Another Sunday, and what would be another six sentences if I had remembered to register in time! Yes, I forgot but then I’ve been a bit excited.
I’ve had an offer for my pirate novel, On A Lee Shore!
I know – crazy isn’t it! So I’ll give you a bit of that today before I have to pick it apart to edit it and get heartily sick of it. AND a bit of A Fierce Reaping just for the heck of it
First, the usual Six Sentence Sunday pimp. If you haven’t tried it, why not? It’s easy [if you remember]. Go here and register sometime before midnight on Saturday, then on Sunday morning post exactly six sentences from one of your works, either published or a WIP. Then click around the world reading and commenting on all the other excerpts.
From On A Lee Shore – disgraced naval lieutenant Kit Penrose has finally got a job and is celebrating with his friend Tristan, who never fails to lead him astray.
A couple of hours later, somewhat light headed, Kit followed Tristan into yet another tavern, through the heaving front room and out into a small court, sharp with the scent of recently emptied cess pits. Beyond that was a house where, Tristan assured him, he would find something to his taste. Kit rather doubted it, and not just because his taste, right at that moment, was for a quart of small beer to take the taste of cheap claret away and a quiet and comfortable bedchamber with no interruptions.
However, Tristan seemed inclined to make a night of it and Kit felt it would be churlish to spoil his fun.
“Mother Carey has some new chickens,” Tristan said with a bright grin as he laid his hand on the latch. “Let’s see what kind of flesh or fowl they are.”
And from A Fierce Reaping, carrying on from last week, Cynfal and Aeddan have been fighting.
They appeared to have gatecrashed a party. Blankets were laid out and Hyfaidd’s companions were holding festival with meat and drink and a couple of pink cheeked girls, who were watching, open mouthed as Gwion dashed across to Cynfal and Aeddan and darted between them. “Enough,” he said pushing them apart.
“What?” Moried asked Gwion, his hands cupped to his ears. “I can’t quite catch what you are saying.”
Hyfaidd laughed and waved his bowl. “Speak up Gwion, do. What happened. Were these two stalwarts fighting over your favours or was it a lovers tiff.”
“Lover’s tiff?” Aeddan grimaced. “Not if Cynfal was the last man in the world.”
“Not if Aeddan was the last man in the world and all the lasses were ugly – which obviously they are not.” Cynfal grinned at the two girls, both of whom giggled. “We were just arguing over who could move the most timber,” he added. “Troops one, two, three or the companions. Aeddan thought the Companions. I thought, no, you’d be too busy drinking and fucking to get your hands dirty.”
Moried stared at him. “You would be right.” he said. “Why should we bark when we have dogs to do it for us – Cafal?”
As an insult it was weak. Cafal, loyal and true, was the ideal hound and half the pet dogs in camp shared the name. Cynfal drew breath to bark at him but Gwion spoke first.
“Cynfal.” Gwion’s angry croak was louder than Cynfal would have thought possible. “His name is Cynfal.”
Moried’s grin brightened as he looked from Gwion’s white face to Cynfal and back again. “For shame! And Llif barely cold in your grave,” he said.
If he had not glanced at Hyfaidd for approval he might had managed to avoid Gwion’s blow, but Cynfal doubted it. The punch laid him out across the blankets, his head on a platter, meat juices and wine staining his shoulders. His eyes rolled back in his head and he lay still.
Gwion glared at him, fists clenched, willing him to get up but Moried didn’t move. Hyfaidd’s snicker broke the tense silence, then all the companions were laughing.
Cynfal didn’t laugh, the pain on Gwion’s face was too raw for that, but he did give a little nod of approval. That punch had been thrown with the perfect mixture of strength and forward momentum.