THE PRINCE OF RAGS AND PATCHES
Orion - Tudor Terror
Historical novel based on the murder of the Princes in the Tower

THE KING IN BLOOD RED AND GOLD
Orion - Tudor Terror
Novel based on Henry VIII, the Scottish Wars and the Border Reivers

THE LADY OF FIRE AND TEARS
Orion - Tudor Terror
Historical novel based on Mary Queen of Scots, and the spy trade

THE KNIGHT OF STARS AND STORMS
Orion - Tudor Terror
Novel based on The Armada, Drake, piracy and the Spanish problem

THE LORD OF THE DREAMING GLOBE
Orion - Tudor Terror
Novel based on Shakespeare, London plagues and the Essex rebellion

THE QUEEN OF THE DYING LIGHT
Orion - Tudor Terror
Historical novel based on John Dee's witchcraft plots, and Elizabeth I

There was a hammering on the front door loud enough to make the wine jars on the table tremble.
And through the thick oak doors a word wafted through. And the word was, "Murder!"
I was the first to reach the door. I lifted the bar and Robyn Smith practically fell into the hallway. He came in with a swirl or rustling leaves and the smell of smoke from his blacksmith forge still clinging to his clothes. He was still wearing his leather apron and it was stretched like a drum skin over his enormous belly. His grizzled hair was wiry and his beard thick at the sides but wispy at the front where it was constantly singed away by the heat of the forge.
The huge man looked straight past me to my father. "Murder, Sir James!" he said.
My father gripped the man by his massive arm as a terrier may try to grip the leg of a bull and tried to shake him. "Hush, man, there are ladies here. We don't want to frighten them."
"Sorry, sir," the man rumbled and allowed himself to be led to the table while I barred the door behind him. The blacksmith's forehead ran with sweat though the evening air had chilled me clean through my velvet doublet.
My father turned to grandmother and said, "If you would take Marion to the library then I can question the constable here."
Grandmother looked at him with a look of scorn. The white lead powder on her on her face cracked as she bared her gums. "Don't be stupid, son. We haven't had a good murder in these parts since the miller buried his wife on Framwellgate Moor. I want to hear what the constable has to say."
Father glared at her but saw he was going to lose that battle. He turned back to Robyn Smith and asked, "Now, Constable, what's this about? Who's been murdered."
"Oh, I don't know that, sir!" the startled man said, his moon-round face framed by the grey circle of hair and beard. The man was powerful and clever in a sly sort of way. There were very few crimes happened in the village that Constable Smith didn't know about. But there were always stories that a little gold could persuade him to turn his head and look the other way. As a result the rich rogues carried on with their crime and grew richer while the poor villains were punished. My father never went into the village if he could help it so he never understood how his constable grew fat on the crimes of others.
"You don't know!" my father frowned.
"No I don't," the blacksmith said, shaking his huge head slowly.
"I thought you said there's been a murder."
"There has."
"Now you say you don't know who's been murdered."
"I don't."
"So there hasn't been a murder."
"There has."
"So, who's been murdered."
"I don't know!"
My father's face was turning red with rage while the constable's singed eyebrows rose higher into his forehead. "Let's start again, shall we?" my father said.
"There has been a murder."
"Yes, sir."
"How do you know?"
"Because John the Shepherd found the body."
"And whose body did John the Shepherd find?"
"I been trying to explain, sir. I don't know."
My father spoke very slowly as if he was talking to a simple child. "Why ... not?"
The constable thought this was anew way of reporting. He spoke just as slowly in reply. "Because ... he ... is ... a ... stranger ... sir."
Grandmother cackled softly and the rest of the family pressed their lips tightly so he wouldn't see us laughing.
My father sniffed and drew himself up straight. "And where did you find this stranger?"
"Hidden under some branches in Bournmoor Woods, sir. A hundred paces west of Widow Atkinson's house. She was gathering herbs when she uncovered the body."
Our visitor, Humphrey Vere leaned forward suddenly. "Is that where I was robbed earlier this evening?"
"It is," my father said.
"I wonder if there's any connection?" the stranger said.
"I had thought of that myself," my father said stiffly.