Hi!
Been away from this blog for a long long time. When Megaupload suddenly closed down it obviously ruined my start-up business here and just about killed off my interest in marketing my books online. But the first three books in the series are now available in audio format. And I am still writing more in this historical Tudor series. All at the same prices. So if you would like to purchase any of my audiobooks please contact me by email and I'll get back to you with details on where you can now download them. Thanks.
Troublesome Disguises cover
Painting by Titian. Venus at her ablutions. This novel is now available in audiobook, read by the author.
Wednesday, 10 September 2014
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Friday, 4 November 2011
Haven't disappeared- I am tweeting every day here https://twitter.com/#!/FrancisVallemon . So come and see me there. I will use this site for posting big things- like extracts and longer pieces of news. Tweeting is easier to keep up and makes me think I'm in touch. Anyway, life isn't just about writing is it? These novels are my main writing interest now. I want to build a huge collection of them and take readers through Vallemont's cases and life in late 16th Century to early 17th Century London. Stand by for a big free offer before Christmas.
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)