This weeks interview is with Elizabeth Davies, I loved her answers. Stephen King, Wow would not have thought that. So awesome.
Me: Tell us about yourself
Elizabeth:
I’m married to my best friend (cliché, huh?), have an almost grown
daughter, and a scruffy old dog. We live in South Wales, not far from the areas
about which I write. Here the land is full of castles, wind-swept mountains and
hidden valleys.
Me: Tell us about your new book?
Elizabeth:
It’s called The Spirit Guide. Here’s the blurb:
Seren has an unusual gift – she sees spirits, the shades of
the dead.
Terrified of being accused of witchcraft, a very real
possibility in twelfth century Britain, she keeps her secret close, not even
confiding in her husband.
But when she gives her heart and soul to a man who guides
spirits in the world beyond the living, she risks her secret and her life for
their love.
It’s set in and around the market town of Hay on Wye, and
its 1000 year old castle. And it features ghosts! The book, not the castle. Or
perhaps the castle does, too…
Me: When you write, does your real life spill over into your
book at any time?
Elizabeth:
Only in that the places and some of the historical events are real. And
some of the characters actually did exist, but I have superimposed my own ideas
on what they were like, and this may not reflect their actual personalities.
And sometimes people I know creep in, too. For instance, the
when I visualized the character Vaughan, I imagined him to look like a
gentleman I used to work with.
Me: Do you think about a book of yours, being made into a
movie, or not when writing?
Elizabeth:
As I write I see the story unfolding as I would when watching a film, so
yeah, I suppose I do, although that’s more a part of my writing process than
having a serious consideration that a novel of mine would really be turned into
a film.
Me: When naming your characters, do you give any thought to
the actual meaning?
Elizabeth:
Not to the meaning of the name, but the ‘feel’ of the name and the
association I might have with that particular name are important to me.
Sometimes a name just pops into my head, and I think ‘that’s perfect!’, and
other times it takes me ages to find just the right one. I need to it sound
right when spoken out loud, and also look good when written.
Me: What made you want to write and also what made you want
to write the genre you are writing?
Elizabeth:
It’s all my mother’s fault. She said right from when I was little and
got good grades in my English classes that I should write. Easier said than
done, though. It takes determination to transfer an idea in your head into real
words on a real computer (or paper). As for genre, I think that was more
accident than design. I wrote two novels before my State of Grace series, and
they were what I would call women’s drama. They weren’t very good – rather dark
and depressing. But when I read a few vampire books in which none of the
vampires were exactly what I wanted them to be, I decided to write my own. The
historical part of my novels just appeared out of nowhere!
Me: If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a
mentor?
Elizabeth:
Stephen King! I’ve read his stuff from when I was a teenager, and I just
keep going back to him. The Stand is my favorite novel of all time, and even
now he continues to amaze me with his ideas.
Me: Do you have any tips for our readers that might dream of
writing?
Elizabeth:
Get that first word written! You are never going to be a writer if it
stays in your head. And keep writing. It’s like any other craft – it takes
practice.
Me: Tell us anything you want?
Elizabeth:
I like horses – I generally slip one or two into each novel. It helps
that I mostly write about medieval Britain, when horses were a part of everyday
life!
Chapter 1
Englishmen flooded the castle and I was up to my wrists in
the blood of one of them, trying to push his insides back through the eight
inch gash in his stomach. His screams filled my ears and my mind, setting my
teeth on edge, drowning out the voice of my mother. I jumped violently as she
touched my shoulder to gain my attention.
‘Stop, Seren. He is beyond your help.’
I knew he was, but if I could return his intestines to their
rightful place, his cries of agony would cease. All I wanted was for this
unknown man to be silent.
My mother moved me aside and I went willingly; she had some
skill in matters of healing and I bowed to her knowledge.
‘Shield me from the eyes of others,’ she said, and I
positioned myself behind her, blocking her hands from the view of those who
might take an interest in her activities. I thought she was preparing to
practice her peoples’ ancient art on the stricken man, but instead she killed
him.
One hand over his mouth, she used the fingers of the other
to pinch his nose tightly closed. He struggled fiercely, his feet thrumming
against the pallet, his eyes wide and staring as he fought to breathe. His
hands clawed at my mother’s own as she leaned in close to whisper in his ear,
her grip hard and tight on his face.
I heard not what she said, but his struggles lessened and I
watched, awed, as the light left his eyes and another glow, faint at first but
growing steadily stronger, emanated from his chest and coalesced into a
radiance brighter than the noonday sun. I looked away, unwilling to witness
what I could not understand, and when I eventually forced my gaze back to the
knight, his death was complete.
She removed her hands, as blood-drenched as mine, and put
her ear to his mouth. I could have told her he was dead, but I held my tongue,
as I always did.
‘It is kinder this way,’ my mother said. ‘You did all you
could, but nothing would have eased his pain.’
She straightened up, her palms in the small of her back,
working the kinks out of aching muscles, leaving behind two red hand prints
clearly visible in the grime of her gown. My own clothing was stiff with dried
gore: I did not think I could ever be clean again, either in body or soul.
‘Come,’ she commanded,’ there are others who need our help.’
I turned away, weary to my bones, wishing I was anywhere but
here, in this charnel house of the dead and dying.
The great hall was filled with bodies, some alive and some
not, and some wishing they had already gone to meet their maker. The scent of
cow-fat candles and oak logs burning in the stone fireplace was an aromatic
undertone to the copper-smell of spilled blood, and the stench of bowels
loosened by death throes. Screams and groans rent the air, interspersed with
calls for more water and fresh linen, and grown men begging for their mothers,
or God, to help them.
It was a scene from hell itself, but even though I closed my
eyes, I could not block out the vision behind my lids, and I knew I would
relive this moment for the rest of my years.
My mother thrust me towards a body on the floor.
‘There is one you can save,’ she said, and when I failed to
move even one step closer to my patient, she grasped me painfully by the tops
of my arms and shook me hard.
‘I did not wish for this, either,’ she hissed, her face
inches from mine. I could see flecks of blood on her forehead and lines of
strain around her mouth. Her eyes were dark pits of despair. ‘It is my people
these men are killing. But we have a duty to do what we can, and you will not
shirk that duty.’
I nodded slowly, to show my acceptance of what she was
asking me to do. I might not like it, but I knew my place. As a nearly-grown
daughter of the chatelaine - wife of the lord of the castle - certain things
were expected of me: tending to battle injuries was one of them.
Abruptly, my mother pulled me towards her, her arms circling
me.
‘I promise this day will end,’ she said. ‘I know how hard
this is – I, too was innocent of the horrors of war once – but if we do not
tend to them, who will? Enough have died today and more will die tomorrow, but
there are many we can save.’
She held me close, and I smelled the familiar scent of
rosewater underneath the stink of blood, excrement, and sweat. The scent
soothed me a little, but not enough to tell her the real reason behind my
reluctance to attend to the injured, though the sights before me should be
reason enough for anyone.
She released me and gave me a gentle push towards the inert
figure at my feet.
I knelt on the sticky rushes, turned the man so he was on
his back, and gasped in shock. This was no man, this was a boy, and one I knew
well. Porec was no older than I, a stable boy who attended my father’s horses.
He should not have been on the battlefield. He should have been seeing to the
destriers, yet here he was, covered in gore as much as any fallen knight.
I touched him gently all over, seeking the source of the
blood, and finding no visible sign, was about to conclude he was uninjured
when, on lifting his head to attempt to dribble some water into his mouth, my
hand came away freshly rubied.
The gash on his head was nasty but not fatal, and already
the blood flow was slowing. I turned him on his side and called for fresh
water. A bowl was placed next to me, along with moss for cleansing the wound.
Gently I dabbed away as much blood and dirt as I dared, keeping my eyes firmly
on my task, careful not to see the flashes of light which meant another man had
died.
As I wrung out the moss, the water in the bowl already a
deep red, I saw a flare of darkness in the corner of my vision and quickly
raised my head, but it was gone before I saw it clearly. Then I spotted Isobel,
and I hurriedly averted my gaze, but not before I registered her expression.
Whatever it was, she had seen it too, and it worried her.
~~~~
That day was longer than any I had experienced before. My
mother and her women worked tirelessly as they saw to an unending supply of
wounded. Limbs hacked off, stomachs rent, throats opened, gashes, stab wounds,
heads caved in – the list of injuries man could inflict on man was seemingly
endless, as were the ways of dying. The lights of souls leaving their bodies
were as numerous as the stars on a clear night, and still the fallen kept
coming. The Welsh, I heard, had it even worse, but my imagination failed to
grasp just how much worse than this it could be.
Men too old for fighting cleared away the dead and brought
more injured for the women to treat. Some we could help and would live to fight
another day, but many were beyond our ministrations. Only my mother was able,
or willing, to aid those whose death was certain, and even then she had to
perform the task in secret. Many died screeching their agony to the rafters,
and the noise haunted me for years to come.
I could tell the dead souls from the walking wounded only
because the ghosts were uninjured. But their armour and clothing were those
they had worn when they died, still bloodied and torn, and sometimes I could
not help but mistake some of them for the living. My reputation for being
strange was growing with each spirit I tried to aid.
There were too many of them for Isobel to deal with, and so
the recently-dead moved among us, as clear to me as the living, and I tried to
avoid touching them whenever I could.
I was swaying on my feet, exhaustion of both mind and body
threatening to overwhelm me, when old Clara came searching. She stood, half-in,
half-out of the great wooden doors, and I tried to smile at her but my cheeks
were frozen into a grimace of despair. Her face was a mass of folded wrinkles,
her toothless mouth open in a silent scream of horror as she stared beyond me
at the hell inside. I glanced around, seeing the hall through fresh eyes, and
my own expression reflected hers. My gaze was caught by one of the castle dogs
scurrying past me with his prize grasped in bloodied jaws – a human foot. I
swallowed down bile and raised a shaking hand to my forehead.
I needed to get out; just for a little while I needed to
breathe air not foetid with the reek of death. I needed to hear the wind in the
trees, and the murmur of the river, not the shrieks of mortal agony and the
groans of those who lacked the energy to scream. I needed to stand on the
balustrade and look out at the distant grey mountains, and forget the redness
of slaughter.
I went to her, my old nurse, anxious for the comfort she never
failed to provide, but when I grasped the hand she held out to me, I screamed.
A crushing pain was filling my chest, stopping my heart and
breath, whilst another pain, sharper and deeper scoured my mind. Glew is dead,
slain by an arrow to the throat. Oh Mary, Mother of God, my son is dead. I saw
his body, laid out in the courtyard, still and cold, piled up with the rest of
those who had lost their lives defending the castle. I knew before I saw him –
I knew my eldest had gone. I knew it in my heart, but my head could not believe
until I saw his body with mine own eyes. How can I bear it?
The pain in my heart is a dagger, rending me, shredding me,
and I cannot catch my breath. I cannot feel my legs, and I try to scream, to
call for aid, but only a groan leaves my throat.
I gasped and shuddered, caught up in the last moments of
Clara’s life. As I clutched her hand I saw her son’s body through her eyes, I
felt her pain, and experienced her death. And I was helpless to prevent it.
A warm hand prised my fingers away from my nurse’s grip.
Released from my connection to her, I slumped to the floor, unnoticed; another
prone figure amidst the many in the hall. Strong arms lifted me and carried me
outside. I clung on, fearful of being left with Clara. I loved the old woman in
life, but the dead Clara terrified me.
With eyes tightly closed, unwilling to see the fallen who
lay all around in the courtyard, I breathed deeply, and never had air tasted so
sweet.
Inside once more, my saviour climbed upward towards my
mother’s chamber, and for this small act of kindness I would be forever
grateful. I shared a room with two of my sisters, and at this moment I needed
to be alone. Neither sister had yet reached womanhood and were spared the
trials of this conflict because of their youth, and were confined to our room.
My three elder brothers were squires at other castles, but there were two more
in the nursery, too small to witness this carnage. I screwed my eyes tightly
shut as I considered how my siblings would deal with Clara’s death. They loved
her, too.
I opened my eyes as I was borne higher, but could see little
of the man who held me, except a clean-shaven chin and dark hair, curling about
the chainmail at his throat. The door was kicked open with a booted foot and I
was deposited gently on the huge chest at the foot of the bed.
I looked up as he stepped away from me, then shivers set in,
a reaction to both Clara’s touch and the misery of the last few hours. I
slumped to the floor and he left me there whilst he poured a glass of my
mother’s sweet wine. I gulped it thankfully, trying not to think how much the
dark red liquid reminded me of the blood I was caked in.
‘Do you need fresh garments?’ he asked, his English tinged
with French nuances.
I answered in the same language. ‘My mother has spare
clothes in her chests. But is there any point? I will have to return to the
hall soon and there is little sense in ruining more clothing.’
‘As you wish.’
He stood staring at me, and I at him. A fighting man, he
wore chainmail over linen and the coif of his mail was thrown back from his
head. His surcoat bore no emblem I was familiar with. A dagger hung from the
belt at his hip, sheathed in leather, its carved ivory hilt gleaming dully in
the light of the late afternoon sun, which shafted through the narrow, high
windows. Soft black leather boots reached to mid-calf. He had the bearing of a
knight, and an English one at that. But I could not fault him neither for his
kindness nor for his ancestry: I was half English myself, and could trace my
father’s lineage back to William of Normandy. My mother was all Welsh, and it
was to my mother I was drawn, with her tales of magic, and the scent of sorcery
which hung about her like the faint smell of wood-smoke from a distant fire. I
was my mother’s daughter, as my brothers belonged to our father.
‘I must return below,’ he said. ‘Is there someone who can
care for you?’
‘I need no care,’ I retorted, a little more hotly than his
concern deserved.
He stared at me for several heartbeats and I returned his
look as steadily as I could. I was unused to meeting a strange man’s gaze, but
war had a habit of turning custom on its
head. I liked what I saw; dark, curling hair, dark eyes, and
Norman complexion, or else he spent much time outdoors. Taller by at least
three hand-spans, he towered over me as I sat in blood-drenched misery on the
floor next to my mother’s carved, oak chest, trying to look more composed than
I felt.
Abruptly I became aware of my situation. It was unseemly for
me, an unmarried maid, to be alone with a man who was not father, brother or
uncle, and I was alone with him in a private chamber. If I were discovered my
reputation would be beyond repair.
‘I will rest a while,’ I said, my voice more gentle than
before. ‘Thank you for your aid.’
He dipped his head, acknowledging my manners and my subtle
dismissal of him, but he made no move to leave.
The silence grew and I wriggled uncomfortably under his
scrutiny, but eventually he spoke.
‘What caused you to cry out?’ he asked. I could not fathom
the expression in his eyes.
It was more than simple curiosity which made him ask, and
instantly I was wary and on guard. My mother suspected there was more to me
than I showed, as did others, but I well knew how fine the line was between
appearing a simpleton and being thought of as a witch. I guarded this curse of
mine jealously, even from those who love me, and I was not about to reveal my
secret to a stranger, however pretty and courteous.
‘You saw the hall,’ I retorted, my tone sharp once more.
‘Any maid would be overwhelmed.’
His gaze raked my face, searching for more than I was
willing to give, and somehow I thought he knew, I thought he could see my soul
and the burden it carried, and I cringed before him.
‘You are too young a lady to witness such horrors,’ he said,
after another long silence.
‘My mother does not think so,’ I replied, and I could hear
the resentment in my voice and wondered at it. I knew my duty, and was old
enough to perform it. I was a woman flowered, and if my father was successful
in his quest for a husband for me, I would soon have my own homestead and
family. This I knew, so why the hidden bitterness?
‘You are of an age to be wed, are you not?’
‘Yes. I am sixteen.’
I was conscious of the way his eyes traversed my face and
body. It was not the surreptitious ogling that I was aware of with other men.
It was an honest evaluation, with little more concern than if this strange
knight had been buying a horse, and with an abruptness
which jolted me, anger spiked in my chest, swiftly followed
by acceptance – I knew I was not looking my best. The coils of my dark hair
stuck damply to my face, whether from sweat or blood I could not tell, and I
was spattered with worse than blood. My gown, once a deep green, was now a
muddied, bloodied brown, and the scent of death coated every inch of me. No
wonder he failed to see me for the woman I was.
I scrambled to my feet and stood as tall as I could,
emulating my mother’s unconsciously regal bearing, aware of my tiny waist and
the flare of my newly-rounded hips, and was rewarded by a sudden glint of
desire in those dark eyes. Now he saw!
I was instantly contrite. I only recently understood the
power women wielded over men by virtue of their femininity, and I was too young
to be completely comfortable with the interest I sparked. It was safe to
flutter my eyes at strangers, whilst I sat at my father’s table, and with my
mother to protect me from myself and others. This was another thing entirely.
‘I am Sir Walter’s daughter,’ I said, letting him know I was
not some serving wench to be trifled with: I was not highborn, yet I was beyond
the threat of a brief dalliance, and my father’s influence would ensure my
safety. My simple statement spoke volumes.
So did his.
‘I know.’
I breathed out in a rush and a blush coloured my cheeks. Of
course he knew. Why else would he bring me to the chatelaine’s chamber? If I
were an ordinary maid, then he would not have dared to invade the privacy of my
mother’s rooms.
He bowed low, and took his leave, but not before I glimpsed
the laughter in his eyes.
I heaved a sigh, weary to my soul, as the door closed softly
behind him. The intensity of the last few moments drained away, leaving me
exhausted and unnerved. I slumped back to the floor, unwilling to stain the
wood of the chest with my blood-coated dress.
I didn’t hear her come in, but some sixth sense told me I
was not alone. I lifted my head from my hands, expecting to see my mother, come
to chastise me for shirking my responsibilities; instead I saw a spirit.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Isobel said.
Me: Tell us about yourself..jpg)
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