Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts

Sunday, 19 June 2016

False Pretences Regency romance, mystery & suspense re-published by Books We Love


I am delighted to announce that the first edition of my Regency novel, False Pretences, which received *5 reviews, has been re-published as an e-book by Books We Love.

Five-year-old Annabelle arrived at boarding school fluent in French and English. Separated from her nurse, a dismal shadow blights Annabelle’s life because she does not know who her parents are.

High-spirited Annabelle, who is financially dependent on her unknown guardian, refuses to obey an order to marry a French baron more than twice her age.

Her life in danger, Annabelle is saved by a gentleman, who says he will help her to discover her identity. Yet, from then on nothing is as it seems, and she is forced to run away for the second time to protect her rescuer.

Even more determined to discover her parents’ identity, in spite of many false pretences, Annabelle must learn who to trust. Her attempts to unravel the mystery of her birth, lead to further danger, despair, unbearable heartache and even more false pretences until the only person who has ever wanted to cherish her, reveals the startling truth, and all’s well that ends well

 

False Pretences is available form www.amazon.co.uk, www.amazon.com, Smash Words,  All Romance – e books, Barnes and Noble  Kobo,  the Apple i Store, and at other sites where e Books are available.

 

All the best,

Rosemary Morris

Multi-Published Historical Novelist.

 

Friday, 22 February 2013

Guest blog: Susan Mac Nicol - 'Together in Starlight'

Bennett Saville is sexy. At the peak of his career, the English star of stage and screen is everything a woman might desire, as fiancée Cassandra Wallace well knows. Together they’ve seen the world, from L.A. to Shangri La, yet shadows persist even in the spotlight. At home they face lust, greed, and ghosts from their pasts—and that’s off stage. There is also “The Val”. The aged London theatre holds a mystery four centuries old, cast in starlight and waiting to be revealed. Intensely personal, impossibly passionate, the play must go on…and Cassie and Bennett must face it together.








Excerpt (Chapter One):


Bennett Saville stood at the window of his hotel room looking out over the Hengduan Mountains surrounding the mystical town of Shangri La in Tibet. He’d been there nearly six weeks now filming his new movie, and had yet to tire of the view of the valley and the towering mountains that seemed to surround the hotel like a massive rock shield. The October sun shone down on the valley and the green fields surrounding the hotel.
Across the river in the distance he could see the small figures of farmers as they went about their business. Small white forms of sheep were speckled like popcorn about the grassy hills. He sighed, stretching his lanky frame, wincing as his muscles protested against the activity.
The day’s filming had taken its toll on him, not least of which was his backside from sitting on a mule most of the day. The mule had not particularly taken to him. He supposed wryly that when two immoveable and stubborn objects met there was bound to be some friction. He turned as someone swore behind him, and saw his fiancée, Cassie Wallace, struggling under the weight of her now packed suitcase as she manoeuvred it off the bed. She strained to pull the suitcase over to the door where it would wait to be taken down by the hotel porters in the morning.
He observed her with raised eyebrows. Despite his suggestion that she get a suitcase with wheels, she’d insisted on taking her tried and trusted old green one -the one with no wheels and which in itself was a fair weight even without the mountain of clothes inside it.
Cassie muttered as she gave the case one final kick in annoyance and looked up at him. Her eyes challenged him to say something, anything. He turned away with a hidden smile.
She flopped down onto the bed and groaned. “I can’t believe we have to leave tomorrow.”
She opened her arms and spread them out behind her, her t –shirt straining at the move and showing the generous curves beneath. Seeing Bennett’s predatory look, she hastily sat up again lest he get any ideas about pouncing on her. They were due downstairs for their last lunch together with the rest of the cast and crew in about five minutes.
“I thought you were looking forward to getting home?” Bennett said. “You’ve been itching to get back to business. That phone of yours hasn’t stopped since we left London.”
 He sat down on the bed beside her, his green eyes observing her, admiring her tanned skin from the sunshine of the Tibetan summer and the small freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose. Her strawberry blonde hair, worn long but now even longer past her shoulders, had streaks of gold where the sun had bleached it.
All in all, he thought the six weeks holiday she’d had whilst he was filming had done her good. After the events of the last twenty one month’s together, it was good to see her looking so perky, healthy and downright sexy.
She nodded. “I know. I am. It’s just that it’s so peaceful here. I know you’ve been filming but I’ve never seen you look so relaxed either. This trip has been good for both of us.”
He regarded at her ruefully. “What with all the past events, you and your car accident, Eric’s death, Mum’s psychotic episode and you landing up in hospital again and that bloody Laura woman stalking me, I’m surprised we’re not both basket cases.”
She sighed. “I can’t believe our Tibet trip is nearly over. I know when you get back you’ll be busy filming in the London studios- Waverly is it?”
Bennett nodded. “It’s a huge and very sophisticated studio in Chalk Farm. It’ll be great seeing how the rest of the film comes together there.”
“Perhaps, Bennett, when we get home, I might be able to convince you not to fall asleep with such regularity at your desk.” Cassie said drily.
 He grinned. Whilst he’d been in Tibet, many were the nights he’d fallen asleep in front of his laptop, his script open, various research websites being bookmarked and copious notes in his untidy, almost illegible scrawl in the margins of his script. He knew it drove Cassie to distraction.
“You know me, Cass. I’m a little obsessive.”
Cassie stared at him in amusement. “A little? Bennett, you disappear in the middle of the night to God knows where, for hours on end, stalking about talking to yourself and looking like a crazy person.”
He smiled, knowing this to be true.
Cassie continued her diatribe.  “You wander up into the mountains, down by the river and I never quite know where I’m going to find you or when you’ll be back. It can be quite dangerous out there.”
He shrugged. “When the muse is on me, Cass, I can’t help it. I need to get things perfect or it doesn’t work for me.”
“That’s all well and good, sweetheart, but if you hadn’t noticed, ignoring me doesn’t make me go away. And you can be such an autocrat. It’s your way or no way.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “An autocrat? Cassie, that’s a bit cruel.”
Bennett grinned at the exasperated face of his fiancée.  “I guess we should be getting downstairs for lunch. I was planning on an afternoon siesta with you but judging from the sound your stomach is making, I imagine you’re hungry again. I can’t make love to a starving woman. It’s too distracting.”
He stood up and reached out a hand to her. She took it as she stood up and they walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind them.
Downstairs in the outside courtyard the lunch buffet was in full swing. The full cast and crew of Lost Horizon were helping themselves to a spread of both Chinese and Tibetan local fare including roasted yak which Cassie hadn’t wanted to try. Bennett found it delicious. But despite that, Cassie refused to taste it. He acknowledged that neither of them had developed the taste for the local butter tea.
Mingmei Cheng, Bennett’s co- star and love interest in the film, smiled when she saw them, wandering over to join them. She was stunningly beautiful, a slim exotic Mandarin woman with long black hair and small hands that waved like butterflies when she talked.   Bennett was well aware that the one part about the making of the film Cassie couldn’t get used to were the on-camera love scenes and intimate moments between him and Mingmei.
Although John managed them tastefully and there was only what was needed on show,
nothing gratuitous, he knew she still couldn’t bear to watch Bennett and Mingmei together in that way.
“Most of the time you’re half naked.” she’d grumbled when they’d talked about it recently.
He’d smiled at her discomfort. “Cassie, mostly I have my shirt off. My pants and everything else are still on for most of the scenes. And when they’re not, well, there’s not really any contact. Honest.”
She’d scowled. “Well, I still don’t like watching it. Mingmei is so beautiful and tiny and it just looks wrong when she has her hands all over your bare chest. Sometimes I want to scratch her porcelain face. That makes me a really bad person, Bennett.”
It hadn’t helped that he’d chuckled loudly at her comments.  “You jealous harpy. You know I’m acting. I promise.”
 Seeing them now, Mingmei smiled at them sweetly.  “Bennett, Cassie,” she said softly in her lilting dialect. “I’m glad you decided to join us. I thought perhaps you might be having a siesta.” She smiled slyly.
Bennett smiled, watching Cassie’s face flush instantly. He did tend to have a proclivity towards afternoon ‘siestas’ with her when he could get them and it appeared the whole crew knew about them
“No, we were hungry and looking forward to lunch. I shall miss all of this when we get home.”  Cassie waved a hand around at the tables laden with food.
Bennett looked at her with raised eyebrows “The way you’ve been eating whilst we’ve been here I shall have to employ you your very own chef when we get home to keep you stocked up on Kung Pao chicken and roast pig.”
He frowned worriedly. “Actually, thinking about it, I think we should call the airport and pay to increase our baggage allowance. We might need to offset it against the extra weight in the plane when you get in.”
Cassie punched him hard in the arm making sure her knuckle was extended. He yelped and rubbed his arm but the smile didn’t leave his face. Mingmei watched on with amusement.
“You bastard!” Cassie hissed. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
Bennett realised he’d perhaps overstepped the boundary. Cassie was sensitive about the fact that she was older than him and always told him she had to work harder to keep her figure in shape. He loved it just the way it was.
He pulled her close, planting a kiss on top of her head. “You look wonderful to me, Cassie, just the way you are. I love your curves.”
She wasn’t mollified by his words, glaring at him fiercely. She was stopped from responding as John Lammington came up and slapped Bennett on the back.
“Bennett! Glad you could join us. We thought you’d gone for a lie down. I thought you might have been a bit stiff after riding that crazy animal this morning.”
He winked at Cassie who felt her face blush red. The double entendre was not lost on anyone. Mingmei looked down, smiling.
Bennett chuckled softly as Cassie went even redder.  “No, no siesta. The woman needed feeding again.”
He made sure to stay out of the way of Cassie’s fist as he wandered over to the table to pile a plate with food. Cassie muttered a rude but very audible swear word at him under her breath, making sure she piled her plate high. She sat next to Bennett at the long communal table. He was amused at her defiant stand.
“So, Bennett. Looking forward to getting back to London and the dreary October weather?” John took a swig of the local Lhasa beer he was partial to.
Bennett shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed it here. It’s been an incredible experience. But Dylan is chomping at the bit to get his latest production up and running. He opens in December and needs some help. So I’ll be giving him a hand at the Val in between filming the rest of Lost.” He looked at John wryly. “Assuming I have any free time at all, that is. You can be a real slave driver.”
The Val as it was lovingly known, real name the Valedictorian, was the theatre that Bennett, Cassie and Dylan owned in London. Bennett had given Cassie thirty five percent of his shares when they got engaged last year. He’d thought it was the perfect engagement gift. He knew she loved the ambience, the quirkiness, camaraderie and drama that went on there.
John chuckled. “Now, Bennett. That coming from one perfectionist to another.” John helped himself to another beer. “Isn’t Dylan’s play some sort of musical about some Australian lady gang?”
Bennett nodded. “It’s about the Razor Gang wars in the mid nineteen twenties in Sydney. He’s done a hell of a job in getting something like that into a musical, but I think it works.”
John grinned. “I understand you aren’t contributing to the stage show. Not your ‘cup of tea’.”  He mocked Bennett’s accent.
Bennett shook his head ruefully. “I’m not fond of singing in public and I’m not the greatest dancer. I’ll stick with drama rather than make a fool of myself trying to belt out a tune.”
“I can vouch for that statement,” muttered Cassie. Bennett saw she was still unforgiving about the weight comment. “Bennett has a tendency to be very noisy when he’s trying to sing Pavarotti in the shower.”
“But I do have other talents you like in the shower, sweetheart.” Bennett regarded her lazily, not wanting to be outdone. He sniggered as Cassie once again blushed pink.
John gave a great laugh. “You two really keep us all amused with your bickering, you know that? It’s been like having two teenagers on set.”
He stood up. “Well, packing beckons. I still have a ton of things to sort out before we leave tomorrow afternoon.” He looked gloomy.  “I suppose we’ll be taking that dodgy tour bus to the local airport and then flying to Lhasa Airport for the flight home. It’s going to be a long couple of days to get home.”
John hadn’t enjoyed the bus ride to the hotel, having white knuckled it all the way due to the driver’s fairly erratic driving narrowly missing the long drops over the side of the mountains. He sighed. “See you kids later.”
Bennett sat back in his chair, closing his eyes, enjoying the rays of the sun on his face. Hearing  a little voice beside him, he opened his eyes to see little Soong Li, the daughter of one of the Hotel Managers, smiling shyly at Cassie as she held out a small carved wooden bird.
Cassie smiled at her as she sat up. “Hello Soong Li. This is beautiful. Is it for me?” She leaned over and took the small bird gently from the child’s outstretched hand. “Did you make this yourself?”
The little girl nodded. “I want you to take it back home with you.” she said in slightly broken English. “To remind you of me and Shangri La.”
Cassie often took the child on her travels with her, mule riding, climbing the nearby mountains and wading down in the river collecting any item of interest the pair could find. The little girl had taken a shine to Cassie and was constantly fascinated by the colour of her hair and the freckles appearing on her face.
Bennett watched the two together now, seeming so comfortable with each other. Cassie couldn’t have any children of her own. She’d been unable to do so even before his mother had attacked Cassie one evening and injured her so badly that it had simply cemented the fact that Cassie would never be a mother.
The closest they’d get would be Bennett’s five year old nephew, Sean, who lived with Bennett’s father at the family home. Bennett and Cassie enjoyed taking him out on the occasional day out but were always glad to see him home to Edward’s.
Cassie hugged the child and Soong Li ran off to join her friends playing nearby. She looked over at Bennett, smiling.  “If you’re finished stuffing your face, I suppose we could go for a walk down by the river. It’ll be the last chance we get.”
He extended his arm to her and they walked out of the hotel courtyard into the dusty road leading down to the river. It was quiet, the clouds settling low upon the horizon and the warm breeze slightly unsettling Cassie’s hair, causing it to blow across her face.
She brushed it back absentmindedly as she walked.  “Have you spoken to Sean recently?”
Bennett was in the habit of calling his nephew with an update on how many yaks he had seen, what the stupid mule had done next and generally painting a vivid picture for the child of what it was like to be in Shangri La.
Bennett nodded. “I spoke to him last night. Apparently he’d had a bad day at school, some kid pinched his lunch and when Sean found out, he punched him in the nose. Mary had to go down to the school and placate them.”  He grinned. “I’d say he’s definitely a Saville.”
Cassie kissed him affectionately on the chin. “Given his uncle’s temper, it sounds like the fruit hasn’t fallen far from the tree albeit a little removed.”
Bennett’s temper was legendary, something he sometimes struggled to control. The last year had certainly tested this to the limit. More than once Cassie had found herself having to defuse him.
They’d reached the river now, sitting down on the grassy bank, taking off their shoes and planting their feet in the cool running water.
“Did you ever think we’d be where we are now?” asked Bennett suddenly. “I mean sitting here together in Shangri La in Tibet. Sometimes it all seems rather surreal.” He glanced at Cassie as she watched the water run over her feet.
“You know I believe things happen for a reason.” she said slowly. “Everything has a purpose. I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing now than sitting here with you in this magical place. January last year I was just plain Cassie Wallace. Now I’m Cassie Wallace, fiancée with a young, filthy rich, sexy man in her bed. Who could possibly have seen that coming?”
She leaned over and kissed him. He pulled her towards her and the kiss grew deeper and more intense. Bennett wound his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer, enjoying the feel of her warm body and the sunshine on his back.  After a few hot and heavy moments they pulled apart.
“I think it’s time for that siesta.” Cassie said huskily, running her fingers down his chest, pausing on his flat stomach and slipping her hands under his loose shirt.
He drew a breath as her hands found the warm skin beneath. “I certainly don’t think we should carry on here, we have an audience.” he murmured, kissing her ear, his tongue darting in and out causing her to shiver.
Cassie looked up in panic and Bennett chuckled. “There’s no one watching, Cassie. I mean that lot over there.” He pointed to where a half a dozen curious yaks were congregating by the river bank, observing them through large brown eyes. Cassie giggled when she saw them.
“Whilst I could quite gladly ravish you here and now, I don’t relish the thought of doing so with them watching me. I don’t like competition.” Bennett stood up, picking up his shoes.
Cassie did the same and together they walked back up to the hotel. The lobby was fairly quiet. Everyone was probably in their rooms packing for tomorrow’s early get away. Their hotel room was cool and the breeze wafted in through the open windows.
No sooner had they closed the door, than Bennett pulled Cassie towards him, his mouth finding hers again, his tongue running its way across her top lip and finally finding its way into her mouth.
She pressed against him, her hands wrapped tightly around his neck, her hands buried in his curly auburn hair. His mouth moved away from hers, down her throat to the swell of her breasts. He felt her nipples harden as he kissed them, his tongue lightly teasing them through her t-shirt. She raised her arms and he slipped off the t-shirt. She wore nothing underneath. He undid her jeans and they fell to the floor as he slipped her panties down her legs. She was naked now, pressing herself against him with an urgency he could feel.
“God, Bennett,” she groaned. “How can you still do this to me? I never get tired of you.”
“Ditto.” he whispered, watching as she unzipped his chinos and undressed him. He heard her give a hiss of satisfaction at what she found. She pulled him over to the bed, her movements urgent and desperate, lying down, desperate to get closer to him.
He continued his body tasting, kissing the inside of her thighs, up her stomach to her breasts again, finally to her mouth. She stroked him as he sighed in pleasure. Her hands moved across his back down to his backside and back up again. Bennett’s fingers softly stroked her where the sensation was incredible and he felt her tremble and moan softly. He kept her waiting, teasing her until she ground her mouth into his.
She moaned. “God, Bennett, now, I can’t wait.”
He raised himself above her, watching her face as he slowly filled her, hearing her groan of pleasure and feeling the intense sensation himself as she clenched her inner muscles around him and rocked beneath him. Her nails scratched his back and he winced in anticipation, remembering a previous love making session where she had almost torn him to pieces.
She remembered too and gasped, “I promise I won’t damage you, Bennett, not like last time.”
He thrust harder into her as they both felt the rising explosion between them and when it arrived, they cried out and shuddered, their mouths grinding together as they reached their peak and collapsed, satiated for the moment, into a heap of limbs on the bed.
“Jesus, Bennett, sex with you just gets better and better every time. Are you sure you’re not practising with anyone else in your spare time?” Cassie leaned over to kiss his nose.
He pretended to consider that before answering. “Not unless you count the ladies at the coffee house near the theatre, the all night strip club or the Woman’s League ladies. Other than them I have to say you’re the only other one.” 
“Do you think we are sex addicts like everyone seems to think?” asked Cassie seriously, causing Bennett to splutter with laughter.
“Cassie, I hardly think a healthy sexual relationship like ours is a sign of addiction. And if it is then I’m all for it.” He leaned over, kissing her again. “I can’t help it that I have this amazingly sexy and beautiful woman who just can’t get enough of me. It’s just you being Cassie that does it for me.”
She cuddled into him. “What about when I’m old and wrinkly and my boobs sag? Will you still want me then?”
Bennett tried to be careful how he answered this one. He knew Cassie was still a little insecure about their age difference.
He pulled her closer, stroking her back and nuzzling her hair.  “I’ll be growing older too, Cass. Hell, I’ll be forty next year. Who knows, my equipment could stop working and then where would you be? You’d have to trade me in for a younger model. It’s all relative.” He kissed her tenderly. “I love you, silly woman. Isn’t that enough for now?”
“I suppose.” She didn’t sound convinced but it was the best he could do.
He sighed and stood up. “I’m going to go take a shower. I think we’re all meeting for drinks at eight tonight.”
He disappeared into the bathroom. She joined him a few minutes later and managed to convince both of them beyond any doubt that his equipment was definitely still working.

Monday, 22 October 2012

Back Cover of False Pretences by Rosemary Morris

England 1815

Five-year-old Annabelle arrived at boarding school fluent in French and English. Separated from her nurse, a dismal shadow blights Annabelle’s life because she does not know who her parents are.

High-spirited Annabelle is financially dependent on her unknown guardian. She
refuses to marry a French baron more than twice her age.

Her life in danger, Annabelle is saved by a gentleman, who says he will help her to discover her identity. Yet, from then on nothing is as it seems, and she is forced to run away for the second time to protect her rescuer.

Even more determined to discover her parents’ identity, in spite of many false pretences, Annabelle must learn who to trust. Her attempts to unravel the mystery of her birth, lead to further danger, despair, unbearable heartache and even more false pretences until the only person who has ever wanted to cherish her, reveals the startling truth, and all’s well that ends well.

Friday, 19 October 2012

False Pretences by Rosemary Morris

I am delighted to announce the publication of my new novel a romance/mystery,False Pretences set in England in 1815 on the 27th October.

Annabelle runs away from school into the arms of a charismatic gentleman…but can she trust him to help her to find out who her parents are?

There is a 20% pre-order discount from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

Return to Mystery - 'An Older Evil' by Lindsay Townsend

When I first started writing for publication, I wrote in one of my favourite genres, historical romance. Since then I have also written both romantic suspense and historical mystery, and the three genres have the following in common for me:

High stakes
Adventure
A ticking clock
A heroine under pressure who responds
A protective hero
A setting that has an impact on the characters.

With my most recent novel, I have returned to the Middle Ages and to Historical Mystery. An Older Evil - published now - is the first of a series of stories featuring the heroine Alyson Weaver. Alyson is older than my romance heroines and experienced in life and love, a widow of Bath who loves life and who hates injustice. In the times when she lived there was no formal police force, so when a stranger is murdered close to her home, Alyson feels compelled to investigate, especially when her family and household come under threat.

Alyson is also happy to play Cupid whenever she can and there is a romantic subplot in this novel... an unusual romantic subplot.


MuseItUp Publishing, September  7, 2012

Buy the ebook now:

MuseItUp
Amazon US
Amazon UK
All Romance Ebooks


Here is  an excerpt:

 April 25th, 1386.

Sweeping into her airy workshop, Alyson had no inkling of the murder she would witness outside Bath that morning. Head busy with accounts, forearms aching from her weaving, she ducked from her sunny, tidy buttery into the whitewashed old hall, bearing a huge red-glazed pitcher and cups. Slipping past her weaving frame under the big square window and the trestle loaded with carding boards and piles of freshly washed wool, she handed each of the maids who spun for her today a foaming beaker of ale.

Dropping their spindles onto the rush matting, all three set off for the open door. Clustered in the threshold, giggling and pointing with their tankards, Emily, Kate and Bela had time for nothing but the man working in the nearby meadow. “He’s an angel!” cried Bela, smacking her lips.

Laughing, Alyson filled two more cups and joined them at the back door. “That’ll be the new woodman Felise mentioned. Let’s welcome him, shall we? No, Bela.” She caught the youngest girl back. “I’d best go first. I need to warn your angel to keep to the path whilst he tends the abbey’s trees.” Threading between Kate and Emily, Alyson stepped down into the yard. “I’ll find out his name for you. You can take him bread and ale at noon. Just be sensible.”

Impossible advice. Aware of the excited whispering behind her, she struck out across the beaten earth yard, past the shadow of her new timbered hall, to where her plump laundress was doubled over a cauldron of hot water, scouring linen with a scrubbing board. After leaving the sweating Willelma her ale, Alyson dipped through the yard gate and trod amongst the damp meadow primroses, daisies, and fresh grass. Clambering the steep chalk track toward Beacon Hill, the spring sun warm on her strong, high-coloured face, she had a splendid view of the young man working in the ash copse at the far side of her small hillside meadow, his back to her as he sawed fallen branches.

Alyson stopped dead, her free hand making the sign of the cross. By the rood, he was like Jankin! Those crisp blond curls and long shapely legs made the woodman a mirror of her fifth and youngest husband. Jankin’s luminous eyes and teasing mouth had charmed her more than spiced wine, music, or dance. But Jankin was two years dead, murdered in a tavern brawl.

Suddenly, Alyson felt the weight of her forty-five years. She trembled, her breathing quickening, though not from the climb. Ahead, the woodman sawed on, the bite of metal on wood louder than the raucous twitter of nesting birds and the bawling of street vendors down below in nearby Bath. Waiting for her grief to subside, Alyson looked back, thinking of her home, lonely at the edge of meadows. She had fragile memories of running as a tiny child through that rectangular block of cramped kitchen, old hall, and little buttery, then up an outside stair to a small private chamber—Mother’s sun-room, called a solar.

Alyson sighed, conscious of a dropping chill in her belly although the day was bright. The old house fronted the road, its main windows and doors facing down into Bath. Her fourth husband, Peter, had demanded more privacy, and a second crook-gabled dwelling had been built on at right angles to the first, so now the house was an L-shaped block. Peter had approved the handsome brown and white cross-beamed timbered long hall. He had chosen the three lancet windows in the new hall with their top quatrefoils done in expensive glass—showy but cold. It had been Peter, too, who had determined where the hall dais should go and the hearth. Inside the house, there were many pieces of furniture and plate to be polished, for Peter had aspired to be a country worthy as well as a wool merchant.

Alyson was a city child. After the great pestilence of 1349 had carried off her parents from this country suburb, Alyson had been brought up inside Bath at her brother Adam’s house. Her daughter, Margery, and grandchild, Benedict, still lived within its lively streets. Her keen sight took in the small city, snug in its setting of limestone cliffs and wooded hills, the pale bulk of the abbey church and its grounds filling most of the city walls and dominating the narrow streets with their thatched houses and thermal baths, famous for cures throughout Christendom. Lucky Mag and Ben, to dwell so close to so much company and gossip! Yet Bath was where Peter’s long-term mistress lived, and Alyson would have walked farther than Jerusalem to avoid Isabel.

Catching a scent of cowslips on the breeze stirring the tips of her veil, she shaded her eyes. Beyond her field ran the London road, threading to the left past her church of St. Michael and into the north gate of the city. Where that road narrowed and became lined with tall, timber-framed houses, Felise Brewster lived, baker of the best date slices in Bath. She called in most days. Felise was sickly now and could no longer gad about. Recalling her friend’s listless limbs and stricken face, Alyson turned again, eager to be on her way.

The stranger must have heard the rustle of her skirts. Fast as a cleric’s angel dancing on a pinhead, he spun about, the saw raised like a club. Or a sword, ready to slash at an enemy, thought Alyson, hoisting her flagon. “Forgive me if I startled you. I’m your neighbour, Mistress Weaver. You’re working in my field.” Alyson blazed her engaging gap-toothed smile and held out the ale. “For you.”

The saw lowered, and a white hand removed the wooden beaker from her fingers. Crisp gold curls rolled forward as the young man nodded thanks, his dark eyes swarming over her shapely figure. He grinned, but Alyson was uneasy. Something was wrong here. “You’re here from the north?” she asked in Midlands speech.

No recognition. Alyson tried Cornish, Yorkshire, and Canterbury dialects, but the young man drank on with no more understanding than an ape. Pretty manners, though: when he’d finished he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, not his sleeve. Such a patched, honest sleeve, thought Alyson. Tight round his arm, but with clothes being so often passed on in families, that wasn’t to be wondered at. His smooth new hose were a different matter.

“Your stockings are very fine,” she murmured in Latin.

The woodman glanced down the front of his short homespun tunic, and she seized the chance to walk on, leaving the flagon behind. Whatever was going on here, Felise was more important than this mystery.

* * * *

Trapped in her friend’s stifling back parlour before a spitting birch wood fire and nursing a goblet of mead, Alyson squirmed on the high-backed bench. Excessive heat always made her queasy, but Felise needed the warmth. “You are well today?” she asked, concerned.

“Not bad.” Felise stirred into her posset a spoonful of the herbs Alyson had brought. She tapped her goblet. “Thanks for these.”

Alyson dragged the vermilion veil off her head and raked hot fingers along one of her darkening blonde plaits. “It’s nothing.”

“You know that’s not true. Your mixtures always help, especially after the apothecary.”

Alyson scowled. “I trust you didn’t let him bleed you.” Felise, who was around the same age as her, was not strong and lost too much blood already through abnormal monthly courses.

“I told him no this time.”

Alyson looked up and saw the blush on her friend’s delicate oval face, the glint of fire in the wide black eyes. Delighted, she whistled at a pet finch chirruping in its wicker cage in one corner of the cosy room and squeezed the small hand lying on the bench next to hers. “Good!”

Starting to her feet, Alyson leaned round the yellow and blue striped wall hanging to peer through the half-opened shutters of the lancet window. “Your Gilbert must be pleased. Where is he this morning?”

Felise shrugged narrow shoulders. “Off somewhere as usual. Alyson, this strange young man you mentioned earlier—how did you guess it wasn’t the new woodman?”

“Because his clothes were wrong. The tunic he was wearing had been made for a shorter, leaner man, and it wasn’t a hand-me-down. Not with those fancy hose. And the abbey wouldn’t hire a forester round Bath who understood Latin but not a word of our dialect.” Alyson tutted. “This was a quick deception, for what reason I’ve no notion. The man’s a squire, still training in arms, or a clerk.” She nodded, long blonde and hazel plaits bobbing against her hips. “He didn’t come at me with that saw. Probably a clerk.”

“Like Jankin. Or your son, William, as he might have been,” Felise added.

“As you say.” Alyson slowly resumed her place on the wooden bench. Her eyes had begun to smart, maybe from the curling wisps of wood smoke.

The pet finch fell silent. In the small pause that followed, Alyson heard someone scream in the kitchen. A shower of crockery hit stone flags on the floor below theirs, and a pair of heels pounded off in the direction of the scullery. She started to her feet again, her tall figure protectively in front of Felise. “What’s happening?”

There were sounds of a scuffle, then a yell and a rush of savoury smells as the kitchen door slammed open and shut. A tumult of kitchen steam and bickering drifted up the steep staircase outside the parlour.

“What is it?” Alison asked.

“Oliver, raiding off the spits again.” Tiny Felise slumped on the bench, clutching a cushion. “Alyson, he’s dreadful! He was sent back to us last night. Gilbert had to pay the potter a fortune for his wicked damage.”

Alyson said nothing. Oliver would never have lasted as an apprentice potter. The boy was too full of energy to be penned indoors.

“What am I going to do with him?” Felise weakly pummelled her cushion. “He wrecks everything he touches! Gilbert complains he does nothing but stuff himself with food.”

“Ten-years-old is a starving time. I remember eating a whole loaf at the same age and being beaten for it.” Alyson set her empty goblet down into the hearth. “He’ll grow out of it.”

“Last night he set fire to his bedding!”

This was new, and worse, even for Oliver. Forcing an easy tone, Alyson remarked, “How many broken apprenticeships is it? Tailor, goldsmith, lantern-maker? He’s a bright child. Could you ask him what he wants to do?”

“We’re his parents. We know what’s best for our son.”

Glad to escape the fireside again, Alyson stepped over the sheepskin hearthrug and stalked to the casement, squinting through the shutters for the sight of a squat, barrel-chested, flame-haired boy, the youngest of Felise’s brood of nine and the quickest in legs and wit. She felt pity and sadness for her friend and sympathy for Oliver, having been a tearaway herself.

“Why not send the young scamp to me? I’ll make him my page. He can sweat over sheep shearing, use up some of that fire.” Gilbert might condemn her as a bad influence, but at Alyson’s house, Oliver would be settled close to his mother’s, and Alyson would allow him to visit home often.

Poor, blind Gilbert, for not seeing how his youngest cared! Nor noticing how Oliver blamed himself for his mother’s shattered health, being clever enough to know how much Felise had been worn down by childbirth.

Smarting at life’s injustice, Alyson banged open a shutter and hollered down at the seemingly deserted herb garden, “I see you, Oliver, lounging by the lavender. You come out of there before you trample everything!”

A stifled sigh from the bench had her turning swiftly to kneel by her friend. “Sorry, Felise, that was ill-mannered! I forget myself. It’s the influence of Mars: it makes me too impetuous.”

Felise clasped the pleading hands. “Alyson, dear, I would not have you different. As for my boy—” Her fine black eyes swelled with tears.

Alyson leaned closer. “What is it? Not Oliver; you know he’s a good lad.”

The dry hands tightened their grip. “Alyson…has Gilbert a mistress?”

“Never! He dotes on you.”

“He’s going on pilgrimage. To the new shrine of the Virgin at Walsingham. He’s never wanted to go before, and I’m too feeble to accompany him.”

“So you assume he’s taking along a substitute wife? On a holy journey?”

“I know what happens between men and women on pilgrimages. You told me!” Felise released her friend and took up the posset again. “Alyson, could you go along? You love to travel, and you’ve never been to Walsingham. You could keep an eye on Gilbert for me.” She coughed dryly, clutching her chest, but smiling all the same. “You might even find yourself another husband!”

Alyson could still not believe it. “Tell me why you believe Gilbert’s unfaithful. Spare me no details!” The mystery of the false woodman she dismissed completely from her mind.

* * * *

The angelus was ringing all over Bath when Alyson left the smoky thatched house in Walcot Street. Nothing had been settled; not Oliver’s present place, nor Gilbert’s possible infidelity. Felise had certain pointers. Gilbert bathing regularly in the healing spring of the King’s Bath while not complaining of being ill. Gilbert bringing home a mirror one day and keeping it for his own use. Yet he showed no lessening in affection to his wife, so Alyson smiled comfortingly and said Felise must be mistaken.

But Felise had begged again for Alyson to go to Walsingham. A group of pilgrims were due to set out from Bath in five days’ time, Gilbert included, and Alyson promised to consider joining them.

Relieved to be out of doors after the baking heat of an invalid’s chamber, she strode out, swinging her aching arms, head up as she attacked the steeply rising path through the meadow. She wanted to be home before St. Michael’s noon bell sounded, and Bela hustled her more timid companions up the hill with the stranger’s food. A man in disguise might not be a threat to her girls, but it was best she be wary.

Ahead of her the squire-forester sawed slowly, clearly unused to the work. Puzzling again as to why he was doing it, Alyson called out, “Good morning!”

He stopped sawing, turned, and stared through her, not at her. He shouted something, words drowned by the noon bell, and Alyson jerked her head round, wondering what he had seen.

There was nothing below her but the nodding yellow cowslips of the meadow, the gate into Felise’s garden, and beyond that, the ochre dust of the London road and shimmer of distant houses. Disappointed, Alyson turned again, wondering what might have startled the youth into breaking his silence.

She saw him stagger and fall, try to crawl toward her, then slump face down into the grass. Alyson shouted and ran to him, but she was already too late. The sleek young body, curled over as though in sleep, was still and breathless, the golden curls dimmed by dust and blood. The stone that had shattered his skull had smashed open his right eye; he was beautiful no longer. He was dead.

Lindsay
http://www.lindsaytownsend.net
http://www.twitter.com/lindsayromantic

Friday, 27 July 2012

Guest Post: Irina Shapiro

What would you do if suddenly confronted with something that undermines everything you believe about yourself and the world around you? Would you simply write it off or pursue it to the bitter end? A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, since it can change how we see ourselves and the people around us. Is it wiser to just ignore that little voice that tries to tell you that you’ve been here before or that the person you’ve never met seems strangely familiar? When faced with the choice, Cassandra allows her gut feeling to lead her down a strange path, one that changes her life forever.

*****

When the skeletal remains of a young woman and her baby are found entombed behind the kitchen wall of a historic Tudor house Cassandra is overcome with grief. She seems to know who the young woman was, but not how she knows or how she came to be there. Cassandra becomes inexplicably drawn to the house and the mystery of the "Bones of Blackfriars." As she begins to learn the truth about the Thorne siblings who occupied the house during the reign of Elizabeth I, her own life takes an unexpected turn and she finds that her fate is linked to the Thornes in ways she never dreamed of.

US: http://www.amazon.com/Precious-Bones-ebook
UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Precious-Bones-ebook

*****

Irina Shapiro was born in Moscow, Russia and for the next eleven years lived the life of an ordinary Soviet child, in then communist Russia, until her family’s emigration to the United States in 1982. Due to her love of reading Irina was able to pick up English very quickly and was an honor student throughout her school career. After graduating from Bernard M. Baruch College in 1992 with a Bachelor’s degree in International Business Irina worked in advertising for two years before realizing that long hours and low wages were not the life for her. She shifted her focus to Import/Export and worked her way up to the position of Import Manager in a large textile house before leaving the work force in 2007 to focus on her autistic son. It wasn’t until Irina had been at home for some time that she began to write. Eventually the characters began to take on a life of their own and have conversations in her head and once she started writing her musings down the stories came easily enough. Irina incorporated her love of history and travel into her writing to create a rich and detailed background for the characters. Since then Irina has written five novels. She is currently working on a sequel to “The Hands of Time.” Irina Shapiro lives in New Jersey with her husband and two children. 

Website: http://irinashapiro.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Irina-Shapiro