Always, Always back up your work!

I preach this constantly and then fall down on it myself.

I decided to switch from the online backup service I had previously used to another one but (surprise, surprise, Ms. Procrastination) hadn't gotten around to actually starting the new service. A few days ago I had also backed up to a thumb drive but hadn't done it for the end of the novel I was working on.

So guess whose work computer is having a major failure today, actually found it yesterday. I suspect I sound calmer than I am but I *think* it is a power supply failure not a hard drive failure. I won't know for sure until the repair guy gets here. If I'm right, then my work should still be there. At worst, I only lose a few days work BUT my novel was finished and was supposed to go to the editor today. Because of this, she has to schedule other work and it will have to be pushed back. If there is a large delay I may have to consider finding another editor and having the scheduled editor do my next novel.

OMG! I am so screwed! And this is MY OWN FAULT! *runs around the room screaming*

So it looks like there will be at least a week or two delay in publishing A King Unchained, the sequel to A King Ensnared, but it will not be a lengthy one. I still have all except the last couple of chapters safely on a drive and I am right this second backing THAT up! Double!

Writing a Believable Sword Fight Scene (Part II)

Quite a long time ago I wrote a post here on writing a believable sword fight scene. It continues to be popular, and I've had numerous requests to post more on the topic. I do think there is more to be said.

Importantly, I want to clear up one important point. Fencing and medieval sword fighting are not the same thing. In fact, they have very little in common. Fencing and the use of thrusting weapons such as the rapier first came into vogue in the 16th and 17th centuries. Before then, it is a mistake to represent a rapier being used. The fencing terms that are still used today were invented in the late 1500s and should not be used in any sword fight before that time. So if you are writing about medieval rather than Renaissance sword fights, you can't take a fencing lesson or watch fencers to find out what it looked like; however there are organizations such as the Society of Creative Anachronism that have groups and lessons in using medieval weapons.

Now I would like to go more into how fighting was usually done in the middle ages.

You need to be aware of a number of misconceptions about medieval sword fighting, which was done almost entirely by the knight classes. Swords were not heavy. Wielding one was was tiring, but the weapons themselves were surprisingly light. A typical longsword or hand-and-a-half sword weighed about two and a half pounds. A typical two-handed sword such as the supposed Wallace sword on display at the Wallace Monument weighed about six to eight pounds. (Parts of the "Wallace Sword" might in fact date early enough to have been used by Wallace although the entire sword definitely does not) However, a sword or sword and shield was not a knight's preferred weapon. Given a choice, a knight would fight with a lance and would never voluntarily give up being mounted. So most knightly combat was done on horseback, beginning with a lance.

Of course, if the fight began on foot then that was not a choice, but it would be the normal beginning of any duel. The assumption that the largest weapon and person always won, an assumption made by even excellent writers such as G. R. R. Martin for example, is simply wrong. I could cite (but won't for brevity) a number of cases where agility, experience, and maneuverability were the deciding factors.

And unless it was a duel of honor, which did happen on occasion, there was no shame in a friend bashing your opponent over the head or stabbing them through the back. Throw sand in their face? Of course. Bash them up the side of the head with your shield? Given the chance because a shield was also a weapon, one most knights chose to use. Two-handed swords tend to be over rated since they provided little in the way of defense. Of course, what is often referred to as a longsword or hand-and-a-half sword could be used either with a shield or as a two-handed weapon which is one reason they were so popular.

One of the other important factors is that knights with few exceptions spent their entire lives from an early age studying and practicing fighting. Of course, like any activity the ability would vary and you might write about a knight who had little innate ability, but if your character is good at sword fighting, just as with any physical activity, they don't have to think about the details while doing it. Does professional basketball player think about exact hand and foot placement in the midst of a game? Of course not. This is something that is second nature by the time they're playing at that level. The same would be true of a sword fighter. Watching for openings, judging their opponent, and seeing how to take advantage of the environment are much more likely to be what they think of. They certainly won't stop in the middle to describe who is watching or philosophize about why they're fighting.

For all hand-to-hand combat, I observe a fairly simple rule: always keep within a close point of view. What would your protagonist see and think? That is all I want in a sword fight scene. One thing for sure is that they aren't going to try to be the fanciest possible with an opponent swinging a very sharp sword at their gut. A sword fight is short, brutal, and generally has only one object which is to kill your opponent.

I'm an Author Not a Politician

A question: Do my readers care what my politics are?

Here is why I ask:

Best-selling Kindle author John Locke came out with a new book, affectionately known as Howie, on how to build book sales in which he said that novelists should post meaningful articles on their blog, ones that would touch readers and reach across the blogosphere to draw people in. He said they should relate to the theme of one's writing.

Today someone took that advice to mean that he should post a highly political blog and did one that in effect attacks anyone and everyone not a member of the "Tea Party Movement". Now I need to go back and read Mr. Locks Howie book because I really don't think that was what the gentleman had in mind. I could be mistaken.

Although normally make it a rule not to post on politics on this blog, on Twitter my tweets make it pretty clear where I stand on a couple of political and social issues. I am a pretty fervent supporter of gay rights. Because of my strong connection to Scotland, I tweet links to Scottish nationalist articles which support Scottish independence. Both of these (depending on what country you're from) are fairly divisive.

Perhaps as an author, I shouldn't tweet on them. My belief has always been that my readers don't give a damn what my politics are as long as I tell a good story, but there is another movement of thought that readers are attracted to writers who the know something about. Well, you can't know about me without knowing I support those things. I tweet about them to make it clear who and what I am as well as to share information.

As I said, I could be wrong. That's going to take some thought.

Look at the subject of Scottish independence. One can enjoy a story about the heroism of Scottish heroes while believing that Scotland is better off as part of the United Kingdom. Sure, I'll point out other arguments if we discuss it, but it has nothing to do with enjoying my novels. I hope not anyway.

In only one of my novels are there openly gay people, but I think treating everyone with respect is such a part of my ethos that this comes across in my writing. Still those who oppose gay marriage, as an example, could enjoy my novels even the one with openly gay characters. Nor does it matter that some of the characters in other novels are gay but that the issue is simply never raised or they choose to hide it.

I suspect that many readers do avoid writers whose writing is driven by an agenda. I do. Heck, I avoid ones whose agenda I agree with.

No doubt, I was wrong to get a bit angry at the writer with a political agenda. He isn't the first. He won't be the last. Although I think it tends to get in the way of story telling, there are even exceptions to that. So he has a right to his agenda which he's admitting to up front.

My agenda as a writer is different. I look at myself as the minstrel in the market square spinning a tale for a few coins tossed in my hat.

My writing is not done--it is NEVER done--to convince anyone of my beliefs. I hope my reader enjoys my story. I hope it touches their emotions. I hope it increases their connection to humanity. It will not and is not intended to change their politics.

So let me tell you a story...

Indie Fiction Challenge

Samantha Warren over at Mariyta's Musings introduced me to a fun challenge. The challenge is to read 24 indie authors this year, each with a last name that starts with a different letter of the alphabet. (The challenge allows you to skip any two letters of the alphbet) Novels read before the first of the year don't count. You can check out the complete rules at ABC Indie Fiction Challenge Sign Up. Here is my list of books I've read since the first of the year that fit on the list. A) B) C) D) Dalglish, David - The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, Book 1) E) F) G) H) Hocking, Amanda - My Blood Approves I) J) K) L) Lieske, Victorine - Not What She Seems M) Martinez, Victoria - An Unusual Journey Through Royal History N) O) P) Patterson, Edward C. - Look Away Silence Q) R) S) Snyder, J. M. - Power Play T) U) V) Vosika, Laura - Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy W) Woodbury, Sarah - Footsteps in Time: A Time Travel Fantasy (The After Cilmeri Series Book One) X) Y) Z)

I notice I've read books by way too many authors whose names begin with 'S'! I'll update my list as I go along.

If anyone would like to check out my novels, you'll find them here:

Freedom's Sword is available at Amazon and Smashwords. A Kingdom's Cost is also available at Amazon and Smashwords for only $2.99.

Editing a Novel -- The How of the Thing

Editing, how to do it and do it effectively? That is a good question. I'll give you my opinion. I won't keep saying in every sentence that it is. Some people will disagree. That's fine. This is how I feel it should be done.

A lot of people will tell you to set aside a novel for six months or some insane (to me) amount of time so that you can look at it with "fresh eyes". Well, this doesn't work. Believe me. You will never ever have truly fresh eyes for your own work. It will always be yours. It's like saying if you haven't seen your own child for a few months, they won't be your child. Setting it aside for a short time isn't a bad idea, but don't think that will make you truly see it as though you haven't seen it before. You wrote the sucker. Let's be real here.

However, there are a few tricks that help you really see it. Assuming you write on a computer, first change your font and font size and then print it out. Just looking at it in a new medium with a new appearance helps it seem different. In fact, it helps a lot, well worth the expense of all that ink.

For the first edit, try not to worry about typos. Ok, correct them when you notice them, but there is no point in concentrating on typos that might be edited out anyway, because what you need to concentrate on first is a story-level edit.

Doing this there are several things you need to look at, and I look at them all in the same edit rather than going over the novel once for each issure.

1. Conflict. Does at least some conflict start in the first chapter. It doesn't have to be the main conflict, but just telling a reader how cute and charming the main character is or telling their life story from first grade won't likely keep them reading. So present some problem, even a minor one. And bring in at least part of the main conflict soon. And I happen to agree with some people that even in chapters where the conflict is not the main point, the conflict should never be far away. If there is no conflict, what is the story doing? Never lose sight of your conflict.
   
2. Pacing. This is a very tough one for an author to judge because you're probably interested in the most mundane things your character does, but if the story drags the reader is going to notice. Does the conflict get repetitive, for example, with the character solving very similar problems over and over? Does the same situation drag out too long? Or is it too rushed? Oh, this is hard to judge, but an author has to try to see it. (And pacing is one of the reasons I think an editor is essential)
   
3. Character development. Some types of novels and genres tend towards more character development than others, but if your character doesn't change and grow in the course of your story, then you have a problem--a serious one. Many readers will forgive a lot if you have good character development. If your character doesn't develop at all, try to think of them as a real person who needs a little prodding to grow up.
4. Point of view. Make sure it is consistent. Keep an eye out for inadvertent head-hops where you suddenly tell what someone is thinking when your PoV character couldn't possibly know.

Once you have the story level edit done, I suggest another read for a copyedit. For this, I read it out loud. That way I have to look at every word. I do this on the computer screen rather than a print copy, so I can immediately make corrections. Once again, I change font and font size to alter the appearance.

I look at this stage for inadvertently repeated words. I tend to suddenly decide to use a certain word several times in a couple of paragraphs. I look for awkward phrasing. Obviously, I look for typos and misspellings.

I don't think that editing over and over is productive use of one's time, and I know a lot of writers who do this. I suspect most authors who do this (my opinion) don't really know at what point they stop making improvements and start changing for the sake of changing something. I'm also not sure they know at what point they start editing out their own voice. Of course, I also edit as I go, so perhaps I cheat a bit. My own opinion is that after you've done the kind of edit I describe, you really need someone else to look at it for you.

Once I've done the editing I described, I send it to an editor. It is extremely difficult for an author to see everything in their own work, and I think a professional set of eyes is required. However, this kind of editing process will send you a long way along the road to a finished manuscript.

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Please check out my historical novel, Freedom's Sword, available on Amazon and Smashwords.

#SampleSunday -- Agathon's Daughter by Suzanne Tyrpak

Suzanne Tyrpak joins me today to share a sample of her upcoming historical novel, Agathon's Daughter. First, Suzanne, could you tell us a little about it?

Agathon’s Daughter is suspense set in the Golden Age of Athens at the time of Pericles. I began researching the book about seven years ago, and even traveled to Athens and Delphi, but I got side-tracked by my novel Vestal Virgin. Now I’m back to writing Agathon’s Daughter, and loving it.

I’ve always been fascinated by ancient Greece due to my love of theater and mythology. Ancient Greece is full of drama, and yet a favorite saying from that time is, “moderation in all things.” The Greeks strived for balance, and yet their drama and mythology is rife with larger-than-life conflict.

Here is an excerpt from Agathon’s Daughter which I plan to release late this year:

Chapter One

Wind swept down from the Acropolis, driving dust along the narrow lanes past sleeping houses, slipping through the bolted doors, shivering the bedchamber. Hestia drew her shawl close. On this moonless night, even the stone edifice of the House of Agathon offered no barrier against Thanatos, the winged god of death.

The oil lamp sputtered, casting shadows on the ceiling, and darkness crept across the old man’s face.

“Hestia,” he called out, clutching at the bedcovers, struggling to lift his head. “Come closer—” A rasping cough strangled his voice. He stared at her as if witnessing an apparition.

“Rest, Master,” she said.

“I have wronged you.”

“Never.”

Hestia dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, infused with thyme to stem fever, and mopped her master’s brow. Since the onset of his illness, the furrows in Agathon’s brow had grown more pronounced, and lines wrought by years of laughter sagged into a frown. The battle-worn face she loved so well, craggy as the hills of Athens, seemed possessed by a secret grief.

He regarded her with stark intensity. “If I should die this night—”

“Don’t speak of death.”

Groaning, he rolled onto his side. “Do you hear them howling?”

“Who?”

“The hounds of Hades. I hear the splash of Charon’s oars; the icy waters of the Styx lap at my feet.”

Despite the late hour, Hestia considered sending for the physician; the remedy he’d prescribed didn’t seem to be working. She headed for the doorway.

“Where are you going?”

“To get your wife.”

“No.” Agathon struggled to sit. “Don’t wake Melaina.”

Hestia turned to look at him. In truth, she felt relief. The prospect of waking Agathon’s wife held all the charm of opening Pandora’s box—except no hope lay hidden at the bottom. Only wrath. But, the feverish glitter of Agathon’s eyes made her uneasy. She walked back to the bed and touched his forehead. Heat rushed through her fingers, the pulse of life escaping him.

“You’re burning up.”

“If only I could sleep.” Agathon closed his eyes, but he looked far from peaceful.

Hestia blinked away tears.

Melaina claimed it was disrespectful for a slave to show emotion. Slaves, Melaina said, were meant to blend into the furnishings, stay hidden in corners, like a piss-pot ready to receive its master’s slops. Despite her effort, tears escaped her eyes. How could she prevent herself from crying for the one person in this world who had shown her kindness? The person who had saved her life. Pain shot through her ankle, waking the injury she’d received as an infant, and she moaned.

Agathon opened his eyes, and the soul she knew so well peered out. “Get some sleep,” he said.

“If I sleep who will care for you?”

“You’re a good girl, Hestia. Faithful, honest.”

His kind words brought more tears.

“The rains are over,” she said, attempting to compose herself. “As soon as you regain your strength we’ll visit the Acropolis, make an offering at the Pantheon.”

“Pour me some wine.”

“Perhaps you need another dose of the physician’s tonic.” Diodorus, Agathon’s son, had braved the night and gone to the physician’s house to procure the remedy.

“No more. It tastes bitter.”

“I’ll mix a little in your wine and add some honey; you won’t notice it.”

“Don’t treat me like a woman—”

She knew better than to argue.

Pain bit her ankle and, hoping to relieve it, she favored her right foot. At the sideboard, she poured wine from an earthen amphora into a drinking cup then added water and a dollop of honey—the last of the supply she and Diodorus had gathered last autumn. Soon it would be time to reopen the hives and discover if the bees had survived the winter. She glanced at her master, made certain he wasn’t watching, before reaching for the vial of tonic. She dosed the wine liberally. Limping toward the bed, she offered Agathon the cup.

“Your ankle pains you,” he said. She busied herself straightening the bedcovers. “Hestia, look at me.”

His face was blotchy, ravaged by fever. Though the physician insisted his illness wasn’t plague, the servants whispered otherwise. Day and night they lit fires and made offerings to the household gods, mumbling excuses why they couldn’t sit with him: laundry needed to be done, bread had to be baked, spring cleaning was past due. Even Melaina kept her distance. But Hestia saw no lesions, no swollen glands, no sign of plague—and yet, his condition worsened.

“Drink,” she said, “and you’ll feel better.”

“Stop fussing. Sit.”

She drew a goatskin stool close to the bed and sat, hands folded in her lap.

Agathon sipped the wine, made a sour face, then set the cup on the bedside table. He reached for her hand, small within his sturdy paw. He squeezed her fingers. “Remember the day we climbed the Hill of Nymphs?”

Not long ago, after a wet morning, she and Agathon had ventured out to wander through the sacred olive grove. Sunlight danced through rain-drenched leaves.

“I asked you what Socrates says of love.”

“And I told you you’re too young to ponder that subject.”

“Seventeen is hardly young, Master.”

“Time passes swiftly.” A frown tugged at Agathon’s mouth. He reached for the cup of wine, but didn’t drink. “According to Socrates, there are two varieties of love—the higher leads to harmony, the lower to destruction.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“If you can answer that, my dear, you’re wiser than Socrates.” He studied her, his eyes troubled. “Can you find it in your heart to love an old warhorse like me?”

Hestia stared at her lap, unsure of what he wanted. Unsure of how to answer.

“My question upsets you.” He grabbed the cup of wine and drank. His eyes peered at her above the cup’s rim. “Give me your honest opinion—at this late hour of my life, can my soul be purified?”

“Your soul is pure. Your life has been exemplary—”

“No.”

She interlocked her fingers, observing their redness, observing how the knuckles blanched. Weighing her words, she said, “I believe all souls to be eternal. Therefore, the hour can never be too late for a soul’s redemption.”

“By the gods,” he said softly, “you’re a match for any man, any philosopher—even Socrates.”

“You flatter me.”

“I speak the truth. You take after your mother, dark curls and fire in your eyes. Skin pale as alabaster—”

“My mother preferred me dead.”

“Who told you that?”

“My Mistress.”

“Melaina?” Agathon shook his head.

“She says my mother chained me to a hill—left me, as an infant, to die of exposure.”

Agathon took a gulp of wine, his hand shaking. A cough took hold, deep and guttural. He tried to hand the cup to Hestia, but the wine spilled. A crimson stain crept across the bedcover—not only wine, but blood.

Hestia removed the cup from his trembling hand and her hand trembled too. Her eyes met Agathon’s and reached into his heart. The cup slipped from her hand, crashed on the granite floor and shattered.

“You knew my mother, didn’t you?” Her gaze reached deeper, unlocking his secrets, exploring hidden chambers. “You loved her.”

“Yes.” He stared at her with stricken eyes.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Tell you what?”

She released him from her gaze.

Bending to collect pieces of the broken cup, she sorted through disparate emotions—sorrow for her master’s illness, anger at his reticence, loneliness. As she stood, she felt light-headed, as if she were falling into a dark well. Who would find her? Who would notice she had gone?

His voice came from far away, calling her back.

“I’ll get another cup,” she said.

She moved toward the sideboard, felt his eyes follow her, but in truth she was a shade. Invisible. The amphora felt slick against her palms. Her back to him, she poured tonic into the wine, added a large spoon of honey. She wanted him to sleep, wanted him to close his eyes—so she couldn’t see his heart. She needed to think.

She handed him the cup, and Agathon drank deeply, his face flushing bright red as the medicine took its course.

He wiped his mouth, settled into his cushions.

“Her name was Olympia.”

“Olympia,” Hestia said, the named forming on her tongue, swelling like a wave, crashing in her gut.

“Come closer.” Mustering his strength, Agathon twisted a ring from his little finger. Gold flashed in the oil lamp’s light, blinding Hestia, sending shivers through her soul. He pressed the ring into her palm.

She stared at the gold band, worth more than a slave could hope to earn in a lifetime, marveling at the ring’s fine workmanship—twin serpents intertwined to form a figure eight, the symbol of eternity.

“There’s an inscription.”

“To Olympia from Agathon,” Hestia read. And then a month, “Boedromion.”

“A golden day in autumn, the day of your conception.”

“How would you know—”

“Have you not guessed?”

She stared into his eyes, afraid to speak the truth she saw.

Agathon reached for her hand, but she recoiled.

The room seemed to be spinning, her thoughts and feelings churning. When she spoke, her voice came out as a whisper. “I am your—”

“My daughter.”

“And my mother?”

“Died giving birth to you. I was here, in Athens, when I received the news.” Agathon sank into the cushions.

Hestia stared at the ring, turning it over in her palm, feeling the weight of the gold, the weight of what Agathon said. Of course, she’d been abandoned, a bastard and a girl. Unwanted children were often left to die out in the elements.

“Why didn’t I die?”

“I sought you out, plucked you from your chains.”

“And kept me as your slave.”

“I couldn’t claim you as my own. Melaina—”

Her eyes met his. His face seemed to be melting, like a wax mask left out in the sun. His mouth moved, but his words were drowned in the roar of questions rushing through her mind. She wasn’t the first bastard to be born to a wealthy master, not the first child to be unclaimed. It was a common story. But she had trusted Agathon. Gorge rose to her mouth, molten rage that stung her throat. She swallowed, forcing down her anger.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Forgive an old man.”

She turned her gaze on Agathon. Blue veins lined his hands, carrying his blood. Her blood. The blood she had been denied.

“Who was she, my mother? Your slave?”

“A goddess. She belonged to no man.” Agathon sighed heavily, closed his eyes.

Hestia stared at his ravaged face and saw her own. She reached for his shoulder, shook him. “Olympia who? From where?”

He mumbled something.

The shutters clattered. The wind had ripped them open. She glanced at the high window. Clouds drifted over the moon, smothering its light.

She turned back to Agathon, knelt beside his bed. Tears streaming down her face, she pressed her cheek against his chest, listened for his heartbeat, and heard only the rattle of the shutters.

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Suzanne Tyrpak's suspense novel Vestal Virgin set in ancient Rome is available for Kindle and in Paperback from Amazon.

I want to thank Suzanne for stopping by and sharing her wonderful story.

Rule 4 of Writing Historical Fiction - Leave out 75% of what you've learned

Now I come to the contradictory part and my final rule for writing historical fiction.

You have to know the details; you should know them so well that you could walk down a street in your time-period and fit right in. You have to show the customs, which means you have to know them. You have to be able to tell your reader the details they need to know and use them to give the reader a feel that they're there. You have to leave out the ones that don't.

Probably 75% of what you've learned you should leave out. But how do you know you can leave it out if you don't learn it in the first place? It's rather like fantasy worldbuilding, in which most of the worldbuilding should give a feel that there is more to the world than is ever being told--because there is. There had better be more to our historical world than we're telling the reader, or the reader will sense it.

It's a difficult balancing act. I honestly know the name, weight and purpose of every piece of armor including horse armor. Occasionally, I lose the hard-fought battle to stay 'on the wagon' and not tell my reader what they are. Classic, old-fashioned weapon porn.

My editor for Freedom's Sword had to slap me not long ago for using the correct names of horse armor. Why was I doing it? Showing off really. "See what I know!" It added nothing to the story or the sense of place. It just showed that I'd done a lot of research. Well, whoop-de-f*ing-doo. That is my job. It's nothing to show off about.

The reader wants to smell the shit in the street as your character rides through, if shit there is. Hear the creak of the dray. Smell the hay. Feel the scrape of the armor as he prepares for battle. Hear the vendor in the street crying his wares. Taste the food in his mouth at the banquet or at the campfire on the road.

What we have to try to do is leave out the details that don't do any of that. And put in all of the ones that do.

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Please check out my historical novel, Freedom's Sword, available on Amazon and Smashwords.

Sample of A Kingdom's Cost -- Out May 1

PROLOGUE

September, 1300

"Putain de merde!"

Dazed, knocked to his knees by the merchant's blow, James Douglas leaned against the brick wall. He turned his head toward the River Seine. He might escape in that direction.

Blood ran down the back of James' neck. He grabbed the merchant's club as the man took another swing at him. "I'm no thief! It was an accident."

The barrel-chested man ripped his weapon loose from James' hand. "Look at what you did!" The merchant kicked one of the pears that had fallen from his stall.

James slid forward on his knees trying to get far enough to make a dash for the river. His old deerhound, MacAilpín, barked at the merchant's side. Snarling, he snapped at the man's leg.

"Estienne, get this dog off me." The merchant backed up a step.

The merchant's friend ran up and kicked James' hound to send it flying.

Oh, St. Bride, he's all I have left. James gathered his legs and flung himself at Estienne's knees. The man stumbled back. Across the market, MacAilpín whined. The merchant's friend clouted James on the side of the head, making his ears ring. The man kicked him in the belly. He landed flat on the stone cobbles. His head bounced with a thud.

A woman yelled that she needed to buy a melon for her mistress's dinner.

"Almost made me miss a customer, boy," the merchant said. He stomped a few feet away, grumbling. "They're in that basket. All fresh this morning."

James clenched his teeth. He rolled once toward the river. "MacAilpín, come," he called. A whine answered. Blood from the back of James' head plopped onto the cobbles.

"Where do you think you're going?" the merchant shouted. "Knocking down my fruit. Losing me money. You'll pay."

The man ran toward him. James gave himself a desperate shove against the ground. As he rolled, the merchant's foot connected with his face. Blood gushed from his nose. Across the square, his hound yelped.

"Mange du merde, pute," the merchant growled.

The ground disappeared from under James. He plunged into a dark cold as the Seine enveloped him. Rank water filled his nose and mouth. Now you've done it. He drifted off altogether.

# # #

When he came back, it was quiet. He didn't know where he was, except that he was lying face down in stinking mud. His hair lay in dripping, black strings across his face. He dug his fingers into the muck. In a dim way, he wondered if he should be attending his father.

He drifted off again.

No, the letter said my lord father died in a dungeon.

Nothing hurt. Shouldn't it hurt? Mayhap something had broken inside. He tried to move to find out. Dire mistake. His belly cramped and bent him like a bow. He gasped with the crushing agony of it. Holy Virgin Mary, what did he do to me?

After a long time the cramp passed, and he lay in the sunlight, too weak to do anything but pant in relief. He was too shattered to move. Thoughts drifted like blowing leaves. That he'd seen thieves die from such beatings. That mayhap he was so hurt he'd never be able to move.

He lay still in the mud as the shadows lengthened in the waning afternoon. His face felt like a pillow stuffed with lumps of coal. He managed to breathe through his mouth, his nose clogged with blood.

Ages passed.

Eventually, he lifted his head and took heart that his body didn't cramp. He wasn't getting worse.

He knew from the practice yard that the best way to deal with being knocked flat was to take your time. The daylight had dimmed as shadows crawled toward the riverbank. A breeze chilled him and he shivered. Dark was good. It would hide him. If he moved carefully, cautiously, he could get to his feet.

He tried, dreading the pain. He moved his arms, his legs, tried to sit up. Couldn't do it. His muscles trembled. Lifting his head, he considered a huge chestnut tree a few feet from the riverbank. He crept across the ground, crawling, as far as the trunk and propped himself against it, panting.

He rested there for a while, hurting but alive. Increasingly, he thought he would stay that way. Strength returned, no longer a distant memory. He could stand if he tried. He grasped the rough trunk of the tree and pulled himself upright.

Tottery, he held onto a drooping branch. It wasn't so bad. He ached all over, but he could move.

Limping through the dark streets, he kept to the shadows against the buildings, using the slimy walls to stay on his feet.

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Please check out my historical novel, Freedom's Sword, available on Amazon and Smashwords.

Rule 3 of Writing Historical Novels -- DO Sweat the Small Stuff

Your historical fiction depends upon your ability to use historical detail. This is a different world for your reader. You have to supply the images and they have to be the right ones for this world.

What is the street like? Does it smell of horse shit? Of smog from the factories and chimneys? What kind of wagons or other conveyances are there? What is the noise? Street vendors crying their wares? Horses? The clatter of armor or harness? Plate armor? Maille? What did the clothes look like? What was the lighting?

Don't recycle information from old, and often totally inaccurate, movies and novels.

If you are going to write about people living in 1200 England, you need to know how people lived there. How is that woman in the home you're writing about making yarn for clothes? She did make her own. Don't assume she used a spinning wheel. They weren't used yet. So how did she do it?

What kind of horses did people ride? Knights didn't ride a destrier down the street, by the way. That would be very much like driving a Sherman tank to the grocery store for a gallon of milk. What was a palfrey? A courser? When were the different horses used? How were they different? You're writing about a sailor in the early twentieth century. What was life like on a British merchant ship? What did they eat? What were the uniforms? Could a sailor work his way up to become a ship's officer? If so, how?

It's easier to track down someone who knows about a distaff and spindle or medieval horses or how one worked their way up from below the deck than it is to track the answer to every question on the internet, especially since the internet is often inaccurate.

Google for non-fiction books on topics you want to learn about. Wikipedia is often a good source of lists of non-fiction books used as sources--a much more useful way to use it than assuming its articles are accurate. Compare comments about different authors to see which seem to be widely considered accurate. Often an email or a call to these authors will yield a world of information. Of course, calls to museums can also be a possibility, but often finding someone there who is an expert on what you need information about is not that easy.

For one novel, I needed to know how long it would take to spin enough yarn to weave cloth to actually make clothing in a 12th century household. This took some tracking down. A forum for hobbyists yielded a list of books. A call to an author eventually gave me the information I needed.

It is the small stuff that gives your novel the feel of authenticity. You have to know a hundred times more about the world you write about than goes in the novel. Believe me, if you don't, the reader can tell.

Freedom's Sword -- Beginning of Chapter Four

Caitrina shook her head. Donnchadh said they had gone north and a little east along the pine forest. He pointed to the North Star, faint in the black velvet sky. She rubbed her arms, covered with goose bumps, as they trudged. Even in April, the night air was chill. But how far east had they come? How far did they have yet to go to reach Avoch Castle?

A trumpet called somewhere behind them and she froze. It came again. She grabbed Donnchadh's arm. He pulled her, running, towards a dark mass of thick brambles down slope that extended over the next rise. She stretched her leg to keep up. They pushed their way into the scratchy branches and sank down. Panting and heart hammering, she squeezed his hand. It grew silent again except for an owl hooting in the darkness.

"They won't see us in here," Donnchadh said, "but they might hear us. It's noisy pushing our way through."

"If we tried to stay in the brambles, it would take a long time, too." She listened. The horns, whatever they had meant, had stopped. "I think we have to take the risk."

They neared the top of the next rise and crouched to listen, keeping a nervous eye out for searchers. The English could come very close before they saw them in the dark. The night was silent so they kept going, pushing their way through the dense thicket, arms and legs stinging with welts from the thorns.

Caitrina stopped. A lighter area opened ahead in the moonlight--the road. She pointed, and Donnchadh motioned for them to lie down. Caitrina pointed again at a dense clump of gorse, thick enough to hide her. "Stay here," she whispered.

He grabbed for her hand but she was already creeping forward. From flat on the ground, she could see very little, just the dark night and the ground in front of her. After a few damp, tiring yards of crawling, she glanced back to see how far she'd come. Donnchadh's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She went on.

She was sure she was near the road when she heard the beat of horses coming at a fast walk. She trembled, wanting to jump up and run. But if she did, of a certainty, they would see her. Don't move. Don't move. Donnchadh's eyes had shined in the dark, so she forced herself to stare at the layers of leaves on the ground. The horses came from her left. They were so close they almost seemed to ride right over her; the ground shook.

Her whole body shuddered with terror, but they kept going. Once the pounding hoof beats had passed, she dared a quick glance. They disappeared before she could count the dark shapes--at least ten or twelve of them. The hoof beats died away. She took a deep breath and crept into the spicy-smelling clump of gorse. She parted the spiky leaves and even in the moonlight, the road was scarred with hoof marks. Why were they riding east? Away from Edirdovar Castle? It wasn't enough to attack Avoch, surely. Were they looking for her?

She strained through to see along the road as far as she could without getting out in the open. Nothing. She jumped at a touch on her arm and gave a faint squeak.

"They're ahead of us now," she whispered and her stomach rumbled loudly.

Donnchadh gave her a weak grin. "Glad it didn't do that before."

Together, they crept away from the road and made their way through the firs. She had gotten blisters on the bottoms of both of her feet so she took off her shoes. The dirt and damp needles made a soft cushion underfoot. She needed to piss, but didn't want to tell Donnchadh. She couldn't make water while he watched. Finally, though she couldn't hold it any more and her belly ached from it, so he turned his back while she squatted.

The horizon was hidden by the fir trees, but slowly the sky turned from gray to blue. Caitrina stumbled over a root she hadn't seen and grabbed a trunk, the bark rough under her hand. "I don't think I can walk much more."

"We'll look for a place when it gets light. No way we'll make it to Avoch today, I don't think."

Caitrina nodded and kept her eyes on her feet trying not to stumble, putting one bare foot in front of another. Her stomach ached with emptiness. It had been a long time since the berries. Once she stumbled over a rock and landed hard on her knees.

Donnchadh gave her a hand to boost her erect. "Not much longer. We'll rest during the day and go on when it gets dark." They found a tumbled cairn grown over with brambles. He made a tunnel into it and pulled the bushes close so they were hidden. Caitrina was sure she wouldn’t sleep but the last thing she remembered was cradling her head in her arms and then Donnchadh gave her shoulder a shake.

The light was already waning in the clear spring sky and the world was turning gray. The brambles ended at the edge of a fir wood. Donnchadh grumbled that it would be hard to find their way under branches that hid the stars, but there wasn't a choice so they kept to the fragrant firs and climbed up a long brae. He led them down the other side and up the next gentle rise.

Caitrina sniffed. "I smell wood smoke."

Donnchadh pointed towards flickering light off to the right. Her stomach was so empty she felt sick and Donnchadh looked longingly towards the light.

"Maybe it's a croft," he said. "I don't have no siller to buy anything. Do you?"

"No." She worried at her lip with her teeth. "They could tell us how far to Avoch though and if they've seen riders. And maybe they'd spare an oat bannock if we ask."

Donnchadh frowned and shook his head. "But what if the riders stopped there?"

"I hadn't thought of that." She twisted her fingers together. "We better be careful."

They kept going in the dimming light that turned into twilight. Where the trees thinned, they slipped from bush to bush. Every few steps they stopped to listen. The light ahead was bright when she heard a horse snort and a man's voice. The smoky smell got stronger.

Donnchadh put his mouth against her ear. "You wait here."

She wanted to protest against being left but was afraid to with the English so near, so she sat down next to some thick brambles as he crept on his belly. Her stomach ached with hunger, but it couldn't be that far to Avoch. The once she had been there, it hadn't been a long a ride by road. She clasped her arms around her bent knees, shivering a little in the cooling night air. They could get there without food, she was sure, even walking. Then Donnchadh was creeping toward her. He shook his head and his lips were pressed so tight they were pale.

"What is it?"

"The riders that passed--they're there." His voice was choked sounding. "They've--they've killed the crofter--his family. The bodies..." He heaved and bent as he coughed up a string of bile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and she waited, heart pounding. "They're just lying there in the dirt. Like--like old rags or--" His voice broke, and he stopped, choking back a sob. She had a sudden vision of Edirdovar Castle--her sister and mother and all the people she knew...

She pressed her hand to her mouth as Donnchadh sucked in gusty breaths through clinched teeth. He looked up, cheeks wet. "They didn't have a chance."

Why Battles Are Like Sex

All right, maybe not exactly. But I write about them the same way. I got a funny look from someone the other day when I said that, so I'm going to explain the similarities.

First -- non-sex related unless you have different tastes than me, but who knows *grin* -- and this applies to sword fights or just describing warriors and knights in general, don't get tied up in what I once saw an editor call "weapon porn". I am a heck of a lot more interested in what the armour and weapons are called than 99% of my readers. I know the name, weight and capabilities of every piece. So should you, but don't necessarily list it. They really just want to see what it does, not hear its name. But do get the capabilities of the weapons right, please. Please. Swords did not weight 30 pounds, and it was not a matter of the heavier the better. Most weigh less than 3 pounds. 6 pounds is about tops for a functional sword that is not for ceremonial use only.

Swords cut. They do not crush.

Know all that to make the scene authentic but don't burble it all out and bore your poor reader to death--or on to another novel.

(Possibly that is more like a sex scene than I thought. Don't list all the body parts either!)

Now on to the sex part:

1. The senses do not stop working during battle or during sex. Battle is noisy and smelly. Things touch; things taste. The coppery taste of blood in your mouth. The tickle or sting of sweat trickling down your sides. The shit from dead horses and men. The senses put the reader there in either type of scene. Don't leave them out.

3. Battle and sex are both drippy. There are a lot of fluids. Blood in the mouth, on your hands, in your face. Sweat dripping. Horses lather and bleed. Mud squelches under your feet. Important stuff. I'll leave the sex dripping to you. *grin*

4. Don't announce orgasms OR winning the battle. In a battle, no one holds up a sign and shouts, "it's all over". Battles take a long time, sometimes all day, and even when you've won, the fighting rarely stops with that. There are enemies to be hunted down or an escape to be made. Or you're a prisoner wondering who of your friends survived. From your spot in the battle, you may not even know whether you've won or lost. There's a good chance you won't just like you don't necessarily know... *chuckles*

5. It is ALL in the feelings. Exactly where you put the feet or how the sword was swung doesn't mean a thing any more than how "Part A goes into Slot B". What matters are the emotions and reactions. There can be all kinds of feeling in battle. Cool calculation as you figure out how the enemy will react to what you do. Or you might be totally lost in the moment, seeing nothing but the next swing of the sword and the next victim ridden down. It may be fear and terror. It may be elation. But it is the feelings that count! If you don't know that about sex... well, I don't know what to tell you.

6. You had better feel it yourself. You notice I describe it as though it is happening to you. If your sex scenes don't arouse you, they probably have a problem. If you don't feel your own battle scenes, then you probably need to get more inside your character.

So that's why I think they're the same. Kind of. But I do try to be alive and unbloodied after sex. My characters can't necessarily say the same after battle, because I try to always have them at risk. And that's another essential point. If there is no risk to your characters, is there really any point in writing the scene? Just another thing to think about.

My own novel, Freedom's Sword, is based on the life of Scotland's hero, Andrew de Moray. You can find it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.

Rule 2 of Historical Fiction: Don't Pass Judgment on Your Characters

We live in a different age than most of our characters. Judging or condemning someone because of their gender, their sexual orientation, their religion, or their color is wrong in our time.

Our characters lived in a different time. Don't judge them for that and do not force them to think the way we do.

13th Century women or even most 19th century women were not feminists. They were not allowed to do what we do; they did not expect to be able to; they did not have to power to do so. Young women did not defy their parents to chose their own spouse. That doesn't mean they weren't strong people. They were as often strong as modern women, and they often did brave things--within the context of their own time. Agnes of Dunbar held her husband's castle of Dunbar against a huge English army--but she did not inherit her father's estate or title and did not expect to.

We have to allow these women to live within the standards of their own time, and if we force them to act like modern women we lose what they were.

Medieval Europeans with very, very few exceptions were Catholic. If you're not, that's fine. But your characters were if you write about that time, and you have to respect that. When one of my characters witnessed horrific acts, it was suggested that I have him question the existence of God. But this is how a modern person might react, not a medieval one.

They were not accepting of people who were Jewish or Islamic. (The people who were Islamic weren't accepting of Christians either, to avoid demonizing one side or the other) Why pretend it was otherwise? Showing the age as it was does not mean we share those beliefs. You have to be able to see the story from your character's perspective, even if you sometimes don't like that perspective.

They didn't always show mercy in war. Sometimes prisoners were executed. If you try to gloss over this, it doesn't add to the story. It takes away from it.

We should be brave enough to write them as they were rather than as they would be today. It spoils the verisimilitude of our novels and makes them anachronistic. In fact, it may date your book. Novels that did that in the 19th century now look dated. They wouldn't if the author had presented the characters and the period as they really were.

My own novel, Freedom's Sword, is based on the life of a true character, Scotland's Andrew de Moray. You can find the it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.

Rule One of Writing Historical Fiction

I'm going to do a short series on my own rules for writing historical fiction. Now these are my rules. I obviously can't and won't try to force them on anyone else. In at least one case, I wish I could.

The one that absolutely infuriates me when it is violated is the first one. If you want to get me to despise you (and yes, I mean you, Mel Gibson), violate this one:

Don't Lie About Real People

If your historical fiction is based on real people, be responsible to the originals and the people who care about them. There are usually gaps in the historical record, often large gaps. Fill those in. Make up reasons why they did things. Make up emotions which they may have had. Make up conversations and encounters they may have had.

All those are fair game. You can even fudge a bit by saying Washington got to the capitol two days before he did for his inauguration. I'll say, it's fiction; you're within bounds. But do not change major events or accuse them of despicable acts they did not commit.

Do not say that Robert Bruce was a coward who only fought the Battle of Bannockburn because he was fiddling around with a piece of cloth. He had for f****** sake had THREE brothers hanged, drawn and quartered by the English, had fought the English for eight years and had planned for that battle. Don't say that the Bruces betrayed Wallace any more than you would say that Washington was a traitor who conspired with the British. And saying that William Wallace was the father of a child born seven years after his death makes you look -- stupid.

This is only one example, admittedly one that particularly irritates me because so many people bought the lies in "that movie", but it shows why you should NOT do it. You will make people angry--who aren't going to buy your your next book if you do. Whether it is William Wallace, George Washington, Robert Bruce, Mary Queen of Scots, or Abraham Lincoln, there are people who care when you twist the facts. Be careful in handling real people in your fiction.

There are certain historians who say you shouldn't do it at all. They're delusional in my opinion. Real people, including national heroes, have always been the stuff of storytelling. That's not going to change. And I'm not saying to treat them as perfect. That would be boring and as much of a lie. If they did something people consider wrong, tell that, too. If they could reasonably have done something wrong--something that isn't contradicted by known facts--you can consider making it up, but I still say take care. (And I mean reasonably, not a seven year pregnancy!)

I am just saying that don't assume that no one will care if you ravage their reputations. Keep your own conscience clean by not slandering them.

My own novel, Freedom's Sword, is based on the life of a true character, Scotland's Andrew de Moray. I worked hard at writing a good story around the facts of his life. You can find the novel at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.

Review of Freedom's Sword

From bookPumper:

Year 1296. Young Andrew de Moray, newly knighted by the Scottish King, is thrilled to go to his first battle. He is not afraid as he stands by his father’s side, observing the long lines of the English army...

Please read the entire bookPumper review here: Fine Historical Fiction

Yes, I admit it. I'm excited and thrilled.

#SampleSunday -- Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER THREE

Caitrina de Berkely snapped off her thread and examined the seam she had finished sewing. There was no doubt. The seam was crooked.

She frowned in disgust at the gray underskirt and glanced across the sunlit bower at her sister. Isobail's needlework was always perfect. Everyone told their mother so. Even their father, who had no use for such things, had said, "Her embroidery is as dainty as she is."

Caitrina peeked at her mother, afraid that she might have noticed that she had stopped working, but her mother was paying Caitrina no attention at all. Her mother was counting a stack of white linen coifs and veils they had readied for Caitrina's departure for the convent, a crease between her fair eyebrows as she refolded them. She said Caitrina should be grateful they were giving her to the church and that she must be properly clothed for the novitiate. Her dower had already been paid.

Caitrina bent over the garment she held and chewed her lip. She could pick out the seam and salvage the skirt. It would take time, and her mother would notice. Sighing, she laid down her needle and watched her sister take a careful stitch in her embroidery.

Perhaps if she was careful she could slip out of the room. At least, she could have a last afternoon of freedom. Tears filled Caitrina's eyes, but she blinked them back. It wasn't fair that she was being sent to be a nun. She would never run along the beach, launch an arrow at a rabbit, or gallop a horse across the hills again. Never gather berries with her friends from the castleton and never have her own home where no one would judge her lacking.

She stood up and started quietly for the door.

"Where are you going, sister?" Isobail said in a voice as soft as one of the rose petals that scented the bower.

"I want to have one last glance of the firth before I go. Would deny me that? I'll never see it again."

Isobail colored, but even that she did daintily just as she did everything. She had even gotten their mother's golden coloring instead of red hair like their father. Her skin was soft and white as freshly skimmed cream instead of dotted with freckles.

Their mother raised her eyes. "You have no need to see the firth today. You will see it on your way."

Caitrina wanted to scream. It was just like Isobail speak up and let their mother know she was escaping.

"Let me see. Your clothes must be prepared for the morrow." Her mother stood and picked up the underskirt. "Caitrina, this must be unpicked and re-sewn. It will not do at all."

The corners of Isobail's mouth turned up in the tiniest smirk. It was all too much. Caitrina spun and bolted for the door.

Her mother said in a grimly soft voice, "Caitrina, come back here. Don't you dare take another step."

She stopped in the doorway and turned back. "What will you do to me? Lock me up?" She took brief satisfaction from the shock on their faces. "You're sending me away, remember?" With that, she whirled and made her escape, running down the stairs.

What had she done that was so bad? How could her father have agreed to send her away before he left to lead their men to fight the English? Isobail was fifteen, a year older. Perhaps by the time Caitrina was born there was no love left over for her. Or perhaps it was that she wasn't the heir they wanted. It wasn't fair. Isobail could dance, and sing, and play the harp. Even worse, she was beautiful like their mother. Their nurse had called Caitrina carrot-top while she doted on Isobail. Caitrina could ride a horse better and the sight of blood never made her cry. But who cared about such things in a lass?

She dashed past the guardroom at the postern gate before her mother could have them stop her, but there were few guards about now. Their father had taken most with him when he went to fight the invaders. Now she'd not see them return, not greet her lord father or feel his strong arms in a hug. She'd thought that he loved her. Tears were running down her face as she dashed down the hill, plunging her way through the prickly gorse.

One spiky leaf snagged her skirt so she stopped to loosen it, watching up the castle to see if they sent anyone after her. No one was in sight except a single guard walking atop the red sandstone wall. She took a deep breath and angrily wiped the tears away with the heel of her hand. She wouldn't waste her last day of freedom weeping.

They weren't pursuing her, but her mother would probably have them look in the village. There were better things to do than to stay there anyway. First, she had to find Donnchadh. He would be as eager to escape his father's mill, as she was to escape the castle.

She arrived, hot and breathless, at the round stone millhouse that jutted above the edge of the firth. Inside, below the floor, the wheel screeched as the tide turned it, blending with the swish of the frothy waves below.

Donnchadh propped up the wall, a faded plaid of green and yellow checks pleated over one shoulder and his saffron tunic hanging to his knees. He gave her a curious look. "I thought they had you locked up in the castle until you leave."

Caitrina wrinkled her nose. "I escaped. For a last day of freedom."

He grinned, showing the homey gap between his front teeth. "Come on, then. Let's go." He looked up the hill before he turned his gaze back to her. "What do you want to do?"

"It's been so warm, I'll wager some of the blackberries are ripe already. Let's go picking. We can eat our fill and then go climbing for eggs." She bent and pulled the back of her skirt through her legs to kilt it in front. She spun in circles, head back. The sun was warm on her face and the air mingled the scent of salt sea with the spice of gorse and heather. She stopped, a little dizzy, and grinned. "Come on. I'll race you."

She dashed along the beach and up a stony path to the top of the rise. Donnchadh let her have a head start. He always did, but she soon she heard the thud of his footsteps.

In a few minutes, they were deep in the blackberry brambles that grew eight feet high. They were covered with ripening berries and the two shooed away squawking birds. Donnchadh yelped when a thorn scraped a bloody line on his arm. She made a face at him. Her leg already bore a long scratch. She stuffed her mouth with a handful of juicy berries and grinned, so he did the same. A drop of purple juice dripped onto his chin.

When she heard a signal horn bugle, she stopped to listen.

"What is that?" Donnchadh asked, frowning.

"I'm not going back, whatever it is, but it's not from the castle." She took her lip between her teeth. "We're not expecting my father to return with his men for weeks yet. It might be news. They were going to fight."

"It could be." He parted the dense blackberry leaves to peer through the brambles. They were west of the castle, a good way beyond the southwest corner of the outer wall. They could see only a short stretch of the road leading out of the gate.

"I think it's too soon for news," Caitrina said. "What do you see?"

"Not much. But... Do you hear that?"

She didn't so much hear it as feel it, a rumble in the ground up through her feet from the road to the west. When she parted the brambles beside him, she could see nothing, because of the pinewoods that bordered the road, but as she stepped into the open, she could see sentries dashing into place on the castle wall.

The sound was horses, large horses. A trumpet sounded from somewhere on the road.

"That's not my father's horn. Nor Lord Avoch's. I know the sound from when they marched away."

A deep-toned horn called from the castle. A horseman came in sight around the angle of wall, riding fast out from the gate. His armor glittered. He wore the green cloak of their master-at-arms. "It's Sir Ailean," she said.

"Maybe you should go back."

"Whatever it is... it's odd." Out of the trees came a column of men-at-arms behind a hundred or so horsemen. She gasped. "Look!"

"Whose banner is that? Do you know it?"

She jumped back into the brambles and peeked through the dense branches. "Just a second. The wind's wrong. White field—-something on it in red. The horsemen are all knights. But there are a lot of infantry." Row after row of single-edged blades on the end of tall polearms waved like a field of corn in the wind.

"None of our men were carrying those when they left," said Donnchadh.

"It is pikes. I can see the blades flashing in the sun." She swallowed. A huge rock had grown in the middle of her chest. "Holy Mary... I think that's the banner of England. The cross of St. George."

The master-at-arms rode to meet a fat man in shining half-armor who spurred his huge black destrier ahead of the column.

"Let's see..." For a few moments, Caitrina fell silent as she watched.

Nothing moved. The only sound was a faint clatter of armor. The fat man gestured. Sir Ailean shook his head emphatically and turned to ride back the way he came.

"I wonder what..."

The master-at-arms slumped over in his saddle. Slowly, he slid sideways and crashed to the ground. A crossbow bolt thrust up from his back.

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Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon, Barnes & Nobles and Smashwords. A larger sample is available for download. Please give it a try!

The Scoop on Amazon Tagging

If you have a book for sale on Amazon or other vendor sites, you know that getting it up there is merely the first hurdle. Once your book is listed how do people find it? Even if it’s the greatest novel since Moby Dick or has the potential sales of Gone with the Wind, potential readers still have to see it first.

Tagging is one way that Amazon has ensured that will happen. It is also one form of promotion for authors which is relatively invisible, simple and free.

Now tagging isn't just for authors. Readers can and should use them as well. If you read a novel and want to let other readers know they would enjoy it because it's an adventure or science fiction story or has Robert Bruce in it, you can add adventure or science fiction or Robert Bruce as a tag.

When another reader searches on that term, Amazon uses the tags to give them results. Amazon has thousands of books they bring up when someone searches on phrase. The frequency with which a book has been tagged with that phrase is an important determiner in where a novel is on Amazon's list when the results come up.

So how does tagging work? First, you must have an Amazon account with which you have made an Amazon purchase; otherwise, no one else can see your tags. Then you can tag a book with up to 15 tags.

Here authors can exert at least some control. Pick out about ten tags that you think will be used by readers who would want to read your novel. For my historical novel, Freedom's Sword, I used terms like "historical novel", "Scotland", "Scottish independence" and "knights". Readers will add tags which they feel are appropriate. Someone added the tag "medieval" which was a good addition and will help people who like medieval fiction find it.

I strongly advise against using tags that have nothing to do with your novel even if you think they're popular. It just annoys readers and they may decide to "vote down" the relevant tags. They may also add negative tags, so care is a good idea.

To add tags, you can hit "tt" and it gives you a tagging pop-up window where you can type in tags. If you want to simply agree with existing tags, you can click on the button next to the tags.

By the way, there is a text line "Agree with these tags?" Clicking it does not agree with the existing tags!

If you look at a novel and think the tags are not appropriate to it you can "vote down" the inappropriate. That is when you click "Agree with these tags?" That gives you a list of the tags and if you hover your cursor over the number of clicks that tag has received, you can vote against it. If enough "down votes" are received, the tag is removed.

The explanation sounds complicated, but it's really a simple process. It helps both authors and readers. We should all take advantage of it.