WARRIOR'S SATURDAY

I'm posting this looking for Subscribers/readers, to Up-Grade and read THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY. I'm publishing a book that comes out in March, but can't afford to pay shipping costs because of the $.

This is Saturday, and that means I’m putting this up for those of you who like fantasy and THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY.

Spoiler alert!

It has a bit of a surprise at the end. (Don’t read it if you don’t want to spoil it for yourself.)

As some of you know, I am publishing THE BASHFUL COURTESAN. As a Canadian, I’m subject to all sorts of shit, to put it mildly. The ever falling dollar being one of the problems. I’m putting my story out as an eBook, as well as in paperback. I ordered a single proof copy, and it ended up costing me — with the shipping, the dollar and whatever else they add to these things — $28, for a book that retails for $11.99 If I lived, or had a postal box in Point Roberts (1/2 drive from where I live), it would cost $4.39

Sorry. But as a Canadian, I refuse to play that game, thank you very much.

So, $28 for a single copy? If I wanted to buy copies to mail to my subscribers, (which is what the plan has always been), it would be well over $1100. No one can afford that — especially living on a pension.

The only way I can afford that is if readers and subscribers up-grade. In order to get that kind of money, I have to sell 430 eBooks, and 91 paperbacks. D’ya wanna know something? Even with a total of 3350 Subscribers/Followers, I’m not holding my breath. I need 50 readers to go paid,

Fiction is a hard sell, and no one knows that more than a writer. People assume that whatever we write should be given away for FREE. That’s probably because of Amazon allowing writers to give their books away for free. Once they let the genie out of the bottle, there was no putting him back in, and so writers suffer for the fact that some writer 15 years ago, didn’t understand that writing is a matter of playing the long game.

This is the shield of Locksley I designed myself with the help of AI. Don’t get mad at me for using a tool that allows me to draw what I would have drawn myself fifty years ago when I wanted to be an animator. If you don’t use it, you lose it.

PART FOUR

BY PAPAL DECREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR…

THE ROMAN WAR

Locksley sat in the warm waters of the Roman bath, comfortable in the immense heat, and hating himself for it. He looked at his hands and saw how they were wrinkled by the water, noticing that the once hard callouses were almost gone. He’d gotten soft since his injury, he told himself; he was a hazard to himself. He needed to hold a sword, or swing an axe — anything, aside from sitting in the stimulating waters of Aquae Sulis day after day.

He looked at the other men in the pool — old merchants, and the last of the Roman aristocracy trying to maintain a grip on their land-holdings — all of them soft and pink with the water’s heat, and he wondered if he looked anything like them. He felt young sitting among them — them with their over-bloated bodies through years of over-indulgence and sedentary living. He wondered how much longer before he looked like one of them?

Brennis didn’t use the bath as much as Locksley did — if he even used it at all, he told himself — but that’s because Grummer had told Locksley that after the leeching, soaking in the warm waters of the bath would be the best thing to help restore his energy. Brennis was young and full of energy, and thought the baths were for old men who were weary with life. Locksley was starting to think that maybe the young Squire was right.

Brennis still went out every morning to hunt, bringing back whatever game he’d found to the Inn, where the Innkeeper’s wife gratefully added it to whatever stew she had in the pot that morning. He spent endless hours throwing his battle axes and knives, practicing and challenging himself.

With Locksley, it was exactly the opposite. But then, that might’ve been all the blood the leeches took out of him, he thought. He’d seen the slick, bloated slugs Grummer pinched off his flesh and wondered why he wasn’t feeling any better with all the sickness they sucked out of him. There was no energy he could feel growing inside of him — not while he was sitting in the warmth of the bath. The bath was had not been what he’d call restorative.

He stood up, the water’s depth coming to the middle of his expansive chest, and he looked down at the scar on his ribs. He noticed that it hadn’t been affected by the water. It wasn’t as if he thought sitting in the water would help with his scars and old injuries, or that it was meant to take the pain away — which it had, he reminded himself — but then, that might’ve been as simple a thing as time itself. It’d been close to six weeks since Grummer and Bediver left with Bors and Bedivere’s brother, Lucius. They were meant to go to Camelot, for some secretive adventure that involved the King, Grummer said, as well as the Papal State in Rome.

He’d learned through the single pigeon Grummer had sent out, that they were on their way to Rome where they were to meet with the Pope himself, in an effort to negotiate a peace. Locksley remembered looking at the tiny note, telling himself he didn’t even know there were hostilities. He’d been too out of touch with what was going on, and told himself it was time to leave.

The road to Camelot’ll be a long, cold ride, he told himself, looking at fallen leaves.

Walking to the edge of the bath, he followed the steps up and graciously took the towel the young serf held out to him. The boy seemed embarrassed with Locksley’s nakedness, and he smiled, thinking how people south of the Wall were shocked at things he felt were normal. There were too many Christians in the town as far as he was concerned. Gwenellyn enjoyed the company of the Christians, but Locksley was apprehensive, thinking she was unguarded and unprotected when she walked among them. And the more he thought about the attack that night, the more he feared for her safety.

Dressed in his Huntsman’s leathers, he told himself he needed to practice with the elance Erik the Blacksmith had crafted for him. He walked through the narrow, cobbled lanes to the small inn Grummer made arrangements for them to remain in until he was fully recovered. The innkeeper’s wife was busy, making home-made loaves, but smiled as he entered, and began tending the huge cauldron of stew hanging over the fire. Locksley slid onto the bench behind the table.

“I trust the waters were enjoyable for you today, Sir Locksley?” she said, bent over the stew pot and ladling out a bowlful she placed on the table for him.

“Indeed, Birgitt,” he smiled. “A mite too enjoyable,” he added with a laugh. “But if e’er there was a reason not t’ enjoy a spot o’ the hot, I’ve yet t’ find it. Have ye seen young Brennis hankerin’ about?”

“Well, near as I can say, he’s made it a point of personal interest to be with some young tom-rigger in the town about, a real bed-wench some have been known to call her, or so you might say,” she added with a slow shake of her head.

“From the brothels, is she?”

“Oh, no Sir Locksley, and I’ll be saying this right now, that I’ll not be having that kind of talking about in this house,” she said.

“Nay?” Locksley grinned. “Ye need ‘ave nay worry on that, dear Birgitt. Brennis ‘as long said ‘e’ll ‘ave nay doin’ with brothel wenchin’, or the wenches at all,” he added.

“No?” she asked, looking at him over the loaves of bread she was pulling out of the wood oven. “Is he not a venererous lad, same as the rest? A lad of that age, I mean? All hale an hearty? It’s been to my understanding that boys of his ilk are in constant need of release, when it comes to that sort of thing.”

“Indeed!” Locksley laughed. “He’ll nay say aye when it comes t’ brothelling with Sir Grummer an’ Sir Bedivere. An’ I’ve yet t’ see ‘im visit ‘mongst the whores, so as ye say ‘e’s taken t’ some tommyrig of a bedwench, I’m at a loss t’ see how that is fer ‘im.”

“Are ye sayin’ my Brennis is not a man for the wenches? A flit?”

Locksley almost choked on his stew at the thought.

“Nay,” he smiled. “I’m sayin’ there’s nay been a wench yet ‘e’s taken to, an’ I’m thinkin’ it’s on account as we’ve nay been rested in a place long enow.”

“And now?”

“Aye,” he said slowly. “Exactly that. An’ now?”

The door opened and the room was bathed in a quick sheen of light as Gwenellyn entered the Common Room. Locksley could see she was holding a small note in her hand and looking at Birgitt dismissively; the woman quickly fell silent he noticed, as Gwenellyn slid onto the bench beside him and held the note out to him.

“It’s from Grummer,” she said softly, looking at Birgitt who busied herself with the loaves of bread, still not looking up. “He’s leaving Rome and hopes to see you in Camelot when he arrives,” she said.

“An’ ‘ow soon’ll that be?” Locksley asked, wondering why the two women were being so obvious trying to avoid each other’s gaze.

He looked back at Gwenellyn as she shook her head. “I’d be guessing if I said ten days. They’ll be coming by ship, but I know little of the shipping lanes between Rome, and here.”

Locksley nodded, still looking at her. His eyes narrowed perceptively as he nodded again.

“What?” she asked.

“Is it t’ Camelot ye will, or Glastonbury?” he wondered.

“Something’s come up,” she said in a low, slow voice; hesitating and unable to look him in the eye, she looked at Birgitt. And Locksley could see the woman nod. It was all in the eyes, he could see — he would attest to it — but there was also a slow, indiscernible nod meant only for Gwenellyn that he sensed. More than he saw.

“What is it then, ye say?” he asked, leaning closer and looking at Gwenellyn as he pushed his bowl aside, leaning on the table.

“I’ve not been regular this past month,” she said, her voice trailing off.

“What d’ye mean, ye’ve nay been regular?” He saw Birgitt look up at her, and then turn away; saw Gwenellyn as she looked at the woman, and then turned to look at Locksley once again.

“I’m with child,” she said.