Gisborne… cont’d
‘Ghosts,’ I murmured.
‘Your pardon?’
'Your pardon?'
Guy turned away from surveying the sea to focus on me. As I observed the state of his hair, his beard and his clothes, I wondered how close to vagabonds we seemed.
‘Ghosts,’ I murmured.
‘Your pardon?’
'Your pardon?'
Guy turned away from surveying the sea to focus on me. As I observed the state of his hair, his beard and his clothes, I wondered how close to vagabonds we seemed.
It was quite a coup to find that the Eirish Traveller, Adelina, agreed to speak with me in the studio today. Rumours abound about her life and she has the reputation for being incredibly secretive. Ladies and gentlemen, in order to celebrate the launch of The Stumpwork Robe please welcome Adelina.
I was invited today to join in a blog event/tour called FanstRAvaganza in March to celebrate the various skills of Richard Armitage, English actor.
For a moment, I thought why would I? Or even would I?
Fear.
The slither of ice down the spine.
The way the heart seems to stop beating for a millisecond before it begins a frenzied gallop.
The sort of sensation that writers must call upon when creating tension.
Things that bear closer observation:
Whilst having a midmorning cup of tea, we sat on the back verandah in the sun and watched the resident swallows. Have they flown all the way from Russia, we wondered? They have renovated their nest above the security light and twisted my horse’s tail hair all around. They take it in turns to nest, one in, one out. Whilst one is in, the other sits on the powerlines and they sing and chat with each other. Occasionally they fly off together, not far, but with aeronautic tricks and tumbles. They are old friends and we welcome them every Spring. We also noticed that the ewes and lambs had pushed a gate open and let themselves into the paddock that they had begun lambing in seven weeks ago.
I barely slept. I sat up high on the cot despite the good sheets and a finely woven blanket. My head rested against the walls and I curled my arms around my knees and stared into the dark.
' embers which cracked and sparked . . . '
I hated our time in Rouen.
'I hated our time in Rouen . . . '
My mare cast a shoe a league before the town and I was forced to lead her and thus we arrived, both of us, footsore and tired. Guy offered me his gelding, but I would not ride. Khazia had carried me unstintingly, it was the least I could do to walk beside her as she suffered a bruised sole. Guy dismounted and led his horse, and we barely spoke, but each time his arm rubbed against mine butterflies danced in my belly.
To begin with, my name isn’t Prudence. I am called Ysabel. And I do not have brown hair. I am by nature blonde. I am from the family Moncrieff. My father was Baron Geoffrey of Moncrieff and my mother was Alaïs de Montrachet from Aquitaine. A cousin twice removed from Eleanor, the mighty queen, and who was the mother of our king, Richard the Lionheart.
‘Vasey and Gisborne arrived in Nottingham together, with papers from Prince John purportedly in the name of King Richard.
'Vasey and Gisborne arrived together . . .'
Brevity: Things that are brief can be appreciated or they can be a vast disappointment.
Eating a block of chocolate is too brief. Chatzy to America is too brief. The series of Return to Cranford and Doc Martin likewise. Sunny warmth on a winters day: all too brief. The scallop season. The dog’ s good behaviour. Exercises for a damaged ankle are not brief enough so perhaps they should go into the longevity category. The current flood of political mind-bending should be so brief as to be non-existent. In fact politics as a career should be non-existent.