R&R: See, I Can Do It Too

It's been a long and busy week, so this afternoon I have been relaxing. Rest and Relaxation is something I have not yet mastered. However, today I actually sat down when the sun was shining and rested ... for a minute. Then I started writing. Which is sort of like relaxing. Except it's more like relaxing with a purpose.

Anyway, wherever the technical jargon lands us in this rather one-sided conversation, I find writing refreshing. And that is a lot like relaxing, except that I don't snore while I'm writing.

So, today's adventure is something I'm working on for my grandchildren. The tentative title is Giants on Troglodyte Mountain. It is proving to be a lot of fun, and I am hoping to have a beta draft to share with the kids by Christmas Eve. I hope it's not too far over the little one's heads. If so, I'm confident they'll catch up sooner than later. 

This is RV signing out. I'm off for a few more minutes of R&R before heading to bed.

A Prince's Ransom

Wrath of the Falcon

Wrath of the Falcon, Book 4

The hinges groaned slightly as the fourteen-year-old
princess opened the old mahogany box with clandestine
stealth. She carefully lifted several bundles out of the
box until the flicker of candlelight fell on a note written
in a different hand.
“This one,” Princess Katrina whispered as she pulled
the note out of the box.
Marisa stared intently as the light danced in her dark
eyes. “Read it,” Marisa urged in a whisper.
Katrina began, “It's addressed to Zeto. He's our great-
great-grandfather. It's from his mother.”
“Just read it,” Marisa practically begged her cousin.
Katrina read:
Dear Son, It is with deep sorrow that I
recognize this place in which our people have
chosen to gather. For though fifty years have
passed since that dreadful day, I can still see it
as if it was today. Our ancestors inhabited this
valley for many generations. When I was a
youth, a war raged through, and the citadel, 
of which my father was the last guardian
steward, became a refuge for dozens of our
villagers. When the battle came too near the
citadel, my father rang the sacred bell. I can
still hear its voice mingled with the weeping of
mothers crouched with their children.
The promised reply from the neighboring
king never came. In retrospect, I suspect he
had already fallen.
The raiders partially broke the massive door
enough to crawl in, and I cannot bring myself
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to record the horrors that took place. There
was a secret passageway that led to the river, 
and I took as many of the children as I could
hasten into the passageway before the raiders  
overran the refuge. The last glimpse I had of
my father was of a sword crashing down upon
him.
I cannot stay in this place, so please rejoin
me in PenNel after the Jamboree. Do not
share this with anyone else, lest it deflate their
pleasure.
“What do you think of that?” Katrina whispered.
“I've heard the riddle of the bell before, but never this
part of the story,” Marisa whispered back.
“That's because it was a deep secret. But with this,
now we're going to find the citadel!” Katrina exclaimed.
“We don't even know if it's real,” Marisa retorted
skeptically, trying not to get swept along in her cousin's
enthusiasm.
“It's real, all right. This note was from one of my
ancestors,” Katrina explained, as if that made it all make
sense.
Marisa looked blank. “Mine too.”
“Right. Our grandfather's grandfather found it. We're
going to find it. Then we'll be famous, and maybe we'll
even find treasure. Then we'll be rich too!” Katrina
elaborated.
Marisa gave Katrina a funny look. “You're already rich.
In case you forgot, you're the princess.”
“Oh, don't do that! You're going to ruin the
adventure,” Katrina bemoaned.
“I don't see how you're going to have any adventure
with your father's royal guard marching circles around
you every minute of the day,” Marisa challenged as she
made a march pantomime with her fingers.
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Katrina pulled herself close to Marisa and, after a
theatrical look around to verify they were alone,
whispered, “I've got it all planned out. When the boys go
hunting, we'll slip past the guards in boys' clothing.”
“Which boys are going hunting?” Marisa asked
suspiciously.
“Samuel is taking my brother and your brother early
the first morning,” was Katrina's reply.
“My brother? Levi?” Marisa smirked.
“Yes, of course,” Katrina replied tersely. “He's not so
much the buffoon as everyone makes out!”
A light tap on the door as it swung open alerted the
girls. They dove under their bedcovers, forgetting to put
out the candles.
The maid smiled as she attempted to scold, “My
Grace, you girls need your rest for the journey
tomorrow.”
The woman, whom the girls viewed as ancient, put out
the candles as Katrina protested, “But, Miss Gretta, we
can sleep in the carriage. The travel is insufferably
boring.”
“No carriage this time, M' Lady,” the maid replied.
“His Majesty's ordered horses for the two of you. You're
to ride the whole way. He says it's too pretentious to
show up to a Gypsy Jamboree in a royal coach.”
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Excerpt, Book 3

Gepetka, Prince of Gypsies

The road ended. It was not that the road was
particularly a good one. In fact, it was rugged, steep,
and, in places, nearly indiscernible as a road. However,
its termination in the Swiss Alpine village was abrupt
and distinct.
The village consisted of a tight cluster of four dozen or
so thatched houses, with a tidy but substantial
complement of outbuildings, set up against the banks of
a swift mountain stream. A narrow footbridge crossed
the stream, and only goats were visible in the meadows
that swept up to the rugged peaks on the other side.
It was the end of the road, but certainly not the edge
of the earth as he had been assured to find. With only
the slightest hint of disappointment, the Gypsy surveyed
the picturesque surroundings. The view was nothing
short of awe-inspiring.
The light mountain breeze murmuring through the
tops of the pine forest carried the freshest, coolest air
the Gypsy tinker had ever breathed. Having heard
rumor of the remote village at the end of the earth, he
had impatiently sought an excuse to explore it. He had
toiled to the place under the auspices of breaking new
territory in which to ply his trade. The truth was, he was
innately curious, and made the journey purely for the
sake of discovery. Though it was not what he had hoped
to find, he was delighted.
The thirteenth century was giving way to the
fourteenth, and the traveling tinker did not want to be
left in the past. The exploration of new places, people,
and experiences kept him regularly trading in unfamiliar
territory. So it was nothing new when he coaxed his
donkey to back the cart to align nicely with the ten
other carts that were parked parallel to one another.
Their tailgates all neatly pointed toward the village, and
so did his. The Gypsy's cart was only distinguished from
the others by its brightly-colored paint job.
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Noting that his donkey was the only one in sight, he
decided to leave her hitched to the cart rather than put
her in with the corralled oxen. He did not want the great
beasts to object to the interloper. Subconsciously, or
perhaps by experience, he also knew Gypsies were,
often as not, considered undesirable interlopers as well.
Satisfied with his cart arrangements, he began making
his way among the silent buildings. At that point the
weary Gypsy hoped to find a good meal and possibly
even some exotic nugget of truth. He had just begun to
wonder over the absence of inhabitants when the distant
cacophony of excited voices led him through the village
center. He wove around and between houses toward the
sound until he was suddenly at the edge of the open
square at the far end of the village. A stone building
much larger than the others stood across the crowded
square. He presumed it to be the church.
The sea of fair blond heads captivated his imagination.
The crowd was intent on something that was out of sight
to the Gypsy. Then a man stepped up onto some pedestal
and began making an accusation, gesturing angrily
toward a pole in the midst of the courtyard. The crowd
responded with equal enthusiasm as a woman was
thrust against the pole and bound. Bundles of dried
branches were piled waist deep about the woman and a
pail of melted tallow was sloshed over her and the
kindling.
The tall Gypsy's pleasure dissolved into revolting
horror. Quickly he turned to leave, but not soon enough.
The corner of his eye caught the motion of a hand
snatching the bonnet from the woman's head and a flash
of vivid red hair flowed into sight. Involuntarily he
looked back at the spectacle as a puff of wind whipped
the long flame red hair about the woman's face as if
prophesying her death.
He was momentarily transfixed by the proud, or
perhaps defiant, look on the woman's face. Her eyes met
his across the crowd and he felt as if she were
conveying some urgent message. His mind raced for
some kind of conclusion, but his ears only heard the
word “witch” chanted, then suddenly she was engulfed
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Excerpt, Book 2

A Gathering of Falcons
Death was imminent. Lord Clyde scowled at his left
hand as if it was the source of the crushing pain in his
chest. In the brief moment before slipping into the
shadow, the legendary warrior mused at the irony. Clyde
had so oft anticipated his demise on the battlefield that
he had never imagined he would die in the midst of a
foal pasture teeming with the vitality of new life. The
enormous man hesitated for several awkward moments
with one foot poised in the stirrup. Aborting the
attempt, he slowly backed away from the great beast
and, almost casually, leaned back against an ancient elm
tree.
Clyde and Tiny had made one last survey of the foal
pasture before their annual trip to the king’s Summer
Festival. There were twenty-four mares grazing
contentedly about the large field, with their foals
frolicking about as young horses tend to do. In the
distance stood the Worthington Estate in its redeemed
condition.
Tiny clambered onto his mount, but Lord Clyde,
gingerly clutching his left arm, half slid, half slumped to
the ground.
“Are you well, Uncle?” Tiny asked in alarm.
“’Twill be fine, lad,” Clyde answered thickly. “I’ll be
takin’ a little rest here. You ride on back to the house an’
tell Timothy I want him to come to me ... alone. And ...,”
he paused to laboriously catch his breath, “Tell me good
wife Gretchen ... I’ll be waitin’ fer her.”
                               *****
It was just past a month later when the memorial
tribute to Lord Clyde was held at the Worthington
Estate. It was attended by nearly every lord of the
kingdom and the entire royal family. Such affairs were
typically stuffy and painfully formal. However, because
King Lohman III had such a high degree of affinity for
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Clyde’s simplicity, formalities were relaxed and the
gathering became somewhat of a reunion.
Princess Sarah, chagrined by the missed opportunity
to record Lord Clyde’s life story, was renewed in her
determination to pen the history of each of those
assembled. She looked across the table to her father-in-
law, the king, and asked, “How is it that you and Master
Yomahito met?”
Lohman slowly swept his gaze from the far end of the
table up to those nearest him. His eyes locked with
those of the small man from the mysterious Far East. A
long moment of silent communication passed between
the two old friends. Then, as if to break the trance,
Yomahito said simply, “It was raining.”
The mists of reminiscence came across the king’s
eyes. He began to speak and the room fell to silence.
“Yes. It had been raining hard for days ...”
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Excerpt

Fourteenth Century
There was blood on the grass, lots of blood. The king's
page stood riveted with horror as he realized how much
of that blood had stained his boots. Involuntarily, his
eyes were drawn to the archer, some one hundred paces
away. As the archer deliberately drew an arrow into his
bow, the page felt as if he might throw up. The page was
a young lad, barely a teen, and could hardly be faulted
for his trepidation. The distance seemed insignificant to
the boy, for just moments before he had seen a large
soldier collapse in the same spot writhing in pain with
an arrow protruding from his thigh. It had been an
unfortunate accident, indeed, but the arrow had
inadvertently lost its fletching upon leaving the bow. The
tremendous odds against such a thing happening twice
in a tournament was no comfort to the lad. The
contestant had been disqualified, the wounded marshal
had been removed, the king had sent his page to
substitute for the marshal, and the tournament
continued as if nothing was amiss. The terrified lad
stood near the target in front of the thousands of people
who were watching the tournament. When the first
arrow hit the clout with a decisive smack, the boy
jumped and let out an unmanly squeak. Then, before he
could think, the second arrow found its mark and, as his
muddled head tried to remember the signal, the third
arrow struck, and at that moment ... the boy fainted in a
pile.
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Kingdom of the Falcon
The Summer Festival was, without a doubt, the
greatest event for the peasants of the fourteenth
century. The savory smells of roasting meat hung thick
in the still air. The competing aromas of fresh breads,
pickled fish, and ale, all mingling in the lazily wafting
smoke of cook fires, served only to stimulate the sensory
barrage. In the midway there could be heard the various
sounds of amusements as vendors hawked their wares,
minstrels sang ballads, and gamblers wagered on
virtually anything. It was the fifth day of the seven-day-
long festival and the main event was the archery
contest. The majority of the people were crammed
around the fairgrounds clamoring for a chance to see
the targets and contestants. The competition had been
spectacular, and the crowd was throbbing with
excitement.
It was the final round of double elimination and, as the
last two contestants stepped up to the shooting line, a
great hush fell over the crowd. The first, Miles, clad in
ceremonial armor bearing the image of the Bear, drew
his bow and sent his arrow into the fist-sized bull’s-eye.
The crowd cheered excitedly. He fitted the next arrow,
and again the crowd hushed. The second arrow whistled
the one hundred yards and stuck merely two fingers
from the first. The crowd cheered with enthusiasm.
Once again, the crowd hushed as he, with some
flamboyance, prepared and shot the third. It struck in
the bull’s-eye with its feathers almost touching the
second. The crowd cheered wildly.
Miles was accustomed to this kind of contest, as he
was the chief bowman in Lord Darrin’s army. He was the
undisputed champion of the northern province of
PenNel. He doffed his hat and bowed to the platform
where King Lohman, his lords, and other nobles
watched. Then he bowed with great panache to the
throng of peasants, and they yelled and cheered more,
some waving the miniature standard of PenNel.
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William was a woodsman in the service of King
Lohman, and had never even been to a festival prior to
this event. He felt more than a little out of place among
so great a throng of people, particularly so many nobles.
He was clad in the greens and grays that were
customary to his trade, for he owned no fine garments
or festive garb. He, indeed, would not have come to this
contest but for the ‘invitation’ from the king, who also
sponsored his entry fee.
Though William was out of his element, he was an
archer, the son of Archer, and he was fully accustomed
to shooting under stress. So, he nodded to Miles and
said softly, “Fine shooting, sir. I’m honored to compete
with one of such skill.”
Then he drew his first arrow and sent it into the direct
center of the bull’s-eye. The crowd cheered tentatively,
for, until that day, William was unknown to them. His
second arrow neatly clove the first in two before the
crowd was hushed and, in startled awe, they leaned
closer. Abruptly, before they could cheer, his third arrow
split the second, making the target look like some
bizarre flower. The marshal, who was but a lad from the
king's court, promptly fainted, and there was a stunned
hush for three heartbeats, then the crowd, erupting in
cheers, chanted, “Will-yum! Will-yum! Will-yum!” The
miniature standards of PenNel were discarded and the
Bear pennants were trampled under foot as the
peasants pressed hard against the ropes. Somehow, the
guards prevailed to hold the crowd back while William
and Miles approached the king’s platform.
Miles was accorded the silver medallion, which King
Lohman held high for all to see. The cheers echoed off
the city wall like thunder as the king ceremoniously
placed the red ribbon that held the heavy medallion over
Miles’ head.
Miles smiled and bowed skillfully as he accepted his
prize, which was a quite worthy reward. However, in his
heart there was a stain of bitterness, for he had never
been beaten before. His private chagrin was intensified
by the rash promise he had made to a fair maiden back
home, that he would bring her the gold medallion as a
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