creative writing – Page 9

Forgive me

Published on January 22, 2015November 24, 2015 by milliethom15 Comments

Here is my second contribution to Ermilia’s Picture It And Write Challenge. This is a weekly writing challenge, posted every Sunday, by the author of Emiliablog. The challenge asks that we write a paragraph of fiction, or a poem, in response to the photoprompt given.

Here is the photo prompt for this week . . .

… and here is my response to it:

It was not a night for driving, especially with the atmosphere in the Lexus like ice. Stephanie just sat there, her eyes following the sweep of the windscreen wipers as he told her about Marcelle.

He had desperately wanted her forgiveness, her understanding. It had been a one-night stand after all, not some long-lasting affair! A few too many drinks with the lads, some licentious talk. Then those girls had come in, all short skirts and plunging necklines . . .

‘But I love you,’ Jonathan stressed, catching the glint of her tears in the headlights of oncoming cars. Her continued silence, combined with the frenzied sweeping of the wipers, was fraying his nerves. As they neared the junction with the busy road, the winking indicator displayed his intention to turn right. At a slight break in the traffic, he pulled out.

He didn’t notice Stephanie unclipping her seat belt, or reaching for the door. The first thing he knew, she had flung herself out. A passing car hit her . . .

‘Forgive me,’ he sobbed as the paramedics headed towards them in the glare of overhead lights.

‘And . . . cut.’ The director’s voice boomed across the set. ‘Take twenty. Then we roll on the scene in the morgue.’

Quadrangle

Published on January 16, 2015November 24, 2015 by milliethom43 Comments

Today I’m taking part in Rochelle Risoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers flash fiction challenge, which requires participants to write a piece of fiction in 100 words or less from the photo prompt provided. It’s my first time doing this challenge and I found it good practice in eliminating unnecessary words. (Yikes! Rambling’s a hobby of mine.)

So, here is the prompt . . .

. . . and this is my respone to it:

It was a small area, when one considered the size of the house. A simple, open-aired square, like some Daniel had seen in old Roman ruins. When the sun was low it was shaded, best suited to his dark moods.

The hired assassin made a superb job of his elder brother and parents’ murders, shooting Daniel in the shoulder to deflect the blame. The house was his now. He kept the dining table laid for them, so they’d know he hadn’t hated them: he’d just wanted this house, with the quadrangle. And the hoard of Roman coins buried beneath it.

Word count: 100

You can read other entries to the challenge here

The Twenty-First Birthday

Published on January 15, 2015November 24, 2015 by milliethom13 Comments

I’ve decided to take part in Ermilia’s Picture it and Write Challenge. This is a weekly writing challenge in which participants are asked to write a paragraph of fiction or a poem in response to the photo prompt given. It can be in a different language, as long as a translation is provided. The challenge is organised by Ermisenda Alvarez, the author of Ermiliablog.

This is this the photo prompt for this week . . .

. . . and here is my first contribution to the challenge:

Whenever he gazed into a mirror, he saw him; statue-still at his side and staring back. When he turned away, so did the image. Enrico was not afraid, just confused as to why this had started happening. His twin had died before their fifth birthday. Now, Enrico’s twenty-first loomed.

Enrico had never come to terms with the events of that day. He and Miguel had wandered off to the river with their little fishing nets. Miguel had lost his footing and plummeted into the water. Panicked, Enrico had fled for help, but by the time Papa reached the river, it was too late. No one had blamed Enrico for what happened – yet he had always blamed himself. If only he’d tried to pull Miguel out of the water before running for Papa…

He reached out to touch the mirror and his brother’s fingers reached out to meet his. As the frisson of reunion surged through him, Enrico saw the accident through his twin’s eyes: his head smashing against the river-rock that had killed him. Miguel had already been dead before he slumped into the water. Understanding swept through Enrico. Miguel didn’t want him to suffer misplaced guilt any longer.

‘Enjoy your life as a man, brother,’ was the last message Enrico received as the image faded into nothingness.

Homework – Mondays Finish the Story

Published on January 12, 2015November 24, 2015 by milliethom47 Comments

I’ve decided to participate in Mondays Finish the Story. This is a challenge which involves a photograph and an opening sentence to be finished within 100 – 150 words.

So here is my first offering!

Finish the story begins with: “Racing down into the atmosphere, the unidentified object crashed, leaving behind one heck of a huge crater and a plume of smoke that could be seen from miles around.”

Mrs Jenkins stopped the DVD, her stern gaze sweeping the class over the top of her spectacles.

‘Tell me what we’ve just watched.’

Fifteen-year-old Michael cringed as her eyes rested on him and he took a steadying breath. ‘Something crashed into the earth . . .’

‘And what did you think it was?’

He shrugged. ‘It came too fast.’

‘Hmm,’ Mrs Jenkins murmured, her steely eyes still on him. ‘Have a guess.’

‘A flying saucer?’

The teacher’s lips pursed. ‘What else could have come from outer space?’

Michael knew what it could have been but not what it was called. ‘A huge rock,’ he broached.

Sarah’s hand shot up. ‘A meteorite,’ she chirped cockily. ‘Or perhaps just a fragment of one. We can’t tell how big the crater is.’

‘Good. So tonight’s homework is: What are meteorites? In by tomorrow.’

Michael groaned. His mother was the worst teacher ever.

Word count: 149

The Horrors of the Blood Eagle.

Published on November 23, 2014May 18, 2020 by milliethom33 Comments

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This incredible hazard sign was shared on Facebook on November 11th by The Heathen Mead Hall. It was one of my daughters who drew my attention to it. I don’t know where the sign came from, or who made it, but it’s quite hilarious – considering it refers to such a gruesome thing.

I’m sure that anyone who has been following the TV series ‘Vikings’ will already be familiar with what the blood eagle execution entailed. I haven’t watched the series, for the same reason that I haven’t read the wonderful Bernard Cornwell’s books about King Alfred and the Danes. I don’t want to be influenced in any way by what either say/show until I’ve finished my own books.

Here’s the blood eagle scene from the ‘Vikings’ Tv Series, uploaded to YouTube by Star Wolf:

Wikipedia tells us that the blood eagle was a method of execution, ‘performed by cutting the skin of the victim by the spine, breaking the ribs so they resembled blood-stained wings, and pulling the lungs out through the wounds in the victim’s back. Salt was sprinkled in the wounds. Victims of the method of execution, as mentioned in skaldic poetry and the Norse sagas, are believed to have included King Aella of Northumbria, Halfdan son of King Harald Harfagri of Norway, King Maelgualai of Munster, and possibly Archbishop Aelfeah of Canterbury’.

I’d like to add a couple of points about this barbaric ritual. I’ve referred to, and combined, a number of sources here, so if there are any mistakes, they are my own. Historians today are still in dispute over the authenticity of such accounts. The Viking Orkney website discusses whether the blood eagle was really a method of execution, or simply a literary addition, included for dramatic effect. It tells us that the blood eagle appears in several Nordic accounts, including one from the Anglo Saxon Chronicle. In that we hear how the Northumbrian king, Aella, was executed by Ivar the Boneless:

“They caused the bloody eagle to be carved on the back of Ælla, and they cut away all of the ribs from the spine, and then they ripped out his lungs.”

It also appears in Norna-Gests páttr, where Regin executes Lyngvi:

“Regin then took his sword from me, and with it carved Lyngvi’s back until the ribs were cut from the back, and the lungs drawn out. Thus Lyngvi died with great valour.”

Some scholars firmly believe that the blood eagle took place. Others believe it could be derived from metaphors used in Skaldic verse – as in the saga attributed to Einar, in which the term ‘eagle’s claws’ represents violent death. Following Halfdan’s death, Einar recited:

“Mighty men of no mean race,
From divers mansions of the earth;
But for that they do not know,
These, until they lay me low,
Which of us the eagle’s claws
Shall bow beneath ere all be o’er.”

It’s been suggested that this could be the source of the blood eagle episode. But whether the practice was used or not is still highly debatable, although take a look at this image on the Hannars I Stone on the island of Gotland. It clearly shows a person lying on their front over a table and someone attacking his back with a weapon:

images (2) — A scene from the Stora Hammars 1 stone. Author: The Man in Question (from source: Sacrificial scene on Hammar). Creative Commons.

Viking novels and films have become popular in recent years – many of them including scenes of extreme violence and brutality. They make good reading or viewing. And as long as we don’t accept everything we read or watch as totally accurate, that’s fine. I even have a ‘blood-eagling’ scene in my own second book. But I take care not to present all the Vikings as totally evil and/or debauched. I even have some rather nice ones.

Another gruesome image – but not exactly primary evidence.

574431c10852ddb294f159969674236f — Image from Pinterest

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream . . .

Published on October 29, 2014November 24, 2015 by milliethomLeave a comment

This week I’ve been following a discussion on The Online Book Club regarding whether or not dream sequences should be used in novels. As with most things, opinions vary greatly. Some people see dreams as a useful method of imparting additional information about a character or events, whereas others proclaim they should be avoided at all cost.

In my novel, Shadow of the Raven, I have one short scene in which my protagonist, Eadwulf – Ulf at this stage in the book – experiences a great tragedy in his life. The dream is a result of events too traumatic for him to bear. Here it is:

Ulf was aboard the Sea Eagle, sailing north towards the beguiling Lofoten Islands. The heavy sail flapped and seabirds wheeled and screeched, guillemots, gulls and kittiwakes amongst them. Waves slapped the hull, sunlight glistened on the blue-grey water and the salty breeze ruffled his hair. Coastward, the green-swathed Norwegian mountains, intersected by steep-sided fjords, almost took his breath away. Colonies of black and white puffins with brightly coloured beaks perched on their nests along the cliffs and cormorants stretched, drying their wings in the sun. A sea-eagle swooped to inspect the ship to which it had given its name before plucking a fish from beneath the brine. Whilst seaward, foam-white sea-horses played on the water’s surface and whiskered seals bobbed. The massive bulk of a silver whale shot great spouts of water high into the air, to cascade down again, rainbow colours of light dancing in their midst.

Somehow Ulf knew he was dreaming; yet he refused to wake up. His mind was cushioned by this sense of peace, taking him to where he wanted so much to be: this place out at sea with Bjorn and his crew, where he was valued, respected for what he was. He inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of salty air. But the smell gradually lessened, evolving into the sharp tang of spices, mingled with the earthy smells of vegetables.

His eyes shot open . . .

Any opinions regarding the use of dreams in fiction would be very welcome.

To Contract Or Not To Contract, That Is The Question . . .

Published on October 19, 2014November 25, 2015 by milliethom5 Comments

I’ve been mulling over this question for a while now. Most of us use word contractions in our everyday conversations – how stuffy our chatting would sound without them? Imagine saying to a best friend, ‘Let us go for a walk now the rain has stopped.’ Wouldn’t we be more likely to say, ‘Let’s go for a walk now the rain’s stopped’?

Perhaps not something you’d say to your best friend, anyway, but I hope you get my meaning.

So what can we say about the use of contractions in novel writing?

Personally, I think the same thing applies to written fiction as to everyday speech. Surely, a book written without the commonly used contractions, especially in speech, would be dull and extremely stilted. (There are several definitions of this word, the following amongst them: stiff or artificially formal; wooden; pompous.)

So, how can we apply this to historical fiction?

Someone who read and reviewed my book on Goodreads (very favourably with an excellent, 5 star rating) messaged me privately to say that she wasn’t sure about the use of contractions in a novel set in the ninth century . . .

Well, I was a little thrown by that at first, although I’ve read many historical novels that do use contractions. So I consulted my editor, a very experienced professional. His immediate reaction to my suggestion of removing contractions from my current work-in-progress was one of almost shock-horror!

Then he added, ‘Don’t even consider taking out the contractions, if only for my sake!’

This was followed by a lecture which, basically, followed the theme of my earlier post entitled, ‘Forsooth sir, canst thou not speak more plainly?’

Everything comes down to the changes in language over the centuries and how it is used. The language used in ninth-century Britain would have been as different to modern English as Russian is today. And who’s to say whether or not people contracted their words in bygone days? I imagine they would have done, and an interesing article I found on the Historically Irrelevant website supports that belief.

Even Shakespeare used a contraction in the title of his play, ‘All’s Well That Ends Well.’ Admittedly, that was several hundred years later than the ninth century – but I still hold to my point.

These are the key things I understand from all this:

A fiction writer obviously needs to make a story interesting. In an informal/colloquial setting, stilted speech is out of place, and would probably not endear the character to the reader (unless we are purposely creating a stiff, pompous kind of person).
In formal writing, language should not be littered with contractions. In informal writing, contractions seem to be acceptable.
The use of contractions in historical fiction should not be seen as incorrect – unless the author particularly chooses to write in a more formal way.

When it comes to the nitty gritty, like most things in life it’s all a question of personal preference.

Did you know . . .?

The commonly used word, ‘Goodbye’ is a contraction of the old phrase, ‘God be with you’? A more detailed look at this can be seen here.

Most word contractions use only one apostrophe. But here are a few double contractions, with two apostrophes to think about (although, I must admit, I’ve never seen the third one with two apostrophes before. I know it’s made up of two words, shall and not, but it’s usually just written as shan’t . . . isn’t it?):

blackboard_double_contractions — Image from the ‘about education’ website

Note: Header image, ‘Contractions’, is from k-3teacherresources.com

A dalliance with fantasy

Published on September 2, 2014August 21, 2016 by milliethomLeave a comment

When night’s dark shadows bow deference to the burgeoning dawn, the dreams will come. She can no more prevent them coming than she can stop the sands of Time from flowing. It has always been thus, since the Beginning. Her destiny is to know; to remember what has been and envision what has yet to come.

The sweet smell of honeysuckle suffuses the cave and her face assumes the serenity of one accustomed to the way of things. Her consciousness is immersed in colour: a vortex of dazzling hues, entwined in fierce embrace. She waits, motionless, for the tones to unravel, the images to form . . .

Green is first: verdant forest and meadow, rippling in the breath of a soft summer breeze; downy hills rolling to the distant horizon. Blue follows soon: cobalt seas that dance at the touch of golden sunbeams, the sky a vastness of azure splendour. The woman sighs, humbled by such beauty.

Then red erupts and she gasps, loath to remember. Scarlet hurtles through the valleys and befouls the streams. Women in Roman garb scream in panicked flight from blue-painted warriors intent on their slaughter; mutilated shapes ooze scarlet amidst Andredsweald’s great oaks.

Centuries slip by and scarlet intermittently ebbs and flows. The present races past and the future is suddenly upon her. Black ravens fly, and scarlet is again in full spate.

But honey-gold stands ready.

Some time before I came to my senses and realised that the story of Alfred the Great didn’t lend itself too well to fantasy, I wrote the whole of my now historical fiction novel (Shadow of the Raven) as historical fantasy. The ‘she’ in the scene above is an immortal being – which you’ve probably already gathered. I won’t bore you with her role in the story, but it was a fairly major one.

Imagine how long it took to take out all the fantasy parts. As with the battle scene I posted recently, it’s all still in my deleted file . . .

The Trials And Tribulations Of A First Time Novelist

Published on August 31, 2014September 8, 2016 by milliethom3 Comments

At present I have one book well and truly finished (Shadow of the Raven). It has been professionally edited, and is now published on Amazon. I’m currently working on the final sections of Book 2 of the trilogy (Pit of Vipers) and hope to have that on Amazon before too long.

I have to admit that my writing speed has improved with Book 2. Shadow of the Raven seemed to take forever: I wrote and rewrote, deleted and saved, or totally scrapped so much of it. I can say with all honesty that my ‘Deleted’ file is almost a novel’s worth in itself!

But for Book 2, much of the basic research into the historical events and everyday life in the mid ninth century has already been done, and my writing style, storyline and characters have taken shape. So I feel much more confident in getting my ideas down this time around. That is not to say that the writing now just flows effortlessly to the computer keys with every scene. With some sections it does, but there are many new settings, situations and characters to be described and developed in Book 2 – and, of course, hopefully made to sound interesting – if not totally intriguing!

For experienced authors, many of the things I’ve agonised over are not an issue. Though I found little difficulty with viewpoint and character depiction, the development of the plot was a different matter. I knew what my story was about and what I wanted to include, but I soon learned that the story was not the same as the plot. Keeping the right balance between action scenes, emotional and humorous ones – or even those just necessary to move the story along – needs detailed planning, as well as careful consideration of the ‘show don’t tell’ element. Thankfully, I do love writing dialogue, and find it a wonderful way of ‘showing’ the many facets of characters.

Please bear in mind that I’m still new to the novel writing business. I have no doubt that many of you out there could easily write pages on the points I’m trying to make here. What I’m really saying is that novel writing is a long, slow learning process, and at the beginning I think it’s normal to struggle with the intricacies of the job. Me . . . well, I even whittled about word count, for goodness sake!

With regard to the latter, many of the scenes in my ‘Deleted’ file are there by virtue of my own editing once the book was finished. On consideration of the length of my original manuscript (which had grown to become a great monstrosity of a thing!) I set about deleting scenes I thought unnecessary to the continuation of the plot. For me, that was hard, since everything I had written was there because I liked it – and had taken time to do in the first place. Still, the over-long tale had to be shortened somehow.

But I love writing and no matter what ‘trials and tribulations’ I meet along the way, I know I’ll persevere. I have several ideas for future novels, but right now I’m focusing on getting my Sons of Kings trilogy finished.

I’d like to share one of the deleted sections here. It would have featured towards the end of what is now Chapter 4 of Shadow of the Raven. It’s a battle scene – something I really wasn’t looking forward to doing in the first place – in which King Aethelwulf of Wessex defeats the marauding Dane, Rorik.

Rorik’s raids play a vital part to the future events of the story, but I found that by removing the entire chapter in which this scene featured, I not only saved words but was able to move the main plot along quicker. The results of the battle are revealed indirectly in the following chapter. I still have qualms over whether I should have left it in. Anyway, here’s the scene:

The Battle of Aclea

An owl screeched its alarm, flapping from a low branch to glide like a spectre between the oaks of the woodland behind. One of the horses whinnied in response to the harsh cry and King Aethelwulf prayed the sound would not carry to the enemy below.

Entrusting their mounts to a handful of men until the battle was done, Aethelwulf and his hundred warriors crouched at the top of a gentle slope, taut as bowstrings; shields slung across backs, two or three javelins held inside each, and swords hanging from baldrics. Beyond the slope, the shadowy plain stretched for less than a mile before rising to the wooded ridge. Along the foot of the ridge, remnants of watch fires threw muted light on the edge of the camp. Aethelwulf hoped the guards would be too drowsy at this hour to be vigilant.

The eastern sky was paling fast; at sunrise the camp would rouse, the element of surprise lost. Scanning the top of the ridge, praying that Osmund and Aethelbald’s men were waiting, he raised his arm, the signal to advance down the slope.

Stooping low they moved in silence, crouching at intervals behind scrubby gorse and bramble, panted breaths evidence of heightened tensions as inevitable combat neared. The shouted alarm came as they moved across the open ground in the growing light of imminent dawn, the camp now less than a hundred yards away. The Danes swarmed from their tents, howling to their gods; hurling spears and rocks at their rapidly nearing assailants.

‘Shield wall!’ Aethelwulf yelled.

The manoeuvre into the tight wall was instant; two rows deep, shields overlapping, left sides over right. At Aethelwulf’s side in the centre of the front line the standard bearer hoisted the Wessex banner, the great white dragon on its backdrop of red, eliciting jeers and hammering of spears on shields from the Danes, now lined in their own defensive wall barely twenty five yards away. But, as Aethelwulf had hoped, few wore body armour: shields and helmets were all the late alarm had afforded.

The drumming on shields abruptly ceased and an ominous silence pervaded the plain. Warriors stood rigid, muscles flexed for the opening strike.

The first spears whistled as the two lines strove to weaken each other’s defences. Most flew overhead. Some glanced off shields; some slammed into them and held fast. A few struck unresistant flesh. Men screamed and fell.

And the gaps in the shieldwalls reclosed.

Gradually the missiles lessened, then ceased, and Aethelwulf moved forward a pace, his eyes fixed on a bull-necked figure standing prominently in the enemy front line. ‘So… the straggling remnants of Rorik’s warband think to challenge the might of Wessex!’ he mocked. ‘Naked raven chicks are no match for the clutch of the dragon!’

Rorik stepped out and threw open his arms. ‘We quake in our boots at the prattle of a deranged old man!’ The Danes wailed in mock terror. ‘Look closely at what you face, great king. Naked of armour we may be, but we are double your number. Yet you think to better us!’ He threw back his head and roared, the sound a chilling mix of derisive laugh and snarl. ‘Our chicks enjoyed pecking the eyes from your Saxon whores and butchering the curs you call men! And your gold will serve us well.’

Aethelwulf snorted. ‘Your murderous hordes have gained no more than a few captives and a modicum of plunder from poor homesteads. Saxon gold will never be within your thieving grasp.’

Rorik seethed, Aethelwulf’s denigration too accurate to deny. ‘Say your prayers to your god old man. Your mangy carcasses will feed the buzzards!’

The clash of colliding armies defiled the peace of the dawning day. Weapons thrust through gaps between shields, stabbing and slashing at legs, feet and faces, maiming exposed flesh and bringing men down, creating crucial breaches in the enemy wall. Danes dropped like swatted flies, despite outnumbering the Saxons two to one, their lack of body armour costing them dear. Aethelwulf fought with the vigour of a warrior half his age, his focus on Rorik. But gradually the craven jarl retreated behind his men, safe from Wessex swords.

Then Osmund’s hundred men were careering across the plain. Panicked, too many Danes turned to counter the oncoming wave, ignoring the continued frontal assault. Beset from front and rear the already depleted Danish force stood little chance and Saxon warriors showed no mercy. The battle was soon over.

Shouts alerted Aethelwulf to the group of riders fleeing from the empty camp towards the Roman road, Rorik’s swarthy bulk in their midst. But Saxon mounts had not yet been retrieved, and Aethelwulf could do no more than watch the riders fade into the distance. Tracking them down would be futile. Though he knew Rorik would head eventually for Thanet, Aethelwulf could not spare the men to cover the myriad, minor tracks he might take.

They buried their dead with Christian prayers and full honour; those men had given their lives for Wessex. Enemy corpses were relieved of their spoils and left where they’d fallen, a feast for the scavengers.

‘Gather their horses,’ Aethelwulf yelled. ‘Take whatever we can make use of from the tents, then fire them. Then we head home.’

Whether or not I did the right thing in deleting this, it’s too late now. The book is published. But I’ve brought attention to it here simply to add weight to what I said about the long, slow learning path towards becoming an experienced and, hopefully, good novelist. In this instance, deleting a great chunk of this chapter rid me of 1,526 words (the battle scene itself is 879 words) but at the expense of causing me some pangs of regret – not to mention annoyance at myself for wasting time writing it in the first place.

*****

For The Love Of Writing…

Published on August 24, 2014September 8, 2016 by milliethomLeave a comment

I know I’m not telling anyone anything new when I say that the writing of any work of fiction, whether novel or short story, requires both knowledge and creativity, not to mention a lot of hard work.

In the words of American writer, Dennis R. Miller:

“Writing a novel is like traveling the universe on foot.”

And from Samuel Johnson:

“What is written without effort is generally read without pleasure.”

And this quote about writing from David Eddings, who, sadly, died in 2009, always makes me smile:

We all gain a considerable amount of knowledge during our journeys through life, but for writing about places, situations, characters and time periods beyond our own little boxes, there’s always the good old Internet! Failing that, there are scores of books for sale out there on every subject imaginable – many in cheap bookstores, charity shops, second hand bookstores or car boot or garage sales. And in my experience, most librarians are more than willing to point us in the right direction. In short, there’s really no excuse to shirk the research, whatever the genre being written.

But for some genres more than others – and I’m talking about fiction here, not non-fiction, for which research must be a mammoth task – thorough research is vital: historical fiction, naturally, being uppermost on my mind, with crime and law enforcement close on its heels (all that forensic stuff!). Anything involving medical issues is another one.

Creativity in novel writing is also vital. Without it, the story would be flat and lifeless and characters very dull. In the words of Jack Kerouac WD:

“It ain’t whatcha write, it’s the way atcha write it.”

In other words, writing should appeal to the senses, and we should remember to ‘show, don’t tell’.

I’ve included a short scene from my book, Shadow of the Raven, here. It comes fairly close to the beginning of the story, and is intended as an introduction to young Eadwulf’s father, King Beorhtwulf of Mercia, and his brother Burgred, Eadwulf’s uncle. Eadwulf is one of the book’s two protagonists – Alfred of Wessex being the other. As the harsh winter in the year 851 begins to melt into spring, the scene also serves to present the first hint that life in Mercia is about change.

With his huntsmen and attendant thegns, King Beorhtwulf rode back from the forest, his two great wolfhounds loping along beside him. It had been a good hunt, confirmed by the quarry slung over the backs of the pack horses. Cooks flapped in appreciation as the huge deer and smaller game were laid outside the wattle-walled building that served as kitchen and bakehouse.

Beorhtwulf surveyed the carcass of the felled deer, an old stag with massive, branching antlers. The slow old beast had made easy prey. ‘It hardly seems fair, does it brother?’

‘What doesn’t seem fair?’ Burgred squinted at Beorhtwulf as unaccustomed sunshine brightened the sky. The air had lost its penetrating bite and he fingered the brooch fastening his black cloak.

‘To end a long life like this…’ Beorhtwulf shrugged his broad shoulders, touching the toe of his boot to the lifeless form. ‘He looks a noble creature; probably sired many calves in his time. To end up spitted over our hearth seems to deprive him of all dignity in death.’

‘Your sentimentality is misguided brother. The beast would surely be gratified to know he afforded many people much pleasure and kept our bellies full. And he was old… would soon have fallen to the forest floor where his carcass would have slowly rotted away, or been eaten by woodland scavengers. Does that sound very dignified to you? Besides, what use would scavengers have for those antlers, when our craftsmen can turn them into such useful things? You know how Morwenna loves her antler combs and bits of jewellery. I’m partial to antler knife handles myself, and the men would be lost without their gaming dice.’

Beorhtwulf grinned at his younger brother, half a head shorter than himself, his red-brown hair less fiery than his own bright red. ‘Point taken, Burgred. The meat will be more useful to us than foxes and the like. Let’s hope today marks the onset of a warm spring,’ he murmured, a note of optimism in his voice. ‘Our people grow restless to sow the corn and move the stock out to pasture.’

But Beorhtwulf was a worried man. The onset of spring would bring a far greater threat to Mercia than the snows, and at tomorrow’s meeting of the Witan there were urgent matters to discuss. With a heavy sigh he whistled for his hounds and strode towards the reed-thatched hall to share the morning meal with his wife and son.

*****