shown me all the kindness I have ever known in nearly seventy human years I do need to tell you. I knew it wasn’t a human man in the same way it should have known I’m not a human woman, but it was too busy watching you to pay any heed to me.”
She sat back in her chair, obviously awaiting some sort of reaction. I wasn’t about to give anybody that much satisfaction, so I kept my voice level and cool.
“Does being whatever you are preclude you functioning as my secretary?”
She shook her head, with its neat grey bun.
“And are you any danger to me?”
“Oh no. I might have been, once, but you befriended me.”
“Shall we get on with our work then?”
Her smile was broad and admiring, and I caught sight of the gnarled old tree spirit that inhabited her wrinkled skin before she whipped out her laptop and began summarising the weekend’s emails.

I curled my feet up under me on the settee and allowed myself an inward smirk. Just as long as George and Mrs Jackson were occupied staring each other out neither one of them was going to spend any time wondering about me. I let my fangs drop for a moment and caressed their razor sharp edges with my tongue, before recalling myself to a sense of duty and listening to the outpourings of human love and lust that my secretary was recounting in a drily amused voice.

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

“Okay. So we need a plan.”
Em was thinking at her usual pace, and when Agnes opened her mouth she silenced her with an upraised hand.
“Very well. This is what we do…”
Ginny looked as if she might have been about to argue, but Agnes elbowed her sharply and hissed.
“When the Queen tells us what to do we at least listen before we argue.”
“Ginny. You accept the parish council gig, and if you could remember to appear wispy and ineffectual it would be helpful. Agnes. You set your family mafia on planning applications. Once we find out what they are after we can spike their guns. In the meantime I’m about to sink my principles and make friends with the television bloke who left me his card after the vicar went batshit about the bats. Any questions?”
“Hundreds,” Agnes said cheerfully, “but until we find out what the heck is toward nobody can answer any of them. Ginny, you better come home with me now, and I’ll give you some reading material. Normally you’d be living in my house for a month or so while you learn. But I don’t think we want old Harmless-Peashooter to know you are one of us just yet.”
Em frowned. “Agnes. Less of the Harmless-Peashooter if you please. With money behind him the gormless bastard could be dangerous.”
Agnes sighed. “I know. It just helps to think of him by his nickname. Otherwise he’s….”
She stopped in the middle of what she was saying and stared into the middle distance.
Em looked at Ginny and mouthed ‘thinking’.
Agnes showed her teeth in a feral grimace. “Now perhaps we can begin to understand why the housing association is bullying its tenants.”
“Explain yourself Agnes.”
“Well. If you think back twenty years. When Harmsley-Gunn sold the building land to the council we all thought he rather shot himself in the foot.”
“Of course we did. And now he needs to sort it. Yes. I cede you that point Agnes.”
Ginny made a noise like a confused sheep. “Can someone please explain.”
“Yes. Sorry. Harmsley-Gunn owns a rather large tract of land running from the middle of the village down to the river. It’s no use agriculturally, and there is supposed to be some sort of a covenant preventing it from being built on.”
Agnes took over. “And even if the rotten little chiseller thinks he has found a way around the covenant there’s no practicable access. Except through the little housing estate.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes and Em thought how un-sheeplike she was when aroused to anger.
“We’re saying, then, that the housing association is trying to get rid of its tenants and make a killing selling its land?”
“Looks mighty like. Either that or they are being pressured to do so by an irresistible force and an offer they literally can’t refuse.”
“And I assume we are not going to let them get away with it?”
“No. Not if we can stop it and we can try very hard to do that. I will have a high-powered solicitor here tomorrow. The tenants association just gots itself a fighting fund.”
“Tenants association? Since when has there been one of them?”
“Since about a couple of hour’s time, when Jamelia rounds up a couple of the residents to form one.”
Agnes snorted. “I do wonder if HG realises he has a tiger by the tail.”
Em shrugged. “I doubt he will notice until I bite his face off.” She noticed Ginny’s horrified expression. “Metaphorically, sister.”

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

The telegram came on a sultry August day. Rowan read its brief message then went to milk the house cow. She never spoke about it.

As summer drifted into autumn she felt herself fading with the year and her once sturdy body grew thin enough for the wind to almost blow through her.

It was October when Rowan saw the eagle. He rode a thermal and his feathers were burnished by the autumn sun. For a moment she was blinded by tears, then a beloved voice spoke in her soul. 

“Live Rowan, that I may not have died in vain.”

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

actuslly – (adverb) oozing artificial affection after the manner of actors and other artistic types

anaywa (noun) the indigenous people of the hooflungdung islands whose national sport is easily guessed

andenoid (noun) – a gland in the hypothalamus excreting the chatter hormone: over action of this gland is the direct cause of verbal diarrhoea

buhher (noun) – a person with an unhealthy interest in poo 

hig (noun) – small mammal of the genus typographicus which subsists entirely on eggcorns

installmetn (noun) – the nasal parts of an anteater

learb (verb) – to batter the ignorant into submission with the sheer weight of one’s intellect

madochism (somewhere between a noun and a verb) – pertaining to the action of persistently hitting one’s thumb with a hammer to distract oneself from a blinding headache

marjeting (noun) – decorative wall embellishments created when children throw their breakfast at the cat

mis recall (noun) – one of the lesser known pipes on the Great Organ of our Lady in the Cathedral of the Tiny Redeemer

repvious (adjective) – having scaly skin and an aversion to cold

stopopid (adjective) – having very hairy feet

suppoding (adjective) – of wounds excreting green slime smelling faintly of ouzo

tnaks (noun) – small, hard balls of mucus found in elderly handkerchiefs

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

I remember the days before time travel when you’d catch the news that someone famous had died and feel a bit sad.
Then when we had our chrononauts setting off into the unknown and everyone cheered. The odd thing was they were back almost as soon as they had gone. So, for us watching, it was almost as if they had never travelled at all.
That made it hard to believe their stories of the future, but eventually, we learned to do so.
Then one day the news started reporting the births of famous people as well as their deaths…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Take this exclusive opportunity to consult the wisdom of the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Aries

The cuddly lambs of the zodiac. Scratch an Arian between the ears and gambol about in the grass with them and you will have a lover for on whom you can depend.

Never show an Aries any harsh behaviour. They will run away.

Taurus

The laziest of lovers a Taurus will always be torn between making love and having a nice rest. Be gentle in your expectations and a Tauren will be faithful for life.

Never get between a Taurus and a bed, you will be crushed.

Gemini 

This sign never knows what it wants in a relationship. One face is absorbed in the relationship of the moment while the other is looking about for something new. Unsettling.

Never leave your Gemini lover alone with your best friend.

Cancer

Cancerians have a propensity towards the less gentle pleasures of the bedroom and are prone to pinching. Keep the upper hand and your love life will never be boring.

Never allow a Cancerian anything sharp.

Leo

The lion likes to roar and loves to be admired, but is mostly only interested in his or her own gratification. Purr a bit and they will know how to treat you.

Never have a mirror in the bedroom with a Leo or you won’t stop them admiring themselves for long enough to enjoy any physical closeness.

Virgo

The conundrum of the zodiac. Virgo lovers pretend disinterest and even dislike although in truth they are virtually insatiable. Keep fit if you want to stay in a relationship with a Virgo.

Never believe a Virgo headache, it’s just a ploy to make you work harder at convincing them.

Libra

While your Libra lover is weighing the consequences of each and every action and embrace, you will be able to get in plenty of nice naps. If you are not bothered by speed or continuity a Libra will get there in the end.

Never offer a Libra any choices or you will lose the will to live while they consider.

Scorpio

If you want affection avoid Scorpios like the plague. Ditto if you want fidelity or kindliness. However, if you want your bottom spanked… Experimentation is meat and drink to Scorpios so expect the unexpected.

Never let your Scorpio handcuff you to the bed. They may just find it amusing to leave you there.

Sagittarius 

The lover with the truest aim. Sagittarians are true bedroom athletes and satisfaction is guaranteed. Enjoy.

Never expect a good night’s sleep 

Aquarius 

The workaholics of the zodiac. Love is just another burden to this lot. But if you can wrest the water pot away from them they make charming lovers.

Never allow an Aquarius to bring their work into the bedroom.

Pisces

Cheerfully amoral, Pisceans are extremely able lovers and very good company. Open a bottle of something expensive and prepare to enjoy the ride.

Never let a Pisces see you care. It frightens them off. 

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…