Barbara Gaskell Denvil [Denvil - Satin Cinnabar

Copyright by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

All Rights Reserved, no part of this book may be

Reproduced without prior permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations and reviews

Cover design by

It A Wrap

My first love was always medieval mystery, crime and romantic adventure. This all started with a fascination regarding the events and living conditions of 15th century England. With great enthusiasm, I began researching this period when I was just a young child.

When I started writing some years ago, I set the books during that time, I quite quickly made the choice to translate my books into modern English. Thou art a scoundrel, just didnt appeal, and no one would have wanted to read it. I certainly wouldnt have wanted to write it. However, this leaves the author with a difficulty. Do I use entirely modern words, including slang, or do I create an atmosphere of the past by introducing accurate 15th century words and situations.

I made the choice which I continue to follow in all my historical books. I have been extremely strict concerning historical accuracy in all cases where I describe the background or activities. I do not, on any page, compromise the truth regarding history.

Wording, however, is another matter. For instance, all men (without titles) were addressed as Master ---- But this sounds odd to our ears now. Only young boys are called master now. So I have adopted modern usage. Mr. Brown, has taken over from Master Brown. Its just easier to read. I have used some old words (Medick instead of doctor for instance) but on the whole my books remain utterly historically accurate, but with wording mostly translated into modern terminology, which can be understood today, and hopefully allow for a more enjoyable read.

I was once criticised for saying that something had been bleached. (I didnt imply that they went to the local supermarket and bought a plastic bottle of the stuff, paying on credit card). But yes, in that age bleaching was a common practise. They used various methods including sunshine and urine. But it was bleaching all the same.

Indeed, nowadays most writers of historical fiction follow this same methodology.

I would love to know your opinions on this, so do please get in touch.

Barbara Gaskell Denvil

Chapter One

C onvinced of his death, he was unsurprised at the depth of his grave. Black sweltering weight forced down upon him and the heat, being airless, was inescapable. Deep buried and suffocating, he recognised the prerequisites of hellfire, for death was the inevitable consequence of life, its ultimate curiosity, and in battle, its culmination. The darkness remained absolute, the furnace insufferable and the pain unrelenting. Seeping to him from beyond his tomb, the sounds of nightmare intruded and concentrated.

Alex smelled old blood crusted in the heat, a sour coppery smell that gagged at the throat. He assumed the blood was his own. A sudden spasm jabbed his shoulder and he gasped, gulping for breath. A reaction which inspired a question. Breathing, therefore, perhaps, after all, not dead. Buried not as corpse, but alive. And if not dead, then how to rediscover life.

Blinking, slowly accustomed to the dark, he found a face above him, a splintered snarling bone, divided where once there was nose and mouth. So Alex knew himself alive but lying crushed beneath the slain, stiffening in blood and thick in shit. But having survived, would not survive much longer. Some things were immediately imperative. Therefore escape the grave, discover the battles end and know which cause claimed victory.

One arm was clamped beneath the faceless dead, his armour dented and the buckles broken. He moved his other hand, punched up and explored air. The air felt fresh against his fingers, sun-balmed and pleasant. Squashed within the stink of other mens deaths, the sweat of their futile desperation and the agony of their slaughter, Alex found more breath and the strength to struggle. He wrestled, elbow and knees, the clank of fist on metal and the soft moist squelch of open wounds and limbless joints. Some of the weight rolled away.

It was the blood of the ruined face which he wore and the same mans torn chain mail ragged against his jugular. Then more bodies. One by wretched one, each unrecognisable lump of voided debris flung aside, Alex freed himself from corpses and crawled out into sunshine.

He spat bloody sputum. He looked, and saw the nightmare, and heaved. The dreadful wailing of the dying and the pain wracked injured spread across the strewn fields to either side. Meadows of blood, of limbs amongst the little wild flowers, a hacked mutilation of bodies filling ditches, now hillocks of humanity.

Thrusting away the broken steel, he searched himself for wounds. He could still not see clearly. Eyelids gummed with blood and pus, head spinning, he sat and breathed through the rolling acid nausea. Whimpering nearby, wails of entreaty, guttural pleas for water, for aid, and for a merciful death. Echoes, the sudden flutter of feathers; ravens and kites smelling slaughter, come to scavenge. Englands great battlefields fed the birds of the skies as well as the power hungry, lords of vendetta and misrule, and the great knights shouting of righteousness while satisfying ambition, avarice and insatiable need.

Alex remembered the last words hed heard before falling. The Stanleys. Stanley has turned against us. Rally to Richard or we are lost. Lost then. Alexander, younger son of the eighth Baron Mornington, began to climb out of his armour.

The heat dazzled, and he found the first injury. An arrow had pierced his upper arm beneath the paldron, shaft from a mercenarys crossbow and the quarrel imbedded. He searched the entry and began to ease it loose. The wounded muscle screamed below ripped flesh but finally, impatient, he dug his fingers in and wrenched the bolt away and flung it, biting his lip, keeping his silence. His arm bled freely and steamed a little under the sun.

Then he shrugged off the broken harness and chain mail, unbuckling greaves and baldric, finally pulling off hauberk and spurs. He had worn his kings badge. If the Stanleys had brought victory to the Tudor bastard, then showing the white boar meant death. Life was suddenly precious. His armour was too expensive to leave, but what had once been designed to save his life might now condemn it. He left behind all proof of his name and rank and struggled, sweating, to his feet.

He saw his father first. The old man was smiling. Lying flat on his back, he was open-eyed, gazing into the cloudless blue above. His basinet had tumbled off and lay beside him in the wet grass. His scalp remained within it; his smiling head quite open, as an old jug might lose its lid. The brains had oozed a little, grey globules sticky in blood.