Friday, 8 January 2010
Saturday, 23 May 2009
The Sea Witch Series - Voyages of Cpt Jesamiah Acorne
Voyage One - Sea WitchVoyage Two - Pirate Code
Voyage Three - Bring It Close 
Pirate-based Adventure Fantasy
Pirate-based Adventure Fantasyfor readers who like a good sailor's yarn!
The Time: The Golden Age of Piracy - 1716.
The Place: The Pirate Round
The Place: The Pirate Round
Come and meet Captain Jesamiah Acorne
and his woman - the White Witch, Tiola Oldstagh
Escaping the bullying of his elder half brother, from the age of fifteen Jesamiah Acorne has been a pirate with only two loves - his ship and his freedom. But his life is to change when he and his crewmates unsuccessfully attack a merchant ship off the coast of South Africa.
He is to meet Tiola Oldstagh an insignificant girl, or so he assumes - until she rescues him from a vicious attack, and almost certain death, by pirate hunters. And then he discovers what she really is; a healer, a midwife - and a white witch. Her name, an anagram of "all that is good."
Tiola and Jesamiah become lovers, but the wealthy Stefan van Overstratten, a Cape Town Dutchman, also wants Tiola as his wife and Jesamiah's jealous brother, Phillipe Mereno, is determined to seek revenge for resentments of the past, a stolen ship and the insult of being cuckolded in his own home.
When the call of the sea and an opportunity to commandeer a beautiful ship – the Sea Witch - is put in Jesamiah's path he must make a choice between his life as a pirate or his love for Tiola. He wants both, but Mereno and van Overstratten want him dead.
In trouble, imprisoned in the darkness and stench that is the lowest part of his brother's ship, can Tiola with her gift of Craft, and the aid of his loyal crew, save him?
Using all her skills Tiola must conjure up a wind to rescue her lover, but first she must brave the darkness of the ocean depths and confront the supernatural being, Tethys, the Spirit of the Sea, an elemental who will stop at nothing to claim Jesamiah Acorne’s soul and bones as a trophy.
********
"In the sexiest pirate contest Jesamiah Acorne gives Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow a run for his money." Sharon Penman
"Sea Witch gives us everything we want in a grand pirate adventure - swashbuckling action, great villains, lovely women in distress, sea fights and adventures on land, all grounded in solid research that gives the book a real feel of authenticity. This is a terrific read for lovers of pirate tales, lovers of historical fiction, and lovers of great adventure stories." James L. Nelson
"A wonderful swash-buckler of a novel. Fans of Pirates of the Caribbean will love this to pieces of eight! A fabulous splash of piratical adventure on the high seas. Prepare to be abducted by a devil-may-care pirate and enchanted by a white witch. Mayhem and magic, splendour and squalor, beautiful ships, dangerous pirates and wild women, Helen Hollick has written a fabulous historical adventure that will have you reading into the small hours!" Elizabeth Chadwick
Read an extract from SEA WITCH
In the depths, in the abyss of darkness at the very bottom of the oceans Tethys stirred.She was the soul of the sea, the spirit of the waves and was capable,as the mood took her, of benign complaisance or malicious rage.She was without form or solidity yet she saw, heard, and became aware of everything within her jurisdiction.And she ruled her water realm with unchallenged power and a terrible omnipotence.
At Sea
§1
Mermaid was moving fast, the ship bowling along with her sails filled, the canvas billowing, cordage creaking and straining. She climbed over the next wave, her bow lifting to linger a moment before swooping down into another deluge of spray. Completing the seesaw movement her stern soared high as the roller trundled beneath her keel. The wind smelt of hot, dry and dusty land, of jungle and grass savannah. Of Africa.
The look out, clad in an old shirt and sailor's breeches was perched high in the crosstrees, one hundred and thirty feet above the deck. Excited, he pointed to the horizon. "Over there Jesamiah, that's where I saw 'er. I swear I saw a sail!"
With the ease of years of practice, Jesamiah Acorne stepped from the rigging on to the narrow platform that swayed with the lift and plunge of the ship. He hooked his arm through a t'gallant shroud and brought his telescope to his eye, scanned the ocean. Nothing. Nothing except a flat expanse of blue emptiness going on, unbroken, for twenty miles. And beyond that? Another twenty, and another. These were the waters of the Gulf of Guinea, the huge stretch of sea beneath the bulb of land where the trade wealth of West Africa was turned into fat profit: gold, ivory and slaves. The African coast, where merchants found their plentiful supply of human misery and where an entire ship's crew could be wiped out by fever within a week. Where pirates hunted in search of easy prey.
The crew of the Mermaid were not interested in slavers or the foetid coast. Their rough-voiced, ragged-faced Captain, Malachias Taylor, had more lucrative things in mind - the sighting of another ship, preferably a full-laden, poorly manned merchantman with a rich cargo worth plundering. "What can y'see?" he shouted from the deck, squinting upwards at his quartermaster, the relentless sun dazzling his eyes. His second-in-command, Jesamiah, like his father before him, was one of the best seamen Taylor knew.
"Nothing! If young Daniel here did see a sail he has better sight than I 'ave," Jesamiah called down, the frustration clear in his voice. All the same, he studied the sea again with the telescope.
Jesamiah Acorne. Quick to smile, formidable when angered. Tall, tanned, with strong arms and a seaman's tar-stained and callused hands. His black hair fell as an untidy chaos of natural curls to his shoulders, laced into it, lengths of blue ribbon which streamed about his face in the wind, the whipping ends stinging his cheeks. The ladies ashore thought them a wonderful prize when he occasionally offered one as a keepsake.
If there was a ship, Daniel would only have glimpsed her highest sails, the topgallants; the rest of her would still be hull down, unseen below the curve of the horizon. "I think you had too much rum last night, my lad," Jesamiah grinned. "Your eyes are playing tricks on you."
Young Daniel was adamant. "I saw her I say. I'll wager m'next wedge of baccy I did!"
"You know I cannot abide the stuff," Jesamiah chuckled good-natured as he stretched out his arm to ruffle the lad's mop of hair. He had turned his back on anything to do with tobacco - except stealing it - seven years ago when his elder brother had thrown him off their dead father's plantation, with the threat he would hang if ever he returned. But then, Phillipe Mereno was only a half brother and he had always been a cheat and a bully. One day, for the misery of his childhood, Jesamiah would find the opportunity to go back and finish beating the bastard to a pulp.
Out of habit he touched the gold charm dangling from his right earlobe: an acorn, to match the signet ring he had worn since early youth. Presents from his Spanish mother, God rest her soul. She had always thought the acorn, the fruit of the solid and dependable oak tree to be lucky. It had been the first word to come to mind when he had needed a new name in a hurry. Acorne, with an "e" to make the name unique, and his own. About to shut the telescope a flash caught his eye and Jesamiah whisked the bring-it-close upwards again. The sun reflecting on something?
"Wait… Damn it, Daniel - I've got her!" The sudden enthusiasm carried in an eager flurry as he shouted down to the deck, his words greeted by a hollered cheer from the rag-tag of men who made the Mermaid's crew.
Even the usually dour-faced Malachias Taylor managed a smile. "Probably a slaver," he muttered, "but we'll set all sail an' pay her a visit." His gap-toothed smile broadened into a grin. "She might be wantin' company, eh lads?"
Aye she might, but not the sort of company the Mermaid would be offering!
~ EXCLUSIVE ~
the following extract is ONLY available here on Blogger - or in the book!
4
Mermaid had been heeling slightly, as they rounded the point protecting the natural harbour of Cape Town she steadied on an even keel and then rolled to starboard. With cordage and timber complaining, the wheel was put over.
“Tops’l sheets,” Jesamiah shouted as the ship glided into her destined anchorage to the western edge of the Bay. “Tops’l clew lines… Helm-a-lee!” And Mermaid turned into the wind, her sails coming aback, her forward motion ceasing as she eased sedately to a halt.
The lime-whitened walls of buildings with their green shutters and tiled or thatched roofs, sprawled between the sea and the rugged, upward sweep of the flat-topped, aptly named Table Mountain. Flanking the dominant plateau was the smaller cone of Devil’s Peak and the elongated Signal Hill, the lower extension of the Lion’s Head, a mass of rock rearing two thousand feet high that did indeed resemble a crouching lion. Jesamiah found himself staring, awe-struck. The panorama was spectacular.
Driven by the relentless wind howling up from the ice-ridden lands of Antarctica, the Atlantic swept in to spume against tumbled rocks and run against the wide, sweeping curve of sand. Jesamiah had expected Cape Town to be as he imagined all of Africa; impenetrable jungle or empty desert shimmering in a haze of blistering heat. Yes, it was hot, for this was January the southern hemisphere summer, but apart from the bareness of the mountain tops, everything was flushed with a vibrant green.
The famous gardens of the Dutch East India Company, covering all of forty-five acres, were vivid against the backdrop of Table Mountain. The Dutch had planted them specifically; trees and bushes for fruit, and every kind of vegetable that would grow in this climate. The object, to create a trade post for the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, the V.O.C., to provide a convenient place for Dutch ships to make repairs, for sailors to rest and stores to be replenished. The trade post had become a settlement, and the settlement had rapidly expanded into a town of more than one thousand permanent residents. Of the fluid population, there was no count. Probably three times as many again.
The crew, leaning over the rails or hanging from the shrouds were gossiping, excited. Jesamiah ignored the buzz of conversation; there was always this lift of expectation at coming into harbour. He felt the euphoria himself, going ashore was suddenly very appealing. They had been at sea a long time. Mermaid desperately needed careening, to be safely beached somewhere for the barnacles, weed and the worm boring into her wooden hull to be scraped clean. A ship that was not careened was a slow ship, and pirate craft by necessity of their trade needed to be fast. It would have to wait a while though, until they sailed on to Madagascar where pirates were welcome and an anchorage was safe. As for the entertainment? Jesamiah grinned, anticipating the delights on offer to a healthy young man who had been at sea for more weeks than he cared to tally.
“Let go!” he yelled, and the fluked anchor, twice the height of a man, splashed down into the water, its cable chuntering busily out through the hawse-hole. They were securely anchored and Jesamiah did not mind admitting he was relieved to be here in more or less one piece. Repairing the Mermaid after that tangle with the Christina Giselle had been a frustrating, time-consuming delay, but as it turned out, not too much of a nuisance. There had been no need to pretend distress to lure another vessel in, the damage to both ship and men had been real enough.
Fortunately, they had struck lucky with a second Spanish trader homeward bound from the East Indies, full laden and worth waiting for. Hoisting Spanish colours - with Jesamiah being half the breed and able to speak the language fluently, his black hair making him look every inch a Spaniard from Cadiz, they had shouted for aid, claiming they had been attacked by pirates. Had taken the unsuspecting victim without a single shot fired from cannon or pistol. That was the art of piracy, to successfully dupe or threaten; to give the impression of horrors that could be unleashed if there was no immediate surrender.
For their purpose in Cape Town they had painted out the Mermaid’s name, and added subtle disguises; rigging different sails and fixing two more ornate lanterns, procured from the Spaniard, to either side of the single lamp on the stern taffrail. She was now the highly respectable Mary Anne, a British trader bound for India, anchoring in harbour to take on essential supplies.
Half an hour later, the ship tidied and made ready for when she was to next sail, and wearing his best, not too faded coat and favoured three-cornered hat, Jesamiah was sauntering along the jetty towards the pentagonal fortress protecting both town and harbour. A prerequisite of all trading harbours, especially those dominated by the Dutch, to verify a ship’s papers. Failure to do so could result in being blasted out of the water by the several cannon aimed directly at the hull.
He followed the tree-lined canal that ran down from the gardens to flow into the sea beside the fort. A pleasant stroll, except for what leered behind him at the end of the jetty down on the muddy sand of the shore. The gallows. Empty and forlorn, malevolently waiting for a man, a pirate, to decorate the cross-beam.
Tipping his hat backwards slightly and puffing his cheeks, he halted at the fort’s archway, a dark-shadowed mouth gaping black against the white of lime-washed walls. Above, an impressive bell tower; he peered at a brass plaque announcing the bell had been cast in Amsterdam in 1697. Beneath it, the coat of arms of the V.O.C. All of it intent on making a statement of invincible strength. In the bright sun on the far side of the tunnel stretching beneath the arch, Dutch soldiers were drilling, muskets aslant across their shoulders. There were dungeons inside this fort. Jesamiah took a fortifying breath, straightened his hat, smoothed his moustache and touched his earring. Best get the job done, present the papers to the harbourmaster. That they were false was immaterial, they looked authentic. The task had fallen to Jesamiah because Taylor had been here before, several times. On the last occasion, only by a stroke of good fortune had he avoided an intimate friendship with those gallows.
Garrison quarters, blacksmith, sailmaker, cooper’s bothies. Kitchens, bakery, armoury - the usual cramped bustle of a full-strength fortress. Jesamiah found the harbourmaster’s office tucked two doors along, with Erik Vorst seated behind a desk awash with a glut of papers and documents. A sullen, fat-bellied man with bad breath, and from the way he continuously belched, a martyr to chronic indigestion.
“Where is your captain then?” Vorst asked testily as he squinted at the illegible writing of the two documents Jesamiah handed him. “It is usual for the captain to present these, not his subordinate.”
“As it is usual for the Mary Anne’s captain to be drunk in his cot. He will not emerge for another four and twenty hours yet,” Jesamiah answered smoothly, his deep, husky voice losing the clipped pirate accent he used when aboard with the men. Jesamiah was educated, able to read, write, tally numbers and knew the intricacies of navigation. It came in useful to be able to change his speech patterns as necessity demanded.
Vorst belched again and scratched beneath his armpit, releasing a pungent smell of body odour. Drunk? Ja, he had heard the same before. “Where are you bound?”
“Bombay, Calcutta. Might cruise on down to Sumatra or Java.” Jesamiah lied as he perched one buttock on the corner of the desk, ignoring the ensuing frown of disapproval. “What I would prefer to do is go on to New Holland – Australia some are calling it now, are they not? Have a go at circumnavigation. Round the world, eh? What an adventure!” He narrowed his eyes and peered into an imaginary distance, enjoying the false embellishment of conversation.
He could think of nothing more dreadful than sailing all the way around the globe. Pitting ship and soul against those monstrous seas off Cape Horn? No thank you! Bravado might suit some, but he had all the excitement he needed in the existence he already had. He sighed, slapped his hands against his thighs, rubbed them along the worn canvas of his breeches. “The Mary Anne is not suitably equipped for such a journey, and our captain is not,” he paused rubbed his moustache, his embarrassment apparently genuine. “I was going to say competent, but that sounds disloyal. Intrepid, perhaps?”
Failing to see the lie, shrugging, the harbourmaster rolled the ship’s papers and handed them back to Jesamiah along with the document giving permission to be anchored. “Dank u. Hand this in at the gate as you leave, it’ll ensure the guns are stood down. In my opinion for such a venture you either have to be barking mad or an utter bore. We have both lack-lustre qualities residing here in Cape Town at the moment. Captain Woodes Rogers put in two months ago.” He vaguely gestured over his shoulder. “His ships are in harbour, you must have noticed them? Duke and Duchess. I wish to God he’d stay his mouth, return aboard and clear off back to England. If I hear one more account of how he captured the Acapulco Galleon or Nuestra Señora, I’ll cut my throat,” muttered quietly under his breath, “Or his.”
Jesamiah frowned. He had noticed the ships, had taken a careful look at what was anchored as they sailed into harbour to ensure the Christina Giselle was not among them. It would not do to be recognised. “Rogers? Never heard of him.”
“Nor do you want to. He seems to have made a profitable job of his privateering commission against Spain and is determined to ensure everyone knows about it. His holds are stuff-packed with Spanish bullion, so he claims. Don’t believe a word of it myself.”
Carefully, Jesamiah schooled his face to remain neutral, although it was difficult to keep the gleam of lust from his eyes. Two rich pickings right here in front of them? Best leave them alone, they would never get past the fort’s battery, not while the Mermaid was worm-riddled and encrusted with barnacles. Now, if they had already careened? Ah well.
“Privateer eh?” He said with a shrug. “A British commission to legally plunder anything flying a Spanish ensign? I don’t suppose the Spanish see it that way. They’d say he was nothing but a scamp of a pirate.”
“We don’t hold with pirates in these waters,” Vorst answered huffily, affronted at the offensive word, pirate.
“Rightly so, but the distinction between privateering and pirating depends on which side the wind is blowing from, does it not?” Jesamiah smiled, friendly, at ease. “If I were Spanish for example, I could blast the shit out of Duke and Duchess and claim I had every right to do so.”
“Except the heavy artillery of this fort would be blowing you to kingdom come before you could get more than one shot fired.”
Conceding the point, Jesamiah grinned, adding, “Unless the Dutch government decide to change alliance and side with Spain.” At the disapproving glare he thought it prudent to alter tack. “You said one is mad?”
“As one of your English March hares. Dampier. William Dampier. Had too much of the sun boiling his brains if you ask me. Obsessed with detailing every living thing he comes across, always scribbling in his note-book. I saw him flat on his belly down on the beach the other day, wig askew, studying a crab would you believe? I mean, for God’s sake, the things are only fit for eating. What point in drawing the little sods?”
Jesamiah’s eyes had lit up, glowing with excitement. “Dampier? Now him I have heard of.” William Dampier here in Cape Town? The most famous, most successful buccaneer to torment the Spanish – a man who had drawn a very fine line between legitimate privateering and the hanging offence of piracy! He had first rounded Cape Horn and crossed the Pacific to the East Indies in 1680, had circumnavigated the World yet again since then – three occasions if this Woodes Rogers had indeed commanded another successful expedition. Jesamiah’s copy of Dampier’s book, so well read it was dog-eared and falling apart. To meet him? Ah, the questions he would ask! He had no intention of attempting such a venture, but that did not deter Jesamiah’s enthralment of reading about it.
Vorst was weary of the subject. He pushed himself from his chair, his hand holding the bulge of his belly. “Talking of crabs, I would not recommend too many of the blighters. Give you belly ache.” He gestured Jesamiah towards the door. “If you would excuse me, I need to sit on the comfort stool a while. If you are a follower of adventure try presenting yourself at the Golden Hind, one of our more respectable taverns. Rogers is billeted there, no doubt he will delight in boring the wax out of a fresh ear.”
Sketching a half-hearted salute to the harbourmaster’s disappearing back Jesamiah casually rummaged through the scatter of papers on the desk, found a few documents that might prove useful in the future and stuffed them into his coat’s cavernous inner pocket, along with a bag of coin and an attractive pocket watch left lying there on the desk for anyone to pick up.
Outside, standing on the civilian side of the arch he considered what to do next. The brothel first or a tavern? He turned up the street, away from the range of buildings that served as slave quarters for inbound wretches. The wealth of South Africa as with the Caribbean islands of the West Indies and the tobacco and cotton colonies of the Americas, were being built by the captive labour of Irish and British convicts and African blacks. Only on a pirate ship were men treated as equal. The Sweet Trade, where a man could be free of the law and bigotry.
A neat, pretty town with streets set in an orderly grid pattern, the overall effect spoilt by the rough roads, wandering animals and the stink of an open sewage system. Warehouses, ship yards, chandlers and carpenters were arrayed along the sea-front. Behind them the more wealthy townhouses were double-storied, typical Dutch in design, all standing alongside taverns, lodgings and workshops. A scatter of churches, a few mosques. And brothels. There were always brothels.
The uphill ground swayed and dipped as he walked, a common problem for those who had been a while at sea, the movement of the ship staying with the body even on solid land. From experience Jesamiah knew to keep his eyes looking straight ahead and ignore the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to fall, but all the same, his gait rolled and he almost tripped up twice when misjudging the height of steps. He turned left and the street suddenly widened into a market square cluttered with stalls and bothies, a multitude of people, buyers, sellers, browsers, beggars and thieves.
Buying a coconut-shell bowl of minced lamb and rice he strolled along while eating, scooping the food with his fingers, enjoying the delicious mess it made. Wiping his hands every so often down the front of his coat he casually glanced at the trade stalls, wondered how Malachias was faring with selling some of the cargo wharf-side. That was his problem, Jesamiah had played his part. He stopped to inspect a few bedraggled parrots and wandered on. He was tempted to make his way to the Golden Hind, it would be wonderful to meet Dampier. Would such a move be sailing too close to the wind? If anyone could spot a pirate masquerading as a trader it would be Dampier. Jesamiah sighed, he would have enjoyed personally meeting the man. Best not.
Enthusiasm for these few precious hours ashore was draining away, his mood turning sour, the prospect of sport in bed with one of Cape Town’s doxies losing its appeal. Perhaps a tot or two of rum would rekindle his interest?
Dismally, he inspected the several taverns on the uphill side of the square. Nothing seemed inspiring. He wove his way through the crowd, seemingly, every race, colour and creed from every continent; a babble of languages, a variety of costume and clothing. Was it any wonder Cape Town had earned for itself the title Tavern of the Seas?
He paused at a stall where a German was enquiring after the tobacco pipes for sale, picking each one up to closely inspect it with a squinting short-sightedness. Jesamiah slid in beside him, feigning interest in purchasing a pipe for himself, his eyes lingering on the fat money pouch the fool had carelessly put down on the table top. His fingers twitching towards it, Jesamiah grimaced. So tempting to quietly take it up, slip it into his pocket… he was not here to draw attention to himself. He withdrew his hand then abruptly changed his mind, swung back to lift the pouch, clasping his fingers neatly around it – just as the German remembered the thing.
Jesamiah’s reaction was the quicker.
“Your money, mein herr? It is not sensible to leave it where any common cut-purse could so easily steal it.” With a smile, he took up the astonished man’s hand and put the pouch securely into his palm. Touching his hat in genial salute, Jesamiah strolled on, puffing his cheeks. That had been close! The penalty for stealing was no different than piracy. Hanging.
Mermaid had been heeling slightly, as they rounded the point protecting the natural harbour of Cape Town she steadied on an even keel and then rolled to starboard. With cordage and timber complaining, the wheel was put over.
“Tops’l sheets,” Jesamiah shouted as the ship glided into her destined anchorage to the western edge of the Bay. “Tops’l clew lines… Helm-a-lee!” And Mermaid turned into the wind, her sails coming aback, her forward motion ceasing as she eased sedately to a halt.
The lime-whitened walls of buildings with their green shutters and tiled or thatched roofs, sprawled between the sea and the rugged, upward sweep of the flat-topped, aptly named Table Mountain. Flanking the dominant plateau was the smaller cone of Devil’s Peak and the elongated Signal Hill, the lower extension of the Lion’s Head, a mass of rock rearing two thousand feet high that did indeed resemble a crouching lion. Jesamiah found himself staring, awe-struck. The panorama was spectacular.
Driven by the relentless wind howling up from the ice-ridden lands of Antarctica, the Atlantic swept in to spume against tumbled rocks and run against the wide, sweeping curve of sand. Jesamiah had expected Cape Town to be as he imagined all of Africa; impenetrable jungle or empty desert shimmering in a haze of blistering heat. Yes, it was hot, for this was January the southern hemisphere summer, but apart from the bareness of the mountain tops, everything was flushed with a vibrant green.
The famous gardens of the Dutch East India Company, covering all of forty-five acres, were vivid against the backdrop of Table Mountain. The Dutch had planted them specifically; trees and bushes for fruit, and every kind of vegetable that would grow in this climate. The object, to create a trade post for the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, the V.O.C., to provide a convenient place for Dutch ships to make repairs, for sailors to rest and stores to be replenished. The trade post had become a settlement, and the settlement had rapidly expanded into a town of more than one thousand permanent residents. Of the fluid population, there was no count. Probably three times as many again.
The crew, leaning over the rails or hanging from the shrouds were gossiping, excited. Jesamiah ignored the buzz of conversation; there was always this lift of expectation at coming into harbour. He felt the euphoria himself, going ashore was suddenly very appealing. They had been at sea a long time. Mermaid desperately needed careening, to be safely beached somewhere for the barnacles, weed and the worm boring into her wooden hull to be scraped clean. A ship that was not careened was a slow ship, and pirate craft by necessity of their trade needed to be fast. It would have to wait a while though, until they sailed on to Madagascar where pirates were welcome and an anchorage was safe. As for the entertainment? Jesamiah grinned, anticipating the delights on offer to a healthy young man who had been at sea for more weeks than he cared to tally.
“Let go!” he yelled, and the fluked anchor, twice the height of a man, splashed down into the water, its cable chuntering busily out through the hawse-hole. They were securely anchored and Jesamiah did not mind admitting he was relieved to be here in more or less one piece. Repairing the Mermaid after that tangle with the Christina Giselle had been a frustrating, time-consuming delay, but as it turned out, not too much of a nuisance. There had been no need to pretend distress to lure another vessel in, the damage to both ship and men had been real enough.
Fortunately, they had struck lucky with a second Spanish trader homeward bound from the East Indies, full laden and worth waiting for. Hoisting Spanish colours - with Jesamiah being half the breed and able to speak the language fluently, his black hair making him look every inch a Spaniard from Cadiz, they had shouted for aid, claiming they had been attacked by pirates. Had taken the unsuspecting victim without a single shot fired from cannon or pistol. That was the art of piracy, to successfully dupe or threaten; to give the impression of horrors that could be unleashed if there was no immediate surrender.
For their purpose in Cape Town they had painted out the Mermaid’s name, and added subtle disguises; rigging different sails and fixing two more ornate lanterns, procured from the Spaniard, to either side of the single lamp on the stern taffrail. She was now the highly respectable Mary Anne, a British trader bound for India, anchoring in harbour to take on essential supplies.
Half an hour later, the ship tidied and made ready for when she was to next sail, and wearing his best, not too faded coat and favoured three-cornered hat, Jesamiah was sauntering along the jetty towards the pentagonal fortress protecting both town and harbour. A prerequisite of all trading harbours, especially those dominated by the Dutch, to verify a ship’s papers. Failure to do so could result in being blasted out of the water by the several cannon aimed directly at the hull.
He followed the tree-lined canal that ran down from the gardens to flow into the sea beside the fort. A pleasant stroll, except for what leered behind him at the end of the jetty down on the muddy sand of the shore. The gallows. Empty and forlorn, malevolently waiting for a man, a pirate, to decorate the cross-beam.
Tipping his hat backwards slightly and puffing his cheeks, he halted at the fort’s archway, a dark-shadowed mouth gaping black against the white of lime-washed walls. Above, an impressive bell tower; he peered at a brass plaque announcing the bell had been cast in Amsterdam in 1697. Beneath it, the coat of arms of the V.O.C. All of it intent on making a statement of invincible strength. In the bright sun on the far side of the tunnel stretching beneath the arch, Dutch soldiers were drilling, muskets aslant across their shoulders. There were dungeons inside this fort. Jesamiah took a fortifying breath, straightened his hat, smoothed his moustache and touched his earring. Best get the job done, present the papers to the harbourmaster. That they were false was immaterial, they looked authentic. The task had fallen to Jesamiah because Taylor had been here before, several times. On the last occasion, only by a stroke of good fortune had he avoided an intimate friendship with those gallows.
Garrison quarters, blacksmith, sailmaker, cooper’s bothies. Kitchens, bakery, armoury - the usual cramped bustle of a full-strength fortress. Jesamiah found the harbourmaster’s office tucked two doors along, with Erik Vorst seated behind a desk awash with a glut of papers and documents. A sullen, fat-bellied man with bad breath, and from the way he continuously belched, a martyr to chronic indigestion.
“Where is your captain then?” Vorst asked testily as he squinted at the illegible writing of the two documents Jesamiah handed him. “It is usual for the captain to present these, not his subordinate.”
“As it is usual for the Mary Anne’s captain to be drunk in his cot. He will not emerge for another four and twenty hours yet,” Jesamiah answered smoothly, his deep, husky voice losing the clipped pirate accent he used when aboard with the men. Jesamiah was educated, able to read, write, tally numbers and knew the intricacies of navigation. It came in useful to be able to change his speech patterns as necessity demanded.
Vorst belched again and scratched beneath his armpit, releasing a pungent smell of body odour. Drunk? Ja, he had heard the same before. “Where are you bound?”
“Bombay, Calcutta. Might cruise on down to Sumatra or Java.” Jesamiah lied as he perched one buttock on the corner of the desk, ignoring the ensuing frown of disapproval. “What I would prefer to do is go on to New Holland – Australia some are calling it now, are they not? Have a go at circumnavigation. Round the world, eh? What an adventure!” He narrowed his eyes and peered into an imaginary distance, enjoying the false embellishment of conversation.
He could think of nothing more dreadful than sailing all the way around the globe. Pitting ship and soul against those monstrous seas off Cape Horn? No thank you! Bravado might suit some, but he had all the excitement he needed in the existence he already had. He sighed, slapped his hands against his thighs, rubbed them along the worn canvas of his breeches. “The Mary Anne is not suitably equipped for such a journey, and our captain is not,” he paused rubbed his moustache, his embarrassment apparently genuine. “I was going to say competent, but that sounds disloyal. Intrepid, perhaps?”
Failing to see the lie, shrugging, the harbourmaster rolled the ship’s papers and handed them back to Jesamiah along with the document giving permission to be anchored. “Dank u. Hand this in at the gate as you leave, it’ll ensure the guns are stood down. In my opinion for such a venture you either have to be barking mad or an utter bore. We have both lack-lustre qualities residing here in Cape Town at the moment. Captain Woodes Rogers put in two months ago.” He vaguely gestured over his shoulder. “His ships are in harbour, you must have noticed them? Duke and Duchess. I wish to God he’d stay his mouth, return aboard and clear off back to England. If I hear one more account of how he captured the Acapulco Galleon or Nuestra Señora, I’ll cut my throat,” muttered quietly under his breath, “Or his.”
Jesamiah frowned. He had noticed the ships, had taken a careful look at what was anchored as they sailed into harbour to ensure the Christina Giselle was not among them. It would not do to be recognised. “Rogers? Never heard of him.”
“Nor do you want to. He seems to have made a profitable job of his privateering commission against Spain and is determined to ensure everyone knows about it. His holds are stuff-packed with Spanish bullion, so he claims. Don’t believe a word of it myself.”
Carefully, Jesamiah schooled his face to remain neutral, although it was difficult to keep the gleam of lust from his eyes. Two rich pickings right here in front of them? Best leave them alone, they would never get past the fort’s battery, not while the Mermaid was worm-riddled and encrusted with barnacles. Now, if they had already careened? Ah well.
“Privateer eh?” He said with a shrug. “A British commission to legally plunder anything flying a Spanish ensign? I don’t suppose the Spanish see it that way. They’d say he was nothing but a scamp of a pirate.”
“We don’t hold with pirates in these waters,” Vorst answered huffily, affronted at the offensive word, pirate.
“Rightly so, but the distinction between privateering and pirating depends on which side the wind is blowing from, does it not?” Jesamiah smiled, friendly, at ease. “If I were Spanish for example, I could blast the shit out of Duke and Duchess and claim I had every right to do so.”
“Except the heavy artillery of this fort would be blowing you to kingdom come before you could get more than one shot fired.”
Conceding the point, Jesamiah grinned, adding, “Unless the Dutch government decide to change alliance and side with Spain.” At the disapproving glare he thought it prudent to alter tack. “You said one is mad?”
“As one of your English March hares. Dampier. William Dampier. Had too much of the sun boiling his brains if you ask me. Obsessed with detailing every living thing he comes across, always scribbling in his note-book. I saw him flat on his belly down on the beach the other day, wig askew, studying a crab would you believe? I mean, for God’s sake, the things are only fit for eating. What point in drawing the little sods?”
Jesamiah’s eyes had lit up, glowing with excitement. “Dampier? Now him I have heard of.” William Dampier here in Cape Town? The most famous, most successful buccaneer to torment the Spanish – a man who had drawn a very fine line between legitimate privateering and the hanging offence of piracy! He had first rounded Cape Horn and crossed the Pacific to the East Indies in 1680, had circumnavigated the World yet again since then – three occasions if this Woodes Rogers had indeed commanded another successful expedition. Jesamiah’s copy of Dampier’s book, so well read it was dog-eared and falling apart. To meet him? Ah, the questions he would ask! He had no intention of attempting such a venture, but that did not deter Jesamiah’s enthralment of reading about it.
Vorst was weary of the subject. He pushed himself from his chair, his hand holding the bulge of his belly. “Talking of crabs, I would not recommend too many of the blighters. Give you belly ache.” He gestured Jesamiah towards the door. “If you would excuse me, I need to sit on the comfort stool a while. If you are a follower of adventure try presenting yourself at the Golden Hind, one of our more respectable taverns. Rogers is billeted there, no doubt he will delight in boring the wax out of a fresh ear.”
Sketching a half-hearted salute to the harbourmaster’s disappearing back Jesamiah casually rummaged through the scatter of papers on the desk, found a few documents that might prove useful in the future and stuffed them into his coat’s cavernous inner pocket, along with a bag of coin and an attractive pocket watch left lying there on the desk for anyone to pick up.
Outside, standing on the civilian side of the arch he considered what to do next. The brothel first or a tavern? He turned up the street, away from the range of buildings that served as slave quarters for inbound wretches. The wealth of South Africa as with the Caribbean islands of the West Indies and the tobacco and cotton colonies of the Americas, were being built by the captive labour of Irish and British convicts and African blacks. Only on a pirate ship were men treated as equal. The Sweet Trade, where a man could be free of the law and bigotry.
A neat, pretty town with streets set in an orderly grid pattern, the overall effect spoilt by the rough roads, wandering animals and the stink of an open sewage system. Warehouses, ship yards, chandlers and carpenters were arrayed along the sea-front. Behind them the more wealthy townhouses were double-storied, typical Dutch in design, all standing alongside taverns, lodgings and workshops. A scatter of churches, a few mosques. And brothels. There were always brothels.
The uphill ground swayed and dipped as he walked, a common problem for those who had been a while at sea, the movement of the ship staying with the body even on solid land. From experience Jesamiah knew to keep his eyes looking straight ahead and ignore the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to fall, but all the same, his gait rolled and he almost tripped up twice when misjudging the height of steps. He turned left and the street suddenly widened into a market square cluttered with stalls and bothies, a multitude of people, buyers, sellers, browsers, beggars and thieves.
Buying a coconut-shell bowl of minced lamb and rice he strolled along while eating, scooping the food with his fingers, enjoying the delicious mess it made. Wiping his hands every so often down the front of his coat he casually glanced at the trade stalls, wondered how Malachias was faring with selling some of the cargo wharf-side. That was his problem, Jesamiah had played his part. He stopped to inspect a few bedraggled parrots and wandered on. He was tempted to make his way to the Golden Hind, it would be wonderful to meet Dampier. Would such a move be sailing too close to the wind? If anyone could spot a pirate masquerading as a trader it would be Dampier. Jesamiah sighed, he would have enjoyed personally meeting the man. Best not.
Enthusiasm for these few precious hours ashore was draining away, his mood turning sour, the prospect of sport in bed with one of Cape Town’s doxies losing its appeal. Perhaps a tot or two of rum would rekindle his interest?
Dismally, he inspected the several taverns on the uphill side of the square. Nothing seemed inspiring. He wove his way through the crowd, seemingly, every race, colour and creed from every continent; a babble of languages, a variety of costume and clothing. Was it any wonder Cape Town had earned for itself the title Tavern of the Seas?
He paused at a stall where a German was enquiring after the tobacco pipes for sale, picking each one up to closely inspect it with a squinting short-sightedness. Jesamiah slid in beside him, feigning interest in purchasing a pipe for himself, his eyes lingering on the fat money pouch the fool had carelessly put down on the table top. His fingers twitching towards it, Jesamiah grimaced. So tempting to quietly take it up, slip it into his pocket… he was not here to draw attention to himself. He withdrew his hand then abruptly changed his mind, swung back to lift the pouch, clasping his fingers neatly around it – just as the German remembered the thing.
Jesamiah’s reaction was the quicker.
“Your money, mein herr? It is not sensible to leave it where any common cut-purse could so easily steal it.” With a smile, he took up the astonished man’s hand and put the pouch securely into his palm. Touching his hat in genial salute, Jesamiah strolled on, puffing his cheeks. That had been close! The penalty for stealing was no different than piracy. Hanging.
SEA WITCH - available from Amazon or order from any bookstore
Published by Discovered Authors
Sea Witch: ISBN: 1-905108-14-1
Pirate Code: ISBN: 1-905108-176
Bring It Close: ISBN: 978-1-905108-69-5
The Pendragon's Banner Trilogy - UK - USA & Canada
The PENDRAGON'S BANNER TRILOGY
~ The Kingmaking ~
~ Pendragon's Banner ~
~ Shadow of the King ~
~ Pendragon's Banner ~
~ Shadow of the King ~
"Helen Hollick has it all! She tells a great story, gets her history right, and writes consistently readable books!" Bernard Cornwell
"A wonderful book...breathes new life into an ancient legend" Sharon Penman
"A uniquely compelling novel which is bound to have a resounding and lasting impact on Arthurian fiction."Books"An epic tale... Helen Hollick has done her homework meticulously and her story gleams with convincing Dark Age detail." Ms. London
READ AN EXTRACT
The Kingmaking
June 450
June 450
§ XIV
With ringing triumph, Cunedda finished his speech. 'There is another Pendragon - still young, I grant, we need wait for him to come of age. We, Uthr and I, had hoped we need not reveal him until he was ready, but that was not to be.' Cunedda chivvied Arthur before him and shouted above the rising excitement, his voice ringing out almost to the watching mountains. 'Here, before the hallowed sanctity of our Stone, I give you your next King! I give you the Pendragon - Arthur!'
He stepped back, leaving Arthur to stand alone as a great clamour rose up into the sky. The lad smiled now, the pain and sorrow fading with that great roar of acclaim. Cunedda was wrong: five had known Uthr had his heir. Arthur had known him to be his father. Why else had he loved the man so, and the man been so fond of the lad? He grinned, broadly triumphantly, at the pride in Cunedda's face, the unexpected pleasure on those of his sons. Arthur winked boyishly at the exultant Gwenhwyfar.
Unexpected, Cunedda knelt before the lad, offering his sword as a token of his loyalty. Few heard the words he spoke, above that tumult of approval raised by those watching men. It did not matter, all knew the oath of allegiance.'To you, Lord, I give my sword and shield, my heart and soul. To you, Lord, I give my life, to command as you will.'Arthur could not hide his consternation at so great a man kneeling at the boy's feet. With shaking fingers, he touched Cunedda's offered sword, then impulsively he raised the man and embraced him as a friend.
If it were possible, the roar increased. Men of Gwynedd yelled their delight at seeing their Lord accepted by the new Pendragon, and the men of Uthr, heartsore and bruised, shouted and cheered, relieved to have their anxiety and uncertainty so splendidly lifted.
One by one the sons of Gwynedd stepped forward to follow their father's example. Etern too knelt.'I am not yet come to manhood, I cannot swear oath to you. But this I can swear, Arthur, that when the time comes you will not be wanting for a more loyal sword, for mine shall be yours, whenever you have need of it.'
Arthur choked, almost unable to speak. He clasped his friend's arm and stammered, 'Then I shall indeed be blessed with a greater fortune than I deserve!'
As Etern, wiping away a tear, stepped aside, Gwenhwyfar, with head high, strode forward. The sun burst through a low covering of misty cloud, making her hair and jewels sparkle with dazzling brilliance. She knelt solemnly before Arthur, her grace and hint of woman's beauty showing clearly through the lankiness of her child's body, catching every watcher's attention. The noise abated. No woman took the oath of loyalty. What was this girl-child about?
She held Arthur's eyes, and her voice, young though it was, carried clear and bold. 'I too am of the blood of Gwynedd. Were I born male I would swear my oath, but I am woman born. I have no shield or sword.'
Arthur took her hands in his. Like a fool he felt the sudden urge to cry. Looking down at her earnest face, his dark eyes seeing deep into the hidden secrets of her tawny flecked green, he realised how much he wanted her for his own.
Tremulously Gwenhwyfar said, 'I have something else to give, Lord.' Her heart was hammering. 'When I am a woman grown I shall have a greater gift to pledge. I offer you, my Lord Arthur Pendragon, to use how you choose, my unborn sons!'
~ EXCLUSIVE ~
The following extract from PENDRAGON'S BANNER is exclusive to this Blog
III
`Council will not like it.'
`I do not ask for, nor want, Council's opinion.'
Cei sighed; three years as King, and already Arthur and his Council were squabbling like dogs after the same bone.
`There are those,' Cei tried again, `who say that to spend more than a week discussing treaties of alliance with a defeated enemy is not good judgment.'
Arthur, mending a broken bridle strap, made no answering comment. The hail that had sputtered on and off all day drummed a tattoo on the roofing of the leather tent and bounced like tossed pebbles on the worn, hollowed patch of mud-packed turf by the open entrance flap.
Watching the pea-sized balls of ice a moment, Cei stared, fascinated as the ground turned white - then the sudden-come storm ceased. The wind whipped up the dark clouds and sent them scurrying from a dazzling blue sky. Beyond the tent, everything dripped and gleamed, the white ice melted into fairy-sized diamond-drops.
`For Hengest,' Cei continued as if he had not ceased talking, `Council could see reason behind the giving of territory. Wrong or right, he had been originally invited here to fight on our side by Vortigern - God rot his mouldering soul.'
`I did not give,' Arthur interrupted. `I rent Hengest those Cantii lands, rent for a large payment of taxation. He rules under my gaze and is ultimately answerable to me. As Icel shall be when he edges around to seeing reason.'
'Fah!' Cei swarmed to his feet, toppling his stool backwards. `Reason? It is already reasonable that he still has his head and balls; it is already reasonable that those who follow him are alive, not dangling at the end of ropes!'
Quietly, Arthur finished the mending of the strap, fixed it back to the bridle. `So I have Icel executed? And then one day, one day very soon, these Anglian settlers will find for themselves another cock-proud young princeling to follow and we will then need to fight them.' He stood, hung the bridle on a nail jutting from the tent pole, faced his cousin and second-incommand with outspread hands.
`I have shadow-chased this Anglian leader from the Treanta river to the coast, from the Fosse Way down to the forests. If I grant a legitimate holding of land then Icel is beholden to me. And whenever a new cub decides he wants more than a ploughed field to crow over, he will first have to square that wanting with Icel, not with me.'
Pouting, Cei answered, `Too much is being given to these damn Saex. The Council of Britain do not like it.' His thoughts added, Neither do I.
Arthur grinned, irritatingly friendly, knowing full well those unspoken thoughts. `Ah, but then I am the King; a king is expected to do things that are not liked.' His grin broadened. `A prerequisite of the position. The ability to annoy.'
Cei grunted. `Oh aye, you have a talent for rubbing people the wrong way. Always have done, even as a child.'
Arthur laughed to hide the bitter memory of his unpleasant childhood. The difference between being a boy and a man was acute. As a child, thought to be the bastard brat of a serving girl, Arthur had nothing to call his own save a battered gold ring, a dream and a hope of better things to come. Ill-treated, shunned and tormented by all adults except the man who later proved to be his true father, childhood had been miserable and corrupted by fear. He accepted, now he was grown, that Uthr Pendragon had to keep his only son hidden from Vortigem's ugly malice. Accepted that, but not the cruelties his real mother had deliberately turned her eyes from. Cei's idle comment hurt. He had tried to please, tried to do right, but still received cuffs and kicks, was still called bastard. Well, it was his turn now to do the kicking, and if men called him a bastard, it was for the other meaning of the word.
He poured wine for himself and Cei, said nothing more of the subject. Cei had always been the jealous one. Understandably. The one thing that had made life tolerable for Arthur as a child was the interest Uthr had shown in him - he had not known why, then. Why Uthr himself taught a bastard-born to use shield and spear and sword. Why Uthr himself had taught a supposed serving girl's brat how to ride a horse and plan for battle. Why Uthr had loved a fatherless whore's cub above the older boy, Cei, his brother's son. Arthur handed the goblet to his cousin. `I intend to squeeze everything I can from Icel. Gold, leather, grain. Hostages. He will find submission hard.'
Righting the stool, Cei seated himself again. `What if he does not agree to your demands, eh? He might not.'
Arthur sat also, pushing his booted feet nearer the fluctuating warmth of the brazier. Two nights until Samhain, the night the dead walked. He would rather be tucked within the warmth of Gwenhwyfar's bed at Lindum by then. Icel was a proud man, would welcome death; even the threat of the living death of blinding and male mutilation would not daunt him. There would have to be something more, some promise of what Arthur would do if the Anglian did not offer total submission. The Pendragon had once made such a thing clear to Hengest, and then not so long since, to Winta of the Humbrenses.
`Your people and your family shall pay for defeat. The men will lose their hands and eyes, the women and children will be taken into slavery, used as whores. Until natural death releases them, they will face great misery and suffering. Your settlements will be burnt, and your cattle slaughtered. Not you. You will be taken to a fortress far away. You will be guarded, but you will have light and warmth and the best food; a comfortable bed, even a woman to share that bed. On fine days you will be allowed to ride and hunt, you will be treated as an honoured guest with no privilege spared, save that of your freedom to leave. And while you live in this luxury, you will think of your wife and your children. Of their distress and pain'.
Winta had seen the sense in not trying his luck against this British lord who meant every word he said, for Winta was not full of greed and wanting as Hengest had been, and was older and wiser than the young coxcomb Icel. He valued too highly all that could be lost were victory not to come his way, and so had not even tried for the winning of it. By joining with the Pendragon his reward had proved great and welcome. Winta was already a wealthy man, and by uniting with the British, trade that was already flourishing would increase - double, treble. Soon he would be able to extend his held land, amicably, with Arthur's consent and permission, for Winta was wily enough to realise that there was more than one way to obtain a title of king.
`Council will not like it.'
`I do not ask for, nor want, Council's opinion.'
Cei sighed; three years as King, and already Arthur and his Council were squabbling like dogs after the same bone.
`There are those,' Cei tried again, `who say that to spend more than a week discussing treaties of alliance with a defeated enemy is not good judgment.'
Arthur, mending a broken bridle strap, made no answering comment. The hail that had sputtered on and off all day drummed a tattoo on the roofing of the leather tent and bounced like tossed pebbles on the worn, hollowed patch of mud-packed turf by the open entrance flap.
Watching the pea-sized balls of ice a moment, Cei stared, fascinated as the ground turned white - then the sudden-come storm ceased. The wind whipped up the dark clouds and sent them scurrying from a dazzling blue sky. Beyond the tent, everything dripped and gleamed, the white ice melted into fairy-sized diamond-drops.
`For Hengest,' Cei continued as if he had not ceased talking, `Council could see reason behind the giving of territory. Wrong or right, he had been originally invited here to fight on our side by Vortigern - God rot his mouldering soul.'
`I did not give,' Arthur interrupted. `I rent Hengest those Cantii lands, rent for a large payment of taxation. He rules under my gaze and is ultimately answerable to me. As Icel shall be when he edges around to seeing reason.'
'Fah!' Cei swarmed to his feet, toppling his stool backwards. `Reason? It is already reasonable that he still has his head and balls; it is already reasonable that those who follow him are alive, not dangling at the end of ropes!'
Quietly, Arthur finished the mending of the strap, fixed it back to the bridle. `So I have Icel executed? And then one day, one day very soon, these Anglian settlers will find for themselves another cock-proud young princeling to follow and we will then need to fight them.' He stood, hung the bridle on a nail jutting from the tent pole, faced his cousin and second-incommand with outspread hands.
`I have shadow-chased this Anglian leader from the Treanta river to the coast, from the Fosse Way down to the forests. If I grant a legitimate holding of land then Icel is beholden to me. And whenever a new cub decides he wants more than a ploughed field to crow over, he will first have to square that wanting with Icel, not with me.'
Pouting, Cei answered, `Too much is being given to these damn Saex. The Council of Britain do not like it.' His thoughts added, Neither do I.
Arthur grinned, irritatingly friendly, knowing full well those unspoken thoughts. `Ah, but then I am the King; a king is expected to do things that are not liked.' His grin broadened. `A prerequisite of the position. The ability to annoy.'
Cei grunted. `Oh aye, you have a talent for rubbing people the wrong way. Always have done, even as a child.'
Arthur laughed to hide the bitter memory of his unpleasant childhood. The difference between being a boy and a man was acute. As a child, thought to be the bastard brat of a serving girl, Arthur had nothing to call his own save a battered gold ring, a dream and a hope of better things to come. Ill-treated, shunned and tormented by all adults except the man who later proved to be his true father, childhood had been miserable and corrupted by fear. He accepted, now he was grown, that Uthr Pendragon had to keep his only son hidden from Vortigem's ugly malice. Accepted that, but not the cruelties his real mother had deliberately turned her eyes from. Cei's idle comment hurt. He had tried to please, tried to do right, but still received cuffs and kicks, was still called bastard. Well, it was his turn now to do the kicking, and if men called him a bastard, it was for the other meaning of the word.
He poured wine for himself and Cei, said nothing more of the subject. Cei had always been the jealous one. Understandably. The one thing that had made life tolerable for Arthur as a child was the interest Uthr had shown in him - he had not known why, then. Why Uthr himself taught a bastard-born to use shield and spear and sword. Why Uthr himself had taught a supposed serving girl's brat how to ride a horse and plan for battle. Why Uthr had loved a fatherless whore's cub above the older boy, Cei, his brother's son. Arthur handed the goblet to his cousin. `I intend to squeeze everything I can from Icel. Gold, leather, grain. Hostages. He will find submission hard.'
Righting the stool, Cei seated himself again. `What if he does not agree to your demands, eh? He might not.'
Arthur sat also, pushing his booted feet nearer the fluctuating warmth of the brazier. Two nights until Samhain, the night the dead walked. He would rather be tucked within the warmth of Gwenhwyfar's bed at Lindum by then. Icel was a proud man, would welcome death; even the threat of the living death of blinding and male mutilation would not daunt him. There would have to be something more, some promise of what Arthur would do if the Anglian did not offer total submission. The Pendragon had once made such a thing clear to Hengest, and then not so long since, to Winta of the Humbrenses.
`Your people and your family shall pay for defeat. The men will lose their hands and eyes, the women and children will be taken into slavery, used as whores. Until natural death releases them, they will face great misery and suffering. Your settlements will be burnt, and your cattle slaughtered. Not you. You will be taken to a fortress far away. You will be guarded, but you will have light and warmth and the best food; a comfortable bed, even a woman to share that bed. On fine days you will be allowed to ride and hunt, you will be treated as an honoured guest with no privilege spared, save that of your freedom to leave. And while you live in this luxury, you will think of your wife and your children. Of their distress and pain'.
Winta had seen the sense in not trying his luck against this British lord who meant every word he said, for Winta was not full of greed and wanting as Hengest had been, and was older and wiser than the young coxcomb Icel. He valued too highly all that could be lost were victory not to come his way, and so had not even tried for the winning of it. By joining with the Pendragon his reward had proved great and welcome. Winta was already a wealthy man, and by uniting with the British, trade that was already flourishing would increase - double, treble. Soon he would be able to extend his held land, amicably, with Arthur's consent and permission, for Winta was wily enough to realise that there was more than one way to obtain a title of king.
Available from Amazon or place an order with your local bookstore
UK EDITION: Published by Discovered Authors
The Kingmaking:- ISBN: 1-905108-26-5
Pendragon's Banner:- ISBN: 1-905108-28-1
Shadow of the King:- ISBN: 1-905108-27-3
USA & CANADA: Published by Sourcebooks Inc.
The Kingmaking:- ISBN 13: 9781402218880
Pendragon's Banner: - published September '09
Shadow of the King:- published Spring '10
Harold the King Published by Discovered Authors UK
HAROLD the KING
The story of the people and the events that led to the Battle of Hastngs in 1066.
The story of the people and the events that led to the Battle of Hastngs in 1066.
"The masterly Helen Hollick has successfully taken the historical facts, mixed them with liberal sprinkles of creative interpretation and produced a spellbinding novel that is never less than compelling - all aspiring historical novelists take note of this lesson. So often in this type of novel characters are strongly and deftly drawn but are then undermined by their modern motivations. Not so here where the characters' attitudes and outlooks are always basically eleventh century in origin. Helen Hollick has also avoided the trap of allowing great chunks of historical research - both social and political - to slow the pace or clutter the pages of her novel. Information is filtered through to the reader far more subtly in dialogue and plot detail.Whether the events described actually happened this way is unimportant, that the reader feels instinctively that they could have happened this way is the sign of a superior novel. This is a fabulous read and one to be recommended unreservedly - even to committed "Williamites". If only all historical fiction could be this good." Sara Wilson, Historical Novel Society, 2001.
"Helen Hollick has achieved a miracle by making this reviewer sit still and silent for a whole weekend, stirring only to eat toast whilst devouring Helen's gripping book. And it's a damn big one at that, sweeping from England to France, from Wessex to Normandy, following the fortunes of Harold Godwine, Earl of Wessex and later King of England, and William, Duke of Normandy. Treachery, arrogance, lies and weakness contrast with courage, honesty, strength and of course, plenty of love interest to make you weep. Illegitimacy, fallen kings, plenty of hunting scenes and some great sea journeys and bloody battles; we follow the fortunes of the cast from 1044 right up to the Battle of Hastings itself, which is brilliantly recreated.Helen also provides at the end an explanation for some of her plot "changes" - for example, her Harold is not killed by the arrow in the eye at all, but is beheaded - on the grounds that as most of the information concerning the battle and William's claim to the English throne comes from Norman sources its veracity is questionable. Compelling stuff." SW Magazine, March 2001
READ AN EXTRACT
Harold The King
October 14 1066
§ 23
Morale was running high among the English; twice, now, had they beaten off the Norman whoresons; their casualties - even counting those fool men of the fyrd who had not heeded the King's orders - amounting to less than half the Norman dead strewn over the battlefield. Aye, the line had dwindled to only two or three men deep in places, but shortened, gathered in towards the centre, they ought to be able to withstand a third assault.
Food and drink were passed from man to man, those women who had come - wives, mostly, who had no childer to care for - issuing flat-baked barley cakes, wheaten bread and recent-picked sweet and juicy apples. It was from the women, too, and the priests, that the wounded sought aid, hobbling, being carried or supported to the safety of the baggage line. Not that there was much that could be done for many of them, beyond the comfort of a clasped hand or a pretty smile and the offering of prayers.
Harold threaded his way to the front of the wall, clasping men by the hand, gripping their shoulder as he passed, praising, encouraging or sympathising with those who sported minor wounds.
Pointing to a bloodied rent in one man's byrnie, he exclaimed, 'Godfin! Is that a wound to your side?''Nay, my Lord, 'tis nothing serious. An arrow poke to me belly. Could 'ave been worse 'ad it been lower. Might have nipped me in the family tool department, eh!'
Godfin offered a skin of ale to his king, with a laugh and nod of appreciation. Harold accepted, lifted the pig's bladder to his mouth and drank a mouthful. It was strong-brewed ale, stuff for men.
'By the Christ,' Harold jested, wiping his lips and handing it on to another man, 'we ought give some of this to those bastards down there - it's strong enough to blow their balls off!'
It was easier to laugh and joke, for the terrible carnage at the front of the line would be too sickening if there were not something to balance its horror. The stench was appalling. A horse wandered, broken reins trailing, lamed in the foreleg by an axe stroke that had gouged part of his lower shoulder away; another stood, head lowered, bewildered that he could no longer see, for a sword had slashed across his face; a third struggled to rise, not understanding that he no longer had a hind leg . . . Not four yards from the shield line, a man lay, moaning, calling piteously for water, his stomach and entrails exposed, black blood oozing. Already the ravens were circling the field. One, more brazen than its companions, landed a few feet from the dying man, hopped closer, its beak preparing to pick at the exposed flesh. They went for the eyes, these nauseating scavengers. The soft flesh of the eyes, not caring whether a man or beast still lived . . . Thrusting aside two of the men who stood in the front rank, Harold pushed his way through to the open hillside, his dagger in his hand. A ruffle of unease spread through the men as he stepped out of their protected shielding, but he ignored it. He waved his hand menacingly, chasing the obnoxious bird away, bent and touched the man's shoulder. A Norman, a young lad, no older than his second son, Edmond.
'Give me water, my Lord!' he croaked in French, and Harold answered him in his own tongue.'There'll be water in plenty awaiting you, son.' With his dagger, he slashed neat and quick across the boy's throat. Aye, he was a Norman, but no one deserved to die that way. Except perhaps William himself . . . No - Harold, shouldering his men aside, returned behind the lines, dismissing the thought from his mind - no, not even Duke William, for if he thought that, then he was no better than him. Uncaring, unfeeling. Ordering this day of death, causing this mighty pain and suffering for no reason except his own wanting of something that could not, by any lawful right, be his. No, Harold was not like that.
'See to those beasts,' he ordered. 'End their torment.' He made his way back, all the while exchanging cheerful banter. All the while driving and driving away the thought that hammered and screamed in his mind: My brothers are dead. Both my beloved brothers, both are dead!
available now from Amazon - or order from your bookshop
Helen Hollick is also co-scriptwriter for the forthcoming UK movie 1066 http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1018103/A HOLLOW CROWN
A novel of Saxon England - a prequel to Harold the King
The year is 1013, Emma of Normandy is to marry King Æthelred of England. It is a marriage that is as doomed to fail as Æthelred's entire reign. But Emma is to find her own happiness when Cnut seizes the English throne...
Read an extract from
A Hollow Crown
November 1035
November 1035
§ 1
The Queen, Emma, knew from the grey pallor on Earl Godwine's face, and by the way he stood, one step within the threshold, that something was wrong. Horribly wrong.
"My Lord, you are wet through?" she said, a question in her voice, although the statement was obvious. A second question, of why he had come to Winchester, so unexpected in such torrential rain, hovered unspoken. Rising from her chair, set for comfort beside the hearth fire, she indicated with her hand that he may enter her private chamber, come closer, warm himself.
To her handmaid ordered, "Fetch wine and food. Broth. My Lord Earl will require something hot."
The girl bobbed a curtsey and squeezing past the Earl, scuttled from the chamber. But Godwine remained at the door, his thumbs depressing the iron door latch. How was he to tell her? How could he repeat news that would break this good lady's heart like shattered pieces of glass?
"My Lady Queen," he finally stammered, "I have ridden at the gallop since dawn."
He shook his head slowly, held out both hands, palms uppermost, pleading for her to read what was in his mind to save the pain of having to say this thing aloud. How could she guess? No one in England could have foreseen this. No one. His arms fell to his side, a tear slithering down his cheek. His hair was rain-matted, his cloak and boots sodden, his chin beard-stubbled.
In despair, quick, with one breath, "My Lady, your husband is dead. God took the King from us during the darkness of night."
Emma stood perfectly still, barely breathing, her face draining of colour. She licked her lips, shook her head, denying what she had heard.
"No." She said, backing away from Godwine and stumbling over a footstool. "Oh, God! No!"
He hurried after her, took hold of her shoulders. "We could not rouse him from sleep. His physician, who knows of these things, believes it to have been a seizure of the heart. He looked to be at peace, did not feel pain or discomfort."
Emma, Regina Anglorum, Queen of England, remained silent for several long moments, her mind, eyes and heart, blank, numb. Then, with a steady calm, graciously thanked Earl Godwine for his trouble in riding to her on this cold, wet day.
"It was good of you to come to me personally, not send some mere messenger. You have always been loyal," she spoke with a controlled smile. "I am grateful for that, and for your friendship. Attributes, that may, I fear, be sorely tried in the weeks that must now lay ahead of us." She faltered, the control collapsing into the sham it was, her lip trembled, tears welled. No one, since her sixth birthday, had witnessed her weeping.
Snatching up her cloak from where it lay across a chest, she muttered, "Please, dry yourself before the fire, I would walk alone awhile." Pride had been her only comfort and salvation for too many years; she was not about to alter the schooled endurance of half a lifetime.
Before Godwine could remind her of the bad weather, she had disappeared from the chamber and was running down the wooden stairs, her blue, woollen gown lifted with one clutching hand. Ignoring the sudden hush of the crowded Hall below, she flung the cloak around her shoulders and stepped out into the rain. She did not mind the rain, rain masked the scalding tears and the pain of gut-wrenching, heart-broken grief.
Godwine made to follow her, reached as far as the Hall's outer doors, but here he halted, watched Emma walk across the mud-puddled courtyard towards the shelter of the stables. Turning back into the Hall he intercepted the handmaid, took the bowl and goblet to the nearest trestle, sat. He had ridden straight to the Queen, had not waited to break his fast before leaving Salisbury, nor barely eased his stallion from the punishing gallop he had set. The horse was ruined of course, his wind and legs beyond repair, but what mattered one horse when the King was dead? When so many more horses, and men, would soon also be beyond saving? Earl Godwine ate, drank. Did not notice the taste of either broth or ale.
He would leave Emma a while to mourn alone, respect her need for privacy. Later, would come the time for the murmuring of meaningless platitudes, the empty words that everyone muttered when the unwelcome shadow of death visited.
"He was a good man. A good king..."
"You have your memories..."
Memories? What good were memories, when England would soon, yet again, be wrapped in bloody war? How did memories mend a torn heart? Ease the dread, black, chill of grieving loneliness?
Memories - huh! The Queen, her tear-streaked face buried deep into the warm, comforting flank of her favourite mare, harboured enough memories to fill the Christian world twice over!
Should she choose to begin rummaging through them, where, and with which one should she start...?
The Queen, Emma, knew from the grey pallor on Earl Godwine's face, and by the way he stood, one step within the threshold, that something was wrong. Horribly wrong.
"My Lord, you are wet through?" she said, a question in her voice, although the statement was obvious. A second question, of why he had come to Winchester, so unexpected in such torrential rain, hovered unspoken. Rising from her chair, set for comfort beside the hearth fire, she indicated with her hand that he may enter her private chamber, come closer, warm himself.
To her handmaid ordered, "Fetch wine and food. Broth. My Lord Earl will require something hot."
The girl bobbed a curtsey and squeezing past the Earl, scuttled from the chamber. But Godwine remained at the door, his thumbs depressing the iron door latch. How was he to tell her? How could he repeat news that would break this good lady's heart like shattered pieces of glass?
"My Lady Queen," he finally stammered, "I have ridden at the gallop since dawn."
He shook his head slowly, held out both hands, palms uppermost, pleading for her to read what was in his mind to save the pain of having to say this thing aloud. How could she guess? No one in England could have foreseen this. No one. His arms fell to his side, a tear slithering down his cheek. His hair was rain-matted, his cloak and boots sodden, his chin beard-stubbled.
In despair, quick, with one breath, "My Lady, your husband is dead. God took the King from us during the darkness of night."
Emma stood perfectly still, barely breathing, her face draining of colour. She licked her lips, shook her head, denying what she had heard.
"No." She said, backing away from Godwine and stumbling over a footstool. "Oh, God! No!"
He hurried after her, took hold of her shoulders. "We could not rouse him from sleep. His physician, who knows of these things, believes it to have been a seizure of the heart. He looked to be at peace, did not feel pain or discomfort."
Emma, Regina Anglorum, Queen of England, remained silent for several long moments, her mind, eyes and heart, blank, numb. Then, with a steady calm, graciously thanked Earl Godwine for his trouble in riding to her on this cold, wet day.
"It was good of you to come to me personally, not send some mere messenger. You have always been loyal," she spoke with a controlled smile. "I am grateful for that, and for your friendship. Attributes, that may, I fear, be sorely tried in the weeks that must now lay ahead of us." She faltered, the control collapsing into the sham it was, her lip trembled, tears welled. No one, since her sixth birthday, had witnessed her weeping.
Snatching up her cloak from where it lay across a chest, she muttered, "Please, dry yourself before the fire, I would walk alone awhile." Pride had been her only comfort and salvation for too many years; she was not about to alter the schooled endurance of half a lifetime.
Before Godwine could remind her of the bad weather, she had disappeared from the chamber and was running down the wooden stairs, her blue, woollen gown lifted with one clutching hand. Ignoring the sudden hush of the crowded Hall below, she flung the cloak around her shoulders and stepped out into the rain. She did not mind the rain, rain masked the scalding tears and the pain of gut-wrenching, heart-broken grief.
Godwine made to follow her, reached as far as the Hall's outer doors, but here he halted, watched Emma walk across the mud-puddled courtyard towards the shelter of the stables. Turning back into the Hall he intercepted the handmaid, took the bowl and goblet to the nearest trestle, sat. He had ridden straight to the Queen, had not waited to break his fast before leaving Salisbury, nor barely eased his stallion from the punishing gallop he had set. The horse was ruined of course, his wind and legs beyond repair, but what mattered one horse when the King was dead? When so many more horses, and men, would soon also be beyond saving? Earl Godwine ate, drank. Did not notice the taste of either broth or ale.
He would leave Emma a while to mourn alone, respect her need for privacy. Later, would come the time for the murmuring of meaningless platitudes, the empty words that everyone muttered when the unwelcome shadow of death visited.
"He was a good man. A good king..."
"You have your memories..."
Memories? What good were memories, when England would soon, yet again, be wrapped in bloody war? How did memories mend a torn heart? Ease the dread, black, chill of grieving loneliness?
Memories - huh! The Queen, her tear-streaked face buried deep into the warm, comforting flank of her favourite mare, harboured enough memories to fill the Christian world twice over!
Should she choose to begin rummaging through them, where, and with which one should she start...?
published by William heinemann (Random House UK - Arrow Books
ISBN: 0-434-00491-X
available online or from bookstores
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