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.

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
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

Forthcoming releases from MuseItUp Publishing

Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign. 2701.2012
Sunday's Child set in the Regency era. June 2012

A Novelists Path to Publication

A Novelist’s Road to Publication

Most published novelists agree that it is extremely difficult for a new writer to find a publisher.

I wrote my first novel when I was a young woman. The first publisher I submitted it to accepted it. From there everything went downhill. I did not know that the date of publication should be included in my contract. Without this the publisher could withhold publication indefinitely. When I signed the contract I was living in East Africa and gave power of attorney to my brother. That was my second mistake. The publishing house had moved country and the new editor was not interested in my novel. Unfamiliar with the publishing world my brother accepted payment in lieu of publication.

Very discouraged, I continued writing and had a few minor successes. Many years later, after leaving Kenya and living in an ashram in France, I returned to England, my late husband encouraged me to continue writing.

I took his advice and was grateful for his encouragement. ‘Keep on writing, darling,’ he said, ‘one day you will have a novel accepted and then all your previous novels will stand a good chance of being accepted.’

Hopefully he was right. Years later, he would be pleased and proud because two of my historical novels, Tangled Love and Sunday’s child have been accepted.

I’ve always had plenty of ideas but I needed to refine my writing skills. Over the years I have read books on How To Write, attended two writing holidays in Wales, joined the Romantic Novelists Association of Great Britain New Writers Scheme, submitted my current work to critique groups and critiqued other peoples’ work as well as joining a Writers’ group.

In 2007 my historical novel Tangled Hearts was accepted by an online publishing house which subsequently went out of business. However, the publisher taught me a lot about publicising my work on and offline. Unfortunately, it was a bitter experience for more reasons than I will share, and the experience included non-payment of my royalties.

Determined to achieve my dream of finding a reliable publisher I continued to write and research my historical novels. Another author told me about MuseItUp Publishing. I submitted my novel Tangled Love, previously published as Tangled Hearts, to MuseItUp. Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne’s reign (1702-1714) will be published by MuseItUp on January 27 2012.

Several months after signing the contract for Tangled Love, I submitted my historical novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era between 1813 and 1815 prior to the Battle of Waterloo.

I wrote Sunday’s Child some years ago and it went through the New Writers Scheme. The reader’s report was excellent. I revised the novel and worked on it with one of my critique groups. Having, ‘scrubbed, dusted and polished’ the novel I submitted it to publishers. After each submission it winged its way home to my pigeon loft (my office in the spare bedroom). I had reached the point when I thought I would never have another novel accepted but I submitted it to MuseItUp. To my delight, my publisher loves Sunday’s Child, which will be published in June 2012.

Show Don't Tell - Be a Stylish Writer

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 - A classical Tale from Ancient India

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.
Yet 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.

In accordance with 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 One

My novel, Tangled Hearts, is set in the reign of Queen Anne a ‘Cinderella’ princess of little importance during her childhood.

At her birth, neither her uncle, Charles II, nor her father, James, Duke of York, imagined she would become the last of the Stuart monarchs. After all, Charles’ seven bastards proved his virility and there was every reason to believe he and his queen of three years would have legitimate heirs to the throne. And in the unlikely event of their not producing one, his brother and sister-in-law, James and Anne, had produced an elder brother and sister for the latest addition to their nursery, Baby Anne.

In those days infant mortality was high. The son ‘Cinderella’s’ mother carried when she married only lived for six months. But Anne and her older sister, Mary, survived the Great Plague which broke out in the year of her birth. The little princesses grew up in their nursery but their brother James, another brother and two little sisters died. One can imagine the effects of these deaths on ‘Cinderella’, a small girl with poor health whose weak eyes watered constantly.

Doubtless, it was with the best of intentions that with the consent of ‘Cinderella’s’ uncle, the king, her parents sent the four year old to her grandmother, widow of the executed Charles I, who now lived in France.

As I write, I have before me a portrait of Anne as a small girl painted by an unknown artist at the French Court. She is plump and adorable, dressed in brocade and playing with a King Charles spaniel. Her eyes are wary set in an oval face with a mouth shaped in a perfect cupid’s bow.

In 1699, after Anne’s grandmother died, the little girl passed into the care of her father’s sister, Henrietta Maria, Duchess of Orleans, whom Anne’s uncle, the King of England doted on. In 1670 five year old Anne had to cope with yet another death, this time that of her aunt, whose husband, younger brother of the French king, was suspected of poisoning her.

Anne returned to England, her eyes only slightly improved, to be reunited with her parents. By then her mother was unpopular because she had converted to the Church of Rome and her father, who in 1699, gave serious consideration to his salvation took Holy Communion from a papist priest. Her parents’ decisions would have a long term effect on the young princess Anne’s future.

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

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

An Author's Garden in August

An Author’s Garden in August

I wish I could bottle the fragrance of my garden in Hertfordshire, South East England. When I open the windows, front or back doors the perfume of lavender and roses wafts through the air. I have introduced biodiversity into the garden which bees, butterflies and hoverflies visit.

Unfortunately slugs and snails also inhabit my garden. I garden veganically and combat their attacks on the vegetable patches by encouraging wildlife – flat stones on which thrushes can smash the shells of snails and a garden pond – an old bathtub sunk into the ground – where frogs breed and a bird table to attract blue tits and other birds that relish pests.

My garden is generous. I have three compost bins, the contents of which enrich the soil that produces and abundance of fruit, herbs and vegetables.

Yesterday, while I harvested blackberries I thought about kitchen gardens in times past and tossed ideas about a historical novel in which a garden is central. My heroine would be responsible for the kitchen garden with its seeds, fruit, vegetables, roots, pot herbs and medicinal herbs.

According to A Little History of British Gardening by Jenny Uglow my heroine would keep a Receipt Book in which, amongst other things, she would note the best times for sowing and transplanting herbs and vegetables. According to Elinor Fettiplace of Oxfordshire in the sixteenth century “in midsummer at the waning of the moon, one should sow ‘all manner of potherbs, and they willbee greene for winter; also Lettice seeds sown at this time and removed when they bee of a prettie bignes at the full willbee good and hard Lettice at Michaelmas’.” So far, I have not sown according to the waxing and waning of the moon but I have read modern advocates of doing so. One day I might not be able to resist trying this although I’d hate the neighbours to think I am some sort of modern day witch.

According to Jenny Uglow in Chapter Nine titled Wife into thy Garden, “Grandmothers and mothers handed on country skills…many women kept their own household books, filling the creamy pages over the years with recipes, details of cures and tip’s for the garden. An elegant version, purporting to be Henrietta Maria’s own (hardly likely) household book of secrets, was published as The Queen’s Closet Opened in 1655. Recently, I have been considering keeping a modern day Receipt Book. I would record the successes and failures in my garden and note recipes and the use to which I put herbs. For example, yesterday evening I was hungry and tired. I needed a quick meal before I popped round the corner to baby sit my daughter’s young sons. So I put some organic brown spaghetti into a saucepan of boiling water. While it cooked I liquidized fresh basil, parsley, marjoram and time with pine nuts, parmesan cheese, pepper and olive oil. When the pasta was ready I drained it and stirred in the sauce. A delicious meal that took me ten minutes from start to finish.

The herbs from my garden add taste and subtlety to most dishes and it gives me great pleasure to view them in their terracotta pots from my office window.

From the window I can see the path that divides the garden enclosed by a mixture of native English hedging and conifers which filter the wind. At the end of the path is bird bath which, as well as the bird table, attracts a large variety of my feathered friends, including fat wood pigeons that peck at the leaves of my cabbages, cauliflowers and broccoli.

Despite the woodpigeons that are so fat that their chests wobble as the strut down the path or flutter onto the roof of the garden shed my cauliflowers are nearly ready to crop. As well as the cauliflowers I have enjoyed an abundance of different varieties of crisp lettuce, spinach and courgettes. My greenhouse is full of green tomatoes and the outdoor ones are doing well and so are the carrots, beetroot, brussel sprouts, carrots, greenhouse cumbers, French beans, leeks, mizuna and radishes.

The other day I wrote a shopping list and added fruit and vegetables to it. I shook my head and wondered why on earth I needed to buy any vegetables other than green peppers, which did not thrive this year, and tomatoes. As for fruit, there’s plenty of soft fruit in the garden and neighbouring hedgerows. There are two large bags of homegrown gooseberries in the freezer waiting to be made into gooseberry chutney, fruit fool, jam, and a pie. There are five pounds of succulent blackberries in the fridge with which, over the next two days, I shall make pickled blackberries – delicious with cheese and crusty bread – blackberry and apple jam and blackberry and apple chutney. Later in the month I will pick more blackberries and make blackberry cordial, blackberry and apple pies and fruit crumbles.

As a vegetarian my garden is very important. For the first time I am growing Chinese greens such as mizuna for stir fries and intend to increase the quantity of produce through the use of raised beds.

Why, you may ask, in this day and age do I grow my own? Well, if you’re not a vegetable gardener or if you don’t have a garden try growing a pot or two of cherry tomatoes in pots – you’ll be delighted by the superior taste. And you could also grown herbs from seed which is uncontaminated by chemicals. Today as it did in times past their fragrance delights the senses, they enhance our food – try crusty bread drizzled with olive oil with mozzarella cheese, tomatoes and fresh basil – and contribute to health. Black peppermint tea tastes delicious and soothes the stomach.

By this time next year I hope to add a peach tree in a sheltered corner to my mini orchard, a cooking apple tree, three eating apple trees, two plum trees, two pear trees and a cherry tree. And I hope to add black currants, blue berries and more strawberry plants to my soft fruits – redcurrants from which I make redcurrant jelly – delicious on creamy rice pudding, on ice cream or plain yoghurt as well as in a sandwich – strawberries and gooseberries.

Today, with so many modern tools and aids gardening is much easier than it was for the heroine I think about while tending my garden. However, I am certain that both of us say Grace in thanksgiving for the bounty we receive, rejoice in our successes and mourn our failures and take equal pleasure in our gardens. To reinforce this I only have to walk along the path to the front door which is edged with fuchsias and geraniums in terracotta pots and look at the cottage garden behind them full of lavender, lupins, foxgloves, Californian poppies, nasturtiums, dainty cranesbill geranims and many other delights according to season,

Rosemary Morris.
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
www.rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Tangled Hearts set in Queen Anne’s England – 1702 -1714 available now.

Gardens Past and Present

My interest in gardening and history extends to Garden History and the effect of
changes in climate over the years.

At the moment I am reading A little History of British Gardening by
Jenny Uglow. It begins with a mention of the Iron Age in the first
Chapter: 'Did the Romans Have Rakes" and is a mine of information.

Ms Uglow describes gardens large and small, the plants and the
gardeners. She writes:

"I wish there were medieval monastic gardens for us to visit, to
wander from the cloister to the orchard, the infirmary to the fish
ponds, the paradise where flowers were grown to the rows of kale and
leeks. But even if we cannot visit them we know that the monks and
nuns enjoyed their gardens. At Winchester the clerk of works had a
private garden called 'La Joye'. And in 1108, on the day that he
died, the ailing archbishop of York walked in his garden to breathe
the air and the scent of flowers.'

Yesterday I too breathed the air at a large garden centre where I
bought a Hertfordshire Russet apple tree on dwarf stock because I live
in Hertfordshire, England, and because the shops don't sell russet apples, which are
crisp and sweet.

Unfortunately there was a frost last night and there will be another one
tonight so I'm afraid that the plum blossom will be affected and
there'll be a poor crop.

Today I tied up and fed my broad beans which I planted in the autumn
and now I can't wait for warm weather so I can plant other vegetables
some flowers and more herbs,

All the best,

Rosemary Morris