Barbara Gaskell Denvil [Denvil - Sumerford’s Autumn

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Its 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.

Chapter One

T he boy died at once, one quick smash to the skull, another to the chest. His bones caved in, his life went out. An hour after the boy was killed, they found the bramble thorns; one spike still wedged up hard into the horses hoof. Another had been kicked free and was found later in the straw.

Ned and the under groom were sweeping up bloody shards of bone as the late September warmth oozed like melted butter over the hills beyond the castle turrets. But the dew still seemed to bleed where the broom had missed.

Just ten days out from the skirmish at Exeter with Turvey only back in his stable since last night, orders had been relayed for the old charger to be treated with reverence, scrubbed down and well fed. Instead the horse had taken to his huge hind legs, bared tooth and gums, thundered like Prince Harry in a tantrum, and kicked the new stable boy into splinters.

Turveys a war horse, the earl objected afterwards. The damned animals trained to kick and gouge. Am I expected to ride a damned palfrey into battle? I assume the groom was an inexperienced fool.

The new apprentice. Little more than a child.

He will therefore not be missed. Go and make sure Turveys settled. Give him mashed apple in his grain and if he frets, set him up with a mare.

And the dead boy, my lord?

Ive spent two years training Turvey. He anticipates every command I give on the field. Thats worth more than gold. A peasant boy has no value at all.

The horse, mountainous mottled grey, rolled huge eyes and shivered like a baby. The chief groom held the bridle hard to the bit and wedged his heels against what was left of the stable door, holding firm. Little scarlet beads sprigged the straw. The boys corpse was dragged away. It took four strong men to control a rearing destrier, and the apprentice should never have stood so close. A kick from both front legs had crushed the boys skull like a tin cup. Flecks of brain pooled in the sunshine.

At first the incident had been reported to Lady Sumerford, the yellowing bruise across her left temple and cheekbone another reminder of his lordships return, the horse normally less irascible than the master. Her ladyship said, Hamnet, get the remains cleaned up and take the body back to its parents. I presume it had parents? Tell them the Sumerford estate will pay for the coffin and the priest. And youd better take a purse. Give them a sovereign. A little generosity is better than encouraging back stairs gossip.

Indeed, my lady. But I have been informed his lordships personal groom is convinced, my lady that the horse was purposefully enraged. Hamnets voice faded; a murmur as unconvincing as the story. Even tortured. Thorns inserted into the hooves, my lady.

The lady laughed. What nonsense. Who could get close enough? Who would want to get close enough? They are lying, to cover their own ineptitude. She clicked her fingers. Hamnet, do we employ anyone else from the same family?

The steward didnt think so, but a recent attack of the gout hindered memory.

Hamnet, barked the countess, dont gawp. Go and find out.

The household, pausing in its bustling, muttered at rumours and thrived on gossip. The apprentices death became a welcome diversion, replacing drab routine with a satisfying and bloody mystery and even a hint of murder.

Were a nice enough lad, muttered Ned. Had no enemies far as I could tell, and no warranting of them. All the horses took to him kindly till Turvey come back. But I seen them thorns myself, and they was spiked up intentional.

Bramble thorns? Thatll sting right enough. Sounds like they aimed on hurting the horse moren the boy, said Alan Purvis, small master of the dairies.

Red haired Remi, youngest of the castle pages, hugged his knees. Just a weasely groomsboy and I dont care if he was done in or not. Besides, probably some girl from the village did it. Jealous females, my Pa says, being worse than them Swiss pikers.

No young miss hammered thorns up Turveys hooves, sneered Ned. Theres no female as could get near that horse.

Lived out with them weird old spell-makers in the forest, didnt he? remembered the dairymaster.

Ned snorted. Bugger off, Purvis. Aint no one under no spell in this castle cept the Lord Humphrey hisself. But Im telling you, that horse were thorn spiked and been done deliberate.

Outside the rosy dawn quickly paled and the rising sun turned sullen. The dust speckled sunbeams sank and the clouds hinted at afternoon rain.

Who was the child anyway? demanded Sumerfords youngest son, eyeing the ruined stable door.