Troublesome Disguises cover
Painting by Titian. Venus at her ablutions. This novel is now available in audiobook, read by the author.
Monday 31 October 2011
Thursday 27 October 2011
Buy the audio book of Troublesome Disguises- the First Francis Vallemont novel here- it's a whodunnit and is set in London and the Royal Court of Richmond, at Christmas, 1588/89. The ideal Christmas present. Written and read by the author. Remember though: it is me reading it and it is my first attempt and I'm not a professional reader- hence, the incredibly cheap price for a nearly 11 hour audio performance! Listen to a 50 minute chunk first- here: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=VYCUDHVM
Well, TDOTD's going reasonably well. So I've been tweeting a bit at night, after a long day's writing. Now, feel I should keep up the blog. Going online and seeing how hard all those creative people work at marketing their work, is an inspiration to me. Marketing is not easy and for writers, who like me just want to write, it's a bother, I think. But I see now that it has to be done. (But not by me...signing off...will post new work here. Just need to write and read. It'll sell in the end.)
London? The greatest city in the world! (I know, you thought yours was!!) I used to work there years ago, when I was in my teens- it's a truly great city. And that is why I've placed my hero, Francis Vallemont, there. I know that City well- I worked there for nearly four years and, of course, have lived there on a few other occasions over the years, working and playing, though briefly. You should go there. It is drenched in history and can be very romantic- every bit as much as Paris! With the parks and the little back streets, and wealth and poverty- all life is there. And it's a very young city, by which I mean, many young people work there- they go there to get a start in life, a start that their hometown wouldn't be able to offer them. Just as Americans go to New York or LA, I suppose, or provincial French people go to Paris. Of course, I now know much more about London's history than I did when I lived there. I can appreciate the place more. We have good maps of the place from Elizabethan times, and some excellent primary sources (that's first hand or eyewitness accounts), so it is possible to reconstruct it in the mind- well enough, I believe, to set a novel back there, and make your characters live and breathe. That's what I'm trying to do- but I'm using the whodunnit form to keep me disciplined otherwise, I might get a bit literary and writerly, and start to think spouting my thoughts is somehow clever. Constructing well plotted and charactered stories is my aim- I'm not one of those novel writers who thinks he's a poet! I am writing about what I know. My character is from the Westcountry (like me) and has come to London in his youth (as I did), but Vallemont is having much, much more success with the ladies than I ever did!
Well, TDOTD's going reasonably well. So I've been tweeting a bit at night, after a long day's writing. Now, feel I should keep up the blog. Going online and seeing how hard all those creative people work at marketing their work, is an inspiration to me. Marketing is not easy and for writers, who like me just want to write, it's a bother, I think. But I see now that it has to be done. (But not by me...signing off...will post new work here. Just need to write and read. It'll sell in the end.)
London? The greatest city in the world! (I know, you thought yours was!!) I used to work there years ago, when I was in my teens- it's a truly great city. And that is why I've placed my hero, Francis Vallemont, there. I know that City well- I worked there for nearly four years and, of course, have lived there on a few other occasions over the years, working and playing, though briefly. You should go there. It is drenched in history and can be very romantic- every bit as much as Paris! With the parks and the little back streets, and wealth and poverty- all life is there. And it's a very young city, by which I mean, many young people work there- they go there to get a start in life, a start that their hometown wouldn't be able to offer them. Just as Americans go to New York or LA, I suppose, or provincial French people go to Paris. Of course, I now know much more about London's history than I did when I lived there. I can appreciate the place more. We have good maps of the place from Elizabethan times, and some excellent primary sources (that's first hand or eyewitness accounts), so it is possible to reconstruct it in the mind- well enough, I believe, to set a novel back there, and make your characters live and breathe. That's what I'm trying to do- but I'm using the whodunnit form to keep me disciplined otherwise, I might get a bit literary and writerly, and start to think spouting my thoughts is somehow clever. Constructing well plotted and charactered stories is my aim- I'm not one of those novel writers who thinks he's a poet! I am writing about what I know. My character is from the Westcountry (like me) and has come to London in his youth (as I did), but Vallemont is having much, much more success with the ladies than I ever did!
Saturday 22 October 2011
And here is the cover of my latest Vallemont novel and the last thing I will be posting for a week or so, the cover of The Daughters of the Draper. It's evocative of the book, I think.
It's the ideal Christmas Present- a book set at the romantic Elizabethan Court of Richmond at Christmastide!
And by using the above button you can buy the Troublesome Disguises Audio Book on disc. Nearly eleven unabridged hours of the author reading his first Francis Vallemont novel, all 11 parts in MP3 format. You also receive the full digital text and a jpeg of the cover. Postage and packing is free, because the files can be downloaded directly to your computer. I will direct you to a site where the files are stored online.
https://twitter.com/FrancisVallemon And I am, as you see, tweeting now!
The Assumption of the Virgin by Van Dyke
It's the ideal Christmas Present- a book set at the romantic Elizabethan Court of Richmond at Christmastide!
And by using the above button you can buy the Troublesome Disguises Audio Book on disc. Nearly eleven unabridged hours of the author reading his first Francis Vallemont novel, all 11 parts in MP3 format. You also receive the full digital text and a jpeg of the cover. Postage and packing is free, because the files can be downloaded directly to your computer. I will direct you to a site where the files are stored online.
https://twitter.com/FrancisVallemon And I am, as you see, tweeting now!
And here, finally, is the start of my second Vallemont novel- the one I'm currently reading to turn into an audio book, which you can buy the digital text version of only, by pressing the button below:
It costs just £2.99 only and there is no P+P, because it will be emailed to you- the ideal Christmas Present!
An Unreasonable Request.
The Second Francis Vallemont novel.
by Frank Almond.
For Vik
Prologue.
Fenchurch Street, 7 a m, Wednesday.
He saw the maid come out and cross the street, and go down Mincing Lane, and didn't pay her much heed. Until she came right back out again and returned to the house. It was the speed of her coming and going that had attracted his attention. He left his position in the archway of St Gabriel's and hurried down to the corner of Mincing Lane, and saw a big red-haired man shambling away towards the bottom, where it runs into Tower Street.
"Now, who are you?" he said. He looked back across the street and wondered if he should follow him or stay watching the house. This man could be important or it could be nothing at all. How do you decide. And then he followed him.
The man turned right on Tower Street. He ran after him to catch up, but by the time he'd made it to the corner, the man had vanished, like the old were-fox himself. He shook his head and folded his arms.
"Well, I'll be- I lost him!" He laughed at himself. "Mister, you are no good at this."
And then he walked back up Mincing Lane. And his mouth broke into a smile, and then broke into a song. And his voice was a most wonderful, soft, lilting baritone.
"One evening, as I rambled,
Among the leaves so green,
I overheard a young woman,
Converse with Reynardine."
An Unreasonable Request.
Bennet Deering should not have been there. Her husband, William Deering a Warden and liveried member of the Worshipful Company of Skinners, thought she was going to Silver Street to see her sister, Mrs Ursula Clavell. And here she was, visiting a house in Hog Lane, Shoreditch. It was hardly the behaviour of a respectably married young woman. Shipley watched her go in the house on the corner, but could not see who answered the door to her, because the property was high walled and accessed by a round archway from the Lane, that led into a yard.
It looked like rain, or snow, was on the way, judging by the clouds gathering over Westminster way, so Shipley paid a lad to keep an eye on the place for him and described the woman he was interested in. And then he walked all the way back down the hill to Petty France to a tavern he knew, to have a pie and a pint. And ended up doing a turn as he was standing there up at the bar. He sang, "The Pangs of Love and Lovers' Fits" in his best lilting baritone. And it went down well. He received a good applause and a request for another, but no coin. When he walked back up Norton Folgate to Shoreditch an hour and a half later the boy was still there, loitering around on the corner, looking blue-lipped and bedraggled. But at least the rain had held off.
"Did she come out?" he said, slipping him a halfpenny.
The boy jerked his head back from the man's beery breath and shook his head.
He was a scrawny looking thing, dressed in rags, but he had a good pair of boots on him, though they looked two sizes too big for him.
"Where d'you nick these then?" said Shipley, giving one of the smart black knee length boots a kick.
"I never nicked 'em- and you better not say I did Mister! A lady give 'em to me," said the lad, turning a bit hostile.
"All right keep your hair on lad. I was only asking," said Shipley. "How much do you want for them?"
"A shilling," said the boy, without hesitation.
"You're having a laugh. Give you sixpence for them. If they fit me."
The boy quickly took one off and offered it to him to try on. "Here you are then Mister."
Shipley eased off his battered old ankle boots, which had nails coming through and let in the water. He was just about to slip his soggy hosed foot into the shiny black boot, when Mrs Deering came out from the archway and started coming across the lane, straight towards them, still pulling on her gloves. Shipley kicked down and tugged at the nice soft flappy uppers and the boot slipped up his leg as lovely as you like. ""Get the other one off!" he said. "I'll take 'em."
"Show me the money," said the lad.
Mrs Deering glided past them, she was wearing a black frock with a voluminous black cloak out over, and the hood up, but no jewellery, apart from her wedding ring, as far as he could see. But then he was on one leg and dealing with the boy when she swept past and set off round the corner and down the road to Bishopsgate at a brisk pace.
Shipley kicked his other old boot off and hopped on one leg. "Here, have my old ones- Thruppence!" And got the coins out and showed him the money!
"I wants four," said the owner of the boots, still wearing one, and holding out.
"Done," said Shipley and handed him the three pennies while he sorted another one out from his breeches pocket. "Go on then- take it off," he said.
The boy slid his foot into Shipley's old boot and started kicking off the other good boot he had just sold. It flew off his filthy bare foot easily.
"Daylight robbery, " Shipley said, flipping the boy the fourth penny. And then he was hopping away in hot pursuit of Mrs Deering, still pulling on his shiny new boot.
Suddenly, he slapped his forehead and doubled back. I must be losing my touch, he laughed to himself. He grabbed the boy, who was hobbling away down Hog Lane, by the shoulder and pulled him round to face him. "Who lives in that big house on the corner that lady just come out of?"
"It belongs to the Drapers," said the boy.
"Drapers? You mean the Company owns it?" said Shipley.
The boy nodded. "All sorts goes on in there my mum says," he said.
Shipley smiled and ruffled his hair and then wished he hadn't, because the boy had a rash. He wiped his hand on his coat sleeve. "Thanks son. Stay safe," he said. And then Shipley was off again, following Mrs Deering all the way down the road and back into the City, under the Bishopsgate tower house, down towards Threadneedle, then left into Gracious, past the Leadenhall, and, finally, into Lombard Street. Where she turned into that big house on the corner, crossed the cobbled horse Yard to the front door, knocked and was admitted.
The follower crossed the street and leaned against the corner of Gracious and Lombard, having a good long look at the property. There was a high wall around the frontage, but an ungated entrance into the yard for a carriage and horses to pass through. He could see the stabling over on the left. And then there was a way round to the back- all nicely cobbled, like the yard- but it was the house itself that was so impressive to Shipley- it was almost all glass! They must be worth a few shillings, he said to himself. Three storeys high, nice gardens round to the rear by the look of it- what with the tall trees out back coming up over the roof and the shrubbery and patch of lawn round the side he could make out- three high gables, four stacks of chimneys- and hundreds of leaded glass windows, some stained with symbols of animal heads, hearts, ships and flowers- roses. Very pretty, he thought. A really nice property. Now, I wonder who lives there?
Houseman House, Lombard Street.
Lady Houseman was upstairs, lying on a couch in the rear window recess, reading a pamphlet her friend Dorcas Martin got for her from Pauls. It was about keeping birds, exotic ones. And was called: "The Husbandry and Domestication of Various Eloquent Birds From the New World," by Tobias Wardyworth. A friend of hers in Fenchurch Street had recently acquired a red and green parrot, though it had died after only a few weeks, but Lady Houseman had been quite taken with him, or her, and was thinking of keeping one herself. If she could persuade her husband to buy her one. According to the pamphlet she was looking at, the best ones came from the New World. She had her heart set on a blue and gold one and these were called macaws. The exciting thing about parrots was that they could be taught to talk, and since Lady Houseman had not been blessed so far with any little Housemans, despite years of trying with her husband, Sir John, it would be company for her while he was overseas on his numerous business trips. Although, naturally, she would have preferred a baby. Her husband was a Goldsmith, but he was also a merchant investor, with shares in various trading companies around the world, and knew shiploads of sea captains, or whatever the collective noun was for those gentlemen. So, if anyone could get her a macaw it was him- even if he couldn't get her pregnant! She was just planning how she could manipulate him into having the idea that they needed a parrot when she heard the knock and then someone being ushered into the hall.
She threw the pamphlet aside and rushed over to the balustrade to look down and see who it was. She was hoping it was her special friend, Francis Vallemont, but it wasn't- it was her new friend Mrs Deering!
"Bennet!" she cried. "What a lovely surprise!"
The groom at the door took Mrs Deering's cloak and went to hang it up under the stairs. In the cloak room.
"Lady Houseman! I hope you don't mind. I was passing and thought: I'll just call in and see if my friend, Lady Houseman is at home," said Bennet.
Bennet had lovely, wavy red hair, which Lady Houseman was quite envious of, because her own hair was just black. And that was never in fashion. That's why she now had twenty-three wigs- at the last count- and all of them fashionable light colours, everything from light auburn to a sort of purply pink! And, of course, lots of blonde ones.
"Well. As you see, I am," smiled Lady Houseman, who had the most extraordinary turquoise blue eyes, rather like the colour of a macaw's wings. She descended the elegant carved staircase and the two young women embraced and performed air kisses on each other, because they were both wearing heavy white ceruse make-up, lashings of kohl blackening around their eyes and on their eyelashes, and bright scarlet lipsticks. "And how's William? Oh- what did he bring you back from Copenhagen?"
"A silver fox," said Mrs Deering, widening her lovely light green eyes and grinning excitedly. She pouted. "But it's still at the warehouse, until William can get it out for me."
"Oh I could die for one of those!" exclaimed Lady Houseman, who already owned a full-length hooded sable, a mink wrap and various less expensive or smaller furs- two martens, a fox, an ermine stole; as well as dozens of accessories, such as mink gloves, several shoulder bags, purses, and, of course, fur boots. "I can't wait to see it. Are you going to wear it to the Merchant Traders' dinner next month?"
"Just you try and stop me!" said Bennet Deering.
Music I kept playing: Sandy Denny's version of Reynardine.
It costs just £2.99 only and there is no P+P, because it will be emailed to you- the ideal Christmas Present!
An Unreasonable Request.
The Second Francis Vallemont novel.
by Frank Almond.
For Vik
Prologue.
Fenchurch Street, 7 a m, Wednesday.
He saw the maid come out and cross the street, and go down Mincing Lane, and didn't pay her much heed. Until she came right back out again and returned to the house. It was the speed of her coming and going that had attracted his attention. He left his position in the archway of St Gabriel's and hurried down to the corner of Mincing Lane, and saw a big red-haired man shambling away towards the bottom, where it runs into Tower Street.
"Now, who are you?" he said. He looked back across the street and wondered if he should follow him or stay watching the house. This man could be important or it could be nothing at all. How do you decide. And then he followed him.
The man turned right on Tower Street. He ran after him to catch up, but by the time he'd made it to the corner, the man had vanished, like the old were-fox himself. He shook his head and folded his arms.
"Well, I'll be- I lost him!" He laughed at himself. "Mister, you are no good at this."
And then he walked back up Mincing Lane. And his mouth broke into a smile, and then broke into a song. And his voice was a most wonderful, soft, lilting baritone.
"One evening, as I rambled,
Among the leaves so green,
I overheard a young woman,
Converse with Reynardine."
An Unreasonable Request.
Bennet Deering should not have been there. Her husband, William Deering a Warden and liveried member of the Worshipful Company of Skinners, thought she was going to Silver Street to see her sister, Mrs Ursula Clavell. And here she was, visiting a house in Hog Lane, Shoreditch. It was hardly the behaviour of a respectably married young woman. Shipley watched her go in the house on the corner, but could not see who answered the door to her, because the property was high walled and accessed by a round archway from the Lane, that led into a yard.
It looked like rain, or snow, was on the way, judging by the clouds gathering over Westminster way, so Shipley paid a lad to keep an eye on the place for him and described the woman he was interested in. And then he walked all the way back down the hill to Petty France to a tavern he knew, to have a pie and a pint. And ended up doing a turn as he was standing there up at the bar. He sang, "The Pangs of Love and Lovers' Fits" in his best lilting baritone. And it went down well. He received a good applause and a request for another, but no coin. When he walked back up Norton Folgate to Shoreditch an hour and a half later the boy was still there, loitering around on the corner, looking blue-lipped and bedraggled. But at least the rain had held off.
"Did she come out?" he said, slipping him a halfpenny.
The boy jerked his head back from the man's beery breath and shook his head.
He was a scrawny looking thing, dressed in rags, but he had a good pair of boots on him, though they looked two sizes too big for him.
"Where d'you nick these then?" said Shipley, giving one of the smart black knee length boots a kick.
"I never nicked 'em- and you better not say I did Mister! A lady give 'em to me," said the lad, turning a bit hostile.
"All right keep your hair on lad. I was only asking," said Shipley. "How much do you want for them?"
"A shilling," said the boy, without hesitation.
"You're having a laugh. Give you sixpence for them. If they fit me."
The boy quickly took one off and offered it to him to try on. "Here you are then Mister."
Shipley eased off his battered old ankle boots, which had nails coming through and let in the water. He was just about to slip his soggy hosed foot into the shiny black boot, when Mrs Deering came out from the archway and started coming across the lane, straight towards them, still pulling on her gloves. Shipley kicked down and tugged at the nice soft flappy uppers and the boot slipped up his leg as lovely as you like. ""Get the other one off!" he said. "I'll take 'em."
"Show me the money," said the lad.
Mrs Deering glided past them, she was wearing a black frock with a voluminous black cloak out over, and the hood up, but no jewellery, apart from her wedding ring, as far as he could see. But then he was on one leg and dealing with the boy when she swept past and set off round the corner and down the road to Bishopsgate at a brisk pace.
Shipley kicked his other old boot off and hopped on one leg. "Here, have my old ones- Thruppence!" And got the coins out and showed him the money!
"I wants four," said the owner of the boots, still wearing one, and holding out.
"Done," said Shipley and handed him the three pennies while he sorted another one out from his breeches pocket. "Go on then- take it off," he said.
The boy slid his foot into Shipley's old boot and started kicking off the other good boot he had just sold. It flew off his filthy bare foot easily.
"Daylight robbery, " Shipley said, flipping the boy the fourth penny. And then he was hopping away in hot pursuit of Mrs Deering, still pulling on his shiny new boot.
Suddenly, he slapped his forehead and doubled back. I must be losing my touch, he laughed to himself. He grabbed the boy, who was hobbling away down Hog Lane, by the shoulder and pulled him round to face him. "Who lives in that big house on the corner that lady just come out of?"
"It belongs to the Drapers," said the boy.
"Drapers? You mean the Company owns it?" said Shipley.
The boy nodded. "All sorts goes on in there my mum says," he said.
Shipley smiled and ruffled his hair and then wished he hadn't, because the boy had a rash. He wiped his hand on his coat sleeve. "Thanks son. Stay safe," he said. And then Shipley was off again, following Mrs Deering all the way down the road and back into the City, under the Bishopsgate tower house, down towards Threadneedle, then left into Gracious, past the Leadenhall, and, finally, into Lombard Street. Where she turned into that big house on the corner, crossed the cobbled horse Yard to the front door, knocked and was admitted.
The follower crossed the street and leaned against the corner of Gracious and Lombard, having a good long look at the property. There was a high wall around the frontage, but an ungated entrance into the yard for a carriage and horses to pass through. He could see the stabling over on the left. And then there was a way round to the back- all nicely cobbled, like the yard- but it was the house itself that was so impressive to Shipley- it was almost all glass! They must be worth a few shillings, he said to himself. Three storeys high, nice gardens round to the rear by the look of it- what with the tall trees out back coming up over the roof and the shrubbery and patch of lawn round the side he could make out- three high gables, four stacks of chimneys- and hundreds of leaded glass windows, some stained with symbols of animal heads, hearts, ships and flowers- roses. Very pretty, he thought. A really nice property. Now, I wonder who lives there?
Houseman House, Lombard Street.
Lady Houseman was upstairs, lying on a couch in the rear window recess, reading a pamphlet her friend Dorcas Martin got for her from Pauls. It was about keeping birds, exotic ones. And was called: "The Husbandry and Domestication of Various Eloquent Birds From the New World," by Tobias Wardyworth. A friend of hers in Fenchurch Street had recently acquired a red and green parrot, though it had died after only a few weeks, but Lady Houseman had been quite taken with him, or her, and was thinking of keeping one herself. If she could persuade her husband to buy her one. According to the pamphlet she was looking at, the best ones came from the New World. She had her heart set on a blue and gold one and these were called macaws. The exciting thing about parrots was that they could be taught to talk, and since Lady Houseman had not been blessed so far with any little Housemans, despite years of trying with her husband, Sir John, it would be company for her while he was overseas on his numerous business trips. Although, naturally, she would have preferred a baby. Her husband was a Goldsmith, but he was also a merchant investor, with shares in various trading companies around the world, and knew shiploads of sea captains, or whatever the collective noun was for those gentlemen. So, if anyone could get her a macaw it was him- even if he couldn't get her pregnant! She was just planning how she could manipulate him into having the idea that they needed a parrot when she heard the knock and then someone being ushered into the hall.
She threw the pamphlet aside and rushed over to the balustrade to look down and see who it was. She was hoping it was her special friend, Francis Vallemont, but it wasn't- it was her new friend Mrs Deering!
"Bennet!" she cried. "What a lovely surprise!"
The groom at the door took Mrs Deering's cloak and went to hang it up under the stairs. In the cloak room.
"Lady Houseman! I hope you don't mind. I was passing and thought: I'll just call in and see if my friend, Lady Houseman is at home," said Bennet.
Bennet had lovely, wavy red hair, which Lady Houseman was quite envious of, because her own hair was just black. And that was never in fashion. That's why she now had twenty-three wigs- at the last count- and all of them fashionable light colours, everything from light auburn to a sort of purply pink! And, of course, lots of blonde ones.
"Well. As you see, I am," smiled Lady Houseman, who had the most extraordinary turquoise blue eyes, rather like the colour of a macaw's wings. She descended the elegant carved staircase and the two young women embraced and performed air kisses on each other, because they were both wearing heavy white ceruse make-up, lashings of kohl blackening around their eyes and on their eyelashes, and bright scarlet lipsticks. "And how's William? Oh- what did he bring you back from Copenhagen?"
"A silver fox," said Mrs Deering, widening her lovely light green eyes and grinning excitedly. She pouted. "But it's still at the warehouse, until William can get it out for me."
"Oh I could die for one of those!" exclaimed Lady Houseman, who already owned a full-length hooded sable, a mink wrap and various less expensive or smaller furs- two martens, a fox, an ermine stole; as well as dozens of accessories, such as mink gloves, several shoulder bags, purses, and, of course, fur boots. "I can't wait to see it. Are you going to wear it to the Merchant Traders' dinner next month?"
"Just you try and stop me!" said Bennet Deering.
Music I kept playing: Sandy Denny's version of Reynardine.
Here are the opening lines of my third (my fav, my fav) Francis Vallemont novel, which you can buy now in digital text form, by pressing the button below:
It costs just £3.99 only and there is no P+P because it will be emailed to you- ideal for Christmas!
The Murder of Errors
The Third Francis Vallemont novel.
by Frank Almond.
For Megan
Prologue
"Don't I know you sir?" said the young man.
They were standing in Barrel Alley, just in behind the Vintners’ Hall, which ran down to the Vintry Quay to the east side of the Worcester House tenements. The narrow cobbled lane was barely wide enough for two men to pass each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. The locals called it 'Squeeze Belly Alley', but that was because it was a well-known haunt of whores at night, giving their clients a tuppenny stand-up; though by day it was just a convenient short-cut to the quay. The other man stared at him and he could see a fear coming into his eyes.
"No. I don't think so," said the man- a shabby looking grey-haired fellow, with a weather-beaten face that spoke of time at sea- and continued on his way out to Thames Street.
But Piers went after him and turned him round to look at him again.
"I know you!" he said.
"Take your hands off me!" said the man. "I'll call the watchman."
But Piers Lovell was not bothered about that. He knew he was right. And he grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and threw him against first one wall and then the other.
"You are Roger Deacon!" he said. "You're Roger Deacon. You're Deacon! What are you doing here? What are you doing here?"
And his eyes were filling with tears as he was shouting in the man's face.
"No-no!" said the man, now terrified for his life. "I'm not. I'm Nathan. Nathan. Nathan-"
Lovell threw him down on the cobblestones and fell on him. "You are going to tell me what happened to The North Star!" he yelled. And he began pounding the man's body and face with his fists, as the man tried to cover his eyes and made no attempt to fight back.
And then, after taking maybe twenty blows, he started to fight for his life, and kick out, desperately trying to push the younger man off him. But it was useless. And the blows were raining down harder and faster.
"All right! All right Piers! Piers- no!" he cried.
Lovell heard his own name and stopped, his shoulders heaving as he allowed his breathing to settle down. He lifted his knee off the man's chest and the man rolled over and curled up, covering his bloody face and whimpering.
"It's been like a living death," he sobbed. "Ever since I came back. I knew I would meet you one day. Like this."
Lovell staggered to his feet and leaned against the wall, still breathing hard, and looking down at the man.
And he said. "You’re supposed to be dead Roger. All hands they said. Lost in the storm."
"That's not the way it happened," said Roger Deacon. "It was all lies."
The Murder of Errors
Francis Vallemont was standing on the Salt Wharf, at Queenshythe, looking across to the Vintry Quays, where they jutted out into the River, at the cranes lading barrels, rolled out from the warehouses, onto barges, probably to ship them up River somewhere. He had just ferried across from St Mary Overie Stairs, in Southwark, and was waiting for a friend. The friend was late, so he hung around for ten minutes or so, then decided to go and meet her, and started walking out of the Queenshythe dock and into Thames Street, which extended all the way along the River, east and west of the Bridge.
It was a cold damp February morning, with a fair amount of mist over the River, and although it was only eight o'clock, the streets were already noisy and teeming with people, who had been up since first light. wagons, carts, horse drawn and hand, were moving along Thames Street. Market traders were setting out their fish stalls with white fish and selling all manner of shellfish- oysters, mussels, cockles, winkles- although it wasn't at its best at that time of year. Still, it was a Friday and, therefore, it was forbidden to eat meat, unless you were exempted because you had bought a licence to eat meat. Of course people flouted the law as they always do, but Vallemont, a former naval man himself, who had served and fought against the Spanish fleet that had threatened to invade England just the previous year, wondered how many of them knew that the continuance of fish days, even after the overthrow of Catholicism in England, had been kept on to foster the English fishing fleet and so provide crews in time of emergency for the navy.
He was starting to become anxious. She was almost half an hour late. Perhaps she had changed her mind and wasn't coming at all, he thought- but he had only received her letter the day before, and in it she clearly stated that she would come and see him, if he would come to meet her at the Queenshythe at seven thirty in the morning, because she did not wish to travel south of the River on her own. A whore came out of a house in Hugging Lane and sauntered over to him.
"Good morning, sir, Oh!" she said. Her mouth dropping open in awe as he turned to her and she set eyes on his angelic and yet still manly face. Though she still went through with her routine soliciting line: "Nice day, for it isn't it sir."
She looked about thirty-five, or forty, but was almost certainly much younger. Her skin was pale but blotchy red in places from being outside so much in all weathers, and there was some brewer's blush, fine veining beginning on her upper cheeks and nose. She was wearing a fine dress and outer cloak, but they were grubby and faded- probably bought second hand in Birchin Lane, or else up Houndsditch, some time ago - and was over-made-up, with far too much rouge and lipstick, but no ceruse to whiten her complexion, because that was expensive, as was kohl blackening for the eyes- and it would probably have been a waste of time anyway, because her flesh colour was too tanned and red.
Vallemont smiled and gave her a groat. "Move along. Not today. And don't send any of your sisters over- because they won't get any coins. I'm only giving you this groat because I'm waiting for a woman and I don't want you hanging about," he said.
She smiled and took the 'bribe'. "All right, sir. I'm going," she said. And strutted off.
Vallemont was now becoming concerned for his friend, the respectable wife of a physician of Silver Street. He looked up Bread Street, which led north off Thames, because that he had worked out would be the way she would come if she came by way of Wood Street. Of course, she could have gone the other way, and made her way down Noble Street and then come down Staining Lane, but that would still have led her eventually to Bread Street, or perhaps, Friday Street, though that would also have brought her out into Bread Street, and then the short walk from there- where they joined up in Old Fish Street- down to Thames. Where could she be? Something must have happened. Vallemont felt himself becoming more tense and alert. His brow furrowed and his keen blue eyes narrowed, as he failed to see her coming down the busy street. If she had not arrived by nine, he resolved to go up to Silver Street and knock on her door to find out what had become of her, husband or no husband!
And then he heard her say his name from behind him.
"Mr Vallemont."
He spun round, his mouth now a big smile, his young brow unlined. "Mrs Clavell!" he said. "Thank God you're safe. I was just beginning too become worried for you. You are late madam."
"No." she said. "I was early. So I walked along Thames Street a little way to look around and have been sitting on Queenshythe dock for the last half an hour. I came to it by the Broken Quay."
"We must have missed each other. I know I have missed you," he said.
"I- I thought you had not come," she said. And looked about to cry. She was wearing her black lace vizard to protect her delicate milkwhite complexion from the harmful sun and weather, but he could see through the eye slits that her sea-green eyes were moistened.
Vallemont seized her in his arms and kissed her on the lips.
A good-humoured cheer went up from the gaggle of whores that had gathered at the bottom of Hugging Lane to have a look at what must have been one of the most handsome men they had ever seen. For Francis Vallemont, at just twenty years old, was a six foot tall, golden haired Adonis of a man. His fair handsome looks, with tousled blonde hair, naturally wavy and falling down to his shoulders and loosely parted in the middle, or often just nonchalantly swept back off is high brow, was a gentleman. And he wore a sword and the finest black, tailored doublet hose and breeches and a three quarter length matching cloak, and had a noble bearing.
"Never think that Ursula," he said, when they broke from the kiss.
She rested her head against his chest.
He walked her slowly back to the Queenshythe dock, where they waited only a few minutes at the stairs for a wherry to come along and pick them up. As they seated themselves on the brocaded cushions in the stern, Mrs Clavell's head rested on Vallemont's shoulder and Vallemont's arm firmly and protectively came around her back.
"Where to sir?" said the wherryman.
"Winchester Wharf," said Vallemont.
"The Mary Stairs end sir?"
"Yes," said Vallemont. His attention now fully on the woman in his arms. He kissed her damp hair. "I'm glad you came," he whispered.
Her black gloved hand came up to his chest and smoothed him.
The ferryman's oars slid into the greyish brown waters of the Thames and they turned away from the Queenshythe steps and were immediately picked up by the out-going tide and dragged down river. But the wherryman knew his business and set off at just the right arcing angle to bring them diagonally across the River to the St Mary Overie Steps.
"How long can you stay," said Vallemont.
"I am supposed to be staying with Bennet until Monday," said Mrs Clavell.
Vallemont lifted up her chin and smiled down into her eyes. "Three days," he said. "And nights."
He pushed her hood back a little and encouraged her to remove her vizard.
"Come madam, take this off for me, let me see you," he smiled.
She took off her mask and slipped it into her bag.
The boatman smiled to himself, as he saw the young gallant take a kiss from her. The gentleman was a handsome young devil, but the woman looked a little older- mid to late twenties perhaps, but she was easily one of the most beautiful women he had ever carried across the River in his boat. Her skin was immaculately unblemished, unlined and palest white- though it did not look to be done by make-up, like most women achieved the look- this woman was naturally creamy skinned and her dark hair, which he could just see drawn back off her beautiful face, would have made it look even whiter he imagined. She wasn't wearing much make-up, but he could see she had plenty of vermillion on her nice full lips and fairly heavy blackening around her eyes. She had large eyelids, but her face was wonderfully and pleasingly proportioned. She was beautiful all right and probably someone's wife, but her and the gent were going at it pretty strong as they crossed to the middle of the River! And out of respect for their privacy, her turned his eyes away and looked the other way.
Suddenly, they struck something in the water- hard!
"Watch where you're going man!" yelled Vallemont, as he and Mrs Clavell were jarred from their gentle kissing and lovers' whisperings on the cushioned backseat of the wherry.
Mrs Clavell, clearly embarrassed, buried her face in Vallemont's chest.
"Sorry, sir. We hit something floating in the River. It's your side, sir. Just have a look for me would you, sir.. If it's a log, I'll drag it in out of the way," said the wherryman, his oars half-immersed and just holding the boat against the current by rolling his wrists a little.
Vallemont leaned over his side, dragging Mrs Clavell with him, in his right arm, and looked over the side of the boat down into the greenish tinged depths of the River.
The deathly white and eyeless face of a man leered up at him out of the water. And made him start back and gasp. Mrs Clavell felt him jump and turned her head to look, and saw the body floating in the water. She screamed and held her hand to her mouth.
"Row man!" cried Vallemont. "It's a body!"
Music listened to a lot during the writing of this novel: Show of Hands: Captains and Crow on the Cradle; The Mediaeval Baebes: Scarborough Fayre.
It costs just £3.99 only and there is no P+P because it will be emailed to you- ideal for Christmas!
The Murder of Errors
The Third Francis Vallemont novel.
by Frank Almond.
For Megan
Prologue
"Don't I know you sir?" said the young man.
They were standing in Barrel Alley, just in behind the Vintners’ Hall, which ran down to the Vintry Quay to the east side of the Worcester House tenements. The narrow cobbled lane was barely wide enough for two men to pass each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. The locals called it 'Squeeze Belly Alley', but that was because it was a well-known haunt of whores at night, giving their clients a tuppenny stand-up; though by day it was just a convenient short-cut to the quay. The other man stared at him and he could see a fear coming into his eyes.
"No. I don't think so," said the man- a shabby looking grey-haired fellow, with a weather-beaten face that spoke of time at sea- and continued on his way out to Thames Street.
But Piers went after him and turned him round to look at him again.
"I know you!" he said.
"Take your hands off me!" said the man. "I'll call the watchman."
But Piers Lovell was not bothered about that. He knew he was right. And he grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and threw him against first one wall and then the other.
"You are Roger Deacon!" he said. "You're Roger Deacon. You're Deacon! What are you doing here? What are you doing here?"
And his eyes were filling with tears as he was shouting in the man's face.
"No-no!" said the man, now terrified for his life. "I'm not. I'm Nathan. Nathan. Nathan-"
Lovell threw him down on the cobblestones and fell on him. "You are going to tell me what happened to The North Star!" he yelled. And he began pounding the man's body and face with his fists, as the man tried to cover his eyes and made no attempt to fight back.
And then, after taking maybe twenty blows, he started to fight for his life, and kick out, desperately trying to push the younger man off him. But it was useless. And the blows were raining down harder and faster.
"All right! All right Piers! Piers- no!" he cried.
Lovell heard his own name and stopped, his shoulders heaving as he allowed his breathing to settle down. He lifted his knee off the man's chest and the man rolled over and curled up, covering his bloody face and whimpering.
"It's been like a living death," he sobbed. "Ever since I came back. I knew I would meet you one day. Like this."
Lovell staggered to his feet and leaned against the wall, still breathing hard, and looking down at the man.
And he said. "You’re supposed to be dead Roger. All hands they said. Lost in the storm."
"That's not the way it happened," said Roger Deacon. "It was all lies."
The Murder of Errors
Francis Vallemont was standing on the Salt Wharf, at Queenshythe, looking across to the Vintry Quays, where they jutted out into the River, at the cranes lading barrels, rolled out from the warehouses, onto barges, probably to ship them up River somewhere. He had just ferried across from St Mary Overie Stairs, in Southwark, and was waiting for a friend. The friend was late, so he hung around for ten minutes or so, then decided to go and meet her, and started walking out of the Queenshythe dock and into Thames Street, which extended all the way along the River, east and west of the Bridge.
It was a cold damp February morning, with a fair amount of mist over the River, and although it was only eight o'clock, the streets were already noisy and teeming with people, who had been up since first light. wagons, carts, horse drawn and hand, were moving along Thames Street. Market traders were setting out their fish stalls with white fish and selling all manner of shellfish- oysters, mussels, cockles, winkles- although it wasn't at its best at that time of year. Still, it was a Friday and, therefore, it was forbidden to eat meat, unless you were exempted because you had bought a licence to eat meat. Of course people flouted the law as they always do, but Vallemont, a former naval man himself, who had served and fought against the Spanish fleet that had threatened to invade England just the previous year, wondered how many of them knew that the continuance of fish days, even after the overthrow of Catholicism in England, had been kept on to foster the English fishing fleet and so provide crews in time of emergency for the navy.
He was starting to become anxious. She was almost half an hour late. Perhaps she had changed her mind and wasn't coming at all, he thought- but he had only received her letter the day before, and in it she clearly stated that she would come and see him, if he would come to meet her at the Queenshythe at seven thirty in the morning, because she did not wish to travel south of the River on her own. A whore came out of a house in Hugging Lane and sauntered over to him.
"Good morning, sir, Oh!" she said. Her mouth dropping open in awe as he turned to her and she set eyes on his angelic and yet still manly face. Though she still went through with her routine soliciting line: "Nice day, for it isn't it sir."
She looked about thirty-five, or forty, but was almost certainly much younger. Her skin was pale but blotchy red in places from being outside so much in all weathers, and there was some brewer's blush, fine veining beginning on her upper cheeks and nose. She was wearing a fine dress and outer cloak, but they were grubby and faded- probably bought second hand in Birchin Lane, or else up Houndsditch, some time ago - and was over-made-up, with far too much rouge and lipstick, but no ceruse to whiten her complexion, because that was expensive, as was kohl blackening for the eyes- and it would probably have been a waste of time anyway, because her flesh colour was too tanned and red.
Vallemont smiled and gave her a groat. "Move along. Not today. And don't send any of your sisters over- because they won't get any coins. I'm only giving you this groat because I'm waiting for a woman and I don't want you hanging about," he said.
She smiled and took the 'bribe'. "All right, sir. I'm going," she said. And strutted off.
Vallemont was now becoming concerned for his friend, the respectable wife of a physician of Silver Street. He looked up Bread Street, which led north off Thames, because that he had worked out would be the way she would come if she came by way of Wood Street. Of course, she could have gone the other way, and made her way down Noble Street and then come down Staining Lane, but that would still have led her eventually to Bread Street, or perhaps, Friday Street, though that would also have brought her out into Bread Street, and then the short walk from there- where they joined up in Old Fish Street- down to Thames. Where could she be? Something must have happened. Vallemont felt himself becoming more tense and alert. His brow furrowed and his keen blue eyes narrowed, as he failed to see her coming down the busy street. If she had not arrived by nine, he resolved to go up to Silver Street and knock on her door to find out what had become of her, husband or no husband!
And then he heard her say his name from behind him.
"Mr Vallemont."
He spun round, his mouth now a big smile, his young brow unlined. "Mrs Clavell!" he said. "Thank God you're safe. I was just beginning too become worried for you. You are late madam."
"No." she said. "I was early. So I walked along Thames Street a little way to look around and have been sitting on Queenshythe dock for the last half an hour. I came to it by the Broken Quay."
"We must have missed each other. I know I have missed you," he said.
"I- I thought you had not come," she said. And looked about to cry. She was wearing her black lace vizard to protect her delicate milkwhite complexion from the harmful sun and weather, but he could see through the eye slits that her sea-green eyes were moistened.
Vallemont seized her in his arms and kissed her on the lips.
A good-humoured cheer went up from the gaggle of whores that had gathered at the bottom of Hugging Lane to have a look at what must have been one of the most handsome men they had ever seen. For Francis Vallemont, at just twenty years old, was a six foot tall, golden haired Adonis of a man. His fair handsome looks, with tousled blonde hair, naturally wavy and falling down to his shoulders and loosely parted in the middle, or often just nonchalantly swept back off is high brow, was a gentleman. And he wore a sword and the finest black, tailored doublet hose and breeches and a three quarter length matching cloak, and had a noble bearing.
"Never think that Ursula," he said, when they broke from the kiss.
She rested her head against his chest.
He walked her slowly back to the Queenshythe dock, where they waited only a few minutes at the stairs for a wherry to come along and pick them up. As they seated themselves on the brocaded cushions in the stern, Mrs Clavell's head rested on Vallemont's shoulder and Vallemont's arm firmly and protectively came around her back.
"Where to sir?" said the wherryman.
"Winchester Wharf," said Vallemont.
"The Mary Stairs end sir?"
"Yes," said Vallemont. His attention now fully on the woman in his arms. He kissed her damp hair. "I'm glad you came," he whispered.
Her black gloved hand came up to his chest and smoothed him.
The ferryman's oars slid into the greyish brown waters of the Thames and they turned away from the Queenshythe steps and were immediately picked up by the out-going tide and dragged down river. But the wherryman knew his business and set off at just the right arcing angle to bring them diagonally across the River to the St Mary Overie Steps.
"How long can you stay," said Vallemont.
"I am supposed to be staying with Bennet until Monday," said Mrs Clavell.
Vallemont lifted up her chin and smiled down into her eyes. "Three days," he said. "And nights."
He pushed her hood back a little and encouraged her to remove her vizard.
"Come madam, take this off for me, let me see you," he smiled.
She took off her mask and slipped it into her bag.
The boatman smiled to himself, as he saw the young gallant take a kiss from her. The gentleman was a handsome young devil, but the woman looked a little older- mid to late twenties perhaps, but she was easily one of the most beautiful women he had ever carried across the River in his boat. Her skin was immaculately unblemished, unlined and palest white- though it did not look to be done by make-up, like most women achieved the look- this woman was naturally creamy skinned and her dark hair, which he could just see drawn back off her beautiful face, would have made it look even whiter he imagined. She wasn't wearing much make-up, but he could see she had plenty of vermillion on her nice full lips and fairly heavy blackening around her eyes. She had large eyelids, but her face was wonderfully and pleasingly proportioned. She was beautiful all right and probably someone's wife, but her and the gent were going at it pretty strong as they crossed to the middle of the River! And out of respect for their privacy, her turned his eyes away and looked the other way.
Suddenly, they struck something in the water- hard!
"Watch where you're going man!" yelled Vallemont, as he and Mrs Clavell were jarred from their gentle kissing and lovers' whisperings on the cushioned backseat of the wherry.
Mrs Clavell, clearly embarrassed, buried her face in Vallemont's chest.
"Sorry, sir. We hit something floating in the River. It's your side, sir. Just have a look for me would you, sir.. If it's a log, I'll drag it in out of the way," said the wherryman, his oars half-immersed and just holding the boat against the current by rolling his wrists a little.
Vallemont leaned over his side, dragging Mrs Clavell with him, in his right arm, and looked over the side of the boat down into the greenish tinged depths of the River.
The deathly white and eyeless face of a man leered up at him out of the water. And made him start back and gasp. Mrs Clavell felt him jump and turned her head to look, and saw the body floating in the water. She screamed and held her hand to her mouth.
"Row man!" cried Vallemont. "It's a body!"
Music listened to a lot during the writing of this novel: Show of Hands: Captains and Crow on the Cradle; The Mediaeval Baebes: Scarborough Fayre.
Thursday 20 October 2011
I may not come here next week, because I'll be writing TDOTD. But I will miss it. I know no one is reading this stuff- I haven't told anyone I'm here- I kind of feel a perverse pleasure in being the only one here. I could tell my publisher and she would put up a link I expect. I could tell family and friends and they would facebook it all, and I sometimes work with young people and if they knew about it they would come here and write nice outrageous comments, but I prefer strangers to find it on their own, or because they heard about it by word of mouth. I like anonymity as much as everyone else does. And I like this sort of secret blog. But I will have to publicize it soon. It feels like a secret place, somewhere I can go to spout off about things that are uppermost in the creative part of my mind at the moment. The Vallemont novels are my secret. Only one other person has actually read them (well, two of them) and I just want to be writing TDOTD now. But I will come back here probably. I'll see how I feel. I'm not sure I want to do this anymore. It seems too easy, like wasting my time. I enjoy it, but it is a bit like doodling. A bit lazy. I might ask my partner if she wants to take over. She suggested I pretend I'm the ghost of Francis Vallemont and blog in character. I said I'd think about it. It was a good idea. Maybe she should try it!
004The Daughters of the Draper - an extract from the new novel...oh, this is rare- this blog is getting too many secrets from me. I never show my work before it's finished. I'm breaking all the rules for this blog! But it is only the prologue and a bit of the first chapter.
The Fourth Francis Vallemont novel.
by Frank Almond
Prologue
There was no doubt that the young woman was looking at her. Her heart beat a little faster, as she purposefully moved across to the other side of the crowded market to look at another book stall- to see if the woman- a rather poorly dressed young woman, perhaps her own age, twenty-five, or a little older- would follow. And to her great excitement- she did! And pretended to be perusing through some ballads, though from the corner of her eye, she could tell the woman was still watching her.
They were standing in the towering nave of the great Norman cathedral of St Paul's- or, to most Londoners, simply: Pauls, for it was not used as a place of worship these days. It had become the centre for the City's book trade- and since many well-to-do people shopped there, it was also the haunt of countless petty villains and prostitutes. Could this woman be a prostitute? she wondered. Her faded and a little threadbare clothes- though fashionable enough and clean- had that look of Birchin Street about them. Birchin Street was where ladies of quality sent their maids to sell their cast-offs and where the less well-heeled women did their clothes and shoes shopping, particularly, women of the street, who, rather comically, could often be seen wearing colourful gowns intended for evening wear only, around Thames Street fish markets and along the South Bank at nine o'clock in the morning. But this woman, in sombre blacks and greys and pinks was too tastefully turned out to be a whore, surely.
She blushed when their eyes inadvertently met, and then the woman quickly looked away and pretended to be interested in a display of pamphlets about the recent claret scandal. But as her eyes returned to her, she could see she wasn't really reading one, she was just holding it open and waiting for something. She might not even be able to read. And if she could not read- that would not be good. How could she hold conversations with a woman who could not read? That would not do. She turned away from her and changed her mind. She would not do.
She was just coming back into the dusty sunlight pouring in through the high entrance arch, when she felt something brush against her. It was a very slight laying on of a hand- like velvet, but in her heightened state of awareness, she had positively felt the charge imparted by a human touch. She turned and saw the startled pale face of the young woman who had been tracking her. Now she was looking at her up close, she could see that she was even more attractive than she had looked from a distance. Her eyes were that green like sunlight through leaves. She was fair and clear skinned and her face was perfectly proportioned. Like an angel's. And she knew a lot about angels. The nose, perhaps, was a little too turned up, but everything else about her was most becoming, yes, very becoming indeed. She saw the woman's guilty eyes and the purse still held in her hand and realised the woman was no angel, but, in fact- a pickpocket!
"Give that back to me!" she snapped, and snatched the purse from her trembling hand, and began putting it away somewhere safer this time, in the bottom of her bag. Her father had often warned them about the thieves who inhabited the precincts of Pauls, and how they had to be on their guard.
A watchman saw the two women confronting each other and was quickly approaching them from the archway.
"I'm sorry," said the woman, casting her eyes down. "Please don't report me. I can't go to prison. I'd die."
She looked at her and she looked so contrite and ashamed that her heart went out to her. "Keep quiet," she said.
The young woman flashed her eyes at her and her lips parted in surprise and pleasure, to reveal two neat rows of even white teeth, like a little double carcanet of pearls. But the elegant young lady was not looking at her, so she looked down again.
"Everything all right, madam?" said the watchman to the better dressed of the two women.
She looked at the pretty young woman. Her face drained of colour. She looked lean and hungry. Underfed. A little frightened now, yet, strangely, proud. The woman raised her leaf green eyes up to hers. And the two women recognised something in one another and smiled, almost in relief.
"Everything is fine," she said.
"Madam," said the watchman and turned away.
"Thank you," said the woman, and licked her lips, a confident smile now playing on them. And her bright green eyes were suddenly alive.
The wealthy looking young woman took her eyes off the captivating eyes and looked around a little anxiously.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" said the pickpocket.
She returned her eyes to the very pleasing face. "Where?" she said.
"Well, we could walk up to The Curtain," she suggested.
"Isn't that place full of men," she said.
"Yes, but they won't bother us," smiled the pickpocket. "Will they?"
And then she took her by the arm and the two women walked out into the sunlight together.
The Daughters of the Draper
But now, at last, he had met a new woman. And he was going to see her tonight. Her name was Grace Hartscombe and she was the eldest daughter of his new friend, Walter Hartscombe, a well-respected Draper's Company liveried man, and very wealthy, too. And although he had only met her once, his heart had skipped a beat as soon as he laid eyes on her. The only mystery was why such a beautiful young woman had not already been taken, for she was five and twenty years of age and would bring a large dowry with her, but her father had assured him there was no credible young man seeking her hand. None Grace would accept at least. The Hartscombe women led a quiet life down at Peverley Farm, their father's estate in Kent. Peverley Abbey was a former Cistercian monastery with a lake and close to four hundred acres of good arable land attached to it. Legend had it that the white monks had built their monastery there after their leader had a vision of an angel walking on the waters of the lake. It was this story that had first drawn the young Walter Hatrscombe to the property, but now he had a mind to sell it, and that is why he had also invited the wealthy Goldsmith, Sir John Houseman and his wife, to the little soiree he was giving at Sidon Street that evening.
When I wrote the opening scene- I had to for something later in the book- I was directly inspired by Sarah Brightman's This Love, which perfectly set the slow, strange atmosphere of the encounter I was looking for, when I heard it. I had already created the scene in my mind, but the music made it come alive for me. Just an example of the power of music on our imaginations and how helpful I find it when I'm thinking about writing. I don't usually play it when I am actually writing- only when I'm making notes. Or, more often, staring blankly into space, waiting for something to come into my mind. I'm also playing Sarah's Dust in the Wind.
This novel features Hugh Shevington, who appeared in The Murder of Errors, fleetingly, and was briefly introduced in An Unreasonable Request. This will be a hallmark of my Vallemont books- characters will come and go and be woven in and out of them, as the chronological story of Vallemont progresses, from one whodunnit to the next, and his life changes. It's an ambitious project, but one I have decided to pursue, whether these books sell or not, because I enjoy it. And I hope to wear you all down with my persistence!
The Fourth Francis Vallemont novel.
by Frank Almond
Prologue
There was no doubt that the young woman was looking at her. Her heart beat a little faster, as she purposefully moved across to the other side of the crowded market to look at another book stall- to see if the woman- a rather poorly dressed young woman, perhaps her own age, twenty-five, or a little older- would follow. And to her great excitement- she did! And pretended to be perusing through some ballads, though from the corner of her eye, she could tell the woman was still watching her.
They were standing in the towering nave of the great Norman cathedral of St Paul's- or, to most Londoners, simply: Pauls, for it was not used as a place of worship these days. It had become the centre for the City's book trade- and since many well-to-do people shopped there, it was also the haunt of countless petty villains and prostitutes. Could this woman be a prostitute? she wondered. Her faded and a little threadbare clothes- though fashionable enough and clean- had that look of Birchin Street about them. Birchin Street was where ladies of quality sent their maids to sell their cast-offs and where the less well-heeled women did their clothes and shoes shopping, particularly, women of the street, who, rather comically, could often be seen wearing colourful gowns intended for evening wear only, around Thames Street fish markets and along the South Bank at nine o'clock in the morning. But this woman, in sombre blacks and greys and pinks was too tastefully turned out to be a whore, surely.
She blushed when their eyes inadvertently met, and then the woman quickly looked away and pretended to be interested in a display of pamphlets about the recent claret scandal. But as her eyes returned to her, she could see she wasn't really reading one, she was just holding it open and waiting for something. She might not even be able to read. And if she could not read- that would not be good. How could she hold conversations with a woman who could not read? That would not do. She turned away from her and changed her mind. She would not do.
She was just coming back into the dusty sunlight pouring in through the high entrance arch, when she felt something brush against her. It was a very slight laying on of a hand- like velvet, but in her heightened state of awareness, she had positively felt the charge imparted by a human touch. She turned and saw the startled pale face of the young woman who had been tracking her. Now she was looking at her up close, she could see that she was even more attractive than she had looked from a distance. Her eyes were that green like sunlight through leaves. She was fair and clear skinned and her face was perfectly proportioned. Like an angel's. And she knew a lot about angels. The nose, perhaps, was a little too turned up, but everything else about her was most becoming, yes, very becoming indeed. She saw the woman's guilty eyes and the purse still held in her hand and realised the woman was no angel, but, in fact- a pickpocket!
"Give that back to me!" she snapped, and snatched the purse from her trembling hand, and began putting it away somewhere safer this time, in the bottom of her bag. Her father had often warned them about the thieves who inhabited the precincts of Pauls, and how they had to be on their guard.
A watchman saw the two women confronting each other and was quickly approaching them from the archway.
"I'm sorry," said the woman, casting her eyes down. "Please don't report me. I can't go to prison. I'd die."
She looked at her and she looked so contrite and ashamed that her heart went out to her. "Keep quiet," she said.
The young woman flashed her eyes at her and her lips parted in surprise and pleasure, to reveal two neat rows of even white teeth, like a little double carcanet of pearls. But the elegant young lady was not looking at her, so she looked down again.
"Everything all right, madam?" said the watchman to the better dressed of the two women.
She looked at the pretty young woman. Her face drained of colour. She looked lean and hungry. Underfed. A little frightened now, yet, strangely, proud. The woman raised her leaf green eyes up to hers. And the two women recognised something in one another and smiled, almost in relief.
"Everything is fine," she said.
"Madam," said the watchman and turned away.
"Thank you," said the woman, and licked her lips, a confident smile now playing on them. And her bright green eyes were suddenly alive.
The wealthy looking young woman took her eyes off the captivating eyes and looked around a little anxiously.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" said the pickpocket.
She returned her eyes to the very pleasing face. "Where?" she said.
"Well, we could walk up to The Curtain," she suggested.
"Isn't that place full of men," she said.
"Yes, but they won't bother us," smiled the pickpocket. "Will they?"
And then she took her by the arm and the two women walked out into the sunlight together.
The Daughters of the Draper
Hugh Shevington got up from his desk, high in the Master's office of Skinner's Hall on Dowgate Street, and looked out of the window again. He had a fine view of the slate-grey Thames and the street below. But he was not really looking at anything in particular today. And he could not settle to his work. He returned to his chair, restless and impatient to be going. A few minutes later he got up once more and went to stare out of the window again. What did it matter if he left early for a change. He pursed his thick red lips and considered that. Yes, he would leave now and go home. He could not concentrate anyway, he was too excited, his mind was on the drinks party he was going to that evening at the Hartscombes. Yes, he would go now- but wait! He had arranged to meet Francis Vallemont. He had asked Francis to meet him at four down in the lobby. And it was barely past three. He had just heard the bells of St Michael's- across the Wallbrook- tolling out the hours. He returned to his desk once more and slumped down. He hadn't felt this excited since his wedding day. How long ago that morning seemed to him now. Where does the time go? Ten years. He had seen ten years pass by him. in the flowing waters of the Thames; in all the bright new furs unloaded down at the Vintry Quay; in all the lonely nights- heard them tolled out, almost mockingly, to him by all the church bells. Ten years. He had been blissfully married for just one year to Sarah. And that was all the time Heaven had allowed them, before she had been cruelly struck down by the sweating fever. Although in this case it did not spread, though they had taken the precaution of burning everything she touched. At first- when the affliction visited them on the Friday- they had simply thought she had caught a heavy feverish cold, but by Monday he was burying her at St Gabe's. A lump came to his throat, as he remembered her. It hurt him that his memory of her, her face, was fading, and he realised she was someone he had barely known. But how beautiful she had looked on their wedding day, that much remained- and how happy they had both been- and yet how sickly pale and cadaverous she had looked when the angels finally came for her on that terrible Sunday afternoon. God, he would never forget that ordeal. Or how strong his widowed mother had been. What a rock she was, what a woman to have by his side in that dire hour of need, when he had lost his dear sweet Sarah. And almost his mind.
But now, at last, he had met a new woman. And he was going to see her tonight. Her name was Grace Hartscombe and she was the eldest daughter of his new friend, Walter Hartscombe, a well-respected Draper's Company liveried man, and very wealthy, too. And although he had only met her once, his heart had skipped a beat as soon as he laid eyes on her. The only mystery was why such a beautiful young woman had not already been taken, for she was five and twenty years of age and would bring a large dowry with her, but her father had assured him there was no credible young man seeking her hand. None Grace would accept at least. The Hartscombe women led a quiet life down at Peverley Farm, their father's estate in Kent. Peverley Abbey was a former Cistercian monastery with a lake and close to four hundred acres of good arable land attached to it. Legend had it that the white monks had built their monastery there after their leader had a vision of an angel walking on the waters of the lake. It was this story that had first drawn the young Walter Hatrscombe to the property, but now he had a mind to sell it, and that is why he had also invited the wealthy Goldsmith, Sir John Houseman and his wife, to the little soiree he was giving at Sidon Street that evening.
When I wrote the opening scene- I had to for something later in the book- I was directly inspired by Sarah Brightman's This Love, which perfectly set the slow, strange atmosphere of the encounter I was looking for, when I heard it. I had already created the scene in my mind, but the music made it come alive for me. Just an example of the power of music on our imaginations and how helpful I find it when I'm thinking about writing. I don't usually play it when I am actually writing- only when I'm making notes. Or, more often, staring blankly into space, waiting for something to come into my mind. I'm also playing Sarah's Dust in the Wind.
This novel features Hugh Shevington, who appeared in The Murder of Errors, fleetingly, and was briefly introduced in An Unreasonable Request. This will be a hallmark of my Vallemont books- characters will come and go and be woven in and out of them, as the chronological story of Vallemont progresses, from one whodunnit to the next, and his life changes. It's an ambitious project, but one I have decided to pursue, whether these books sell or not, because I enjoy it. And I hope to wear you all down with my persistence!
Crashing into the scenery? When you are writing it is quite common for all of us to feel a bit daunted by a particular scene we have to write- we wonder how we can manage to do it convincingly, or how we can do justice to it. Well, just crash right into it and do your best and then worry about it afterwords. Crash on into the next scene, quite often that will require you to make adjustments or additions to the scene you were worried about. Do not be put off by difficult scenes- push right in there and get your characters talking and acting. You own the place remember! When I came to describe the poor tenements down on the dockside at Worcester House in The Murder of Errors, I admit I felt daunted, but in the end I think those scenes pleased me (pleased?- I loved writing those scenes!), because I let my imagination dwell a little on the place, until I could see and touch and smell those rooms and passageways. I made sure I covered all the senses (as they taught us in school), and have more to say about that in another post!
Style? This is very very simple. It is your authentic voice. (God help you.) It is what you talk like in real life- your expression. It is that simple. You can pretend to be someone else, but your authentic voice will always betray you. So let your authentic voice speak. This is my authentic voice. See? Easy isn't it? It's like talking with a mate or using that telephone voice of yours- it's all you. Use it. It is yours and as peculiar to you as your thumb print. The book you are writing will make you use every facet of your authentic voice (or style) and that's good. Let it happen. Just be you. Educators will probably drone on about other considerations and confuse you. You already have your style. Now write in it and feel nice and cosy and comfortable. Like lying in a nice warm bath- that's how comfortable you should feel- utterly relaxed and confident about being in your own voice and self. Now, write...
I'm moving into an intense writing period next week, because I have some time available. I don't have to be in the mood to write. I write myself into a mood by just sitting down and typing- quite often it's just not much good, but I keep going and then usually something better arrives and then, once I'm into my story, I sustain it for as many hours as I can. I do not stop writing once I'm away. Food and friends can wait. This way, like Simenon (who wrote his, albeit, very short, Maigret novels in six days, and then was violently sick! And went to find a woman, apparently.) I can finish the first draft of a novel in a matter of weeks. Say, two or three. I'm not as quick as that Belgium maestro. Then, of course, there is re-writing and addings etcetera. I never begin writing, however, until I have all the characters names and what they look like and where they live and what their interests/hang-ups are and my whodunnit murder plot thoroughly worked out. This is not necessarily a synopsis, because it would probably only make sense to me, if you looked at my notes, which I write in long hand in a notebook- never on my computer. The notebook has to go with me everywhere (usually stuffed in my back pocket, so that I can jot down anything that occurs to me. And then when I think I've got enough and feel confident, I plunge into the narrative- and hopefully everything falls into place. This way I leave plenty of scope for ideas and that freshness and pace one can only achieve, I believe (and what I believe is peculiar to my way of writing) from writing very very quickly. I have only ever had one book turned down by a publisher and that was a very derivitive thing I am too embarrassed to even describe here. But it's in the trunk along with several other completed MSS I have never sent off to anyone. The trunk is what writers call those works they keep back from the public, because they hate them but spent too much time writing them to throw them away. Trunk work can come in handy sometimes, for titles and ideas and characters, so it's never a good idea to throw it away. IMHO. Actually I'm not that humble, but I am a nice person to everyone I meet, because you never know when you might be meeting an angel in disguise, do you?
A word about synopses or outlines. Publishers and lecturers are very fond of these. But writers don't really need them. Just prepare the notes you need and leave something for your imagination to fill in along the way. Obviously, you have to plot out a whodunnit, but you don't need reams of the stuff. Too long thought over projects, or talked about, do not get written! Anyway you can always write the synopsis up after you've written the thing. By the way, we writers call our work many things, but the favourite expression is the "piece of @?£%". At least that's what I always call mine, until it's finished. And then I usually call it my love-child!
Seriously, I always experience an intense day or so of doubt when I'm about a third of the way through the POS. And then I do much pen-sucking and notebook reading amd music listening- and then there is always a moment of revelation when you see a connection that pulls the whole narrative together. It's an almost ephiphanic (is that a word?) moment. If I never sold another damn book, I would not give up writing, because I want to experience those moments all my life. Orgasmic is the word I'm looking for. Unfortunately, I cannot share any of them with you (you'll no doubt be pleased to hear!), because it would spoil the plots. I deliberately chose the whodunnit format to keep my writing disciplined. I would be quite happy to write about characters living in the period I like the most (late Elizabethan/early Stuart), but the whodunnit form gives me a sense of purpose and order. There's enough spontaneity and wildness in me- to be curbed is good, in my case.
A word about synopses or outlines. Publishers and lecturers are very fond of these. But writers don't really need them. Just prepare the notes you need and leave something for your imagination to fill in along the way. Obviously, you have to plot out a whodunnit, but you don't need reams of the stuff. Too long thought over projects, or talked about, do not get written! Anyway you can always write the synopsis up after you've written the thing. By the way, we writers call our work many things, but the favourite expression is the "piece of @?£%". At least that's what I always call mine, until it's finished. And then I usually call it my love-child!
Seriously, I always experience an intense day or so of doubt when I'm about a third of the way through the POS. And then I do much pen-sucking and notebook reading amd music listening- and then there is always a moment of revelation when you see a connection that pulls the whole narrative together. It's an almost ephiphanic (is that a word?) moment. If I never sold another damn book, I would not give up writing, because I want to experience those moments all my life. Orgasmic is the word I'm looking for. Unfortunately, I cannot share any of them with you (you'll no doubt be pleased to hear!), because it would spoil the plots. I deliberately chose the whodunnit format to keep my writing disciplined. I would be quite happy to write about characters living in the period I like the most (late Elizabethan/early Stuart), but the whodunnit form gives me a sense of purpose and order. There's enough spontaneity and wildness in me- to be curbed is good, in my case.
Wednesday 19 October 2011
Editing your work? It's important for all of us, who write, to find someone who is prepared to look through our work and offer some constructive criticsm. I have someone, who would not say he thought something was good if he thought it was bad. You need someone like that, who is not worried about upsetting you; it's not usually fair to inflict this responsibility on a relative or your partner. My advice is find someone who is indifferent to your writing (that's not difficult for me!) and then you can be sure you're receiving the unvarnished truth about it. I don't mean to spell check your work (you can do that yourself) and I don't mean to say what they think of your style or sillly things like that (you should know what your style is)- I mean just to read the whole novel and say whether or not it made sense (in my case: did the whodunnit work?) and if something should be added or removed, concerning, again, the overall sense from a reader's point of view. You can't expect someone to check the grammar and spelling of your novel, or say what they thought of your writing. Assessing your work would require someone much more experienced and expert.
More about self-reading your work. At least you know how you want it read, but then again you may be doing it a disservice by reading it badly overall. If I could have found someone to read my work I would have used him or her. I felt physically ill at the mere thought of reading mine. And believe me- I mean that. But now I've done one, my advice would be try to read it yourself. Don't give up, keep going and you will get better and feel more comfortable. The only way for relatively unknown writers (like me) and completely unknown ones to gain a readership could be the audio book route. This way the customer is buying a performance and that must be worth something- especially if it's the actual author who is reading it to them. It's relatively easy to do technically, with all the computerised editing suites and recording paraphernalia we have these days. So, give it a go. One practical tip: look ahead to the end of the sentence and see what the last word is- then make sure you pronounce it well. Heard that at a Shakespeare actor's workshop. It's good advice. Also, read at your normal pace, so that your breathing is not too obvious. And watch those p's and f's, which can really create turbulence in the microphone. I'll say some more about reading in another post.
Someone advised me not to write too much in these blogs. Blogging must be the easiest thing in the world. When the Greek philosopher Thales was asked what the easiest thing in the world to do was, he replied: give advice. I've never forgotten that. And the hardest, according to Thales (once considered the wisest man in Greece) : knowing yourself.
More about self-reading your work. At least you know how you want it read, but then again you may be doing it a disservice by reading it badly overall. If I could have found someone to read my work I would have used him or her. I felt physically ill at the mere thought of reading mine. And believe me- I mean that. But now I've done one, my advice would be try to read it yourself. Don't give up, keep going and you will get better and feel more comfortable. The only way for relatively unknown writers (like me) and completely unknown ones to gain a readership could be the audio book route. This way the customer is buying a performance and that must be worth something- especially if it's the actual author who is reading it to them. It's relatively easy to do technically, with all the computerised editing suites and recording paraphernalia we have these days. So, give it a go. One practical tip: look ahead to the end of the sentence and see what the last word is- then make sure you pronounce it well. Heard that at a Shakespeare actor's workshop. It's good advice. Also, read at your normal pace, so that your breathing is not too obvious. And watch those p's and f's, which can really create turbulence in the microphone. I'll say some more about reading in another post.
Someone advised me not to write too much in these blogs. Blogging must be the easiest thing in the world. When the Greek philosopher Thales was asked what the easiest thing in the world to do was, he replied: give advice. I've never forgotten that. And the hardest, according to Thales (once considered the wisest man in Greece) : knowing yourself.
Reading? I like Robert Wilson, Robert Goddard, Agatha Christie, Patricia Wentworth, Georgette Heyer, and many more, too many to list. Any old detective books or historical. I took English and History (second subject) at university, so I've read a few of the classics, too, especially Jane Austen, Dickens, Shakespeare and Gibbons. I also like those Falco books by Lindsey Davis. And Simon Brett's stuff- he reads his own work. And, of course, P. G. Wodehouse. Anything by him! Overall, I like any history or detective books- which is what I've ended up writing- combining the two. You should read a lot if you're a writer. You can learn technical things that might for some reason be causing you mild amounts of trouble. But don't get too pretentious and literary- you don't want to be one of those precious writers, who think writing streams of their thoughts is somehow interesting. Great writers wrote stories, plain and simple- even Joyce wrote stories- Ulysses is very readable.
Reading one's own work, for a relatively shy person (which means most of us, I expect), is quite an ordeal, as I said. My audiobook (Troublesome Disguises) is nearly eleven hours long. That's eleven hours of sustained characterisation (hopefully) and eleven hours that probably took more like five or six days to achieve, not counting days off and breaks, because of all the re-reading and cutting. It is a performance and has very little to do with the skill of writing. Writing this blog is simple because I just type- it's just typing- but writing is obviously much more concentrated and thoughtful. Reading is interpretation of characters and atmosphere and requires quite different input. It's not for the coy. Especially if you plan to subject your efforts to the rest of the world! Even if sometimes the world won't listen.
Reading one's own work, for a relatively shy person (which means most of us, I expect), is quite an ordeal, as I said. My audiobook (Troublesome Disguises) is nearly eleven hours long. That's eleven hours of sustained characterisation (hopefully) and eleven hours that probably took more like five or six days to achieve, not counting days off and breaks, because of all the re-reading and cutting. It is a performance and has very little to do with the skill of writing. Writing this blog is simple because I just type- it's just typing- but writing is obviously much more concentrated and thoughtful. Reading is interpretation of characters and atmosphere and requires quite different input. It's not for the coy. Especially if you plan to subject your efforts to the rest of the world! Even if sometimes the world won't listen.
Tuesday 18 October 2011
I have decided to post the first chapters of all the Vallemont novels here over the coming days. First up will be Troublesome Disguises. (Forgot- it's already up in audio form, so I'll post the others instead.)
Obviously, without all the hype and publicity that accompanies most books these days, by celebrities and best selling authors, I do not expect my books to raise much interest. But the audiobooks, I believe, could make an impact, especially when I have produced a few more of them. I intend to keep writing these stories- not to make money (though it's always welcome), but because I enjoy writing and researching them. And I am beginning to sort of like recording them. Yes, I am starting to like the sound of my own voice. Was that Echo who went down that tragic path in the Greek myths?
I want to show that it is possible to get one's novels out there, without publishers and the media- via the author's own voice. I will get better at reading them. Honest! Wish me luck. Everybody needs a great big slice of luck in this life, no matter how hard you try- you always need a little good fortune. And you have to try and help it along.
Phobias, obsessions, hobbies and interests? I try to give my characters these. Not every one of them, but certainly all my key characters have one or the other of them. I like them to be busy when someone interrupts them. It's a little writer's trick I taught myself, but have only developed it fully in the Vallemont novels.
Pathetic fallacy. I personally try to avoid this. Prefer to think of nature as indifferent, random and even a little cruel. Just a choice.
Obviously, without all the hype and publicity that accompanies most books these days, by celebrities and best selling authors, I do not expect my books to raise much interest. But the audiobooks, I believe, could make an impact, especially when I have produced a few more of them. I intend to keep writing these stories- not to make money (though it's always welcome), but because I enjoy writing and researching them. And I am beginning to sort of like recording them. Yes, I am starting to like the sound of my own voice. Was that Echo who went down that tragic path in the Greek myths?
I want to show that it is possible to get one's novels out there, without publishers and the media- via the author's own voice. I will get better at reading them. Honest! Wish me luck. Everybody needs a great big slice of luck in this life, no matter how hard you try- you always need a little good fortune. And you have to try and help it along.
Phobias, obsessions, hobbies and interests? I try to give my characters these. Not every one of them, but certainly all my key characters have one or the other of them. I like them to be busy when someone interrupts them. It's a little writer's trick I taught myself, but have only developed it fully in the Vallemont novels.
Pathetic fallacy. I personally try to avoid this. Prefer to think of nature as indifferent, random and even a little cruel. Just a choice.
I hope to have the audiobook of this novel (which is written) finished by the end of November-first week of December, 2011.
(Erm, my fav book by me.)
Each disc of course comes with the full digital text and a cover, and I've done some artwork for the disc itself- which I have drawn on every disc. I'll put an example up soon.
Music. I like listening to music when I'm writing or, more often, thinking about writing. During the writing of Troublesome Disguises, I found myself listening a lot to Liege and Lief and What We Did On Our Holidays, by Fairport Convention. Particularly, Reynardine and She Moves Through the Fair. Ah, Sandy Denny- what a voice she had. Great descriptive acoustic guitars, too.
McGuffins? No mystery plot is complete without one. They add a psychological charge, create a premonition, give a sense of foreboding. And often focus or distract the audience/reader's attention, when it should be elsewhere. A McGuffin is a catalyst. It affects the chemistry of the characters, but does not itself change. In that famous movie starring Bogart and Astor, it was the black statue of a bird.
Music. I like listening to music when I'm writing or, more often, thinking about writing. During the writing of Troublesome Disguises, I found myself listening a lot to Liege and Lief and What We Did On Our Holidays, by Fairport Convention. Particularly, Reynardine and She Moves Through the Fair. Ah, Sandy Denny- what a voice she had. Great descriptive acoustic guitars, too.
McGuffins? No mystery plot is complete without one. They add a psychological charge, create a premonition, give a sense of foreboding. And often focus or distract the audience/reader's attention, when it should be elsewhere. A McGuffin is a catalyst. It affects the chemistry of the characters, but does not itself change. In that famous movie starring Bogart and Astor, it was the black statue of a bird.
Monday 17 October 2011
Anyone wishing to buy my Troublesome Disguises audiobook can, of course, email me for details. I would offer a £5.00 discount for anyone buying one from my blog site, however. So, the offer here is: £9.99 and free P+P in the UK. Overseas must add £2.50 for P+P. Once I bring my Second Francis Vallemont audiobook (An Unreasonable Request) out in the middle of November, 2011, this same price and P+P offer would extend to that novel, too- if you bought the first one. (I think that price is reasonable for a new book and in audio, too.)
Reach me here: literatee2000-layla@yahoo.co.uk
I am assuming that hardly anyone knows about this site yet, let alone the Vallemont novels! I am a professional writer and have to make a living. I've worked hard on the audiobook, because I'm not, obviously, a professional reader. And I will discuss the difficulties of reading one's own work in a future post. And I can tell you, it was excruciating (for me!), which is why so few writers venture to even attempt it I assume. The other problem, of course, is the time spent working on producing an audiobook is time spent away from writing. But I think I did improve a little, with all the thousands and thousands of words I read, and re-read! Which is one consolation. Reading 100,000 words of your own work is a test, I do assure you. It's not because I think my book is bad, it's just that reading a work is a performance and I do not consider myself a perfromer. I'm a writer who likes to hide away behind his computer and books and write. However, if you bought the audiobook, I hope you enjoyed the performance! I got better didn't I? Friends tell me I have a pleasant enough voice- well, they would wouldn't they! We all hate the sound of our own recorded voices, I think. Anyway, you can hear for yourself if you download the sample I've put up. Just below this post- there is a link.
Reach me here: literatee2000-layla@yahoo.co.uk
I am assuming that hardly anyone knows about this site yet, let alone the Vallemont novels! I am a professional writer and have to make a living. I've worked hard on the audiobook, because I'm not, obviously, a professional reader. And I will discuss the difficulties of reading one's own work in a future post. And I can tell you, it was excruciating (for me!), which is why so few writers venture to even attempt it I assume. The other problem, of course, is the time spent working on producing an audiobook is time spent away from writing. But I think I did improve a little, with all the thousands and thousands of words I read, and re-read! Which is one consolation. Reading 100,000 words of your own work is a test, I do assure you. It's not because I think my book is bad, it's just that reading a work is a performance and I do not consider myself a perfromer. I'm a writer who likes to hide away behind his computer and books and write. However, if you bought the audiobook, I hope you enjoyed the performance! I got better didn't I? Friends tell me I have a pleasant enough voice- well, they would wouldn't they! We all hate the sound of our own recorded voices, I think. Anyway, you can hear for yourself if you download the sample I've put up. Just below this post- there is a link.
Here is the link to the 50 minute audio sample of Troublesome Disguises, the First Francis Vallemont novel:
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=XCH2I75V
But you can buy the digital text version of Troublesome Disguises only if you like, simply press the button below:
The ideal Chrsitmas present- a thrilling, romantic whodunnit set at the sumptuous Elizabethan Palace of Richmond, over Christmas 1588/89. Escape to another world this Christmas- enter the world of Francis Vallemont, the Elizabethan master sleuth, with an eye for the ladies!
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=XCH2I75V
But you can buy the digital text version of Troublesome Disguises only if you like, simply press the button below:
The ideal Chrsitmas present- a thrilling, romantic whodunnit set at the sumptuous Elizabethan Palace of Richmond, over Christmas 1588/89. Escape to another world this Christmas- enter the world of Francis Vallemont, the Elizabethan master sleuth, with an eye for the ladies!
I thought I would just add the cover of the Second Francis Vallemont novel, An Unreasonable Request. This one is a little shorter than the first one and hasn't been recorded yet. It continues where the first novel leaves off. All my Francis Vallemont novels will be sequential like this. I'll post the cover of the Third Francis Vallemont novel, The Murder of Errors, tomorrow. The Murder of Errors is in my opinion the best novel I have ever written, at least it was the one that gave me the most pleasure in writing. I think my character comes of age in this third one and now I look forward to moving the character on through his career in late Elizabethan England. The next novel, which as I said, I'm currently working on (I have the tricky whodunnit plot worked out mostly and the prologue and first chapter started), is called The Daughters of the Draper, and involves three very different sisters, and, of course, a few murders, and Francis Vallemont in amongst it all, hunting down the killer(s).
My new Troublesome Disguises Audio Book - set in Elizabethan London and the Palace of Richmond at Christmas
Well, I've finally done it. I have finally finished recording my very first audiobook. Having written a few novels and had them published, with the wonderful people at Boson Books, I decided to try something on my own. So all year I've been writing the first three Francis Vallemont novels. These are whodunnits, set at the end of Elizabeth I's reign, and featuring my character, Francis Vallemont, the second son of a Devonshire Lord, who comes to London to train as a law student at the Inner Temple and then, through his friendship with Lord Howard, Lord High Admiral of the Fleet, with whom he served in the recent sea battle against the Spanish Armada, and his mysterious friendship with the ageing Queen, who knew his father, he is drawn into solving a series of murders over the Christmas festivities at Richmond Palace. The action then moves to London and finally the mystery is resolved at Richmond. This is a classic whodunnit in the Agatha Christie tradition.
I hope those of you who may enjoy the Tudor period in history, and particularly the late Elizabethan times, may like to try this first Francis Vallemont novel. It is called Troublesome Disguises. And, as I say, is currently available on disc in an 11 unabridged MP3 files audio book, to the public directly. I really don't know why more authors don't do this. maybe I'll start a trend. If you would like to hear a sample of the novel- and my voice- then please have a listen to the long extract I am going to post on my new blog.
And please pop back and I'll have more to say about the book and the sequels, two of which I've already written. I'm currently writing the fourth.
I hope those of you who may enjoy the Tudor period in history, and particularly the late Elizabethan times, may like to try this first Francis Vallemont novel. It is called Troublesome Disguises. And, as I say, is currently available on disc in an 11 unabridged MP3 files audio book, to the public directly. I really don't know why more authors don't do this. maybe I'll start a trend. If you would like to hear a sample of the novel- and my voice- then please have a listen to the long extract I am going to post on my new blog.
And please pop back and I'll have more to say about the book and the sequels, two of which I've already written. I'm currently writing the fourth.
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