Barbara Gaskell Denvil [Denvil - The Deception of Consequences

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.

The silence of secrets in attic slumber. Death, now carpeted in dust and mummified oblivion. The threat of forgotten menace.

Each shadowed corner had become a womb of cobwebbed silks, each finger-print lost beneath quilted clouds of collected grime. The tented roof beams within the dark vault, were looped in spiders webbing. No furniture cluttered the space. Too low ceilinged for living, too small for storage and too insignificant even for notice, the roofs inner cave had long been entirely abandoned.

But a use for the little cavity had once been found, and somehow thought ideal, although with a purpose both unusual and unannounced. For three small figures had long taken residence, and occupied the deepening shadows, locked in silent shame. The mould had not reached them. Tucked beside the last rise of the chimney breast, their blanket against lifes cruelty, shrunken knees squeezed under drooping chins, they squatted patiently, cuddled dry and protected against the bitter miseries of a life once endured.

The roaring flames from huge fires lit three storeys below, spiralled upwards through repeated winters, spitting heat, shuddering and belching, finally exploding out in a stench of black smoke from the tall chimneys of the roof. These echoes of warmth insulated the attic where the three girls crouched, their wizened cheeks to the brick. Warmer now, perhaps, than they had ever been when life itself had filled their lungs.

No guess could be attempted at time passed since their deaths, for they were naked and no clothes could whisper of fashions outworn nor some clue as to identity or wealth of station. Unclothed, eyes closed behind lashless lids, shrivelled, skin now discoloured, they were nameless, forgotten, and unloved. But safe in secrecy they sat, waiting through the long quiet years until, perhaps, discovery might one day bring their names to mens lips once more.

Insubstantial fingers of a London summer floated between the ceiling cracks, and danced in a dither of soft golden dust. July slipped into August. The fires no longer raged in the hearths below, and the chimney breast was cold. But the little figures sat on without complaint or dream, and smiled as their skin shrank back from gumless teeth.

Chapter One

O ne quick skip forward, two steps to the left, then a sudden lurch backwards. The swish of silk and a peep of linen chemise. But nearly tripping and out of breath.

The trick feint failed. He had seen it coming and laughed at her. Her wrist was sore but she kept a tight grip on the hilt, twisted her hand, avoided the clash of blade to blade, and stepped once more with a quick turn to the right. Yet as her steel again missed its aim, it clattered instead against the legs of the table, scratching the carved surface.

Dont know why I bother, Peter Hutton objected with an exaggerated sigh.

She stopped abruptly and lowered both arms, shoulders slumped in failure. Her hair was loose and dishevelled and her skirts badly creased. The sword dropped to the floor boards. Youre not bothering enough. Dont just play with me, Peter. Teach me to kill people.

My father would kill me if he saw me now. The young man reached down, retrieving the heavy blade. Look at you, all tangled and tousled. Go and fight your own demons, and leave me in peace.

Jemima scowled. Your father wouldnt kill you. He wouldnt care at all. Hed laugh.

Perhaps. But my step-brother would kill me.

Oh him. Well I suppose he would from what they say. Dickon the Bastard. Is he really a bastard? Does he hate you?

Richard doesnt hate people. He doesnt like people either. Sometimes I think he doesnt even notice that people exist. But hes not a real bastard, of course. My mother wouldnt ever she was a saint. Almost.

I may not be the perfect pupil. Alright, Im a girl and not respectable. He grinned, nodded in agreement, and she blushed. But youve been learning to fight and learning to joust and learning all the martial arts since you were seven. I started a week ago.

He shook his head. A bit late, wouldnt you think, then?

Alright, I wont learn to kill anyone after all. She stared, But life is vile and my cousin is vile and I have to do something violent. It helps. Jemima paused, slumped again and leaned against the table. So teach me happy things instead. In an abrupt swirl of cerise silks and a glimmer of pearls, Jemima pointed both little blue leather toes and turned back to curtsey, then peeped up, smiling. Ive been learning the Pavanne. Or trying to. Until you know what. But now since I no longer have a dancing master