The rest of the parts are linked here.
“I would not have you condemn the man out of hand. Any of these things could be explained away…” Horace’s voice faded uncertainly but he was heartened by the look in the Sherriff’s eye.
“They could indeed, and I will not make any assumptions. First of all I shall go and talk to the man whose cottage this is, and that granddaughter of his. I do not think that they will dissemble before me. Perhaps I might find your runaway there, too, if he’s not over the Severn and away by now. Only time will tell, but I will not harass or condemn an innocent man, you have my word.”
The body was by now safely strapped into the litter and Dinmont prepared to mount his own horse and go to find Kenwyn’s kin. He would take his stoutest man, both in spirit and in physique, with him to carry out this task. He didn’t want to end up another body by the wayside.
“I wish you success, sir.” Horace held out his hand in parting and nodded his gratitude at the men who were to bear their grizzly burden down into the city.
“And I wish you a blessed Christmas, both of you. Please God the New Year will bring us better times.”
“Amen to that.” Johannes said, with true feeling, as he watched the party move off along the path.
***
The sky suggested that the journey home should be less hazardous than the outward one had been; there seemed little risk of snow this day.
“You said that you had an excuse for misplacing your bridle. Would you care to lay it before me?” Horace’s spirits were low, this business—one of his own men perhaps a murderer—had hit him hard and he sought for any refuge from his dark thoughts. As always he found it in speech with his dearest friend and ardent lover.
Johannes sighed and made a concerted effort to raise both his own morale and that of his friend. “I was simply distracted. When we’d ridden in from Gloucester two days ago and I had been meaning to hang the thing where it would normally go. But while I saw to my horse—and yes, I know we have stable lads to do that but I was too long on crusade to let any other tend my mount, except you naturally—I saw such a look in your eye. The fresh air and the fine winter sun had raised your spirits enormously and that expression made me think, well, it diverted me from the matter in hand and kept me distracted until events had run their natural course.”
Horace blushed, remembering the wondrous conclusion of the evening. “Can I be so much of a distraction? That an old warrior neglects his gear, thinking of an amorous liaison?”
“You are more than a distraction, my love.” Johannes laughed, an incongruous sound after the happenings of the last day.
“And you are incorrigible. And…” Horace found himself smiling and laughing too, intoxicated by this creature at his side whose smile could dismiss all sorrow, “you have not told me the answer to the riddle.”
“The riddle? Oh that. You should be ashamed of yourself, finding a solution to a murder but not solving a children’s puzzle.”
“But a man can’t ride into a place on a feast day then stay less than a week and ride out on the same feast day. You must be mistaken.”
“And you are being too literal. He rode in on Lady Day just as you ride on Hugon. It was his horse, Horace, and he rode out on it again some days later.” Johannes grinned and took a deep breath of the sweet air that blew through the trees, smelling of snow and a distant hearth. “Have I rendered you speechless? I must try that more often.”
“You are a knave, sir, and a rascal.” Horace spurred his horse on. “We need to be getting home. I don’t like the look of that sky again.”
“Look of that sky, my grandfather’s beard. I know why you want to be home; you may fool all the rest of the world but you cannot pull the wool over my eyes. Perhaps I should dawdle a bit.”
“You do and you’ll find the gates locked to you, snow or not.”
“Come then, let’s negotiate the hill and then I’ll race you over the plain if the snow permits. First one home sets the next riddle.”
Horace took a look over his shoulder at the place they had lodged. It could no longer be seen but he felt its presence keenly. It had been the first place they had shared a bed, of sorts, outside his own demesne and irrespective of the bitter memories it would bear, murder and betrayal of trust, it would always have a special place in his heart. “I will take you up on the wager. And I’ll find a conundrum so hard you’ll never deduce it.”
The two lovers laughed and nudged their horses on a little faster.
Showing posts with label Mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mystery. Show all posts
10.2.10
A Man Lay Dead in Winter part 8
The rest of the parts can be found linked at this page.
Horace nodded. “But it is all no more than conjecture. There is not a scrap of evidence except for the sketch.”
Johannes shrugged. “Let me tell you about what crossed my mind as we tended to the beasts. Cerys is a very placid mare and she will do aught that Kenwyn asks of her; I have seen her take a ditch that many a gelding would have baulked at. We had such creatures on the battlefield and they were invaluable for keeping their heads and their riders’ seats despite the flying limbs and gore. She might have made very little fuss over being witness to a stabbing. And if someone wanted to hide the fact that his mount had been spattered in the process, what better than to offer her to carry the body for a while? Any blood which Hywel Dinmont might notice on Kenwyn’s saddle or his clothes might be explained by the corpse having left its mark. And we would be witness to that fact.”
“He did not wear his cloak.” Horace stretched his long finger to point outside to where the three had stood and talked the day before. “I know he is a hardy soul but he had it on earlier in the day and I had to remind him to put it on again. It was folded into one of his saddle bags I think…”
“Well we can tell all this to Hywel when he comes,” Johannes suddenly paused, “if he comes, Horace. It occurs to me that we have no way of knowing whether he ever intended to go to Gloucester. If he committed the deed then he could be half way into Wales by now.”
“No, I do not think he went that far last night. If he did not go to the city, either as innocent man ill accused or guilty one brazening things out, then he stayed close by, either from fear of the law or the weather. There are two many imponderables in this matter. We should not speculate further.”
“Then let us wait patiently to see what this morning brings us.”
The morning, barely an hour later, brought Hywel Dinmont and one of his men. They knew of the body and had come with a horse drawn litter to carry it down to the castle where the men who worked for the Sherriff could begin to help him solve the mystery. Of Kenwyn there was no sign.
“I thank you, my lords, for keeping the body safe. This is bloody murder indeed and if wild beasts had got to the corpse then any evidence which remained might be spoiled.”
“Is my groom not with you?” Horace had expected this development, really. If he and Johannes had been correct in their assumptions then he’d little doubt that the man had gone to ground, like the game he was so talented at tracking. He wondered whether Dinmont would be as capable of flushing Kenwyn out, at the very least to let him speak his part and establish his innocence, assuming he was blameless.
“Were you expecting him to be? He told me he had been given orders to return to you immediately he had delivered his message. We tried to restrain him, the snow being so heavy, but he would not be gainsaid. He left clear instructions as to where I could find you and I was anticipating meeting him here. I hope that he has not fallen foul of the weather; I would not seek to have another corpse to find and another mother to bring sad news to.” Hywel regarded each man in turn. He’d known Dumanoir for many years and was aware of the favour he found with the old duchess. Fitzrichard he’d met and liked well enough, impressed by the tales he’d heard of the extreme valour the man had displayed in the Holy Land, both in fighting and in kindness. They were neither of them good at hiding the truth. “Gentlemen, what troubles thee? There is more to this story than I have heard.”
“What did Kenwyn tell you?” Horace was loathe to commit himself until he saw more clearly what events had happened between his groom leaving the cottage and then disappearing.
The Sherriff related what the man’s report had been and they could vouch for the truth of it. The finding of the body, its conveyance to safety, were all as they remembered, the only outright lie being Horace’s instructions to his groom to return forthwith. “And what will you add?” Hywel’s suspicions were becoming aroused now and he was keen to have the truth and have it soon.
“That he had no such order to return; we had expected him to come back with you. This morning we are less surprised at the fact he is not in your train. We have had time to think.”
“And your thoughts, you will impart them to me?” Dinmont was used to men protecting their own, seeking to mete out their own form of justice rather than let the King’s law take its course.
“I would never seek to impede your duties, Hywel, but I would add that much of our thoughts are mere speculation. We have one thing of substance to show you and that is all.” He gestured to Johannes, who produced the sketch of Arthur’s seal and explained where he’d found it and the significance they’d seen in it. Soon the whole of their theorising had been shared and each point had been met by Dinmont with a thoughtful look, especially when they touched on the matter of the mare.
“I noticed the blood on your groom’s cloak. He could not have avoided wearing it by the time he reached us or else he would have been half frozen. He even joked as he spoke of bearing the body on his mount and how he would have not have offered had he known the mess it would have made. I thought that it was black humour. I see it often on the occasion of sudden death but now I wonder if it was covering his tracks. Certainly his disappearance speaks more of guilt than misfortune.”
Horace nodded. “But it is all no more than conjecture. There is not a scrap of evidence except for the sketch.”
Johannes shrugged. “Let me tell you about what crossed my mind as we tended to the beasts. Cerys is a very placid mare and she will do aught that Kenwyn asks of her; I have seen her take a ditch that many a gelding would have baulked at. We had such creatures on the battlefield and they were invaluable for keeping their heads and their riders’ seats despite the flying limbs and gore. She might have made very little fuss over being witness to a stabbing. And if someone wanted to hide the fact that his mount had been spattered in the process, what better than to offer her to carry the body for a while? Any blood which Hywel Dinmont might notice on Kenwyn’s saddle or his clothes might be explained by the corpse having left its mark. And we would be witness to that fact.”
“He did not wear his cloak.” Horace stretched his long finger to point outside to where the three had stood and talked the day before. “I know he is a hardy soul but he had it on earlier in the day and I had to remind him to put it on again. It was folded into one of his saddle bags I think…”
“Well we can tell all this to Hywel when he comes,” Johannes suddenly paused, “if he comes, Horace. It occurs to me that we have no way of knowing whether he ever intended to go to Gloucester. If he committed the deed then he could be half way into Wales by now.”
“No, I do not think he went that far last night. If he did not go to the city, either as innocent man ill accused or guilty one brazening things out, then he stayed close by, either from fear of the law or the weather. There are two many imponderables in this matter. We should not speculate further.”
“Then let us wait patiently to see what this morning brings us.”
The morning, barely an hour later, brought Hywel Dinmont and one of his men. They knew of the body and had come with a horse drawn litter to carry it down to the castle where the men who worked for the Sherriff could begin to help him solve the mystery. Of Kenwyn there was no sign.
“I thank you, my lords, for keeping the body safe. This is bloody murder indeed and if wild beasts had got to the corpse then any evidence which remained might be spoiled.”
“Is my groom not with you?” Horace had expected this development, really. If he and Johannes had been correct in their assumptions then he’d little doubt that the man had gone to ground, like the game he was so talented at tracking. He wondered whether Dinmont would be as capable of flushing Kenwyn out, at the very least to let him speak his part and establish his innocence, assuming he was blameless.
“Were you expecting him to be? He told me he had been given orders to return to you immediately he had delivered his message. We tried to restrain him, the snow being so heavy, but he would not be gainsaid. He left clear instructions as to where I could find you and I was anticipating meeting him here. I hope that he has not fallen foul of the weather; I would not seek to have another corpse to find and another mother to bring sad news to.” Hywel regarded each man in turn. He’d known Dumanoir for many years and was aware of the favour he found with the old duchess. Fitzrichard he’d met and liked well enough, impressed by the tales he’d heard of the extreme valour the man had displayed in the Holy Land, both in fighting and in kindness. They were neither of them good at hiding the truth. “Gentlemen, what troubles thee? There is more to this story than I have heard.”
“What did Kenwyn tell you?” Horace was loathe to commit himself until he saw more clearly what events had happened between his groom leaving the cottage and then disappearing.
The Sherriff related what the man’s report had been and they could vouch for the truth of it. The finding of the body, its conveyance to safety, were all as they remembered, the only outright lie being Horace’s instructions to his groom to return forthwith. “And what will you add?” Hywel’s suspicions were becoming aroused now and he was keen to have the truth and have it soon.
“That he had no such order to return; we had expected him to come back with you. This morning we are less surprised at the fact he is not in your train. We have had time to think.”
“And your thoughts, you will impart them to me?” Dinmont was used to men protecting their own, seeking to mete out their own form of justice rather than let the King’s law take its course.
“I would never seek to impede your duties, Hywel, but I would add that much of our thoughts are mere speculation. We have one thing of substance to show you and that is all.” He gestured to Johannes, who produced the sketch of Arthur’s seal and explained where he’d found it and the significance they’d seen in it. Soon the whole of their theorising had been shared and each point had been met by Dinmont with a thoughtful look, especially when they touched on the matter of the mare.
“I noticed the blood on your groom’s cloak. He could not have avoided wearing it by the time he reached us or else he would have been half frozen. He even joked as he spoke of bearing the body on his mount and how he would have not have offered had he known the mess it would have made. I thought that it was black humour. I see it often on the occasion of sudden death but now I wonder if it was covering his tracks. Certainly his disappearance speaks more of guilt than misfortune.”
3.2.10
A Man Lay Dead in winter part 7
The rest of the parts can be found via this page.
“Yesterday morning, when I went to fetch Hugon, Kenwyn was not in the stables. He appeared soon after and said he had been out for a ride to visit his kin. He had some cloth for them and I had given him permission to take it, although I had assumed he had returned the night before.”
“That’s what he told us when we found the body. Do you believe he had been gone the night?”
“I do not know. I meant to ask him but then you appeared, all flustered because you had lost your bridle and we had to find it.” Horace smiled in fond remembrance of how flustered his friend had been and what a joy it was to prove that the idiot’s bridle was just where he had left it, despite his protestations of checking there. “It didn’t seem so important then to establish what he had been up to. Many a young man pays a call which involves his staying away the night and is loathe to admit it.”
“You think he had been courting his cousin; it would make sense. He always speaks of his kin with great affection. But this alone would not unsettle your mind. Tell me the rest.”
“Last night I thought long and hard on all that Kenwyn said and did that morning and when we set off to hunt. He had seemed agitated when we were saddling up. Would you agree?”
“Perhaps. I was in too much agitation myself over that lost bridle and then embarrassed at my own stupidity, although I have an excuse for it, to have noticed much.” Johannes considered, in his mind’s eye putting himself back a day and picturing the scene. Normally Horace was the one who noticed details, recalling a place and the contents thereof with pinpoint accuracy, and Johannes who fixed on the feelings of the people involved, the quivering in the air and a hundred small signs which indicated emotion. “I did notice that his mood changed during the day. When we were chasing the hind down by the stand of beeches he went off into the coppice to try to get around behind her and we lost track of him. When you wound your horn for him to return he seemed…” Johannes strove for the right word to portray the mixture of elation and passion that Kenwyn had displayed, “… what you might call fey. I thought it was merely the thrill of the chase—it always makes you flushed and excited—but now I wonder if there was more to it. His face reminded me…” He stopped, hesitant. What he wanted to say would take them into deep waters.
“Reminded you of what? Johannes, I rely on your observation without question. You are always the one who spots the hawk on the rise or the boar in the undergrowth. I need to know what you saw.”
“His face bore the expression I have seen many a time on the battlefield. Elation after the kill.” Johannes clasped his lover’s hand to his bosom, trying to impart some calm, some sense. “That’s what you dreaded me saying, yet still expected, isn’t it? You believe that Kenwyn killed Arthur and has been covering his tracks ever since.”
“It is very much what I feared, although I have little true evidence for it, just a feeling.”
“I cannot believe that. You are much too sensible a man to be swayed by feelings alone. There must have been more, to make you forge such a chain of reasoning in which to bind a felon.”
“The water is ready. Let us feed the horses then I will tell you what I have thought of.”
Johannes nodded his agreement and they didn’t speak of the dead man again until their own breakfast was almost prepared. “I have had a notion too, as we fed Hugon and Carwyn. But it can wait to see whether it compliments or contradicts yours.”
Horace took a deep breath and began. He had analysed the entire proceedings of the day before and couldn’t help but find that Kenwyn’s attitude had been out of the ordinary. He knew, from the man’s own admission, that he had excellent knowledge of the woods and the tracks over the beacon, more so than any stranger could have had. And they had seen no strangers, not one, while they had hunted and enjoyed riding in the crisp winter air. None of this was more than circumstantial, of course, “but for a copy of Arthur’s seal to be here seems more than coincidence. And I wondered whether it had been made so that the old man who lives here would know if he came across Arthur. So that he could recognise him if he met him.”
“For what purpose?” Johannes sought to tease the theory from his friend, piece by piece.
“Revenge. I wondered further—you must remember this is all speculation—whether Arthur had been up to his old tricks and had taken advantage in some way of Kenwyn’s cousin, his affianced girl. Maybe she gave her grandfather a drawing she or a friend had made of the man’s seal. And if Kenwyn had visited the old man he’d have been shown it, and would have recognised it too, I’ll warrant, with his family’s history of service on our lands.”
“And you think he met Arthur when we were out here yesterday? By chance?”
“I know that chance works out strangely enough. I have seen the most extraordinary coincidences, ones which would truly defy belief but had been none the less pure chance. But this I think was more a matter of design; Kenwyn went to see his young lady two days ago and I am speculating she told him that Arthur was hanging around again making a nuisance of himself. He knew that we were to be coming out hunting—it was his suggestion we rode up to these woods, was it not?—and arranged to meet his enemy somewhere along the ride. Or perhaps at this very cottage.”
“In which case they encountered each other early and came to blows. Perhaps it was even Kenwyn’s hunting knife which did the deed.”
“Yesterday morning, when I went to fetch Hugon, Kenwyn was not in the stables. He appeared soon after and said he had been out for a ride to visit his kin. He had some cloth for them and I had given him permission to take it, although I had assumed he had returned the night before.”
“That’s what he told us when we found the body. Do you believe he had been gone the night?”
“I do not know. I meant to ask him but then you appeared, all flustered because you had lost your bridle and we had to find it.” Horace smiled in fond remembrance of how flustered his friend had been and what a joy it was to prove that the idiot’s bridle was just where he had left it, despite his protestations of checking there. “It didn’t seem so important then to establish what he had been up to. Many a young man pays a call which involves his staying away the night and is loathe to admit it.”
“You think he had been courting his cousin; it would make sense. He always speaks of his kin with great affection. But this alone would not unsettle your mind. Tell me the rest.”
“Last night I thought long and hard on all that Kenwyn said and did that morning and when we set off to hunt. He had seemed agitated when we were saddling up. Would you agree?”
“Perhaps. I was in too much agitation myself over that lost bridle and then embarrassed at my own stupidity, although I have an excuse for it, to have noticed much.” Johannes considered, in his mind’s eye putting himself back a day and picturing the scene. Normally Horace was the one who noticed details, recalling a place and the contents thereof with pinpoint accuracy, and Johannes who fixed on the feelings of the people involved, the quivering in the air and a hundred small signs which indicated emotion. “I did notice that his mood changed during the day. When we were chasing the hind down by the stand of beeches he went off into the coppice to try to get around behind her and we lost track of him. When you wound your horn for him to return he seemed…” Johannes strove for the right word to portray the mixture of elation and passion that Kenwyn had displayed, “… what you might call fey. I thought it was merely the thrill of the chase—it always makes you flushed and excited—but now I wonder if there was more to it. His face reminded me…” He stopped, hesitant. What he wanted to say would take them into deep waters.
“Reminded you of what? Johannes, I rely on your observation without question. You are always the one who spots the hawk on the rise or the boar in the undergrowth. I need to know what you saw.”
“His face bore the expression I have seen many a time on the battlefield. Elation after the kill.” Johannes clasped his lover’s hand to his bosom, trying to impart some calm, some sense. “That’s what you dreaded me saying, yet still expected, isn’t it? You believe that Kenwyn killed Arthur and has been covering his tracks ever since.”
“It is very much what I feared, although I have little true evidence for it, just a feeling.”
“I cannot believe that. You are much too sensible a man to be swayed by feelings alone. There must have been more, to make you forge such a chain of reasoning in which to bind a felon.”
“The water is ready. Let us feed the horses then I will tell you what I have thought of.”
Johannes nodded his agreement and they didn’t speak of the dead man again until their own breakfast was almost prepared. “I have had a notion too, as we fed Hugon and Carwyn. But it can wait to see whether it compliments or contradicts yours.”
Horace took a deep breath and began. He had analysed the entire proceedings of the day before and couldn’t help but find that Kenwyn’s attitude had been out of the ordinary. He knew, from the man’s own admission, that he had excellent knowledge of the woods and the tracks over the beacon, more so than any stranger could have had. And they had seen no strangers, not one, while they had hunted and enjoyed riding in the crisp winter air. None of this was more than circumstantial, of course, “but for a copy of Arthur’s seal to be here seems more than coincidence. And I wondered whether it had been made so that the old man who lives here would know if he came across Arthur. So that he could recognise him if he met him.”
“For what purpose?” Johannes sought to tease the theory from his friend, piece by piece.
“Revenge. I wondered further—you must remember this is all speculation—whether Arthur had been up to his old tricks and had taken advantage in some way of Kenwyn’s cousin, his affianced girl. Maybe she gave her grandfather a drawing she or a friend had made of the man’s seal. And if Kenwyn had visited the old man he’d have been shown it, and would have recognised it too, I’ll warrant, with his family’s history of service on our lands.”
“And you think he met Arthur when we were out here yesterday? By chance?”
“I know that chance works out strangely enough. I have seen the most extraordinary coincidences, ones which would truly defy belief but had been none the less pure chance. But this I think was more a matter of design; Kenwyn went to see his young lady two days ago and I am speculating she told him that Arthur was hanging around again making a nuisance of himself. He knew that we were to be coming out hunting—it was his suggestion we rode up to these woods, was it not?—and arranged to meet his enemy somewhere along the ride. Or perhaps at this very cottage.”
“In which case they encountered each other early and came to blows. Perhaps it was even Kenwyn’s hunting knife which did the deed.”
27.1.10
A Man Lay Dead in Winter part 6
The other parts can be found via this page.
“Extraordinary. What can it mean?”
“That the man who lives here, Kenwyn’s kin, had some reason to need to know what that seal looked like. I can’t believe he kept it for decoration. Could he have some connection to the dead man’s family?”
“I do not know. Was there anything else that you sniffed out?”
Johannes shook his head. “Nothing out of the everyday. But I have thought on that picture long and hard. I wondered why I would need a copy of someone’s seal and decided it could only be to recognise the man, if I had not met him before. Or to see that his mark was genuine when witnessing the sealing of a document or the certifying of someone’s identity. I can’t imagine that Kenwyn’s cousin’s grandfather would have much occasion for being a witness, so I guess he was given this so that he would know Arthur if he met him. In which case, why?”
“There may be some simpler explanation. Perhaps he took a fancy to the pattern and wished to have a copy?”
“Perhaps. Let us be charitable and assume that is just the working out of coincidence, but I have a feeling in my bones that there is a connection to what happened today, and it unsettles me.” Johannes moved closer to his lover; the fire had been kept well banked up but he sought for comfort, not just warmth. “How well do you know Kenwyn? He had not been with you long before we met, I believe.”
“Aye. His family are simple decent folk. His father served mine and it was long agreed that the son might follow suit once he had returned from Gloucester. He spent some time with Hywel’s men and could have had a place there in the guardhouse but he prefers the country to the city. Cleaner and more honest, he says. Perhaps this violent death will make him realise that there can be evil anywhere.”
“Has he ever spoken of Arthur or his father? Were you ever aware of a special connection between the two families?”
“Not that I know of, except that all families locally seem to know each other in the common run of things. Kenwyn has been a good groom. He is reliable and fiercely loyal and cares very much for his people. He did mention how fond he was of his cousin —I suppose it is the same one that the man who lives here has been visiting, as I believe Kenwyn said she was the only girl among a half dozen boys in the family.”
“How fond is fond, Horace? The fondness for someone he might regard almost as a sister or more than that? The fondness we share?”
“Perhaps the latter. I recall he was asking about what would happen should he take a wife, whether he could stay in my service. I was more than happy to agree to the proposition as he has been a very good servant to me and I would be loathe to lose him.”
“That seems fair. I know that many a man with a household to serve him might elect to have bachelors only, but it seems unfair to expect one’s men to be celibate when the master…” Johannes’s words petered out into a smile, a kiss, and then a great yawn. “I must sleep Horace. A great tiredness has come upon me and it can’t be fought off as easily as you can when you feel amorous and I am too weary. Exercise your mind on this mystery as I sleep and we might have something to give Hywel in the morning, or whenever this snow lets him come here, apart from just a dead body.”
Johannes laid his head on the makeshift pillow, declining the opportunity to use his lover’s legs for the same purpose. It would be unfair to deprive the man of part of the cover, which is what would be entailed if they moved into such a position, and anyway those particular limbs were not a little bony and needed a good feeding up before they would make an ample cushion. Horace’s chest would have been another matter, but it would not answer in these circumstances.
~~~
When Johannes woke his face was warm, indicative of the fire still burning steadily in the hearth, but his back was cold, which meant that Horace had gone off about his business or whatever he thought his business might be this morning. As if Johannes’s thinking of him had brought forth the man, the door opened and Horace entered, carrying a load of wood.
“Good morning. Is the world smothered in its winter blanket?”
“It’s not so bad. The snow lies as thick as the breadth of my hand in places but it should be passable assuming they have not suffered worse in the valley. We should see Hywel before noon unless even more urgent business calls on him.”
“And the horses?”
“Cold and hungry but surprisingly happy considering that they did not pass the night as comfortably as we did. I found some apples and even some bran in the store. This man is well looked after, Johannes, and we must replenish all his supplies twice over. And add a flask of wine or two.” Horace smiled, something that he’d become accustomed to doing more often since his lover had entered his life the previous year. It had been the most fortuitous of circumstances and at times Horace was inappropriately grateful for the harsh times his friend had spent abroad as they’d brought him to Pain’s Wyke and to his manor.
“Shall we make a warm mash for the beasts? Your Hugon is always fond of one or so Kenwyn says.”
“Ah, Kenwyn.” Horace said no more, turning to the store and filling a bucket with bran.
Johannes considered for a moment. He knew this man extremely well and could recognise when something was exercising his mind. He also knew better than to enquire of it until he knew that Horace was ready to share all his thoughts. “I’ll get some water warming, then. Old crusaders know that it’s best to look after your horse before yourself; our bacon can wait.” He watched the pot carefully onto the hearth—no-one with any sense handled such an operation without care, risking as it did the pot tipping and the flames being put out. As it was settled safely, he felt strong arms around him and Horace’s face nuzzling into his neck. “What ails thee?” He reached his arms up to encircle his lover’s head in a halo of affection.
“I’ve been thinking all this last watch and I do not like that thoughts I have forming in my mind.”
“Will you tell me them while we wait for the pot to boil?” Johannes turned, took his friend by the hand and sat them down with the fur cloaks over their shoulders. The morning hadn’t yet shaken off night’s cold embrace and it seemed unlikely that the day should ever have any warmth in it.
“Extraordinary. What can it mean?”
“That the man who lives here, Kenwyn’s kin, had some reason to need to know what that seal looked like. I can’t believe he kept it for decoration. Could he have some connection to the dead man’s family?”
“I do not know. Was there anything else that you sniffed out?”
Johannes shook his head. “Nothing out of the everyday. But I have thought on that picture long and hard. I wondered why I would need a copy of someone’s seal and decided it could only be to recognise the man, if I had not met him before. Or to see that his mark was genuine when witnessing the sealing of a document or the certifying of someone’s identity. I can’t imagine that Kenwyn’s cousin’s grandfather would have much occasion for being a witness, so I guess he was given this so that he would know Arthur if he met him. In which case, why?”
“There may be some simpler explanation. Perhaps he took a fancy to the pattern and wished to have a copy?”
“Perhaps. Let us be charitable and assume that is just the working out of coincidence, but I have a feeling in my bones that there is a connection to what happened today, and it unsettles me.” Johannes moved closer to his lover; the fire had been kept well banked up but he sought for comfort, not just warmth. “How well do you know Kenwyn? He had not been with you long before we met, I believe.”
“Aye. His family are simple decent folk. His father served mine and it was long agreed that the son might follow suit once he had returned from Gloucester. He spent some time with Hywel’s men and could have had a place there in the guardhouse but he prefers the country to the city. Cleaner and more honest, he says. Perhaps this violent death will make him realise that there can be evil anywhere.”
“Has he ever spoken of Arthur or his father? Were you ever aware of a special connection between the two families?”
“Not that I know of, except that all families locally seem to know each other in the common run of things. Kenwyn has been a good groom. He is reliable and fiercely loyal and cares very much for his people. He did mention how fond he was of his cousin —I suppose it is the same one that the man who lives here has been visiting, as I believe Kenwyn said she was the only girl among a half dozen boys in the family.”
“How fond is fond, Horace? The fondness for someone he might regard almost as a sister or more than that? The fondness we share?”
“Perhaps the latter. I recall he was asking about what would happen should he take a wife, whether he could stay in my service. I was more than happy to agree to the proposition as he has been a very good servant to me and I would be loathe to lose him.”
“That seems fair. I know that many a man with a household to serve him might elect to have bachelors only, but it seems unfair to expect one’s men to be celibate when the master…” Johannes’s words petered out into a smile, a kiss, and then a great yawn. “I must sleep Horace. A great tiredness has come upon me and it can’t be fought off as easily as you can when you feel amorous and I am too weary. Exercise your mind on this mystery as I sleep and we might have something to give Hywel in the morning, or whenever this snow lets him come here, apart from just a dead body.”
Johannes laid his head on the makeshift pillow, declining the opportunity to use his lover’s legs for the same purpose. It would be unfair to deprive the man of part of the cover, which is what would be entailed if they moved into such a position, and anyway those particular limbs were not a little bony and needed a good feeding up before they would make an ample cushion. Horace’s chest would have been another matter, but it would not answer in these circumstances.
~~~
When Johannes woke his face was warm, indicative of the fire still burning steadily in the hearth, but his back was cold, which meant that Horace had gone off about his business or whatever he thought his business might be this morning. As if Johannes’s thinking of him had brought forth the man, the door opened and Horace entered, carrying a load of wood.
“Good morning. Is the world smothered in its winter blanket?”
“It’s not so bad. The snow lies as thick as the breadth of my hand in places but it should be passable assuming they have not suffered worse in the valley. We should see Hywel before noon unless even more urgent business calls on him.”
“And the horses?”
“Cold and hungry but surprisingly happy considering that they did not pass the night as comfortably as we did. I found some apples and even some bran in the store. This man is well looked after, Johannes, and we must replenish all his supplies twice over. And add a flask of wine or two.” Horace smiled, something that he’d become accustomed to doing more often since his lover had entered his life the previous year. It had been the most fortuitous of circumstances and at times Horace was inappropriately grateful for the harsh times his friend had spent abroad as they’d brought him to Pain’s Wyke and to his manor.
“Shall we make a warm mash for the beasts? Your Hugon is always fond of one or so Kenwyn says.”
“Ah, Kenwyn.” Horace said no more, turning to the store and filling a bucket with bran.
Johannes considered for a moment. He knew this man extremely well and could recognise when something was exercising his mind. He also knew better than to enquire of it until he knew that Horace was ready to share all his thoughts. “I’ll get some water warming, then. Old crusaders know that it’s best to look after your horse before yourself; our bacon can wait.” He watched the pot carefully onto the hearth—no-one with any sense handled such an operation without care, risking as it did the pot tipping and the flames being put out. As it was settled safely, he felt strong arms around him and Horace’s face nuzzling into his neck. “What ails thee?” He reached his arms up to encircle his lover’s head in a halo of affection.
“I’ve been thinking all this last watch and I do not like that thoughts I have forming in my mind.”
“Will you tell me them while we wait for the pot to boil?” Johannes turned, took his friend by the hand and sat them down with the fur cloaks over their shoulders. The morning hadn’t yet shaken off night’s cold embrace and it seemed unlikely that the day should ever have any warmth in it.
13.1.10
A Man Lay Dead in Winter part 4
The other parts can be found linked from this page.
As the fire drew and the edge was taken off the air they were able to assess what comforts they could find. There was a narrow pallet for a bed, with a thin mattress, but there was a good quality woollen cover which could give protection to them both and they were warmly dressed anyway, fur cloaks and furlined boots being the order of the day. By the time the meat had cooked, flakes the size of horse chestnuts were falling and Horace has moved the horses into a little stand of trees where he hoped they might not succumb to the cold. Two old rugs that had been on the cottage floor now graced the beasts’ backs as a guard against the weather. He returned to find a supper laid for him on rough wooden trenchers, the wine poured into a single horn cup.
“We’ll have to share, Horace. Perhaps the cottager has taken his finest golden tableware with him to grace his kin’s table while they welcome the Christ child afresh.” Johannes smiled kindly. He knew that the finery he enjoyed at Horace’s manor was far beyond the reach of most of the people he walked this life with.
“If it snows like this all night we’ll have been so grateful for the shelter that I’ll send him a pair of the finest goblets I can rustle up. Truly, dead man or no, I do not think we would have necessarily made our way safely back home before the weather set in. It’s coming from the south and I hope that Kenwyn can ride before it.”
“Then please God he makes it to Hywel safely and is given bed for the night. Perhaps we might see a thaw in the morning and they can reach us then. If not, we will have to make do. And our friend out there won’t be any the worse off for the cold.”
“Who was he, Johannes? We have his scrip safe here, is there any sign in it of his identity?”
Johannes laid the contents on the floor. There was a little money, the man’s seal and some personal items. “He must have had a horse, and it’s either been taken or fled. He would have his other things in his saddle bags, assuming he was en route somewhere. He might be local, but I can’t place him. I assume his face was not familiar to you?”
Horace shook his head. He picked up the seal and considered it. “This I have seen, though. It belonged to James, a friend of my father’s. He died not long after my own sire, both of them victim to the fever that ravaged us some ten years back. This man must be James’ son to have inherited the insignia.”
“What do you recall of him?”
“Very little. We must have met as boys but I have no lasting impression. All I know is that my father always spoke of Arthur with disapproval in his voice.”
“You were fond of your father, weren’t you? I suspect he never spoke of you with such dissatisfaction.” Johannes reached over and took his friend’s hand.
“He was very proud of me; it broke my heart when he died. He had acted as both father and mother to me since not long after I was born.” Horace was touched with emotion as he remembered with great affection the happy days of his youth. “And above all he valued fealty and steadfast love. James’ son had been flighty, had got a girl into trouble and while the family looked after her well enough, my father could not find it in his heart to trust the man again. He was not welcome in our house like his father was. I believe that he has been living in Wales, as his mother had property there. Wherever he has been he has only recently returned as far as I know; I wonder if he has changed his ways.”
“Perhaps his sins caught up with him, Horace.”
“You believe that he was struck down by God?”
“More likely human vengeance, rather than divine. Some brother or father of a girl he ruined.” Johannes snuggled closer to his friend and they shared another cup of wine. “I shall never understand you, Horace, not if we live to be seventy and spend every moment of the day together. You do not believe in God and yet you think he might have killed this man for his transgressions.”
Horace had to admit the truth of the accusation; he turned the discussion back on his friend. “And you, who say you believe, see only a God of mercy and love. How can you after those years you spent in the East?”
“Because I have met him once or twice on that battlefield. He was there every time a dying man was given succour, especially when it was his enemy who provided the comfort. Men are capable of great evil and great good and I am sure the latter comes from some part within them that connects with a higher power. Oh, I am no orator, Horace, I can’t explain. I just know.”
Horace gently kissed his lover’s brow. “You accept as true that there was a child born in a stable who changed the world?”
“I do, my heart. It’s the fact of the stable that makes me believe even more. If it were all a tale he’d have had a more notable birth. And the fact that he fought with swords of love and shields of charity and in the end he gave up his own life for other people. I think it’s that part you find so hard to understand, isn’t it?”
As the fire drew and the edge was taken off the air they were able to assess what comforts they could find. There was a narrow pallet for a bed, with a thin mattress, but there was a good quality woollen cover which could give protection to them both and they were warmly dressed anyway, fur cloaks and furlined boots being the order of the day. By the time the meat had cooked, flakes the size of horse chestnuts were falling and Horace has moved the horses into a little stand of trees where he hoped they might not succumb to the cold. Two old rugs that had been on the cottage floor now graced the beasts’ backs as a guard against the weather. He returned to find a supper laid for him on rough wooden trenchers, the wine poured into a single horn cup.
“We’ll have to share, Horace. Perhaps the cottager has taken his finest golden tableware with him to grace his kin’s table while they welcome the Christ child afresh.” Johannes smiled kindly. He knew that the finery he enjoyed at Horace’s manor was far beyond the reach of most of the people he walked this life with.
“If it snows like this all night we’ll have been so grateful for the shelter that I’ll send him a pair of the finest goblets I can rustle up. Truly, dead man or no, I do not think we would have necessarily made our way safely back home before the weather set in. It’s coming from the south and I hope that Kenwyn can ride before it.”
“Then please God he makes it to Hywel safely and is given bed for the night. Perhaps we might see a thaw in the morning and they can reach us then. If not, we will have to make do. And our friend out there won’t be any the worse off for the cold.”
“Who was he, Johannes? We have his scrip safe here, is there any sign in it of his identity?”
Johannes laid the contents on the floor. There was a little money, the man’s seal and some personal items. “He must have had a horse, and it’s either been taken or fled. He would have his other things in his saddle bags, assuming he was en route somewhere. He might be local, but I can’t place him. I assume his face was not familiar to you?”
Horace shook his head. He picked up the seal and considered it. “This I have seen, though. It belonged to James, a friend of my father’s. He died not long after my own sire, both of them victim to the fever that ravaged us some ten years back. This man must be James’ son to have inherited the insignia.”
“What do you recall of him?”
“Very little. We must have met as boys but I have no lasting impression. All I know is that my father always spoke of Arthur with disapproval in his voice.”
“You were fond of your father, weren’t you? I suspect he never spoke of you with such dissatisfaction.” Johannes reached over and took his friend’s hand.
“He was very proud of me; it broke my heart when he died. He had acted as both father and mother to me since not long after I was born.” Horace was touched with emotion as he remembered with great affection the happy days of his youth. “And above all he valued fealty and steadfast love. James’ son had been flighty, had got a girl into trouble and while the family looked after her well enough, my father could not find it in his heart to trust the man again. He was not welcome in our house like his father was. I believe that he has been living in Wales, as his mother had property there. Wherever he has been he has only recently returned as far as I know; I wonder if he has changed his ways.”
“Perhaps his sins caught up with him, Horace.”
“You believe that he was struck down by God?”
“More likely human vengeance, rather than divine. Some brother or father of a girl he ruined.” Johannes snuggled closer to his friend and they shared another cup of wine. “I shall never understand you, Horace, not if we live to be seventy and spend every moment of the day together. You do not believe in God and yet you think he might have killed this man for his transgressions.”
Horace had to admit the truth of the accusation; he turned the discussion back on his friend. “And you, who say you believe, see only a God of mercy and love. How can you after those years you spent in the East?”
“Because I have met him once or twice on that battlefield. He was there every time a dying man was given succour, especially when it was his enemy who provided the comfort. Men are capable of great evil and great good and I am sure the latter comes from some part within them that connects with a higher power. Oh, I am no orator, Horace, I can’t explain. I just know.”
Horace gently kissed his lover’s brow. “You accept as true that there was a child born in a stable who changed the world?”
“I do, my heart. It’s the fact of the stable that makes me believe even more. If it were all a tale he’d have had a more notable birth. And the fact that he fought with swords of love and shields of charity and in the end he gave up his own life for other people. I think it’s that part you find so hard to understand, isn’t it?”
6.1.10
A Man Lay Dead in Winter Part 3
The other parts can be found via this page.
The first indication that something was amiss was the shying of Johannes’ horse. Horace was far too concerned with his friend’s wellbeing to notice anything else, until he was sure that the man had his mount back under control and was in no danger. Once that was established, they were both able to turn their attention to what had caused the horse such distress and what was making his own gelding uneasy; a dead body, stabbed and bloody, in the middle of the ride which cut through the woods that covered the hill where the old earthworks were.
Johannes was out of his saddle in an instant. He had seen plenty of men hurt and killed on the crusade and they held no terrors for him. He soon recognised from the quantity of blood that the wound had gone straight to the heart or one of the great vessels near it. The victim’s clothes bore great patches of gore, the smell of which was causing the horses still to squirm and be troubled.
“Lead them away, Horace, upwind if you can. There is no more we can do for this poor soul.” Johannes carefully considered the body as his friend found somewhere to tether the mounts. It was a well-dressed young man, his scrip still at his waist and no evidence that his death had been part of a robbery, nor that there had been much of a struggle.
“We should raise the hue and cry. The Sherriff must be told.” Horace had returned and was staring at the body, his face almost as pale as that of the corpse. “If there are bands of cutthroats at work here…”
“If this were the work of robbers then the body would have been stripped. There’s no sign that such a thing was even started. Look at his clothes, Horace, this is good quality cloth and fur, and his scrip is still on him. Call for Kenwyn and send him for help. We should stay here and make sure that no-one comes upon the body by chance and cheats his family of what is due to them.”
“No man would rob a corpse, surely?”
“Men will do many a thing that you could not believe.”
Horace shook his head and wound his horn. Within a few minutes his groom rode along the path and found them. “My lord?” Kenwyn’s face was a picture of concern at having been called for, and then distress at seeing the body. “What happened?”
“We found this man, already beyond our aid. I would have you ride to Gloucester and fetch the Sheriff, Dinmont, or his deputy. There’s been murder done here.”
Kenwyn considered the sky; it had been darkening this last hour and now was grey and leaden. “I will, my lord, but I do not like the look of those clouds. There’s snow coming later or sooner. At the least it might delay my return, at worst it could make you cut off here. You must find shelter.”
“He’s right, Horace. We can’t stay out here with a dead body, it would be far too cold even if it doesn’t come on to snow. Hywel Dinmont will come here only to find three corpses.” Johannes smiled thoughtfully.
“There is a cot nearby—the grandfather of one of my cousins lives there, just off the main path through the forest.” Kenwyn pointed along the ride.
“Will he mind providing us with hospitality?” Horace was used to providing accommodation for others, but he had ample means. He wouldn’t wish to impose on a cottager so close to Christmas, at a time when food and fuel were often short, even if he could recompense the man handsomely afterwards.
“He is well provided for, my lord. We are a close family who always see to our own, whatever the need. And he is not at home at present. As I rode out to visit my cousin and her mother yesterday he was there, staying a day or two en route to spending the Holy days with his other daughter. He would not begrudge the use of his roof and hearth to someone in need; you could be warm there and keep this poor soul out of the way of the wild beasts.”
Horace shared an exchange of looks with his friend and an unspoken message of agreement passed between them. “Kenwyn, will you show us where this place is? There may be a pallet there we could transport the body on, behind one of the horses. If not, we will have to take it on the back of the gelding. He might be less bothered, especially if he has not far to bear such an unpleasant burden.”
“It can only be a matter of some hundred yards or so, my lord, I know the place well. I am glad now that I suggested we come up here to hunt. Although the sport has been poor, at least we have the satisfaction of helping our fellow man. Load him up on my mare, she is very placid and will go wherever I lead her, bearing whatever burden is required of her. She has a steady temperament and a dead man would not trouble her.”
It seemed a sensible solution all round, especially as the wind had begun to rise and the nip in the air grew sharper. When they reached the little clearing and saw the cottage, small but very sound, they were pleased to be able to find such suitable shelter. Horace tried to dissuade Kenwyn from going straight for the Sherriff—he was sure he had felt the first flake on his face as they had slowly paced along the ride and didn’t want his servant to be at risk. “Or let me go instead. Hugon is much more fleet of foot than your Cerys. She may be excellent at dealing with the smell of blood and death but she would not win a race.”
“I am happy to go, sir. You forget that I was brought up on these hills. I know all the short cuts and the best way to go when the weather draws in. There is much less danger in my going.” Kenwyn leapt onto his mare and turned her head, as if his decisiveness settled things. “I will see you as soon as the weather permits.”
Horace shouted at the rider’s back, to tell him to remember to put his cloak on against the bitter air, but Fitzrichard didn’t waste time watching the man depart. They had to get a fire started in the hearth—there seemed to be plenty of wood in a long, covered box—and they needed to find a place to put the corpse. Johannes may have had plenty of experience of the horrors of war but even he balked at sharing the cottage with a dead man. The wood store gave them the solution. The body could be placed there safe out of the way of beasts and if anyone tried to disturb it—Johannes had a niggling worry at the back of his mind about the murderer returning—then they would hear the person concerned and be able to defend themselves. The corpse was already beginning to stiffen and he was pleased they’d lain it out straight again after moving it from the horse, so there would be no undue unpleasantness.
Once they had performed their grisly deed Horace set about lighting the fire while his friend tethered their mounts out of the wind and assessed the likely provisions. There was a small well from which he was able to draw wholesome water, enabling him to fill a small bucket for the horses and two ewers for themselves. There was a little winter grass along the edges of the vegetable plot lying behind the cottage and he was happy for the animals to graze there. If it came on to snow they would have to find the beasts a little shelter among the trees.
The men had carried a flask of wine and some bread with them, the soldier’s natural provision against the possibility of hunger en route. Johannes found some salted meat in the household stores, probably the remains of the last season’s pig, which they might be able to broil over the flames. All in all they were not so badly off. Plenty of people would sup less well this night and many would have less pleasant company. For a man to have his lover at his side, who could reasonably ask for more?
The first indication that something was amiss was the shying of Johannes’ horse. Horace was far too concerned with his friend’s wellbeing to notice anything else, until he was sure that the man had his mount back under control and was in no danger. Once that was established, they were both able to turn their attention to what had caused the horse such distress and what was making his own gelding uneasy; a dead body, stabbed and bloody, in the middle of the ride which cut through the woods that covered the hill where the old earthworks were.
Johannes was out of his saddle in an instant. He had seen plenty of men hurt and killed on the crusade and they held no terrors for him. He soon recognised from the quantity of blood that the wound had gone straight to the heart or one of the great vessels near it. The victim’s clothes bore great patches of gore, the smell of which was causing the horses still to squirm and be troubled.
“Lead them away, Horace, upwind if you can. There is no more we can do for this poor soul.” Johannes carefully considered the body as his friend found somewhere to tether the mounts. It was a well-dressed young man, his scrip still at his waist and no evidence that his death had been part of a robbery, nor that there had been much of a struggle.
“We should raise the hue and cry. The Sherriff must be told.” Horace had returned and was staring at the body, his face almost as pale as that of the corpse. “If there are bands of cutthroats at work here…”
“If this were the work of robbers then the body would have been stripped. There’s no sign that such a thing was even started. Look at his clothes, Horace, this is good quality cloth and fur, and his scrip is still on him. Call for Kenwyn and send him for help. We should stay here and make sure that no-one comes upon the body by chance and cheats his family of what is due to them.”
“No man would rob a corpse, surely?”
“Men will do many a thing that you could not believe.”
Horace shook his head and wound his horn. Within a few minutes his groom rode along the path and found them. “My lord?” Kenwyn’s face was a picture of concern at having been called for, and then distress at seeing the body. “What happened?”
“We found this man, already beyond our aid. I would have you ride to Gloucester and fetch the Sheriff, Dinmont, or his deputy. There’s been murder done here.”
Kenwyn considered the sky; it had been darkening this last hour and now was grey and leaden. “I will, my lord, but I do not like the look of those clouds. There’s snow coming later or sooner. At the least it might delay my return, at worst it could make you cut off here. You must find shelter.”
“He’s right, Horace. We can’t stay out here with a dead body, it would be far too cold even if it doesn’t come on to snow. Hywel Dinmont will come here only to find three corpses.” Johannes smiled thoughtfully.
“There is a cot nearby—the grandfather of one of my cousins lives there, just off the main path through the forest.” Kenwyn pointed along the ride.
“Will he mind providing us with hospitality?” Horace was used to providing accommodation for others, but he had ample means. He wouldn’t wish to impose on a cottager so close to Christmas, at a time when food and fuel were often short, even if he could recompense the man handsomely afterwards.
“He is well provided for, my lord. We are a close family who always see to our own, whatever the need. And he is not at home at present. As I rode out to visit my cousin and her mother yesterday he was there, staying a day or two en route to spending the Holy days with his other daughter. He would not begrudge the use of his roof and hearth to someone in need; you could be warm there and keep this poor soul out of the way of the wild beasts.”
Horace shared an exchange of looks with his friend and an unspoken message of agreement passed between them. “Kenwyn, will you show us where this place is? There may be a pallet there we could transport the body on, behind one of the horses. If not, we will have to take it on the back of the gelding. He might be less bothered, especially if he has not far to bear such an unpleasant burden.”
“It can only be a matter of some hundred yards or so, my lord, I know the place well. I am glad now that I suggested we come up here to hunt. Although the sport has been poor, at least we have the satisfaction of helping our fellow man. Load him up on my mare, she is very placid and will go wherever I lead her, bearing whatever burden is required of her. She has a steady temperament and a dead man would not trouble her.”
It seemed a sensible solution all round, especially as the wind had begun to rise and the nip in the air grew sharper. When they reached the little clearing and saw the cottage, small but very sound, they were pleased to be able to find such suitable shelter. Horace tried to dissuade Kenwyn from going straight for the Sherriff—he was sure he had felt the first flake on his face as they had slowly paced along the ride and didn’t want his servant to be at risk. “Or let me go instead. Hugon is much more fleet of foot than your Cerys. She may be excellent at dealing with the smell of blood and death but she would not win a race.”
“I am happy to go, sir. You forget that I was brought up on these hills. I know all the short cuts and the best way to go when the weather draws in. There is much less danger in my going.” Kenwyn leapt onto his mare and turned her head, as if his decisiveness settled things. “I will see you as soon as the weather permits.”
Horace shouted at the rider’s back, to tell him to remember to put his cloak on against the bitter air, but Fitzrichard didn’t waste time watching the man depart. They had to get a fire started in the hearth—there seemed to be plenty of wood in a long, covered box—and they needed to find a place to put the corpse. Johannes may have had plenty of experience of the horrors of war but even he balked at sharing the cottage with a dead man. The wood store gave them the solution. The body could be placed there safe out of the way of beasts and if anyone tried to disturb it—Johannes had a niggling worry at the back of his mind about the murderer returning—then they would hear the person concerned and be able to defend themselves. The corpse was already beginning to stiffen and he was pleased they’d lain it out straight again after moving it from the horse, so there would be no undue unpleasantness.
Once they had performed their grisly deed Horace set about lighting the fire while his friend tethered their mounts out of the wind and assessed the likely provisions. There was a small well from which he was able to draw wholesome water, enabling him to fill a small bucket for the horses and two ewers for themselves. There was a little winter grass along the edges of the vegetable plot lying behind the cottage and he was happy for the animals to graze there. If it came on to snow they would have to find the beasts a little shelter among the trees.
The men had carried a flask of wine and some bread with them, the soldier’s natural provision against the possibility of hunger en route. Johannes found some salted meat in the household stores, probably the remains of the last season’s pig, which they might be able to broil over the flames. All in all they were not so badly off. Plenty of people would sup less well this night and many would have less pleasant company. For a man to have his lover at his side, who could reasonably ask for more?
4.1.10
Origination by R.E. Blakeslee
This is a 400 word excerpt from Origination by R.E. Blakeslee. You can find more information on Lillibridge Press at GLBT Bookshelf .Blurb
"Confidently we send the Seed with The Betylos encapsulated. He will be reborn on the blue planet and remind the men their women are cunning, lustful creatures. Let them embrace The Philosophy as we have..."
On a rainy night, naïve, eighteen-year-old Eran Aeggle flees his childhood home, stumbling across an extraordinary stone. He picks it up, and with a bright flash of light, he falls unconscious. When Eran wakes he is unable to explain what happened or why he's so fascinated by the peculiar rock. Did it cause the two tattoos of an unknown origin on his shoulders?
Buffalo, New York - 2075
As Eran's need to attend The Alluvium Institute and become a botanist matures, so does his attraction to Simon Duncan, a handsome artist. It seems as if fate has brought them together. However, life is not meant to be an ever-blooming garden... Will Eran nurture their growing love or let it wither from uncertainty? How can Eran accept the destiny aliens set out for him if he doesn't believe? Will he let his turbulent past drag him into darkness?
As wide-eyed citizens of the City of Light live unknowing, a sadomasochistic killer stalks the night. But there is hope - in the moonlight a reluctant hero soars on wings of mysterious illumination. If only Eran could find the courage to realize...
Prologue
Grant stood at the top of the steps, waiting. He glanced up at the suns, shielding his eyes from their brightness as his robe fluttered in the breeze. He didn’t want to be late. How long should he wait? He shifted his vision and noticed Herald striding up the steps. Finally, he had arrived. Grant hadn’t thought he would show and Herald’s eyes illustrated his apprehension. Yet…here he came. They had bonded when younger, but things played differently now. Herald was, after all, a Believer.
When Herald reached the top step he didn’t say hello. In fact, he said nothing at all. They turned, walking through the Corridors of Mahray.
“Are you going to say anything?” Grant thought as they entered, the door closing behind them.
“What do you want to hear?” Herald asked as they passed through the anteroom leading to the Council Chamber. Large, round windows let in the suns’ light, casting intense beams on the floor that were interrupted by their bodies passing through them again and again.
Grant could think of a lot of things to say, but finally thought, “You support us.”
“I don’t, but I’m here.” Herald stopped, turning to look at him. “Brother, is it not enough?”
Grant smiled at him. It was enough…enough for now. It soothed Sylva, their sister, too. The brothers walked on, but neither of them said another word as they came to the door leading to The Tone. Grant placed his hand on the handle and pulled.
“Wait!” Herald’s loud mental thought unnerved him.
Grant looked at his brother. Lines of frustration ran across Herald’s forehead as if he was older than his age. Grant hated seeing them and knowing they were because of him, but there was no other way. Everything in Grant’s being told him this most importantly. He didn’t know why, but he had always known he would do this: voice his thoughts to the Council of Twelve. Grant believed he could only tread this path. He must see where it led for his wife and for his sister, Sylva. Grant’s mind twisted with doubts…doubts about many things, including the validity of The Philosophy.
Grant couldn’t believe in something hindering his people. Besides, his mind would not let him trust those who were in power. Power distorted The Philosophy and its enforcers’ thoughts, which held a group of people down like the two women who meant most to him. The influence the Council of Twelve wielded kept those less knowledgeable in Darkness…Darkness confused for Light.
Copyright 2009 R.E. Blakeslee
From the novel Origination by R.E. Blakeslee, published by Lillibridge Press in paperback
26.12.09
From SCORPIO by Mel Keegan
Excerpted by NARC #3: Scorpio by Mel Keegan
Stone drained the coffee and passed the mug back to Paul Estevez with one hand, while the other plucked the white metal datacube out of the machine. “Four hours, Kevin. You want to take a look at Dupre’s file?”
“No,” Jarrat said darkly, but he knew they would look at it anyway, at least the overview. The whole document would unfold in a millrace of video and stats after they boarded the Persephone for the thirty-hour flight to Darwin’s. He stepped back to give Stone space. “Take care of yourself, Paul. Stay the hell out of Aurora, you and your better half.”
“Other half,” Estevez corrected glibly. “I’ll watch out for you in the newsvids. You guys always make headlines.”
The crew quarters were below and aft. Jarrat was silent as the lift went down, returning them to the small, cramped accommodations assigned to them for the training tour. They reminded him too strongly of the Army, and he gave the compartment a glare as he stepped inside. The door locked behind him, and a moment later he closed his eyes, smiled, as Stone’s arms slid around him. Stone’s chin rested on his shoulder, and Jarrat forcibly relaxed back into the bigger man’s embrace.
“Don’t let Jack Brogan get to you,” Stone advised. He feathered a kiss around Jarrat’s right ear. “He’s a sonofabitch, but he’s ... mostly harmless. Starfleet’s full of guys like him. The service is a great way for a kid from the burbs to rise very high and do it while he’s still young. Colonel by the age of thirty-five, if he’s any good. Take the rank back into civvy street, score a job that’ll put him in a penthouse on Darwin’s, or right back on Earth. Think about it, Kevin. Leave the gutters of Rio or Saigon or wherever, return to Earth as an executive. I don’t like Brogan, but you have to respect the man.”
“A social-climbing control freak, so you said.” Jarrat turned in Stone’s embrace, slid his arms around his partner’s waist and laced his fingers at Stone’s back. “What’s that make me?” “A survivor,” Stone said without hesitation. “The only thing Brogan ever had to survive before he got out onto the frontier was mediocrity.” He laid his lips on Jarrat’s, kissed him lightly and then frenched him. “Enough about Brogan. If I never saw his face again, I wouldn’t grieve. You, on the other hand ...”
With deft hands, he broke the seals and plucked open the skinsuit, a few microns of kevlex-titanium to hold pressure, lined with thermotex to hoard heat, laminated on the outer surfaces for radiation screening. Under normal cabin pressures the suits were soft as fabric, but much too hot. Jarrat’s skin was sweat-damp and he made hedonistic sounds as Stone stripped him to the structured jockstrap which safeguarded his balls when the G-forces soared. Stone’s eyes were hot on him, head to foot, and not at all mocking.
He heeled off the boots, kicked away the suit, and stepped into the shower stall. As the strap followed the boots he said, husky and not quite teasing, “Feel free to join me.”
“You trying to tell me I stink?” Stone quipped. The seals on his own suit rasped open.
“Not the word I’d have used.” Jarrat gave him a sultry look over his shoulder as he set the water, and watched Stone drop the suit. He was looking good. The ordeal at the hands of Death’s Head was only a bad memory now. Stone was tanned, supple, his muscles well-worked, the inner man at peace with himself. Blue eyes lingered over Jarrat, bone by bone, and with a deep breath Jarrat ‘opened’ himself to the strange pleasures of another’s sensations.
It was so familiar now, and welcome: the storm in the nerve endings, the surge of feeling which had once been confusing, distracting, even frightening. Jarrat’s half-closed eyes rested on the dark nest of Stone’s groin, and the thick root of him, rosy with growing excitement. They had been too cramped, kept too busy and under too much pressure since they came aboard to be intimate.
The stresses of another assignment were due to begin in a matter of hours, and Jarrat was keenly aware of Stone’s desire to make the most of what little time they could get. In these few hours, before the Persephone docked, they were technically on their own time. They had closure on the Oromon mission, they had officially been recalled from the training tour, yet the Aurora assignment was still no more than a file to view, data to digest.
“Take what you can get,” Stone said quietly as he stepped into the show- er stall. Two large bodies in the stall made for close quarters. His arms wound around Jarrat.
“They own us,” Jarrat growled. “I have a habit of forgetting.”
“Not for the next few hours,” Stone argued. “When we go aboard the courier on Dupre’s orders, we’re on his time. Till then ...”
“Take,” Jarrat echoed, “what you can get.”
And he twisted in the small space, slithering down Stone’s warm, wet body to rest his cheek against the flat plane of his Stone’s belly. Abs rippled, crisp hair tickled Jarrat’s ear and then his lips. He smiled as Stoney groaned, low and deep in his chest, and the flood of sensation rolled through both of them like warm honey. Jarrat’s lips parted. He breathed across Stone’s hard, risen shaft and took the gasp as a kudo. The flashfire of Stone’s excitement thrilled through him, bringing him so close to the edge, his teeth clenched and the breath fluttered in his throat.
“Kevin,” Stone groaned. “Damnit, Jarrat!”
It might have been a warning; it was the last coherent sound in the tiny cabin for some time.
Illustrated by Jade. See the new all-digital Jarrat and Stone here!
Deadly Slumber
The following is an excerpt from Deadly Slumber, # 4 in the Deadly Mystery series by Victor J. Banis
Stanley woke slowly. Even when his eyes fluttered reluctantly open, he was still in darkness, total darkness. He lay for a moment, trying to comprehend, blinking. No glimmer of light penetrated the enveloping blackness. He'd never seen a darkness so complete.
He tried to sit up, but he could raise his head only slightly before it banged against something solid above him. He could barely move at all, in fact.
His hands were folded across his chest. He put them out to his sides. Again, he could move them no more than an inch or two before his fingertips touched cushioned silk. He reached up, and felt silk there too.
At first, he could not understand. Or, would not. The reality of his situation was so horrible, his mind did not want to accept it. He lay unmoving, trying not to think, trying not to accept the truth of where he so obviously was.
Recognition would not stay away, however. He knew. Knew and did not want to accept the truth: He was in a coffin. His breath seemed to crowd into his throat. This couldn't be real. Surely it was only a nightmare, from which he would awaken any minute now.
"Wake up, Stanley," he told himself, actually mouthing the words aloud. "Wake up, damn you. Now."
Even as he said the words, however, he knew this was no figment of his dreams.
He lifted his shaking hands again, tried to shove the lid away, but it did not budge. Not just in a coffin, then—sealed in a coffin.
* * *
Calm, Stanley, calm, just stay calm.
He told himself this over and over again, until his breath returned to something approximating normal and his heart had stopped threatening to pound its way out of his chest.
He blinked into the darkness. His cell phone. If he could reach it…there was so little room in which to maneuver his hands—easier to lift them up than to move them at his sides. He pushed against the silk lining with his elbows, strained to bring his hands up to his pockets. His shoulders felt as if they were being dislocated by the effort. His elbows strained against the walls of the coffin.
At last, an eternity later, his fingers brushed the outline of the cell phone in his right pocket. Yes. There it was. Now if he could just get it out of the pocket. He pushed against it, working it upward, slowly upward with the tips of his fingers.
Finally, the phone slid out of the pocket. He tried to clasp it in his trembling finger tips but it slipped away and dropped to his side. He felt for it, straining his shoulders still further. Again his fingers brushed the sleek plastic surface of the phone. He fumbled, managing at last to get hold of it. He lifted it gingerly above him.
When he flipped the lid open, the light from its face blinded him after the complete darkness. He blinked, squinting, trying to adjust his eyes.
The battery was low. He cursed himself for not keeping it charged up, and hit the "contacts" button, praying that the power lasted.
* * *
"Stanley, where the hell are you?"
"I'm in a b-box, Tom, in a c-coffin."
"What?! Where?"
The phone slipped out of Stanley's fingers.
"Crap," he swore aloud. It bounced of his chest, slid down his side.
He fumbled again, wriggling about as best he could, all but wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets. He got his hand on the phone again, lifted it…and found that the battery had gone dead.
* **
What is this world? What asketh man to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave, Alone,with-outen any companye
The darkness, the lingering effects of the ether, the horror of his situation…Stanley's mind seemed to close down. Not sleep, exactly, but not quite a conscious state, either.
He heard, incongruously, the soft murmur of a fountain, or was he only imagining it, a distant, faint song of water splashing upon itself? It called to his mind the meditation garden at Bartholomew's. He saw the Triton from the pond there, as clearly as if it were in the coffin with him. He was no longer marble, though, and not quite flesh, either, but something in between the two that glowed in the darkness. And the water came not from dolphins, but from the Triton's erect, massive phallus, jetting out of the glans like a monstrous orgasm. Kneeling below him, a satyr opened his mouth to receive the spewing tribute. It overran his lips, his beard, ran down across his shoulders, his shaggy chest. Spilling into a basin in which two pretty young boys cavorted, delighting in the silvery cascade falling about them; and down still further the water ran, overflowing a great chalice, running down the legs of the slaves who held it, down, down, down….
Overwhelmed by darkness and by horror, Stanley sank into something very near to a coma.
Stanley woke slowly. Even when his eyes fluttered reluctantly open, he was still in darkness, total darkness. He lay for a moment, trying to comprehend, blinking. No glimmer of light penetrated the enveloping blackness. He'd never seen a darkness so complete.
He tried to sit up, but he could raise his head only slightly before it banged against something solid above him. He could barely move at all, in fact.
His hands were folded across his chest. He put them out to his sides. Again, he could move them no more than an inch or two before his fingertips touched cushioned silk. He reached up, and felt silk there too.
At first, he could not understand. Or, would not. The reality of his situation was so horrible, his mind did not want to accept it. He lay unmoving, trying not to think, trying not to accept the truth of where he so obviously was.
Recognition would not stay away, however. He knew. Knew and did not want to accept the truth: He was in a coffin. His breath seemed to crowd into his throat. This couldn't be real. Surely it was only a nightmare, from which he would awaken any minute now.
"Wake up, Stanley," he told himself, actually mouthing the words aloud. "Wake up, damn you. Now."
Even as he said the words, however, he knew this was no figment of his dreams.
He lifted his shaking hands again, tried to shove the lid away, but it did not budge. Not just in a coffin, then—sealed in a coffin.
* * *
Calm, Stanley, calm, just stay calm.
He told himself this over and over again, until his breath returned to something approximating normal and his heart had stopped threatening to pound its way out of his chest.
He blinked into the darkness. His cell phone. If he could reach it…there was so little room in which to maneuver his hands—easier to lift them up than to move them at his sides. He pushed against the silk lining with his elbows, strained to bring his hands up to his pockets. His shoulders felt as if they were being dislocated by the effort. His elbows strained against the walls of the coffin.
At last, an eternity later, his fingers brushed the outline of the cell phone in his right pocket. Yes. There it was. Now if he could just get it out of the pocket. He pushed against it, working it upward, slowly upward with the tips of his fingers.
Finally, the phone slid out of the pocket. He tried to clasp it in his trembling finger tips but it slipped away and dropped to his side. He felt for it, straining his shoulders still further. Again his fingers brushed the sleek plastic surface of the phone. He fumbled, managing at last to get hold of it. He lifted it gingerly above him.
When he flipped the lid open, the light from its face blinded him after the complete darkness. He blinked, squinting, trying to adjust his eyes.
The battery was low. He cursed himself for not keeping it charged up, and hit the "contacts" button, praying that the power lasted.
* * *
"Stanley, where the hell are you?"
"I'm in a b-box, Tom, in a c-coffin."
"What?! Where?"
The phone slipped out of Stanley's fingers.
"Crap," he swore aloud. It bounced of his chest, slid down his side.
He fumbled again, wriggling about as best he could, all but wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets. He got his hand on the phone again, lifted it…and found that the battery had gone dead.
* **
What is this world? What asketh man to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave, Alone,with-outen any companye
The darkness, the lingering effects of the ether, the horror of his situation…Stanley's mind seemed to close down. Not sleep, exactly, but not quite a conscious state, either.
He heard, incongruously, the soft murmur of a fountain, or was he only imagining it, a distant, faint song of water splashing upon itself? It called to his mind the meditation garden at Bartholomew's. He saw the Triton from the pond there, as clearly as if it were in the coffin with him. He was no longer marble, though, and not quite flesh, either, but something in between the two that glowed in the darkness. And the water came not from dolphins, but from the Triton's erect, massive phallus, jetting out of the glans like a monstrous orgasm. Kneeling below him, a satyr opened his mouth to receive the spewing tribute. It overran his lips, his beard, ran down across his shoulders, his shaggy chest. Spilling into a basin in which two pretty young boys cavorted, delighting in the silvery cascade falling about them; and down still further the water ran, overflowing a great chalice, running down the legs of the slaves who held it, down, down, down….
Overwhelmed by darkness and by horror, Stanley sank into something very near to a coma.
23.12.09
From EQUINOX by Mel Keegan
Excerpted from NARC #2: Equinox by Mel Keegan‘I believe,’ Harry said wryly, ‘the colonel placed you under my supervision! Rest, he said. That was an order.’
An order which was easy to obey. Jarrat was already asleep when Stone stumbled into bed. He laid his cheek on the warm, hard plane of Kevin’s shoulder and closed his eyes. The last he knew was the slight vibration through the frame of the vast building as a Starfleet lighter touched down on the roof far above.
The dreams came later.
He ran, but knew he would be caught. Shadowy shapes pinned him down with crushing weight. A capsule broke with a sharp plastic pop, and acrid golden dust filled his head and stole his thoughts.
Angel.
Horror rampaged through his mind. The drug was like sweet poison. Angeldeath awaited him — no one survived the one-way track into the nightmare. But first came the Angeldreams. Fantasies torn from the deepest realm of the subconscious were clothed in sensual flesh that seemed so real. Stone threshed as the bitter dust stung his nose, choked him, but even then the fantasies had stirred to life.
He saw Jarrat again, the focus of his dreams, now as before. The chimerical creature with Kevin’s face rose from his memory: emerald skinned, winged, his body adorned in paint, gold, rings and chains, he deliberately seduced a man he loved. His beauty inveigled, beguiled, and Stone was lost once more. Engrossed in the golden dust he writhed, frenzied with the drug-induced, fantasy-driven lust which would rage as long as his body held out...
Angel.
The word crept into the midst of the phantasm and Stone recoiled from the incubus he had created. It wore Jarrat’s face and body but it was not Kevin. Lips curled back over razor-like fangs, talons ripped his skin as the carnal dream became horror at the mention of a word.
Now he fought, but knew he could not win. Angel was a disease. Some reasoning part of his mind knew it for what it was. A synthetic, a narcotic designed in the lab, so powerful and seductive that it had built empires, and torn them down.
Angeldreams were the kind a man would die for: he might swim in diamond, hear the song of the stars, master the sky with the power of living flight. Rampant with sexual energy, lord of every scene, he commanded any lover his imagination could conjure. No act was impossible, sensuality was infinite.
Until he was so rotten with the drug and the physical punishment wreaked upon his helpless, overworked body, his existence could not be called living. The only escape was death. Stone fought like a madman as the agonies of withdrawal assaulted him. He could inhale another draught of poison, flee into the dreams, one step closer his end. Or he could die here, tonight, in torment.
He was disgusting. Flying, out of his mind, his enslaved body fucked the floor or the bed in its senseless euphoria. He was a user. A rutting Angelhead. In the months to come, the addiction could only deepen, the dreams would fly his mind ever higher while the rest of him decayed. Horror at his own corruption nauseated him and he screamed, hoarse and helpless.
It was not the first time Jarrat had shaken him awake in the night and held him tightly enough to bruise. He gasped air to the bottom of his lungs, buried his face in Jarrat’s chest and inhaled the clean, male scent. This Jarrat was living, real and alive, not the beguiling Angel illusion.
‘I’ve got you. You’re all right, love.’ Kevin was still only half awake, his voice slurred with sleep, trembling with reaction to Stone’s terror, which had invaded his own sleeping mind. Strong arms held on tight. ‘Same dream?’
‘Yeah.’ Stone fought off the last clinging tendrils of the nightmare. ‘Christ, I’m sorry.’ He sat up, chest heaving, skin slick with an icy sweat.
Jarrat stroked his back as they both got their breath back. ‘You ought to tell Harry. He’d be able to do something.’
‘He’s on a NARC research contract now,’ Stone said shakily. ‘He’d have to report this crap I keep dreaming to Dupre. You want me in a psyche clinic?’
‘No.’ Jarrat caught him by the shoulders and pulled him down. ‘Come here. Tell me about it.’
‘Told you last time. It never changes.’ Stone lay against him and struggled to control the leftover shivering. Jarrat’s mouth covered his and he felt a little warmth seep back into his bones.
‘Tell me how to help,’ Jarrat whispered. ‘Is it like what you did for that kid you picked up, Rikki Mitchell? Is it booze, a meal, sex, you need?’
‘I’m not craving. I’m not an addict anymore,’ Stone said gently. ‘Harry saw to that.’
‘Then tell me what to do.’ Jarrat’s fingers tightened.
‘You’re doing it.’ Stone pulled the sheet over their heads. ‘Just don’t let go. It’s rich, isn’t it? Let go of me in the night, and the bogie man grabs me and stuffs my nose with that shit. And I try not to breathe it, but —’
‘Stoney.’ Jarrat’s mouth silenced him. ‘You’re the only man who ever came back from Angel addiction. That makes you one of a kind. No one else ever lived out what you’re going through to know what it’s like. The alternative was a slab in the morgue!’ He gave Stone a shake. ‘Tough it out, try counting your bloody blessings. You have to be alive to feel like hell.’
For the first time Stone glimpsed the absurd privilege of the nightmare. It should have been ridiculous to be grateful for the terror and disgust which assaulted him one night in three, but Jarrat was right. He was alive, and if the price of his life was a cold sweat, broken sleep, it was cheap.
He settled gratefully into Jarrat’s embrace and closed his eyes. ‘I’m okay now. You can let go.’
‘I could,’ Jarrat muffled against his neck. ‘But I’m not going to. Shut up and get some rest.’
‘Romantic,’ Stone accused groggily, but Jarrat was already past hearing. Stone banished the dream with an effort of will. He set his head back on Kevin’s shoulder and closed his eyes.
This time his sleep was peaceful.
Illustrated by Jade -- the new all-digital Jarrat and Stone!
22.12.09
The Dark Tide by Josh Lanyon
NEW RELEASE TODAY!
ISBN: 978-1-60737-490-9
Series: Adrien English Mysteries; Previous Book: Death of a Pirate King
Genre: LGBT Romantic Suspense
Length: Novel Plus
Cover Artist: Croco Designs
Price: $7.99
BLURB:
As if recovering from heart surgery beneath the gaze of his over-protective family wasn’t exasperating enough, someone keeps trying to break into Adrien English’s bookstore. What is this determined midnight intruder searching for?
When a half-century old skeleton tumbles out of the wall in the midst of the renovation of Cloak and Dagger Bookstore renovation, Adrien turns to hot and handsome ex-lover Jake Riordan -- now out-of-the closet and working as a private detective.
Jake is only too happy to have reason to stay in close contact with Adrien, but there are more surprises in Adrien’s past than either one of them expects -- and one of them may prove hazardous to Jake’s own heart.
EXCERPT:
We reached the bookstore. I thanked Lauren again, lifted a hand in farewell, and let myself into the big, empty building.
It was warm and very still inside. The heady scent of old books floated with the dust motes in the fading light. Old and used books have a particular scent -- very different from new books. That evening it was a mix of old leather, worn cloth, crumbling paper, and wood polish. It smelled like home. I couldn’t imagine willingly leaving Cloak and Dagger ever. Maybe they could stick me under the floorboards when I was done.
I walked over to the plastic wall dividing the bookstore from the other half of the building. There was no sign that the cops had been there during the day. No sign anyone had. Perhaps that was good news.
I went upstairs and unlocked my flat. It was too warm and stuffy upstairs, a bit too redolent of cat. I opened the windows to catch whatever evening breeze there was.
What had been the rush to get here again? Everything was exactly as I’d left it. As it would always be.
I sat down on the sofa, and Tomkins leaped onto the cushion beside me, rubbing his face against my arm.
“Miss me?”
Apparently so. Well, there was no accounting for taste; I’d be the first to admit that.
I dealt with the litter box, fed the cat, decided I’d opt for a snack later, considered having a drink, reconsidered, and returned to the sofa, where I stared at the ceiling for a time.
What the hell was my problem?
If I’d wanted company, why hadn’t I stayed at Lisa’s?
I listened to the distant street sounds as this part of town began to roll up the sidewalks for the evening. I listened to the building settling in for the long evening, stretching out wooden joints, cracking its knuckles.
“Oh, what the hell,” I said.
Tomkins briefly abandoned his pursuit of an ailing fly to throw me a curious look as I rose and went to the phone.
“He’s probably not even home,” I told him.
Tomkins offered no opinion. He sat down to watch, as though my dialing a phone was one of the most fascinating things he’d ever witnessed in his brief life.
The phone rang on the other end.
Once.
Twice.
I closed my eyes, trying to decide if I was going to leave a message.
“Riordan.”
I opened my eyes. Funny how the sound of his voice could still make my heart speed up. You’d have thought I’d be over it by now. You’d have thought wrong.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” One syllable, but his voice warmed perceptibly. “How are you doing?”
“Okay.” I wondered how long it would be before that statement was true.
“Yeah?”
I didn’t think there was any telltale note in my voice, yet his single questioning word held instant and complete discernment. Sometimes I thought Jake, ironically, knew me better than about anyone on the planet.
“Not really,” I admitted. “Did you hear about yesterday?”
“The skeleton in the wall? I heard.”
You could take the boy out of the police force, but you couldn’t take the police force out of the boy.
“We had another break-in too. That’s why I’m calling.”
His voice didn’t cool exactly, though it lost warmth. “Yes?”
“How’s the PI biz?”
He said colorlessly, “I got my first case yesterday. A woman wants me to follow her ex.”
“He’s already her ex?”
“Yeah.”
No wonder his voice sounded flat. “Are you going to take it?”
“Yes.” And clearly it was not up for discussion.
“Do you think you’d have time for another case?”
He sounded almost wary as he asked, “What case? Who’s the client?”
“Me,” I said. “I want to hire you.”
21.12.09
A Man Lay Dead in Winter (historical mystery) Part 2
This features a sort of 'test version' Jonty and Orlando from the Cambridge Fellows books, before they got relocated from the time of Stephen to Edward VII. More parts to come. (Part 1 is here.)
“What ails you?” Horace ran his hands over Johannes’s hair, smoothing and calming. He’d hardly begun his own slumbers when he’d been roused by the sound of muffled cries and sorrowful noises. He had rushed from his bed in the adjoining room (not his own, but one of the guest chambers that he’d appropriated for the night) and was now at the side of Johnannes’s bed. “Is it some memory of the time in Damascus?”
“No,” Johannes sounded like a drowning man searching for air, “No, it goes back much further.” He looked into the clear brown eyes that held his, the light of the small lamp dancing in their depths. “Do you really want me to enlighten you? I would find it a relief, I tell you true.”
“Then say all. Shall I send for a goblet of wine?”
“A cup of water would serve well, if it please you.”
Horace poured the water from the ewer into the little horn cup with his own hands; no servant, no matter how discreet, would be allowed to intrude upon this scene. He offered it and Johannes drank, with thanks.
“I was sent to the local priory when I was young, to learn my letters and other things as seemed to befit the Lord of the manor’s bastard. My stepmother felt it would be advantageous, although whether to her or to me I do not know. There was one of the monks, a brother Rhys, who took rather a fancy to me.” He shut his eyes, shivered at the memories. “Perhaps he took too literal a view of the instruction suffer little children.”
Horace gently laid his hand on the other man’s arm. “Such an abuse of trust,” he said simply. There was no point in offering anything more than the briefest of words and a friendly touch.
“It was indeed. But then I have seen many worse things these last few years; I had thought I was beyond feeling abhorrence. I was wrong.”
“What happened? Was there anyone you could tell?”
“I told my father, who raised hell. The monk left the priory in disgrace and was later found hanged by his own hand in the nearby woods. It was only years afterwards that I found out he might have had help in the process.”
Horace did not ask the obvious—whose hand had helped with the deed—the question wasn’t needed. He gently laid his hand over the other man’s. “I believe that the corruption of children is the most heinous sin. It grieves me beyond measure to know that you suffered this.”
“Thank you,” Johannes’s simple reply spoke chapter and verse, accompanied as it was by the merest pressure on the hand that grasped his.
Horace’s dark eyes looked down at the fingers which pressed his hand, considered for a moment and then entwined his fingers among them. “I would have you know that you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish. And when you decide to depart, then to return whenever the fancy takes you.”
“I would welcome a place to call home where I was truly wanted by all,” Johnannes’s eyes stayed fixed on their intertwined hands.
“There is only myself to please here, no a chatelaine to fuss about, and I believe that the ladies from the Gloucester will not be choosing to follow the example of the Earl’s mother. The present Countess has finer tastes than I can accommodate here.” Horace risked a glance at Johannes’s face. The man’s eyes were welling, although whether as an after effect of his seizure or in response to the emotion of the moment he couldn’t be sure. He squeezed the hand within his a little more tightly.
Suddenly Johnannes looked up, his blue eyes meeting Horace’s. “I feel completely confident that my tastes would be entirely satisfied here; I could wish for nothing more than I find in this house.” He leaned closer, gently kissed the tip of Horace’s nose.
Horace smiled. “Roger, our priest, says that many go on pilgrimage needlessly, when they should search for what is good and true in their own hearts at their own fireside. I have always struggled to understand his meaning.” He took his friend’s hand to his lips. “Maybe you would help me learn his lesson.”
“Perhaps. I have found very little peace either at my hearth or on my travels. Pray God I have crossed what feels like half the world only to discover my heart’s content was no more than fourscore miles from my door.”
This features a sort of 'test version' Jonty and Orlando from the Cambridge Fellows books, before they got relocated from the time of Stephen to Edward VII. More parts to come. (Part 1 is here.)
“What ails you?” Horace ran his hands over Johannes’s hair, smoothing and calming. He’d hardly begun his own slumbers when he’d been roused by the sound of muffled cries and sorrowful noises. He had rushed from his bed in the adjoining room (not his own, but one of the guest chambers that he’d appropriated for the night) and was now at the side of Johnannes’s bed. “Is it some memory of the time in Damascus?”
“No,” Johannes sounded like a drowning man searching for air, “No, it goes back much further.” He looked into the clear brown eyes that held his, the light of the small lamp dancing in their depths. “Do you really want me to enlighten you? I would find it a relief, I tell you true.”
“Then say all. Shall I send for a goblet of wine?”
“A cup of water would serve well, if it please you.”
Horace poured the water from the ewer into the little horn cup with his own hands; no servant, no matter how discreet, would be allowed to intrude upon this scene. He offered it and Johannes drank, with thanks.
“I was sent to the local priory when I was young, to learn my letters and other things as seemed to befit the Lord of the manor’s bastard. My stepmother felt it would be advantageous, although whether to her or to me I do not know. There was one of the monks, a brother Rhys, who took rather a fancy to me.” He shut his eyes, shivered at the memories. “Perhaps he took too literal a view of the instruction suffer little children.”
Horace gently laid his hand on the other man’s arm. “Such an abuse of trust,” he said simply. There was no point in offering anything more than the briefest of words and a friendly touch.
“It was indeed. But then I have seen many worse things these last few years; I had thought I was beyond feeling abhorrence. I was wrong.”
“What happened? Was there anyone you could tell?”
“I told my father, who raised hell. The monk left the priory in disgrace and was later found hanged by his own hand in the nearby woods. It was only years afterwards that I found out he might have had help in the process.”
Horace did not ask the obvious—whose hand had helped with the deed—the question wasn’t needed. He gently laid his hand over the other man’s. “I believe that the corruption of children is the most heinous sin. It grieves me beyond measure to know that you suffered this.”
“Thank you,” Johannes’s simple reply spoke chapter and verse, accompanied as it was by the merest pressure on the hand that grasped his.
Horace’s dark eyes looked down at the fingers which pressed his hand, considered for a moment and then entwined his fingers among them. “I would have you know that you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish. And when you decide to depart, then to return whenever the fancy takes you.”
“I would welcome a place to call home where I was truly wanted by all,” Johnannes’s eyes stayed fixed on their intertwined hands.
“There is only myself to please here, no a chatelaine to fuss about, and I believe that the ladies from the Gloucester will not be choosing to follow the example of the Earl’s mother. The present Countess has finer tastes than I can accommodate here.” Horace risked a glance at Johannes’s face. The man’s eyes were welling, although whether as an after effect of his seizure or in response to the emotion of the moment he couldn’t be sure. He squeezed the hand within his a little more tightly.
Suddenly Johnannes looked up, his blue eyes meeting Horace’s. “I feel completely confident that my tastes would be entirely satisfied here; I could wish for nothing more than I find in this house.” He leaned closer, gently kissed the tip of Horace’s nose.
Horace smiled. “Roger, our priest, says that many go on pilgrimage needlessly, when they should search for what is good and true in their own hearts at their own fireside. I have always struggled to understand his meaning.” He took his friend’s hand to his lips. “Maybe you would help me learn his lesson.”
“Perhaps. I have found very little peace either at my hearth or on my travels. Pray God I have crossed what feels like half the world only to discover my heart’s content was no more than fourscore miles from my door.”
20.12.09
Don't Look Back by Josh Lanyon
Cover Artist: Marci Gass
ISBN: 978-1-59632-972-0
Genre: LGBT Suspense
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
BLURB:
He was chuckling, a deep, sexy sound as he pushed Peter back on the satiny cushions. Was this for real? Was he going to go through with it? Peter blinked up as his tie was unfastened, tossed aside, his shirt unbuttoned, laid wide. The evening breeze -- scented of smog and jasmine -- felt cool against his overheated skin, like the lightest breath…
Peter Killian, curator at Constantine House in Los Angeles, wakes in the hospital to find himself accused of stealing a tenth century Chinese sculpture. Peter knows he’s not a thief -- but that’s all he knows. Why is hot and handsome Detective Mike Griffin so sure he’s guilty -- and so hell-bent on seeing Peter arrested?
And why is Peter having these weird dreams about an unseen lover who somehow reminds him uncomfortably of Michael Griffin?
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EXCERPT
The moon was enormous -- ripe, red-gold, hanging low in the sky. From the flowering jacaranda, the mockingbird was scolding. Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk.
Peter stumbled up the brick path. His foot caught and he went down, on his knees, breathing hard. His hands were white blurs on the warm stone. He tried to focus and he could see the ink splotches of blood -- his blood running down his face and dripping onto the bricks.
His stomach rose in protest. Swallowing down his nausea, he pushed back to his feet. The black velvet leaves of the elephant ears seemed to twitch, listening, as his footsteps scraped unsteadily up the path, past the sundial and palely glimmering statues, past the solar lanterns fuzzily glowing.
The shadows cast by the jacaranda stretched chill and dark in the warm summer evening, but the darkness edging his vision had nothing to do with the deepening night. There was blood in his eyes now; he wiped at it uncertainly.
Peter reached the top of the long, shallow garden steps. The back entrance of Constantine House loomed before him and he staggered forward, feeling for his keys. He leaned against the door, resting his head on the painted surface, fumbling in his pockets. He pushed a key into the lock; it turned, and the door swung open spilling him into the hallway.
Half blind with blood and pain, he wove his way down the hallway toward the main exhibit room and his office. His foot caught on the Oriental runner and he went sprawling. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell was clanging. He opened his eyes. Dimly, as though looking through a telescope, he could see the cool, white marble face of Kwan Yin gazing down at him. She held a little vase pouring nothingness out over his pounding head. But it wasn't nothingness. It was nectar. Invisible nectar to feed the hungry ghosts.
Far, far at the other end of the telescope the serene face of Kwan Yin receded, grew tinier and tinier…until at last it pinched out like a match spark in the night...
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17.12.09
From DEATH'S HEAD by Mel Keegan
A mere snippet from the first of the NARC Books ... Jarrat is MIA; Stone has tracked him halfway around a planet and come within fifty yards of him, only to leave. And Jarrat? He was left for dead, and still can't fathom who he is, who Stoney is -- but memory is coming back in hot flashes...
Pain scythed through his skull, stress and dread finding every laser-weld, every repair, and testing it without mercy as he watched the scene out in the yard. Evelyn had stepped back into a patch of shade under the old cypress tree. The NARC took the young man in his arms for a moment and they kissed briefly. John’s innards lurched painfully. Then both strangers climbed up the hardpoints, into the cockpit. The NARC pulled on a helmet as the canopy whined down, locked. Repulsion howled like a hurricane. The main engines ignited with an earsplitting crescendo of noise, the tailpipes jetted flame, and the aircraft was gone. It looped up into the sky in a backbreaking arc and climbed away into the northwest. Half a minute later even the echoes of its engine thunder had faded to nothing.
“Shit,” Simon muttered. “I could have cut his guts out.” He ran into the forecourt, still carrying the rifle, and called his sister’s name. “So what did the bastard want with us?”
John followed, wary and silent. His muscles trembled in reaction and he held his tongue as the sun dried the sheen of sweat on his skin. Evelyn looked from his face to Simon’s and back again. “He wanted John.”
“The NARC wanted you,” Simon said through his teeth. “I was right! You are a crimmo! A dealer? A money man? A mule?” He lifted the rifle to his shoulder. “And I was about to defend you.”
“Don’t point that thing at me unless you intend to use it,” John barked in a tone of voice Evelyn and Simon had never heard before. Normally he spoke softly, but not now. He took the HK out of Simon’s hands in one clean swipe. “And if you do, you better be ready to have your ass kicked from here to Eldorado. Besides, these weapons are illegal in civvy hands.”
“It isn’t illegal, it’s mine,” Evelyn said loudly. “I’m a veteran still listed with the Airlift Reserve. I’ve got a license. You know cannons?”
In answer, without thinking, he shouldered it, chose a limb on a tree a hundred meters back from the road and emptied the whole clip, dead on target. The wood splintered away and the limb fell heavily. His whole body remembered the feeling of the big weapon braying and vibrating. He felt the familiarity in his bones, and a voice spoke in the back of his mind, called him by name, and the name danced away again like a firefly.
The concussions rang back off the building. When they were silent once more Simon swore. “A shooter. You were a shooter.”
“Is he right?” Evelyn asked very quietly. “Were you, John? Come on, man! I just fed a crock of shit to that NARC, he’s coming back with a Tac intrusion permit. You can’t stay here much longer, not unless you want to go with him, maybe in manacles, maybe in a bodybag. He came here for you and, God help me, I almost handed you over without thinking! Your bullet scars, the conditioning of your mind. You could be Tac or NARC.”
“Or you could be syndicate,” Simon added. “I’ve been listening to the Tac band. There’s something on, something huge, and Death’s Head’s going to play rough, with real hardware. S’what they’re saying, Eve.”
She took a breath. “That’s not what I’m thinking.” She looked searchingly at John. “You probably are, or at least were, from Tactical. But you could be in trouble. Real trouble. On the run, between a rock and a hard place. NARC would bury you and ask questions later. Tan Del called Chell Tac, asking if they had an MIA fitting your description.” She shook her head. “Not a one. Which probably means you left Tactical not long ago. We just don’t know why.”
Fired, resigned? Convicted — justly or wrongfully? On the run from Tac, NARC and the syndicate? John handed the weapon to her. “Christ almighty, I don’t know. I wish I did. Thanks for getting rid of ... of him.” Sweat broke from every pore again as he turned away, left them, retreated to the house and flopped belly-down on the bed.
He took his skull in his hands and rubbed his forehead hard. The face of the NARC haunted him. The blue eyes glittered at him, but whether in mockery or welcome he could not tell. “Remember, goddamn you,” he groaned, “you sonofabitch, remember!”
The man’s face was still there, tormenting him as he exhausted himself and sank into a fretful sleep filled with acid-hot, dislocated dreams.
Excerpted from NARC #1: Death's Head by Mel Keegan
Illustrated by Jade with 3D art drawn from JADE'S ADVENTURES IN 3D
Pain scythed through his skull, stress and dread finding every laser-weld, every repair, and testing it without mercy as he watched the scene out in the yard. Evelyn had stepped back into a patch of shade under the old cypress tree. The NARC took the young man in his arms for a moment and they kissed briefly. John’s innards lurched painfully. Then both strangers climbed up the hardpoints, into the cockpit. The NARC pulled on a helmet as the canopy whined down, locked. Repulsion howled like a hurricane. The main engines ignited with an earsplitting crescendo of noise, the tailpipes jetted flame, and the aircraft was gone. It looped up into the sky in a backbreaking arc and climbed away into the northwest. Half a minute later even the echoes of its engine thunder had faded to nothing.
“Shit,” Simon muttered. “I could have cut his guts out.” He ran into the forecourt, still carrying the rifle, and called his sister’s name. “So what did the bastard want with us?”
John followed, wary and silent. His muscles trembled in reaction and he held his tongue as the sun dried the sheen of sweat on his skin. Evelyn looked from his face to Simon’s and back again. “He wanted John.”
“The NARC wanted you,” Simon said through his teeth. “I was right! You are a crimmo! A dealer? A money man? A mule?” He lifted the rifle to his shoulder. “And I was about to defend you.”
“Don’t point that thing at me unless you intend to use it,” John barked in a tone of voice Evelyn and Simon had never heard before. Normally he spoke softly, but not now. He took the HK out of Simon’s hands in one clean swipe. “And if you do, you better be ready to have your ass kicked from here to Eldorado. Besides, these weapons are illegal in civvy hands.”
“It isn’t illegal, it’s mine,” Evelyn said loudly. “I’m a veteran still listed with the Airlift Reserve. I’ve got a license. You know cannons?”
In answer, without thinking, he shouldered it, chose a limb on a tree a hundred meters back from the road and emptied the whole clip, dead on target. The wood splintered away and the limb fell heavily. His whole body remembered the feeling of the big weapon braying and vibrating. He felt the familiarity in his bones, and a voice spoke in the back of his mind, called him by name, and the name danced away again like a firefly.
The concussions rang back off the building. When they were silent once more Simon swore. “A shooter. You were a shooter.”
“Is he right?” Evelyn asked very quietly. “Were you, John? Come on, man! I just fed a crock of shit to that NARC, he’s coming back with a Tac intrusion permit. You can’t stay here much longer, not unless you want to go with him, maybe in manacles, maybe in a bodybag. He came here for you and, God help me, I almost handed you over without thinking! Your bullet scars, the conditioning of your mind. You could be Tac or NARC.”
“Or you could be syndicate,” Simon added. “I’ve been listening to the Tac band. There’s something on, something huge, and Death’s Head’s going to play rough, with real hardware. S’what they’re saying, Eve.”
She took a breath. “That’s not what I’m thinking.” She looked searchingly at John. “You probably are, or at least were, from Tactical. But you could be in trouble. Real trouble. On the run, between a rock and a hard place. NARC would bury you and ask questions later. Tan Del called Chell Tac, asking if they had an MIA fitting your description.” She shook her head. “Not a one. Which probably means you left Tactical not long ago. We just don’t know why.”
Fired, resigned? Convicted — justly or wrongfully? On the run from Tac, NARC and the syndicate? John handed the weapon to her. “Christ almighty, I don’t know. I wish I did. Thanks for getting rid of ... of him.” Sweat broke from every pore again as he turned away, left them, retreated to the house and flopped belly-down on the bed.
He took his skull in his hands and rubbed his forehead hard. The face of the NARC haunted him. The blue eyes glittered at him, but whether in mockery or welcome he could not tell. “Remember, goddamn you,” he groaned, “you sonofabitch, remember!”
The man’s face was still there, tormenting him as he exhausted himself and sank into a fretful sleep filled with acid-hot, dislocated dreams.
Excerpted from NARC #1: Death's Head by Mel Keegan
Illustrated by Jade with 3D art drawn from JADE'S ADVENTURES IN 3D
16.12.09
THE SECRET TRILOGY by Francine Saint Marie
EXCERPT: 'Seduction' Scene/Book One of The Secret Trilogy (Three novels. Two women. One epic love story.) By Francine Saint Marie
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
After an eternity of foreplay Sharon still wouldn’t penetrate her and Helaine’s womb had begun to hurt from aching for it. The excitement in her chest had turned against her, too, and she felt a sadness there instead, a desire to weep. She sighed miserably into her lover’s neck and upon hearing it Sharon stopped what she was doing, rested her weight on Helaine so she couldn’t get up from the bed.
"Don’t want to play, doctor?"
"Sharon…" Helaine let go of her back and tried to slide out from underneath her, but Sharon went rigid and wouldn’t permit it. "Sharon, please," she said in frustration. Her breasts were tender and the weight on them was unpleasant. She shifted her body to throw her off and Sharon grabbed her by the wrists and pinned her to the pillow. She tongued her stomach, pushing hard into the belly button and Helaine arched her back and sighed again.
"Make love to me, Sharon," she urged. She felt her biting at her nipples again and defensively jerked them away from her mouth. "Don’t. Just make love to me."
"I hate that word," Sharon warned, biting at her neck.
"Don’t do this. Why are you doing this?" Teasing, teasing. She groaned in exasperation. "Make love to me, Sharon."
Sharon laughed into the pillow. "That word. You know I–"
That’s right. Forgot. It had been so long. "Then fuck me–fuck me, if that’s what you like."
Sharon let her wrists go. "Like? What I like?"
"Like. Want. I don’t know," Helaine murmured, rolling onto her stomach. "Whatever."
Every part of her ached. She lay still, thoughts churning, searching for something better to say. Nothing came to mind. Between her legs she was quite swollen. She closed her eyes tight. The brilliant lights. She wanted them off now. Perhaps she could sleep, sleep away the fog that had settled on her soul tonight. Beside her Sharon had fallen ungodly quiet. She could feel the woman’s malice and wasn’t sure where it had come from. Tonight was bad. It was as if she had been watching herself all evening. Nothing seemed natural. She put her hand over her eyes. She hated being speechless.
"How long have I been gone, Helaine?"
"Sharon?"
It had been nine months. Helaine desperately needed sex. Playing games all night had made it an impossibility, too awkward. The woman beside her felt like a stranger, an immovable stranger in her bed, laying motionless and hostile. Why, she didn’t know. "Sharon? What is wrong?"
No response. Perhaps because she hadn’t gone to the flat to look for her? Sharon hated coming uptown. Not her set. Too quiet. "Sharon…?" She listened to the sound of Sharon’s body snaking across the sheets toward her. The touch of a stranger. She jumped at the feel of it and waited for her to speak, trying to interpret her silence.
"Masturbate for me," Sharon finally said, lying heavy on Helaine’s back and probing along her sides.
Helaine tried to turn over. "Sharon…no." A police hold, or something like it. "Don’t be rough with me. I don’t like it."
"Don’t? How long have I been gone, I asked."
"Shar–" Harsh hands. "Nine months."
"Like? Want?" She pushed Helaine’s face into the pillow. "Whatever?"
"Sharon, you’re hurting me. I can’t breathe."
"Love," Sharon teased as she leaned into her, "masturbate for me, I said."
"Sharon…"
"Or else."
"I don’t like this. I really don’t."
Sharon felt between Helaine’s legs. "Liar."
Helaine brought her legs together. It was difficult to breathe.
"Call me darling, Dr. Kristenson. You haven’t–open your legs–called me darling all night."
Darling? Was that true? All night? Helaine lay quiet and still.
"Against your will then, doctor. What do you say to that?"
"I would never forgive you for it."
Sharon attempted to pry her legs apart. "Open, darling," she whispered, jabbing her chin into Helaine’s shoulder blade.
"If you don’t want to you don’t have to. Leave me be, Sharon."
"That would be darling, Dr. Kristenson."
Helaine felt her legs giving. "Please...I said forget it."
"Spread your legs for me."
"Listen to–"
"Do it."
"Sharon, I don’t–" her legs were open now.
The women lay locked in an ugly silence.
Helaine could hear her Sharon’s rapid breathing. Hot breath on her back. "Sharon?" She strained to see her, but couldn’t maneuver it. Sharon pressed down harder. "For godsakes, Sharon," she said through her teeth. "Let me go!"
Sharon released her arms. Helaine tried propping herself up on her elbows and was pushed down again. She listened behind her. "Darling…?" There she said it. The sound of breathing, more weight on her back. "Talk to me, Sharon. Tell me what I’ve done."
"I don’t want to talk. I’m concentrating."
"Concentrating? Please! On what?"
"Fucking you."
Helaine took a quick breath, exhaled. "Then at least let me turn over." More weight. She laid her face back into the pillow.
"You have such a perfect ass, Dr. Kristenson."
Sharon fondled her, running her hand up her sex. Helaine felt moist on her backside.
"The nicest I’ve had in months," Sharon drawled, feeling Helaine’s body stiffen at the offense. She pushed against her anus.
"Sha–"
"You heard about all that, didn’t you?"
Helaine tried once more to get up and failed.
"Easy," Sharon warned, tightening her grip.
Helaine froze.
"Perfect, Helaine Kristenson." She licked the small of her back and entered her in the rectum.
Helaine gasped and tried to fight her off.
Sharon withdrew and held her down again.
"Sharon, don’t do this to me. Please."
"We’ll just take a little ride, Helaine." She dragged the blond kicking across the bed and bent her over the edge of it.
They were both out of breath, the sheets massed around them.
"You’re ruining me, you know? I can only do blonds now."
Ruined. Helaine was silent, her hair sticking to her neck and shoulders, stuck to her face. She tried to raise herself. Sharon leaned against her damp body and entered her once more. She stifled a scream.
"Where are you when I’m not fucking you, Dr. Kristenson?"
"I’m–this is–I’m–" Sharon had been hostile ever since she stepped through the door. Helaine tightened. "I’m not ready for thi–"
"Because you’re too tense. Relax doctor."
A flash of pain. Helaine groaned. "You’re being too–" Sharon pushed deeper inside and Helaine moaned low in distress.
"When I’m not fucking your gorgeous ass, Helaine, where do you go?"
There was nothing to grab onto. It was pointless to answer. Sharon pushed into her and pulled out suddenly. In, then out again. Helaine put her hand over her eyes. They were wet.
"Relax your legs for me."
"Christ–" Her feet barely touched the floor. She grabbed for the sides of the bed but couldn’t reach them.
"Chill, I said."
Her arms were falling asleep. "Give me…a second. I’m–" Her rectum felt full. She felt it begin to move in spasms. Pleasure for the first time in months. She hated herself for it. Sharon pressed against her stomach with her free hand and raised her up slightly from the bed. She clutched at the sheets around her in protest.
"Did I keep you waiting, doctor?"
"Wai–"
"Did I?"
Helaine’s insides rippled in waves, giving out without her consent. "What–what do you mean?"
"Waiting for me. I kept you waiting?"
"Waiting," she repeated. "I–" spasms. Pleasure and pain. "Yes." And hatred, coming in waves. Tidal. She couldn’t prevent it. "Jesus…" Cries filled her throat, slipping off her tongue and falling from her lips into the bed sheets. She put her face into the pillow to smother them. Moans, sighs, cries, Sharon’s favorite. She hadn’t earned them tonight. "You’re hurt–"
"Then relax for me."
The pillow was wet. "I…slower…can’t."
"Call me darling then."
"Slower. Slower then…darling."
Slower. Helaine relaxed her legs. Slow. She clamped her hand over her mouth. Slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow.
"Love," Sharon whispered. "God, I missed you."
Pleasure. Nine months. Helaine moaned.
"Ahh…you’re a slut, Dr. Kristenson," Sharon murmured, kissing her shoulders and neck. "Do it for me. Masturbate."
Helaine shook her head.
"Pretend I’m someone else."
She would not. "Let go of me, Sharon."
"Never--did you miss me?"
Her legs were closing once more. They were forced open again.
"Want to hear some highlights from my trip, Dr. Kristenson?"
Helaine winced.
No reply. Sharon pushed deeper inside her. "Lift," she demanded.
"I…my feet."
Sharon inched her further down. "Bend, Helaine."
"I can’t."
"There," Sharon urged, placing a pillow under her stomach. "Now bend."
"You’re going to hurt me...?"
"No. Bend for me. Put your knee here."
Helaine lifted her knee. Sharon pushed. "You didn’t answer me."
"You’re–why are you–"
"Say more, like you missed me. More, darling."
NO.
"More, Helaine. Then I’ll be gentle."
"I’m–I’m…more."
"More, darling."
"Shar–"
Sharon dropped her weight.
Pressure. Too much pressure. "More, darling," Helaine finally whispered, "gentle."
"Gentle what?" Sharon nudged.
"Gentle, darling...."
Slow and gentle and more.
"Say it, Helaine."
Her legs ached. "What–more?" She regretted letting Sharon in tonight.
"Fuck me–say it."
Helaine buried her face into the sheets. Pain more than pleasure now. Sharon’s face was close to her own. She turned away from it. "Fuck me," she muttered, clenching her fists.
"Italy. Beautiful country, Helaine."
Helaine sucked in sharply.
"Italy, dear doctor."
Pressure. Helaine cried out.
Such a beautiful count–"
"Shar–"
"Warm. Affectionate blonds," Sharon teased, now stroking Helaine’s sex.
Helaine let out an anguished sigh, a series of muffled sobs. Then silence. Sharon held her closer. "So fucking beautiful. Such a beautiful little–" she backed her body into hers. "You’re so w–"
"Sharon, Jesus…please…please, don’t talk to me anymore." Her arms and legs felt broken. She let them fall slack.
"Dr. Kristenson?"
Helaine pressed her mouth into her arm and made a sound in her throat.
"Beautiful," Sharon murmured into the blond hair. "Beautiful," she said again, removing her hand from Helaine’s stomach and stroking between her own legs. "Helaine," she called softly...
10.12.09
A Man Lay Dead in Winter (historical mystery) Part 1
I wrote this years ago, under the influence of Cadfael. It features a sort of 'test version' Jonty and Orlando from the Cambridge Fellows books, before they got relocated from the time of Stephen to Edward VII. More parts to come.
The fortified manor at Pain’s Wyke had been one of the Countess of Gloucester’s favourite retreats; when her husband had been away fighting, or in happier times attending to business, then she would take the chosen ladies of her household there. Were it high summer they could enjoy the clean air and the good honest country smells. It was an added advantage that the Lord of the Manor was such a handsome and courteous young man, and the unattached ladies (and one or two respectable matrons who should have known better) were content to flirt with him. It never came to anything, much to their regret, but it made for a pleasant pastime.
England had seen many an unhappy hour during the time that the King and his sister had fought for the throne and nearly torn the country apart in the process. Now, with the return of Maud to France, it was hoped that some sweeter times might be ahead, although not for the Countess, who found she had too many memories of happier times to let her be entirely at ease anywhere in England. Other people might come and stay at the manor, nonetheless; connections of the Earl or well bred travellers who couldn’t complete the journey to the city of Gloucester before nightfall. The lesser folk might seek refuge with Roger, who had the church and served his flock with humility and humour, but the finery stayed with Horace Dumanoir.
Just such a fine young man had sought accommodation one summer morning and been welcomed heartily, his recommendation from Gloucester being impeccable. He was making a slow journey home from the crusade, in the steps of his natural father though determined to let him get home first. This man was second son of an Earl, born the wrong side of the blanket and dearly beloved of his sire, if not of the man’s wife. They had felt it politic to let the nobleman return home first, to rapturous delight, before the by-blow made his appearance. The son might then be greeted rather more warmly, his half brother and step mother having had their fill of the Earl’s affection. The arrangement suited the younger man admirably as it gave time for reflection and rest, something which had been sorely lacking these last few years of hell. Johannes Fitzrichard had taken up arms in his saviour’s cause and regretted almost every moment.
The first evening in Pain’s Wyke he had fallen into the easiest of conversations with his host, Stephen’s war having provided subject enough for men to discuss the next forty years. The crusade was a much less simple topic to consider, Horace anxious not to probe into such an obviously unhappy issue with his guest. He’d taken an immediate shine to this man; he found his company was de facto much more pleasant than that of the ladies of the court, and he wished to make his stay as agreeable as possible. They had soon taken to using their baptismal names, eschewing titles and grandeur for friendship and a degree of intimacy. But as the wine flowed and the candles burned down, the talk couldn’t avoid the disagreeable for long.
“I know of men who have come home leprous or emasculated. I sometimes think that was a worse fate than for those whose bodies were trampled into the dust of Acre.” Johannes drained his cup and stared bitterly at the dregs. Horace refilled it smoothly and without comment. They stared at the fire for a long while, before the latter spoke.
“Surely you were doing God’s work, though?”
“The vengeful Old Testament God, perhaps. Not the loving father of the New. I tell you, Horace, Christ was scourged afresh every day between Dover and Acre. I saw very little Christian charity or piety practiced.”
“And yet you carried on?”
“Moral cowardice on my part, I suspect. Or I could be generous to myself and say that I stayed so that the small band of reasonable voices wouldn’t dwindle further. Truth to tell I cannot state why.” Johannes laid down his cup and looked for a long time at his host. “You are a good man, Horace. I have heard your praises sung on many an occasion, in our camps. England is in need of honest men of stout heart, she has been this many a long year. I’m pleased to have met you at last.”
They parted, each to an empty and lonely bed, one that hadn’t seen a companion since childhood, when friendship and not lust had been the overriding principle. Neither of them had sought to take a wife, although only their consciences and confessors knew why.
The next few days were spent riding and hunting, Johannes taking a fine stag which would provide a pair of many-branched antlers for the wall and haunches for the kitchens. The hall had supped on venison, rich and cloying, and Horace and his guest had sated themselves on conversation, exchanging question and answer and reaching deeper into each other’s minds and hearts. Only one small cloud darkened the sky of their budding friendship—the steward had reported that the noble visitor was sleeping badly each night, murmuring so loudly in his sleep that he’d roused one of the servants who tended to the guests and this lad had gone to wake the steward. It had been obvious that Johannes was in deep distress.
Horace felt unaccountably upset himself at this report. He speculated that the horrors of the long march to Jerusalem were still being relived in his new acquaintance’s mind, making the sleeping hours as much of a nightmare as the waking ones must have been under the merciless eastern sky. As the two men drank and conversed, Horace became resolved to keep a sharp ear later that night in case events repeated themselves. Because he is my guest and it is my duty to attend him if necessary he repeated in his mind, as if recapitulating the same words ad nauseum would make them more like the truth.
***
The fortified manor at Pain’s Wyke had been one of the Countess of Gloucester’s favourite retreats; when her husband had been away fighting, or in happier times attending to business, then she would take the chosen ladies of her household there. Were it high summer they could enjoy the clean air and the good honest country smells. It was an added advantage that the Lord of the Manor was such a handsome and courteous young man, and the unattached ladies (and one or two respectable matrons who should have known better) were content to flirt with him. It never came to anything, much to their regret, but it made for a pleasant pastime.
England had seen many an unhappy hour during the time that the King and his sister had fought for the throne and nearly torn the country apart in the process. Now, with the return of Maud to France, it was hoped that some sweeter times might be ahead, although not for the Countess, who found she had too many memories of happier times to let her be entirely at ease anywhere in England. Other people might come and stay at the manor, nonetheless; connections of the Earl or well bred travellers who couldn’t complete the journey to the city of Gloucester before nightfall. The lesser folk might seek refuge with Roger, who had the church and served his flock with humility and humour, but the finery stayed with Horace Dumanoir.
Just such a fine young man had sought accommodation one summer morning and been welcomed heartily, his recommendation from Gloucester being impeccable. He was making a slow journey home from the crusade, in the steps of his natural father though determined to let him get home first. This man was second son of an Earl, born the wrong side of the blanket and dearly beloved of his sire, if not of the man’s wife. They had felt it politic to let the nobleman return home first, to rapturous delight, before the by-blow made his appearance. The son might then be greeted rather more warmly, his half brother and step mother having had their fill of the Earl’s affection. The arrangement suited the younger man admirably as it gave time for reflection and rest, something which had been sorely lacking these last few years of hell. Johannes Fitzrichard had taken up arms in his saviour’s cause and regretted almost every moment.
The first evening in Pain’s Wyke he had fallen into the easiest of conversations with his host, Stephen’s war having provided subject enough for men to discuss the next forty years. The crusade was a much less simple topic to consider, Horace anxious not to probe into such an obviously unhappy issue with his guest. He’d taken an immediate shine to this man; he found his company was de facto much more pleasant than that of the ladies of the court, and he wished to make his stay as agreeable as possible. They had soon taken to using their baptismal names, eschewing titles and grandeur for friendship and a degree of intimacy. But as the wine flowed and the candles burned down, the talk couldn’t avoid the disagreeable for long.
“I know of men who have come home leprous or emasculated. I sometimes think that was a worse fate than for those whose bodies were trampled into the dust of Acre.” Johannes drained his cup and stared bitterly at the dregs. Horace refilled it smoothly and without comment. They stared at the fire for a long while, before the latter spoke.
“Surely you were doing God’s work, though?”
“The vengeful Old Testament God, perhaps. Not the loving father of the New. I tell you, Horace, Christ was scourged afresh every day between Dover and Acre. I saw very little Christian charity or piety practiced.”
“And yet you carried on?”
“Moral cowardice on my part, I suspect. Or I could be generous to myself and say that I stayed so that the small band of reasonable voices wouldn’t dwindle further. Truth to tell I cannot state why.” Johannes laid down his cup and looked for a long time at his host. “You are a good man, Horace. I have heard your praises sung on many an occasion, in our camps. England is in need of honest men of stout heart, she has been this many a long year. I’m pleased to have met you at last.”
They parted, each to an empty and lonely bed, one that hadn’t seen a companion since childhood, when friendship and not lust had been the overriding principle. Neither of them had sought to take a wife, although only their consciences and confessors knew why.
The next few days were spent riding and hunting, Johannes taking a fine stag which would provide a pair of many-branched antlers for the wall and haunches for the kitchens. The hall had supped on venison, rich and cloying, and Horace and his guest had sated themselves on conversation, exchanging question and answer and reaching deeper into each other’s minds and hearts. Only one small cloud darkened the sky of their budding friendship—the steward had reported that the noble visitor was sleeping badly each night, murmuring so loudly in his sleep that he’d roused one of the servants who tended to the guests and this lad had gone to wake the steward. It had been obvious that Johannes was in deep distress.
Horace felt unaccountably upset himself at this report. He speculated that the horrors of the long march to Jerusalem were still being relived in his new acquaintance’s mind, making the sleeping hours as much of a nightmare as the waking ones must have been under the merciless eastern sky. As the two men drank and conversed, Horace became resolved to keep a sharp ear later that night in case events repeated themselves. Because he is my guest and it is my duty to attend him if necessary he repeated in his mind, as if recapitulating the same words ad nauseum would make them more like the truth.
***
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