Flash Fiction

I'm looking forward to attending this evening's meeting of Watford Writers. Those who wish to have been asked to write and enter anonymous flash fiction. The theme is Wrong Room. The word length is between 250 and 275 words. More often than not, I am too busy to compete in flash fiction at Watford Writers. owever, although I don't expect to win I've written my Wrong Room tale with a twist at the end and chose a title for it. Members will read copies of all the entries and enter a score of 1 - 10 on a tick sheet. There are 1st, 2nd and 3rd prizes for the stories with the three highest scores.

Children's IndoorPlay Centre

I took my five year granddaughter to an indoor play centre. Such a confident child. When we arrived she didn't wait for me to show her what to do. With delight she copied the other children. She really enjoyed it - enormous slides which she hurtled down feet first, head first, on her tummy and on her back. She explored all the overhead tunnels and climbing frames, then had a turn on the bumper cars. She also enjoyed the roundabout and loved the Cinderella's coach. The only problem is that she would like me to take her every week.

On Reading and Research

I'm looking forward to delving into the to-be-read pile on my bedside table.

There are three magazines. Writing Magazine, Grow Your Own and Woman's Weekly.

There are excellent articles and competitions in Writing Magazine, plus information about magazines and publishers writers can submit to, and readers' new plus much more.

Grow Your Own is informative and usually comes with some packets of sees. This months are purple brussel sprouts and white and red alpine strawberries.

I enjoy reading Woman's Weekly, which I buy it to study the short stories and serials with a view to submitting fiction to the magazine one day.

At the moment I'm half way through Barbara Bradford Taylor Bradford's Heirs of Ravenscar in which begins in 1918. She has based the novel on Edward III his family and other personalities of the era by re-creating them as nineteenth century characters. I'm enjoying the book.

There are another four books in my to be read pile which I picked up from the library, three novels and one non fiction book. The White Russian by Vanora Bennet, Dear Thing by Julie Cohen and The Downstairs Maid by Rosie Clarke, each of which I'm looking forward to reading.

The fourth book is the long awaited Edward II The Unconventional King by Kathryn Warner. I am particularly interested in this because I am revising my novel set in Edward II's reign. I have my own theory about his relationship with his favourites and the question of whether or not he was murdered.

Fierce Sun Overhead and Gardening

Going over to daughter's house later on this afternoon with the intention of splashing in the inflatable pool with the grandchildren, and helping the youngest to blow bubbles. Lots of fun.
I deserve it, I was out in the garden in the heat finishing the narrow border planted with veronica, lavenders and fuchsias. It looks gorgeous. Tomorrow I need to dig up a sadly overgrown patch and stand my potted, purple-red-leaved Japanese Acacia on it.

Back Cover False Pretences by Rosemary Morris

England 1815

Five-year-old Annabelle arrived at boarding school fluent in French and English. Separated from her nurse, a dismal shadow blights Annabelle’s life because she does not know who her parents are.


High-spirited Annabelle is financially dependent on her unknown guardian. She refuses to marry a French baron more than twice her age.

Her life in danger, Annabelle is saved by a gentleman, who says he will help her to discover her identity. Yet, from then on nothing is as it seems, and she is forced to run away for the second time to protect her rescuer.

Even more determined to discover her parents’ identity, in spite of many false pretences, Annabelle must learn who to trust. Her attempts to unravel the mystery of her birth, lead to further danger, despair, unbearable heartache and even more false pretences until the only person who has ever wanted to cherish her, reveals the startling truth, and all’s well that ends well.

The Chamption by Elizabeth Chadwick

Disgusted by the corruption in an English monastery,where he has been flogged for a minor misdemeanor,Alexander de Montroi flees to his older brother in Normandy, where he learns to excel in tourneys.


Monday, whose mother ran away from her father, Lord of Stafford, to marry a mere knight who earns his living in tourneys, dreams of being a lady gowned in silk instead of a sempstress.

Alexander and Monday's friendship is corrupted when, inebriated, they make love. Monday runs away to bear her child. A quirk of fate leads to her becoming the future King John of England's mistress.

Another quirk of fate brings Alexander and Monday together but they must fight for their happiness.

The Champion is peopled with imaginary and historical characters each of whom springs to life on the pages. I particularly liked Monday and Alexander's small son, Florian.

12th century life is expertly described with many interesting details including birth control.

I shall keep The Champion with other novels to be read again.

Tangled Love
Sunday's Child
New Release. False Pretences. October

Redbournbury Mill and Bakery in Hertfordshire, England

Redbournbury Watermill and Bakery

On Saturday the 31st of July my six year old grandson and I visited Redbournbury Watermill, which is surrounded by farmland and water meadows. The latter provide a habitat for herons and kingfishers that feed on sticklebacks, trout fry and other fish. Generations of water fowl have eaten, defended their territory and mated in this fascinating area where there was probably a Watermill in Saxon times.

There has been a watermill at Redbournbury in Hertfordshire for at least 500 years, and probably since Anglo Saxon days. The watermill is beside the softly flowing River Ver that powers the waterwheel and millstones.
Near Redbourn village a short country road leads past a few idyllic cottage with pretty gardens to Redbournbury Watermill and Bakery
Like its larger neighbour St Albans, Redbourn and the surrounding area is steeped in history. A few Roman remains – some Roman bricks used in St Mary’s, a Norman church, hob nails, some coins, enameled brooches and curse tablets have been found in and on the outskirts of Redbourn.

In summer, 2008, the sites of what are considered the remains of four Roman temples were found. Pottery from one of the sites close to the river Ver indicates it was in use from the 1st century A.D. to the 3rd century. It is possible that the temple was used to worship water gods.
The translation of a mediaeval charter reveals that in approximately 1030, during the reign of Edward the Confessor, the Manor of Redbourn was given to St Albans Abbey (later the modern day Cathedral Abbey) by the landowner, Aegelwyne le Swarte and his wife Wynfreda. The Abbot’s Chamberlain used Redbournbury farmhouse as his Manor Court-house. The manor, which included the watermill, was then called The Chamberlain.

A mill was recorded in the Domesday Book in 1087 and it is possible that the modern day building is situated on top of the first building.
When John of Wheathampstead was abbot between 1290 and 1301 Chamberlain’s Mill was gutted by fire. Fortunately, the manor was protected by the woods around it and spared from the fire spread by an ‘unbearable wind’.
Most mills were the property of either the Church or the Lord of the Manor. Villagers were not allowed to grind their grain. The owner of the mill had the ‘Right of Stoke’ and by law grain could only be ground at the lord’s mill. The miller claimed 10% of the flour and the landlord claimed more. In 1381 there was a ‘peasant’s revolt’ against the Abbot of St Albans. Among other causes were the abbot’s milling rights

After the dissolution of the monasteries, all of the Abbey lands, including the watermill, became the property of Henry VIII.
While looking at various photographs, my young grandson was delighted because he recognised Henry’s picture. He told me the king was very cruel because he gave orders for two of his wives to have their heads cut off. Like most small boys he was fascinated by this and asked ‘bloody’ questions which I will not repeat in case you have a weak stomach.
During the reign of James I the mill was leased out by the Treasury until 1539 when the mill was bought by Sir Harbottle Grimston for £200, (Grimstone is the family name of the present Earls of Verulam). The mill became part of the Gorhambury Estate until the 4th Earl sold it to the Crown Estate Commissioners.

For a hundred and forty years the mill was leased by the Hawkins family until, at the age of 89, Ivy Hawkins, the only lady miller in England, quit the mill in 1985.

Amongst the artefacts in the mill are Ivy’s smock – dull green with vertical bands of old gold and brown on each side of the front fastening – and various items such as a washing board and basin. My grandson knew what these were for and explained how they were used but concluded: ‘I think washing machines are better.’ I agreed and admired Ivy’s pretty china jug, copper measures and ladles.

After Ivy retired, Redbournbury Mill, now a grade two listed building, was bought by the present owners. After a fire in 1987 the watermill was restored to full working order with a grant from English heritage.
My grandson and I climbed the stairs to each of the four floors. On each one were interesting displays. As well as many items pertinent to the miller’s trade was an impressive array of blacksmiths’ tools and products and one of the first sewing machines used by a cobbler.

After exploring the mill and looking out of the windows at the peaceful views, and a glimpse of chickens in the foreground, we bought bread from a stall outside the bakery in Ivy Hawkins’s converted cow barn.
An impressive range of bread is sold by the bakery. Whenever possible the grain used to make flour at the watermill is from local farms including Hammonds End in Harpenden. This means that much of the grain is gown within a mile of the watermill.

The flour is 100% organic. Some of the wholemeal flour is sifted through a bolter to produce white flour, brown flour, semolina and bran. Brown flour mixed with whole, malted wheat flakes makes delicious bread.
The mill also produces spelt flour and rye flour. Spelt flour is an ancient variety of wheat. It is more flavoursome that conventional wheat and some people think it is suitable for those suffering from wheat intolerance.

The master baker makes artisan loaves from the flour produced in the mill. He produces a wide variety of bread including, wholemeal, brown, spelt, rye, savoury breads such as foccasia and sweet breads such as date and walnut. He also makes scones, chocolate brownies, granola slices, cakes and tea breads.

I bought some excellent spelt bread that was light and tasty. As I have a bread machine and make my own bread, I also bought some wholemeal flour. In future, I shall visit a nearby village market where products from the mill are sold.

Before we left, at peace with the world, we sat outside in the sunshine near the gently flowing river, listening to the splash of the waterwheel, admiring tall hollyhocks and eating delicious eccles cakes.

Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Forthcoming releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign. 27.01.2012
Sunday's Child set in England in the Regency era. June 2012

Special offer from MuseItUp Publisher

MuseItUp Publishing House have introduced their weekly $1.99 Books of the Week Specials, and this week they are offering:

The Fireborn Chronicles: Resonances regularly 5.95
and The Ghost of Grover's Ridge regularly 5.50
for $1.99 until next Thursday when our new Books of the Week Specials go up.

As well, it is April 1st and it's officially Autism Awareness month, so Autism Epidemic: Shaking the System is on special offer for the entire month for only $1.99

Show Don't Tell - Write With Style

Show Don’t Tell

One way to make your work fascinating is to use the active rather than the passive voice.
Passive

Passive designates a form of the verb by which the verbal action is attributed to the person or thing to whom it is actually directed: i.e. the logical object is the grammatical subject. E.g. He was seen by us. Passive. The opposite of active. Active: We saw him.

In a grammatically active construction, the subject is performing the action.

eg Jack ate the chocolate. (Jack is the subject, he’s performing the action, the chocolate is the object.)


Exposition

At the beginning of a play the dramatist is often committed to giving a certain amount of essential information about the plot and events which are to come. He may also have to give information about what has ‘already happened’. All this comes under the heading of exposition. A skilful dramatist is able to introduce material without holding up the action of the play and with recourse to the obvious devices of narrative.

Exposition is also a subject which other fiction writers need to consider. A writer might do well to remember that in Writing Circles, was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling are often considered to be passive words which tell instead of showing. A writer should also remember that modern editors and publishers tend to shy away from exposition.

***
I could have begun my published novel, Tangled Hearts, like this:

Richelda Shaw was in her nursery when Elsie, her mother’s maid, told her that her father had summoned her. After she had delivered the message, Elsie had followed her to the great hall where her father was waiting.
This tells my reader what happened but is not interesting.

Instead, I began.

“Richelda Shaw stood silent in her nursery while thunder pealed outside the ancient manor house and an even fiercer storm raged deep within. She pressed her hands to her ears and, eyes closed, remained as motionless as the marble statues in the orangery.

‘Nine years old and you’ve not yet learned to be neat!’ Elsie, her mother’s personal maid, pulled Richelda’s hands from her ears. ‘Come, your father’s waiting for you.’

Richelda’s hands trembled. What was wrong? Until now Father’s short visits from France meant gifts and laughter. This one made Mother cry while the servants spoke in hushed tones.

Followed by Elsie, Richelda hurried down the broad oak stairs. For a moment, she paused to admire the lilies of the valley in a Delft bowl. Only yesterday, she picked the flowers to welcome Father home. After she had arranged them with tender care, she placed them on a chest, which stood beneath a pair of crossed broadswords on the wall above.

Elsie opened the massive door of the great hall where Father stood to one side of the enormous hearth.
This shows the heroine acting in a way consistent with her situation, instead of telling the reader about it.
However, as for ‘telling’ being wrong, it is not. Was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling are part of the English language and if I showed every single event in a novel it would be too long for publication.

It is how I use was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling which matters, not whether or not I use them.

I need the skill to decide when telling is too much and when I should stop telling and start showing.

Characterisation

In Tangled Hearts, I could have written the following to tell my reader that Chesney, the hero, is handsome:-

“Chesney had the classical features of Adonis. He was tall, had perfect proportions and was in good health.”

Instead I wrote:-

“…‘Who is that Adonis?’ A high-pitched female voice interrupted Chesney’s thoughts.

Chesney looked round and saw a powdered and patched lady with rouged cheeks staring at him.

‘I don’t know, I think he’s a newcomer to town,’ her companion, a younger lady said in an equally strident tone.


Unaffected by their comments he laughed. Since his youth women remarked on his height and his perfect proportions. He did not consider himself vain, but unlike some members of his gentlemen’s club, who took little exercise and overate, he fenced, hunted and rode to keep his body fit.

The older lady inclined her head, the younger one winked before they went about their business.”

Of course introspection is a form of telling but it is effective and reveals the character.

In Tangled Hearts it was not enough to tell my reader that Chesney is brave. I needed to show him in action.

“Chesney rushed to the cottage. ‘Keep back, Richelda,’ he shouted, ‘the thatch will ignite like tinder.’

Taking no heed of his instructions, she ran after him and followed him down the short corridor to the kitchen where smoke poured from beneath the door. ‘I think Elsie is in there,’ Richelda screamed above the roar of the fire.

Every trace of an indolent nobleman vanished. Chesney snatched off his periwig, wrenched off his coat and swathed it round his head.

‘Go outside! Your clothes will burn like kindling.’ He disappeared into the kitchen.”
***
I believe that I must strive to grab my reader’s attention from the first line to the last, and that passive writing – or telling – weakens the prose.
When I revise my work I use the search and find facility on the computer to highlight the words which tell and decide whether or not I can improve the text.

To be a writer not only do I need to be an artist, I also need to craft my work. Words are the tools which I use to write a page turner for my readers.


Flashbacks


Chesney lived in France with his father etc., is exposition in conversation. “Do you know I lived in France at the court of James II in St Germaine etc.,” is description.

A flashback reveals something that occurred in the past as though it occurs in the present.

Even if the reader needs to know about my character’s past I am cautious as to how I reveal it.

Frequently, flashbacks are often badly written and they jerk the reader from the present to the past.

The knack is to slip in essential facts without disrupting the story - memory of something that happened in the past, the reply to a question, a letter or an entry in a diary

Tangled Hearts is set in England in 1702 at the beginning of Queen Anne’s reign. In order to avoid flashbacks full of historical detail to I began with Author’s Notes.

“When the outwardly Protestant Charles II died in 1685, he left a country torn by religious controversy but no legitimate children. The throne passed to his Catholic brother James.

It was an anxious time for the people, whose fears increased when James II, became so unpopular that he was forced into exile. In 1688, James’s Protestant daughter, Mary, and her husband, William of Orange, became the new king and queen of England.

Some English Protestants, who had sworn allegiance to James II, refused to take a new oath of allegiance to William and Mary and joined him in France.

When James’s younger daughter, Anne, inherited the throne in 1702, many Protestant exiles returned to England. Others declared themselves Jacobites and supporters of James II son, James III, by his second wife, Mary of Modena, and stayed abroad. They believed James III should be king.”

In my rough draft of Tangled Hearts the scene in the manor house when my heroine, Richelda, is a child, (quoted above) was a flashback. When I revised the novel I realised it was too long so I scrapped it and began with a prologue that contained the essential information.

Conclusion

Words are a writer’s tools. Avoid dull narrative, boring flashbacks and unnecessary exposition. Write stylishly. Words should sparkle and grip the reader.

Murder Most Foul

Murder Most Foul

When the sun retired on cool evenings, purple shadows crept across the fields and villagers sat in stout, mud-brick houses either gossiping or telling stories. The elders sat closest to slow burning fires of cow-dung cakes dried during summer’s ferocity, and whenever they mentioned King Chitraketu’s name, they praised him.
But the king found his life more barren than a desert because he had not received a son from any of his wives. Whether he resided in his capital city Mathura, in the Indian province of Surasena, or whether he travelled by horse, elephant, camel or chariot he lamented.

Whenever he saw a man with a son, he asked himself. Which sinful action in my present life or my past lives prevents me from having an heir?
He put this question to ambiguous brahmin priests who replied. “Do your subjects complain there is any lack in the kingdom. Aren’t there enough grains and pulses, vegetables and fruits, nuts and spices, herbs and cloth?

The king sighed, listening to rain drumming on roofs where people sunned themselves during spring’s pregnant promise or slept during summer’s ripening heat.
The priests assured their pious king there would be no lack. Even the grass Mother Bhumi produced for cows and oxen made dung to nourish her and provided fuel for cooking and warmth.

When his spies confirmed his subjects were contented, he again asked himself. Why don’t I have a son? In my kingdom even racketeers can’t find black market goods because my people lack nothing.
Despite his country’s and his personal prosperity, Chitraketu grew thin. To have a son, he would gladly renounce his education, his health and his treasury filled with chests of gold and precious stones

His golden skin paled, his long black hair lost its shine and his moustache drooped mournfully at the edges of his unsmiling mouth.

The more wives he accepted the more he suffered from anxiety and the less he ate. Brahmin cooks made his favourite preparations, wafer thin unleavened breads, fluffy rice, tit-bits of vegetables fried in chick pea flour batter served with spiced sauces or yoghurt, and rice simmered in condensed milk with honey and almonds. Obsessed by his desire to hear his son’s laughter within the marble walls of his palace, he only ate enough to keep himself alive.

He never gave up hope. He accepted wife after wife and provided each one with a soft bed to lie on, silk clothes, gold girdles, earrings, nose rings and bracelets. Each queen consort sported in water gardens, crops were harvested, and although the still autumn air over-heated the blood he never dived into swimming baths of clear water to splash, tease or play with his consorts.

Until the day when Sage Angira, master of mystic knowledge, visited Chitraketu, each queen, famous for her good qualities and beauty, witnessed his self-pity, heard his lamentations and prayed to become mother of the heir apparent.
The king bowed his head, pressed his palms together as though he was praying and gestured to his gold throne set on a dais. “Please sit there, Sage Angira.”
In silence, the courtiers watched the ascetic go up the short flight of steps and sit down.

Sage Angira’s skin rippled over a spine disdaining to lean against the cushion furnishing the back of the throne.
Everyone, including the king, knew how indifferent sages were to comfort. At night their arms, with which they pillowed their heads, satisfied them as much as pillows as soft as swansdown.

Sage Angira did not bend his head topped with lustrous, black hair partly arranged in a bun and partly falling to his waist, around which was tied his only garment, a pleated, ankle-length, saffron cloth. In silence the holy man scrutinised his host, who circled a slipper-shaped brass dish containing a lighted ghee wick before him.
Following the custom, Chitraketu worshipped God’s representative. To the accompaniment of a tinkling bell and chanted hymns he continued the ceremony by offering incense, flowers, clean cloth and water to the sage and concluded it by blowing a conch shell.

He then sat cross-legged on the floor and Sage Angira the yogi, the master of all five senses addressed him. “My dear king, words are insufficient for me to express my appreciation of your hospitality and humility.”

The king stared at the ground while waiting for his visitor to continue.
“Are you in good health? Is your mind troubled? I hope that just as the earth receives showers, Lord Krishna’s delegates, the demi-gods and goddesses, shower you with blessings. In other words, I hope there is neither anything lacking nor any problems in your kingdom.

Chitraketu knew the sage used conventional phrases while piercing the fleshy veil of the body with omniscient eyes.

“My dear king, are you in complete control of your mind? Are you in control of your family, the courtiers, provincial governors, merchants who, with your permission, deal in silks and wool, spices and jewels? Can you control tax collectors, farmers and labourers?

Feeling the weight of his jewel-embedded, gold crown Chitraketu bent his head, stared at the sage’s feet and listened attentively.

“Have you no reply to make? Has someone let you down or have you failed to achieve something? Your pale face reveals you are distraught.”

The king took a deep breath. “My dear sage, you are a great personality, who neither rejoices over happiness nor laments over distress because you understand each condition is temporary. Nevertheless, you understand someone like me who alternates between cheerfulness and misery.”

He broke off, then, with tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, he continued. “A traveller is dissatisfied when his host puts flower garlands round his neck and gives him fragrant sandalwood pulp to cool his body. He wants food and drink. A king is discontented without an heir. An heir to light his funeral pyre and save his ancestors from hell by offering them sweetly perfumed flowers and flower garlands.”

Instead of replying, Sage Angira first offered Lord Krishna, The Supreme Personality of God, sweet rice and then gave it to Kritayouti, King Chitraketu’s senior wife. After she ate it, he said. “My dear king, your queen will present you with a son who will cause laughter and tears.”

The royal parents assumed Sage Angira’s words meant their son would play childish pranks and sometimes be disobedient.

After the sage left, rain impregnated the earth, the seeds within her swelled and the queen received a son into her womb.
As the days of her pregnancy passed Chitraketu observed Kritadyouti progress from moon-sickle slenderness to harvest moon fullness.

On the evening of the prince’s birth, the queen looked out of the latticed windows at the night sky, admired spangled points of light dispersing velvet darkness and said. “My dear husband, I rejoice because our son’s spark of life vanquished your melancholy, which was as black as the sky during a lunar eclipse.”

As soon as Chitraketu announced the heir’s birth, the townsfolk rejoiced. In the palace the prince’s male relatives bathed and dressed themselves in silk tunics worn over trousers fitting tightly at the ankles. They adorned themselves with elaborately wound turbans, ropes of pearls, diamonds and other precious stones, gold belts, earrings and arm clasps. When they were satisfied with their appearance, the king, the uncles, great-uncles, first, second and third cousins and other relatives assembled before going to see the child.

After everyone admired the prince, a brahmin astrologer named him Harshasoka. Delighted, Chritraketu rewarded all his brahmin subjects with gifts of gold, land on which villages provided incomes, horses, elephants, mountains of grain and thousands of cows.

Every morning, as happy as a beggar finding a fortune, the king loved Harshasoka more than he did on the previous day and his love for Kritayouti increased until his interest in his other wives dwindled.
The queens observed their husband’s devotion to Kritayouti and yearning to receive children from him did not sleep well.

All of them hoped to regain the king’s attention. They wore the finest silk, satin and velvet clothes. Some accentuated their shapely figures with saris, others either wore long tunics over trousers gathered into cuffs at the ankle or figure hugging blouses and swirling skirts.

But the beautiful wives were not puppets to dance at the end of a string. They were well-educated women qualified to raise heroic sons and give their husband advice about the government of nations.

Immersed in her personal happiness, Kritayouti neglected her duty to her co-wives. She neither behaved as a mother or a loving elder sister and had no time for them. They felt like insignificant servants within their husband’s palaces. Frustrated, because they neither had sons nor felt protected by a husband qualified by his character to have many wives, they complained to each other.

“Oh! A woman with no son whose husband and senior wife ignore her should live in the forest instead of being humiliated by neglect,” exclaimed the blonde daughter of a northern prince.

“Our husband accepts the services of Kritayouti’s maidservants and thanks them politely but doesn’t speak a word to us,” stormed the raven-haired daughter of a desert prince.

Anger and envy burned in her charcoal black eyes and was reflected in the eyes and expressions of all the consorts.
*

Kritayouti wondered why Harshasoka slept for so long. She went to the nursery, bent over his intricately carved sandalwood cradle and decided to let him sleep for a little longer. An hour later, uneasy because Harshasoka still slept she commanded the nurse. “Bring the prince to me.”

The woman padded into the nursery, approached the cot, saw the pallor of Harshasoka’s face and screamed. “I’m cursed.”

The queen ran in and saw her dead son. But she did not suspect her rock-hearted co-queens of conspiring to poison the prince.
The murderesses entered the nursery, wailed louder than anyone else and made no attempt to comfort their husband or Kritayouti.
The fire of lamentation grew in Chitraketu’s heart, raged and consumed everything else. His hair was disordered and his tunic twisted. When he fainted the physician remarked. “His breath comes unevenly.”

In the presence of his ministers and priests, the king regained consciousness and repeatedly tried to speak.
Seeing her protector in such a condition Kritayouti sat next to him and wept. The flowers tucked into her hair fell to the ground and black eye make up smudged her face. Soaked by the waterfall of her tears red kum-kum powder decorating her breasts stained her thin silk blouse.

Kritayouti clutched a bar of the cradle. “Why has this happened to me? My husband never harmed anyone. Why did God take our son? I’ve never hurt anyone. I’m a virtuous woman, a merciful queen, and a kind mistress. Why did this happen to me?”
Forgetting the laws of karma applied to millions of her past lives, lives during which every good and bad action led to a favourable or unfavourable reaction in her present and future lives, she only saw and thought of her dead son.

Seeing Kritayouti shared his grief, Chitraketu moved closer to her. “Harshasoka, my son, my dear little prince, why have you gone away? Please don’t go with Yamaraja the demi-god who presides over death. Hear me and return to me.”
When he paused to wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic, his queen continued. “Dearest of children, your friends want you to play with them, wake up and let me feed you, you must be very hungry. I beg you to open your eyes and smile at me. Please speak to me.”

With open mouth Chitraketu sobbed and everyone in the court wept.
*
Sage Angira understood the king was drowning in a death-like ocean of lamentation and came to court with the sage of sages, Narada Muni.
When he saw the king lying on the floor as though he was dead he abandoned the formalities he employed on his previous visit. “My dear king, do you believe you and the dead body in the cot have anything to do with each other? Why do you and your queen think he is your son? Was he your son before he entered the queen’s womb? Is he your son now the body he lived in is dead? Do you have any relationship with the dead body you are mourning? Will it be your son tomorrow, next week, next year?”

His words shocked the king, the queen and the courtiers. They stopped weeping and remained silent.

Sage Angira continued. “Seaweed clumps together on the ocean’s surface, rising and falling until waves toss it apart forever. People meet during the waves of time and no matter how much they grieve they are separated by the laws of nature.”
King Chitraketu propped himself up on his left elbow and wiped his eyes with the back of his right hand. “Sage Angira, please save me. I’m a man more ignorant than a village dog scavenging for scraps. Please give me scraps of real knowledge.”
“Your majesty, material life is an illusion. It is a dream because it is temporary. When I last visited you, I could have spoken of spiritual matters, but you were preoccupied with thoughts of your unborn heir. So, I gave you a son and warned you he would cause happiness and distress.”
The king sat up, did not, could not look at the dead body while remembering he had not paid much attention to Sage Angira’s warning. He’d been happy on the child’s Naming Day and given no consideration to the literal translation of Harshasoka, jubilation and lamentation.

He crossed his legs, straightened his back, folded his palms together and thought. This lifeless body is my enemy. It causes me so much anguish.
Narada, an eternally handsome, celibate young sage, stood up. With compassion he first looked at the king then addressed the inert body in the cradle. “Dear soul, may you receive good fortune.

“Enter this inert body. See your parents, your relatives and friends who are in mourning.”

The queen consorts looked uneasily at each other. What would happen to them? Too frightened to whisper of their crime to each other the murderesses clustered together and stood with clasped hands and downcast eyes.
Narada continued. “Dear soul, you departed prematurely from your last body. Now permission is granted for you to return to it. In due course of time, you may inherit your father’s throne.”

Colour filled the infant’s cheek and the faint smell of decaying flesh dispersed. Harshasoka stretched, yawned and sat up. He regarded everyone and asked. “Who is my father? What kind of father is he? My soul has transmigrated to many bodies. Should I look for a plant, insect, fish, bird, animal, human or spirit father?”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti embraced the child.

“Ah!” said the soul through the vehicle of the body with which he no longer identified himself. “You think you are my parents. You don’t understand you’re swept along by the river of existence in which souls sometimes surface as kinsfolk, friends or enemies.”

Chitraketu and Kritayouti glanced at each other and accepted their son was dead to them although his indestructible soul would transmigrate to another body.

End

Queen Anne - Part Three

Queen Anne Part Three

Princess Anne’s relationship with Sarah Jennings, the future Duchess of Marlborough, would last into her middle age.

Sarah, a year younger than Anne’s fifteen year-old stepmother, was the daughter of a landed gentleman and the younger sister of Frances Jennings, a maid of honour, appointed to serve Anne’s mother.

At the age of twelve, Sarah, who would play such a crucial role in Anne, the Cinderella princess’s life, was appointed as one of her attendants. Years later Sara wrote: We had used to play together when she was a child and she even then expressed a particular fondness for me. This inclination increased with our years. I was often at Court and the Princess always distinguished me by the pleasure she took to honour me, preferably to others, with her conversation and confidence. In all her parties for amusement, I was sure by her choice to be one.

Kneller’s portrait of the teenage Sarah reveals a pretty girl with an oval face, broad forehead, fair hair and confident blue eyes. Yet no portrait could reveal her vivacity and charm.

It is not surprising that the motherless, Cinderella princess living in the shadow of her older, cleverer sister, Mary, and the six daughters of her governess, Lady Frances Villiers, became deeply attached to Sarah.

Anne was pretty with plump features, red-brown hair and her mother’s elegant hands, of which she was very proud. However, she was shy, easily ignored and all too aware of her short-comings – her poor education did nothing to boost her confidence. As Sarah said years later: Your Majesty has had the misfortune to be misinformed in general things even from twelve years old.

Undoubtedly, there was no reason to provide Anne and her sister with a better education because it was likely that the Queen would provide an heir to the throne. In Anne’s day few women could read and write – perhaps as few as one in a hundred. For Anne it is probable that little more than dancing, drawing, French and music were required to prepare her for life at court. Her general education was neglected but not her intensive religious education which founded her life long belief in the teachings of the Anglican faith.

Anne and Mary lived apart from the court at Whitehall and their indulgent Roman Catholic father and step-mother. Expected to be virtuous, the sisters could not have been totally unaware of the licentiousness of their uncle’s court and that their uncle, the king, and her father had acknowledged illegitimate children. Indeed, their governess, Lady Frances Villiers, wife of Colonel Villiers, the nephew of the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham, a favourite of James I and his son, Charles I, was the daughter of the king’s notorious mistress, Barbara Castlemaine.

Lax though King Charles II’s morals were he took some interest in Anne, who played the guitar better than many professional musicians. She also had a pleasing voice and the king ordered the actress, Mrs Barry, to give Anne and Mary elocution lessons. These stood Anne in good stead when, as Queen, she addressed Parliament and no doubt later on when she and Mary took part in some of the plays popular at Court.

However, ‘Cinderella’ and Mary grew up in the company of clerics and women, secluded from Whitehall with little to entertain them. One can imagine the boring conversations, stifling closets (small rooms) and endless card games. Sarah declared: I wished myself out of Court as much as I had desired to come into it before I knew what it was.

In spite of the boredom and whatever storms lay ahead, Anne dearly loved her sister. So much so that when Mary married her Dutch cousin, William of Orange, in 1677 and Anne lay sick of smallpox, her father, who visited her every day, ordered that she should not be told her sister had departed for the Continent. The charade went as far as messages purported to be from Mary asking about her health being delivered to Anne.

While Anne’s tutor fretted in case Anne’s fanatical Roman Catholic nurse influenced her while Anne was ill, as soon as she recovered, Anne had to cope with the death of her governess. Fortunately, she still had Sarah’s companionship and enjoyed the vast grounds of Richmond Palace, leased by the king for both his nieces. However, this tranquillity would soon be disturbed by the so called ‘Popish Plot’. And it is not unreasonable to suppose that her mind would be occupied with thoughts of who she would marry.

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Tangled Hearts set in Queen Anne’s England received five star reviews and is available now.