ConnieWhitmer

STORY STATEMENT: Book 1 INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND After Danes slaughter his family and brutalize a little girl, he promised to keep safe; an orphaned boy must find a way to save her from a burning tower, escape capture, avenge his family, find her again, and make it back home. STORY STATEMENT: 6 Book Series: HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE n 10th century Ireland, as all others cower, an insignificant orphan becomes: rebel, outlaw, warrior, Chief of his Clan, King of the South, King of North and South, and the only Ard Ri – High King, over a free and united Ireland in peace. Yet the forces of envy, betrayal and greed, lead him to an all or nothing battle for the fate of his people, and the destiny of homeland. Brian wins, but pays the ultimate price, with the lives of his three sons, and his own. Only to have the greatest Liar Thief in history, steal his life story – to fabricate the most famous, and beloved Imposter of all time – King Arthur of England. HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE Series – is two true stories, one within the othe – The life of Brian Boru: Insignificant orphan – to greatest High King – Geoffrey of Monmouth plagiarizing Brian’s life: Cleric – to Bishop and famous Author ANTAGONISTIC FORCES: Events are true and Characters real GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH – Antagonist of Series Mystery Lowly cleric is commissioned by King Henry 1st, to come up with an historical Hero for Britain. Henry needs gold to pay for his wars; and therefore, precedent to invade, sack, and kill fellow Catholics in Ireland – to steal theirs. The problem – there isn’t one. Until Geoffrey is given “a certain most ancient book”. We watch over his shoulder as he steals Brian’s life to fabricate a Hero for Henry. He is rewarded with fame, fortune, the company of Kings, and 886 years of reprints – pulling off the most successful fraud in history. Indeed, Geoffrey’s 1136, “true” account of, Imposter 5th century King Arthur, is for sale on amazon.com/books. today. Geoffrey – The Liar Thief Antagonists of Main Story – NORSE VIKINGS – Gofraid, Olaf and Ivar, descendants of Ivar the Boneless, have Ireland surrounded, and are closing in. Their goal – finish what the Boneless started – the rapine and plunder of Ireland. And most lucrative – the selling of her women and children for slaves. Gofraid, sets out to attack Killaloe, slaughter Brian’s family, and claim the only cattle crossing of the River Shannon for 240 miles. He kills all but two of his brothers. At every turn of his life, Brian must fight the Danes. Gofraid will die of leprosy from shagging sheep, Ivar is killed by Brian, and Olaf will marry Gormlaith, spawn Sigtrigg Silkbeard. These three, forgiven thrice by Brian, for coming against him; will conspire and recruit, the largest Norse army ever assembled, to bring war against Brian, for Ireland, her treasure, and his head. Danes – Insatiables MALACHY II – Possessed it all. Next in line to the 600 years of Ui Neill Dynastic High Kings – Represents the entitled, rich and self-serving. A schemer, only too willing to sacrifice honor, for lying, cheating, stealing. He might have been great, but shaped by his father, turned out narcissistic, weak, obsessed with jealousy. All his life he shadows Brian, becoming ever more desperate – unprovoked, cuts down his 1000-year-old, sacred oak tree, tries to kill him, passes his poisonous ex-wife onto him, breaks his oath, betrays him, refusing to take his place on the field, in the Final Battle; and after Brian and his boys are killed, takes his place as High King. Ironically, this ultimate traitor is admiringly recorded in history as Malachy Mor – “Malachy the Great”. Malachy – Duplicitous Political Snake 5 IRISH PROVINCIAL KINGS – Sycophants, dogs in the manger, who will betray anyone, for any advantage. Cronies of Malachy, they have no loyalty, betraying their own people for crumbs of the High King – and betraying the High King, for table scraps of the Danes. They conspire and collude, giving an oath to join Brian and his brother Mahon, in battle against Ivar the Dane. Once the battle begins, Irish, Donovan, Donald, and Molloy, in league with Ivar, abandon the field, lure and kill Brian’s brother, and try to kill him. Brian escapes, goes back and takes revenge, killing Ivar, and hunting down all three traitor Kings – one after the other. It is not Brian’s ambition that makes him King of Munster, as often reported – but these cowards’ conspiracy, and dastardly betrayal. The eejits have just slaughtered themselves, and made Brian, King of the Dal Cass, King of Munster – one 5th of Ireland. Provincial Kings – Treacherous Bottom Feeders MURCHUADA IRISH PROVINCIAL KING of Leinster – next to Norse held Dublin, the most lucrative slave port in Europe. He is the brains and Puppet Master of the viper pit. He uses his daughter as a Pawn, to manipulate the Kings of Ireland into self-annihilation. He toys with the Danes, and controls with abject terror, of what he might do next. And molds Gormlaith in his own image –controlling her in every possible way. Until out-played by his “line-bred” daughter. Sick Control Freak. Sins of the father. Murchuada – Deviant Chess Master GORMLAITH– a legend in her own lifetime, in the sagas of the Norse, for her beauty, brains and cunning. Her father’s little pawn, and apt pupil, makes it across the board to become the most infamous Queen in history. (Her true story has thus far been under-reported). The strategy learned from her father – You make them choose – between what they want most – and what they love most. “Tis the choosing, that breeds the undoing.” You – Pin, Fork, Skewer. Until the field is cleared, and you are the last one standing. In a Chess match, cage fight, or in battle – that is winning. Gormlaith, looking for love in all the wrong places, is torn between conscience and winning. Life has taught her – beating the boys, feels best of all. She becomes – wife and “poison cup” to the three most powerful Kings in Ireland, Olaf, Malachy, and Brian. Gormlaith – Instigator and Prize of the Final Battle for Freedom for Ireland – and “The Last one Standing” BREAKOUT TITLES: up to three Series Titles: HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL KING GOLDEN CHESSMEN OF THE GODS Book 1 ~ BLOOD GAMBIT INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND THE RAVENING Book 2 ~ CLEARANCE SACRIFICE STRIPLING WARRIOR DRAKKAR-SLAYER Book 3 ~ PIN, FORK, SKEWER YOUNG STAG IN VALOR RECOMPENCE Book 4 ~ ENTOMBED EAGLE UPON THE ROCK HAWK-FELL OF MY HAND Book 5 ~ SMOTHERMATE GAUNTLET OF SLAUGHTER RUINS OF RAGNAROK Book 6 ~ GOLDEN CHESSMEN OF THE GODS HELL-VORM WOLVES AT THE EDGE OF NIGHT COMPARABLES – GENRE: HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE – The Life of Brian Boru High King of Ireland – Based on a True Story High Concept, Commercial Fiction – History, Biography, Adventure, Intrigue, Mystery, Romance, War Braveheart of Ireland, meets Uhtred of The Last Kingdom Solving mysteries of: Da Vinci Code’s – The True Grail And the Real King Arthur Concerning ~ A boy who would never be King, A “certain most ancient book” that would never be found, A thief in the night who would never be caught, The most compelling mystery never solved, The most successful and perfidious fraud ever committed, The two most famous, enduring, and beloved, imposters of all time, King Arthur of Britain, and the Holy Grail, And the truth. Book 1 ~ INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND ~ The Twelfth Son (loss of innocence, coming of age) 10-13 Book 2 ~ BLOOD GAMBIT ~ Rebel, Outlaw, Warrior (lone rebel without a cause, finds one )17-26 Book 3 ~ ENTOMBED ~ King of the South (gladiator becomes beloved hero of people) 26-35 Book 4 ~ WOLVES AT THE EDGE OF NIGHT ~ King of the North (dude with big problem) 35- 45 Book 5 ~ SMOTHERMATE ~ High King of Ireland (monster in the house - and bed) 45-60 Book 6 ~ GOLDEN CHESSMEN OF THE GODS ~ Last Ard Ri of Erin (war – Destiny of Ireland) 73 Premise: Any of us, no matter how unlikely, can achieve the impossible – if we possess: Hunger enough to Dream it – Courage enough fight for it – Heart enough to never give up – and Guts enough to pay the price! This Series – based on a true story, and real life – is meant to Inspire, those who read it, to have: a worthy, Impossible Dream, Courage enough, and Never Surrender! High Concept – Braveheart of Ireland meets Uhtred of the Last Kingdom THE SAXON TALES Series – the LAST KINGDOM - WAR LORD – Cornwell’s number 13, in the tales of Uhtred, is recently published, and testament to commercial interest of a similar Series: the Viking Age in history, the true story of an orphan turned Warrior, who must find his way amidst: Viking savagery, treacherous Lords, and scheming Kings, to take back his home, in the face of impossible odds, worthy quest of Freedom against Savagery, and a ripping cage fight for the Throne of King, destiny of people and homeland. All 13, books in Series – best sellers. With a huge fan base, and by demand, there is currently a film in production to finish the Series. Uhtred is missed already. Secret to success: Dreymon’s well-loved Uhtred is the only truly lovable, funny, and relatable Hero, with great buddy and love stories as well, and heart wrenching – to the end of limits – acting and emotions, since Braveheart, (what all the others are missing). This is my goal, as well. BRAVEHEART (the first and best – characters against archetype, sense of humor) – of Ireland, Similar Hero and quest - unlikely orphan becomes beloved Hero of people, uniting the Clans, against tyranny, sacrificing himself in the cause of Freedom. And true story. Same Subject Success – LION OF IRELAND, EMPEROR OF IRELAND YA, PRIDE OF LIONS, and 1014 – BATTLE OF CLONTARF – the Life of Brian Boru in 4 books Morgan Llywelyn’s books on Brian Boru’s life, have sold over 40 million copies. At the 1000-year celebration of the Battle of Clontarf, (the climax of Brian's Series} in Dublin, 60,000 people showed up. Love for Brian’s story endures. HSCF is more specifically – Brian’s life story - The Irish Version: anti-archetypical characters, tone, slightly wicked sense of humor, themes of Freedom and Loyalty, endearing Buddy and Love stories, with a goal to inspire, use of screenwriting techniques, and unique - the Irish telling. THE VIKINGS – VIKINGS VALHALLA – Series Similar setting and characters: Antagonists, familiar to readers - All true contemporaries of Brian: In HSCF – The real Uhtred, Lord of Northumbia (16 years younger), makes several appearances, along with: Ibn Fadlan, Eric the Red, Harald Hardrada, Olaf and Ivar, great-grandsons of Ivar the Boneless, Sitric Silkbeard, Cnut, Harold Bluetooth, Wulf the Quarrelsome, and others. DA VINCI CODE – Starting with Historical Facts: the same mystery Solved – The true Nature and Location of the Grail. Which was first mentioned in connection with Arthur in 1190 – As well as the true Identity of the Real King Arthur. However very different conclusions, style, and delivery, and genre than Dan Brown’s. TIMELINE – EATERS OF THE DEAD – Same: starting with historical facts, like Crichton, then recreating true events, bringing historical characters to life. Unique: THE HAMMERED STEEL and CRIMSON FIRE Series is unique, from the only other fictional account of Brian’s life – Llewellyn’s, “Lion of Ireland”, which is beautifully written – in English King’s, English grammar and English vernacular. HSCF–The Irish Version – is committed to: mischief, mayhem and mangling, of all things English. And deservedly so, after 800 long years of subjugation and stealing Brian's story for themselves. I offer proof: My Nonfiction companion book, “The True and Rightful King” will make the case for Fraud by proving Geoffrey’s plagiarism, to the highest standard of the Law – Perpetrator, Means, Motive, Opportunity, Preponderance of the Evidence, Smoking gun, Bloody glove, beyond a Reasonable Doubt, and Beyond the Shadow of Doubt, meaning there can be no other. Commercial value: According to IMDB - Llewellyn’s “LION OF IRELAND”, the life of Brian Boru, is currently in development for a TV Series 2019. the Same amazing subject, but there is absolutely no similarity between her Brian's life, and mine. The TV Series, THE LAST KINGDOM, based on Cornwell’s Saxon Tales of Uhtred, is the highest-ranking Series in Great Britain, one of the highest rankings in the US. Well loved, and well done, with a huge fan base. There is a much-anticipated film in production, finishing up, to complete the Series. Fans are saddened. Everyone is going to miss Uhtred the Godless! Dan Brown’s DA VINCI CODE, theory of the Grail – sold over 60 million copies, fueled by HUGE CONTROVERSY, rattling the cages of the Vatican which claims to possess the True Grail, Catholics, and Christianity, in general, with his theory – the Grail being the womb of Mary Magdalene, and the Holy Grail, Mary Magdalene herself. (Ironically, Mary Magdalene has been classified as a prostitute since the Middle Ages, by an early Pope – not to be confused with Mary the virgin Mother of Christ). I remember well – on Nightly News, Dan Brown, at the top of the NYT Best seller list forever; “verbally scourged” by the Christians and castigated down to Hell by Catholics – is videoed, lamenting in self-defense, “Its only Fiction!” His beautifully crafted novel, and ingenious original Theory, became the object of crazed condemnation, boycotting, and slander. Result – The Da Vinci Code has become the world’s all-time best seller. ~ The take-away – the greater the outrage, the crazier the controversy, the more spectacular the sales I think it is fair to assume; HAMMERED STEEL and CRIMSON FIRE Series, proving: – All this time: the experts have been looking in the wrong time and place, for the 5th century English Hero, King Arthur – that he is really Irish – that Brian Boru’s life was stolen, to create the IMPOSTER – by Geoffrey of Monmouth – as well as the theory, then proof, that the Grail, is not a womb, but quite the most scandalous opposite imaginable – well connected to the Real Irish Hero – “The True and Rightful King” – and I can prove it . . . Is most certain to rattle, then spontaneously combust a few cages as well. Inciting Controversy: There is nothing the British love more than a Royal scandal, as does the world’s media. What will the reaction be when they find out: Deliciously Scandalous: ~ Queen Elizabeth II– the longest reigning English Monarch, the best, and most beloved; Is the 35th Great Granddaughter of the – Irish Rebel, Outlaw, Instigator, Brian, orphan of Beal Boru? ~ Making her heirs, Charles, William, and George – who all bear the name Arthur – the Imposter – direct descendants of the Real King Arthur. Anyone who has followed Queen Elizabeth’s life, can decidedly see that she is far more like Brian: a brave, uniter, forgiving, devoted to, God and country, and beloved by her people, than any of her subjugating, beheading disemboweling, despoiling, abdicating, ancestors since him. ~ The Queen’s great 35th grandmother, was Brian’s second wife, who gave him one son – murdered by his half-brother, Gormlaith’s son. In my story, she is a wonderful character, anti-archetypical, rescuer of the fallen in battle, chariot mechanic, fantastic rider and horse lover – as was the Queen herself. (This portrayal is my humble tribute to a wonderful, Lady, Mother, and Veteran, who would have much rather been riding her horse, in forest and field, with the sun on her face and wind in her hair – but instead, hopped on the grenade in stockings and heels for 70 years . . .) I believed she would have liked Brian's Story. ~ Deliciously scandalous, as well; Harry the lovable, Rebel, Outlaw, Outcast, Fomenter of chaos, Instigator of outrage, and his beautiful children, all have Brian’s red hair. Proof positive of the pesky, Irish, rebellious, rapscallion strain, in the stodgy, rather shallow, Royal gene pool. These revelations, together along with the “Irish Version”, should be enough to give the entire British Empire the vapors. ~ But then – perhaps – the greater the vapors, the crazier the controversy, the more the sales . . . LOGLINE WITH CONFLICT AND CORE WOUND: Book 1 – INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND In 10th century Ireland, when Danish Vikings attack, young Brian promises to watch over a little girl. Beaten nearly to death, he is forced to watch helplessly, as she is savagely raped and burned, and his family slaughtered. He vows he will, never be powerless again to protect those he loves, avenge their deaths, and drive the Danes back into the Sea, and drown them in their own blood. LAYERS OF CONFLICT: Inner Conflict – Brian’s inner conflict – the wound that he carries all his life, and the secret he keeps, is the stuff that rips his, and our heart out: guilt, regret, the wrong choice, shame, sadness, helplessness. When Brian 10, and a little girl 8, are caught in a Dane attack; he promises to keep her safe, by running to the 100 ft round tower. They make it to the top, but Olaf and Ivar follow them. As Danes are ax-cleaving the trap door apart – Brian must decide – take her to the window and jump to their quick deaths – or try to hide her and fight the Danes himself. Though he has her by the hand, and they stand upon the sill, with the slaughter going on below them – he cannot do it. Seeing her dead mother on the grass below, he hides her in some rags and baskets. Tells the Danes she jumped. They are beating, and kicking him to death, when he sees her come out of hiding, to beg them to stop. Though he is powerless to move; he witnesses her, to save him, being brutalized in every possible way, as flaming arrows set the tower ablaze. External Conflict –Sea-Eagle, Danes, Traitor Irish, High King, 11 brothers, and two pups Just a boy like any other, Brian dreams only of one thing – to catch the biggest fish in all the world, to flaunt it before his eleven older brothers, and take his place around the campfire this night, with the best tale to tell, his Da proud, and his brothers green with envy. His biggest torment, thus far – his two pups, that sabotage him at every turn, and his brothers who have one goal in life – use him for their hurling practice dummy, at every opportunity Brian has the biggest salmon in the world, by the tail, and is being dragged naked through the Shannon River; when he is attacked by a giant Sea-Eagle and must fight for his fish. Winning, though mutilated, he fights unsuccessfully, his two Lucifer-spawn pups for his clothes. And consequently, is caught celebrating, dancing around, bare-arsed, toes pointed spritely, his nether-parts flogging him to keep up, like a soused fairy under a Rowan tree – by a little red-headed girl hiding in the tall grass. And so, he dives into the only cover – a thicket of thornapple, thistle, and stinging nettles – with the high pitched, girly scream, of a neck rung stoat! Only to be late for school, again, God help him, with his eleven brothers, lying in wait, to make him to run the “gauntlet of slaughter”, to his seat in the front of the Chapel. Fairly demolished already, he is picked up, passed along, and slung from the window to the chants of “Runt! Runt!! Runt!! Dal Cass scores – One! Against the langers of Ulster – None! Brian gives, thanks to God, for the tender mercy of the flinging. And runs to the shore. His new goal in life now, is to put the flames of Satan’s, every class of a Hellfire out, by plunging arse first, into the cool waters of the Shannon; hidden from the eyes of God, man, and the little girl, and finally get a good scratch where it itches, without touching anything, he’d have to confess for, after. His goal in life changes again, when the Danes attack – trying to survive. Social and Interpersonal Conflicts –. Clonmacnoise Monastery –Brian is sent away to school. A name and blessing from the Abbot The fires of hell licked at the top of his head. The talons of Baal clamped to his scalp, wrenching hair out by the roots! Brian 13, yelped in pain, “Please Father, not the tower again. Anything but the tower,” and unleashed his most pathetic howl, long and drawn out, “I’ll repent. I’ll be good, I swear . . . I’ll die if ye lock me in the tower again!” “One can only hope!” The Abbot growled through sanctimoniously clenched teeth. “Please Father, if I must suffer,” Brian pleaded most mournfully, “don’t lock me in the tower again with the old geezer Plutarch, and all his whinin’ about the Thracians, and the ruttin’ Spartacus,” he sniffled, “Anything but the Plutarch.” The Abbot pondered his last wish . . . “Get me the Plutarch!” he bellowed to the crowd of boys, sniggering sadistically, “It’s to the tower with ye, and no food nor water until ye’ve memorized the Plutarch entirely!” Brian wailed louder, “Please, Father, I’m beggin’ ye, instead, of the Plutarch, may I have the Book of Saints? Oh, how I love the Saints! Ah, the blessed virgins. I love the one who, sacrificed herself, refusin’ offers of marriage and all, and shavin’ her radiant hair off, and scaldin’ her lovely face, with the boilin’ water, so’s that no man would want to have carnal knowledge of her.” The Abbot, red-faced and teeth barred like a trap-strangled ferret, yanked the young orphan of the Clan Dal Cass, up, glaring into his eyes, “The blessed Saint would roll in her grave, to know her sacred virginity was on the mind of the likes of ye! Ye, vermin from the South, and the son of Cennetig to boot, with the foul tongue, and the filthy mind!” And he shook Brian by the hair on his head until, what was left of his own teeth rattled. “Ye’re a wart of the arse of the sainted Lady,” he hissed, and yanked him viciously towards the isolation and imprisonment of the tower. Brian, wincing through the pain, couldn’t help but conjure the image of the lovely young woman bare-pelted, from behind. . . “Have ye seen her arse then, Father? I mean the wart and all?” The novitiates clamped their hands to their mouths, to stifle the giggles, and the boys roared and hooted, doubled over with the laughter, “She’s a Saint, and been dead for 600 years, you goat’s spore!” Father Alphonsus, holding him arm’s length, by the hair, stopped and tried to kick him in the soft parts, and then the buttocks, alternating – bollocks, buttocks, bollocks, buttocks, but Brian dodged the blows, hurtling himself, front and back, and side to side, like when his brothers had him up against the wall and all trying to pummel him in the goolies with the sliotar, practicing their hurley swings. And all the while Brian trying to explain, “It’s just that, when I’m on me knees in prayer, Father, I’ve often thought fondly of her Holy Relics, and such. I know her lovely head is in Rome, her little foot is in Venice, and her finger, her sacred finger, in Ravenna – with a ring made from the foreskin of the baby Jesus” . . .. And he wondered how that worked, exactly. For one thing it sounded painful for the sweet little babe, and for another, it seemed unlikely a Jewish Rabbi would place such a thing on the finger of a Catholic nun . . . and then he couldn’t help it, his mind ran to the bit about shavin’ her hair off, and he wondered if they meant all her hair . . . and even if Saint’s had a place for hair other than the top of their head . . . and then there was the part about scaldin’ her face off, and he thought she might have done it so’s no one would notice the wart and all on her arse . . . but still . . . she might have looked lovely, naked, from the front . . . with a sack over her head . . .. “Do you suppose her breasts are with the rest of her then, Father? . . . I’d like to think so,” he grinned. “Ye little rabble rouser! Fomenter of chaos! Instigator! of Erin!” Wailed Father Alphonsus, responsible for the edification of souls, of the young Princes of the Isle . . . “I’ll feckin’ kill ye!” SETTINGS IN DETAIL, SCENE BY SCENE: The settings in 10th century Ireland are simple – a stone chamber, a tower, the forest. It’s the situation, characterization, humor, that makes a scene interesting, and impossible to convey without illustration. Setting: Craig Lia – Is a rocky crag above the ancient ring fort of Beal Boru, where the jagged stones from the beginning of time, protrude from blankets of moss and bracken. It is a matter of historical record, that Brian believed in the pagan myth passed down in his Clan, that a Shee – Avril, the fairy Queen, who lived in the crag, was a: guardian for the children, companion for a lonely warrior, on a cold night before battle, gift of memory for the old ones, and of prophesy for the King. Narrator – Beginning and end of each book to recap and foreshadow hook, Hero, Avril, Attack, Brian’s journey to come. And Series Title. And so, it was . . . That all of Killaloe lay smoldering in embers and ashes, And the Shannon ran red, with blood of the sons of Cennetig, And blood red, the hills, and meadows of Erin. In years to come, the old ones would say, looking back at the time of dragonships, That was the day the Banshee of Craig Lia, who loved the boy who would never be King, The last, and least of twelve sons, found him trembling, burned, and broken, And drenched in his mother’s blood, Then Avril, of the high crag – guardian of the crumbling ringfort of Beal Boru, Shee of the ancient ones – riders of the white horse, mound builders, chariot racers, Raisers of Lia Fail stone – and the child of the last Thracian King, Issued forth a keening wail . . . an oath of reckoning . . . a vow, to the enemies of Erin, Then raging in wild and savage fury, Scored their fates, into the face of her cliffs, By thunder, of Hammered Steel! And lightening, of Crimson Fire! For the courage in the heart of the boy, Destined – him to be the one . . . The Instigator of Freedom for Ireland! Setting: The Hill of Tara – The Hill of Tara is the jewel in the crown of Ireland, today, and in Brian’s story. It begins and ends on this Hill and is the setting of several of the most poignant scenes in his life. There is a single standing stone, for thousands of years it has been known as the Lia Fail, or The Stone of Destiny. It is where, Brian is crowned High King, and Ard Ri, and when he is lost, prays on his knees to God, to show him the way. And finally, after the final battle, jumps over the setting sun, with his lifelong friend, on their way to take their place – where only true stories of real Heroes are told . . . ‘round the campfires in the sky. Prologue: The Saga-teller – delivers Theme: Truth vs Lie/fairytale – Courage vs Cowardice “Tell us a tale,” the people called out, and drew back like the tides of the Red Sea, “Of myths and monsters . . . of demons and dragons.” The old man, gnarled and weathered as a druid oak, made his way to the top of the windswept hill, drawing near to the fire. Then placed his hand upon the ancient standing stone, gently as a grandfather caresses the face of a child. “I have no fairy tales,” he said, and bent his head so that his tears fell at the base of the Stone. ~ ~ ~ When the old man spoke again, ‘twas a fearsome thing – a rumbling, come from way down deep in the heart of Erin, up through the hill and the stone. The growling of a feral beast, to scold, and score, and shake the earth from its slumber. And the wind swirled all around them, in a fury of waves and torrents, up and over the cliffs at the edge of the world. And tumbled over the Hill, hurling his voice like rolling thunder, across the plains, over the mountains, and beyond the seas. “Oh, you foolish children, who seek what is not there, and never was – a reflection in the pool, a shadow upon the meadow, an echo in the hills – has no beating heart! Don’t you know, there can be no courage, nor valor, nor Hero, nor deeds worth remembering, nor story worth telling without truth! All else is chaff in the wind.” And the breath of Erin whispered all around them, quickening every blade of grass, ruffling the leaves silver, and tumbling the clouds in moon-glow. . . Setting: Ireland – Hook, Mystery, Intrigue, Suspense to come (metaphors no fantasy) “Listen well!” The old man roared, a mighty stag upon the mount. “For, I will tell you of a myth that is true, and of the monster who fed upon it, Of a boy who became a giant, and of the serpent who dragged him down to Hel, Of a light, a brilliant light, as bright as a blood-ember, glowing, And of a demon in the darkness, black as a tomb in a new moon, And of the shadow he conjured, that grew upon the wall, Twisting and writhing, and slithering through the cracks, Until it spread o’er the land, extinguishing the light, And with it came a pestilence, a poison, a plague, on the children of Eiru, To scorch and shrivel every meadow and flower, and dream and dawning, For every dew drop in Erin, turned to blood! And The most sacred of all fell on this hill, on this stone, on this very night . . . And it all began – the day the dragons came!” Setting: Geoffrey’s Chamber –Thief in the Night – From lowly cleric to, rich and successful Author Geoffrey of Monmouth, cleric to Walter, the Archdeacon of Oxford, perched on his stool like a plague raven gargoyle, casting a loathsome eye back and forth between the piles of musty manuscripts, and the trencher of spitted piglet carcass on the table before him. The corners of his right eye and mouth ticked spasmodically, like the twitching of a maggot flicked onto hot embers. And rightly so, for he drew nearer to a spit-scorching himself, every day. He’d exceeded his deadline for the King. There by, reneged on his contract, betrayed the trust, and spat in the face of the King’s generosity. Ah yes, and how had the First Henry put it? Coyly, with one arm about his shoulder, and his dagger in his other hand, the tip of the blade, darting about his face like a poison-fanged adder, as he walked him to window gesticulating East, over Wales to England. His broad sword and small mace jingling; and compliment of soldiers with all the aforesaid, as well as battle-ax, boar-spear, neck-cuffs, chains, and gaffing hook, helped to make his point. “You, Geoffrey, hold not only the outcome of my war with France – in your right hand – but my very life, and the future of all Britain, as well!” His eyes narrow-slitted, and glinting, “Do you think you can manage?” Geoffrey, his right hand usually occupied with himself, let go to wipe the sweat from his upper lip, and flap at his gown to fan the water running down his legs and moth-eaten stockings, into his scuff-worn sandals. Indeed, Henry 1st, King of England had decked the Tower of London, for Yule – with bowels and bollocks – for far less disappointment, than this. How his entrails would be removed to garland the Great Hall, and his cods to roast with the chestnuts, during the hymn singing, evoked in Geoffrey intolerable pain and a constant sweating, so that he wondered if he might be bleeding from every pore. He quickly crossed himself over the blasphemous thought, turning his gaze away from the waning sun’s rays, palely illuminating the three crucifixes hanging upon the stone chamber wall above the fireplace before him. A thief on each side, and Christ in the middle, who loved scabby lepers, filthy Samaritans, and poxied prostitutes, diverted His gaze from Geoffrey as well. Setting: Geoffrey’s motive – what he is giving up With a pang of self-pity, Geoffrey acknowledged he’d seen horse stalls bigger and more congenial than this, and far less foul smelling. His chamber, a flue for the kitchen below, cow-pen, pigsty and stable just outside and up-wind, possessed stone walls stained with several hundred years of smoke and greasy soot, and infused with the smells of rotting rubbish heap, rancid swine slop, and pungent horse dung. In one corner, the stone floor opened to a steep and winding staircase down, contrived so that one Kingsman, with a sword in his right hand, could defend the tower against an upcoming horde of Saxons. Perhaps left-handed, he’d obviously failed his task, the filthy drunken Saxons having used his chamber for a privy for three hundred years, and the stench remained. In the other corner – a rudely constructed cot, lumpy with infested horse-hair mattress, home to bed lice, and other small vermin, attracting certain barn foul, which in turn deposited defecated remnants of said vermin, all over the contents of the chamber. Next to the bed, a small chest contained everything shabbily made and thread bare, he owned. And beside it, a wicker basket with his only other set of grimy linens, which the Archdeacon’s cat, following the Saxons lead, befouled on a regular basis as well. Setting: Geoffrey’s chamber on the West Coast of Wales He, Geoffrey, lowly cleric from Monmouth, who would otherwise be trapped in the cave-infested, midden-heap of Anglesey, in the farthest foul dregs of west Wales, beyond the outer edge of the Roman Empire and civilization, and the closest landfall to the barbaric Irish. Even mighty Caesar, though he conquered the rest of the world – loathed to go to Ireland. And if he refused? His future loomed bleak. Nothing had ever come from puking Wales, beset with superstitions, ghosts of ghoulish Danes skulking in the mists, and wailings echoing throughout the hills of evil otherworldly demons. The last of the headless Celts, festering in tombs, and bansheeing about in vile winds, forever blowing over from the Irish Sea, with the fetid breath and blustering bowels of the Irish! Setting: Clontarf –Flashback in media res. Latean brings severely wounded Brian, news of his sons Young Latean, attendant to the High King, thrust his foot up and down with all his might into the mutilated face of a youth not much older than himself, but the mass of gutted wound-slurry would not let loose of his ankle. A ghastly claw, white and bloodless, tethered him to the battlefield of blood and gore – the specter of death haunting the corpse’s eyes, plotting to drag them both down to hell. He swiped at his eyes with a blood-soaked sleeve, and kicked frantically until his shoe slid off, talon and all, then staggered on up the battlefield, towards the tent at the top of the hill. He bore a message for the Ard Ri, he’d sooner cut out his heart than deliver – but deliver it he would. The gory dead conspired to trip him up, their severed heads and limbs scattered among their own entrails. The dying moaned out to him and tore at his clothes. He slipped and fell, again and again, crawling on his hands and knees, retching, and gasping for air. Blood, warm and cold and clotted as blood pudding, oozed through his fingers. Smoke and ashes seared his lungs. Scarlet spurted from sword slashings and dripped in stringy rivulets down from tree branches overhead, upon his face. The salt from the blood, mixing with the salt in his sweat-soaked tears, ran into his eyes, stinging and blinding him so that he could not see. All around him, the great oaks of Tomar Wood grew black with ravens, as the fallen twitched and writhed from hill to sea. He struggled to stand, and clinging to a sapling, looked back down the battlefield, his stomach revolting at the sickening stench of burning flesh and ruptured bowels. Setting: The view towards the sea The pallor of death had spread over the land, gray and bloodless. For it was all on the field – all the blood in the world, oozed and gushed, and seeped onto the mud and trampled flowers of Clontarf meadow. To the West, the last of the sun, blazed like a dying ember in a windblown fire. To the South, black smoke churned, and carcass-flames leapt up from the walls of Dublin Castle into a scarlet sky. To the East on the seashore, Danes, drowning in chainmail thrashed at water’s edge, flickering silver and blue, in scarlet foam, like a bucket of bait-herring. Their dragonships, born out and away by the high tide and offshore wind, drifted empty and rudderless. All around him, the edges of the earth, had burst into flames. And all the while, Erin’s treasure, in a river of crimson, flowed down the battlefield, across the strand, and into the Irish Sea, staining the dark green, like red wine spilled onto a silken gown. For bestowed over all, meadow, man and beast, a blessing – an Irish blessing of blood – borne on a crimson, rain-soaked wind, up from the frothing sea. Latean wiped at his eyes with a blood-soaked sleeve, and looked up to the Heavens, wondering at the hand, that could offer such a benediction over the end of all dreams. Setting – outside the King’s Tent At the top of the hill, wound-ravaged warriors encircled the High King’s tent. The last of the original Dal Cassians, Brian’s boys from the beginning, now gray with age, scarred, and wounded. They listed back and forth, shivering and blood soaked, against the gusting wind, leaning upon gore-slurried spears – splintered shields locked together, dulled swords encrusted in blood-clotted scabbards. Still, they stood bravely at the ready, loyal to their Chief until the end, their silhouettes, etched in torrents of red rain, lashed sideways upon the outside walls of the tent. Ghosts, and blood of ghosts born over the battlefield, on banshee winds hurled up from the wild Irish Sea. In front of the tent, a terrible pain stabbed at his heart – a scene more sorrowful than bearing. “Amergin,” he whispered. Three battle weary warriors struggled at the ends of ropes, around the neck of an enfrenzied gray war-horse – the King’s stallion – his valiant battle companion for more than thirty years of warring. The beast, crazed with pain, thrashed between them, dragging, and tossing them like wet rags, desperate to be free. Oblivious to his war wounds, he skittered and reared, trying to bolt. Broken shafts of spears pierced his shoulders and flanks. Deep slashes laced his powerful chest. Arrows pierced his heaving belly as streams of blood trailed down over his legs, strafed with sword cuts. The aging stallion screamed, fierce and blood-curdling, charging towards the tent. The whites of his eyes shot with blood, as he tossed his proud head. His thick muscular neck, flexing and twisting, snake like. His massive rump bunched and coiled to bolt, rearing, and pawing the air. A profuse white mane and tail, blood-drenched and muddied, churned about him like the fury of tempest-tossed waves, spraying spirals of blood over his restrainers. Even as scarlet foam blew from his nostrils – barbed arrow tips twisting in his lungs. Still his great heart would not give in, he too, fighting to get to his beloved master. Setting – Inside King Brian’s Tent – Battle of Clontarf, as the slaughter closes in A single candle flame flickered . . . then sputtered . . . then glowed . . . first tentatively, then defiantly, in the darkness and drafts surrounding it. Though the battle raged ever closer. The screams of men, and the spear-gored war horse, shattered the coming twilight, together with the clang, and sparks of steel on steel, and flames of fiery torches, seething, and writhing upward in twisted funnels, to the blackening sky. Latean reached out his trembling and bloodied hand, and lit another . . . and another . . . and another, blinking away blurry haloes of light. The honeyed scent of bee’s wax wafted aloft, mingling with smells of smoke, and battle-sweat and charring flesh. Candlelight suffused the tent with a soft amber glow, casting molten shadows upon the walls, and illuminating the tokens of a Warrior’s lifetime of battle. In the center, of the tent, a roughhewn table, about which all of King Brian’s brave generals had sat. Lucifer’s minions – snakes in the grass, lying in wait . . . rabid dogs in the manger . . . wrist-claspers, and oath-givers, and vow breakers . . . Judases all! ”Now it stood soaked and dripping with hero’s blood, of their beloved Chief and King. Setting: Brian’s sword, his battle companion, carries his blood to the "book." (MacGuffin) . . . And in the hand, that still wielded it, a great double-edged sword – woven and forged in steel, tempered in the blood of murderers, and burnished with the blood of cherished ones, bearing his father’s name, his grandsire’s, and his father before him. The hilt and pommel filigreed with gold. The hand grip – stag horn wrapped in silver wire. Once, gleaming in the sun, held high before the Army of the Dal Cass, in battle-charge; or hilt up to make a cross, over a King’s blessing of his men, on bended knee, before waging war; or glistening in the prow of the lead war ship of, the Navy of Erin – Now, it lay cold and chipped, and darkly smeared – and still wet . . . As blood flowed from the mighty heart, along the scarred and sinewed arm, down the blade . . . and onto the tip, a pool of scarlet collected, then dripped down onto the page . . . of a book. Settings: The Shannon River - Gofraid’s dragonships on their way to attack Dead-eyed and soulless the dragons came. Preening black swans – their fine boned, worm-whorled prows and arched necks, skimmed the water, caressing their breasts, barely stirring a wake. Crimson sails billowed in the wind, from yew masts, like blood-eagled lungs from cloven-ribs of corpses, floating on the river Styx. They came without sound, without warning – reivers from Hell, in the dawning. And in each belly, Lucifer’s seed – One hundred mail-clad, pointed-helmed, steel-bladed Danes – engorged with mead, and bloodlust for rapine and ax-slaughter. On their arms, rings of silver and gold, filthy lucre for the children of Erin, sold as slaves to the harems of the Moor and Persian Kings. Atop each mast, a saffron banner thrashed in the wind – a tusked black boar, eviscerating a great horned stag – the banner of Gofriad, master of all, standing in the prow of the Long Dreki. Gofraid, defiler of children, and desecrator of Christian altars with innocent blood, throughout Angland, Frankland, Scotland, and Irland. Gofraid, son of Sigtrigg Gale, son of Sigtrigg Ivarsson, son of Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lodbrok – King of the Norse, and scourge of all Christendom. He had decimated Killaloe, and the Irish Tribal King of Thomond before, in his youth with his father. But enough time had passed for the boar-tough, Cennetig, of the Clann Dal Cais, to build up his stores of cattle, pigs, lamb and horses, and a round tower with treasures of precious gems and metals, forged steel blades, crosiers and crosses, silver reliquaries, horse-trappings, and bejeweled covers of their sacred books, illuminated in gold – And his stores of sons . . . Twelve he had now. None in all Norseland, could claim such a gift. Setting: The Nursery His crib, and then cot, being the one farthest in the corner of twelve, had made his life challenging from the get-go. At bedtime, before his Mam arrived to hear her boys’ prayers, as a babe he was tossed from one brother to the next like a chunk of turf . . . as a small boy, slung like a sheaf of goat turds . . . and more recently, hoisted aloft and jettisoned along over their heads, as they chanted “Who will score! Who will score! Until building up momentum . . . launched him like tossing the caber . . as close as they could get him to the piss-bucket in the corner. It took a few years, and although he was always accused of stinking the place up, by wetting the bed, to their mam, and the brunt of all manner of smirking, verbal castigation, facial contortion, and obscene gesticulations his way, while his Mam’s eyes were closed during the prayers . . . he never ratted them out. For which he earned their respect, if not mercy. As the mighty Bebinn, would have flogged their bowels out, for tormenting her. . . favorite one, her changeling babe, with the lovely red curls, left by the faeries, and not related a’tall to the rest of Cennetig’s hooligans . . . so they all mimicked. As time passed, he learned quickly, he could duck, tuck and roll, twist in midair like a cat, and land on his feet straddlin’ the bucket, without spillin’ a drop. With his brothers cheering him on, “The Runt holds, against the langers of Ulster!” Firbolg one! To Ui Neill pissers, none! Hie! Let’s hear for the Runt! Runt! Runt! And in their Mam would come, eyes a twinkle trying to keep a straight face with their Da’s hurl, flailing the air, and boys jumping up and down like fleas in a hot pot, sliotars whizzing, pillows, and feather beds, flying around the chamber, in a flurry of goose down and horsehair. And finally, Mam tuckin’ him in as she did all her boys and givin’ each a kiss, she’d bend low so only he could hear her, “I know ’twasn’t ye’r fault Bri. Did ye know, each of ye’r brothers was the Firbolg in his turn, your Da, and Grand Da, as well? Never ye mind, the day will come when ye’ll be as big as they are, and they’ll have to face ye in the Tourney for the wrestlin’ and all. And ye can show them then. Then she would bend close to his ear, and whisper, “Never forget . . . the finest steel, is hammered the most, and forged in the fieriest furnace!” Then she’d wink, eyes sparklin’ and full of the mischief, and kiss him on the forehead. “One day the Runt will rise!” She’d say . . . and I’ll be lookin’ down on ye with a smile on me face . . . me own little Bri . . . the bravest and fiercest Firbolg of all.” Setting: Family campfire in the graveyard, under the ancient oak of Mag Adair But . . . whatever it would cost him in the class of torment . . . he could conger up this very night, already. All his brothers gathered ‘round, a wink and a nod of affirmation from Father Maelsuthain, and his Da’s face all aglow with firelight and pride, at the telling of the battle of Brian and the great white sea-eagle for the most glorious salmon in all the world! . . . Well, young Brian, ye’ve got a warrior’s heart in ye, right enough, he’d say. No, Da could ask more of his son. . . All the rest of ye boys look to ye’r young brother . . . and remember this day . . . and his Da would grab him under his chin in the crook of his elbow, plunging his face into his rank hairy oxer, and rub his knuckles on the top of his head, the closest thing Cennetig ever gave to a hug . . . The grandest fish goes to the biggest heart, and the smallest cods, eh, lad! . . . . And there would be laughter and teasin’ for the Runt, the manky little Firbolg, and pride in the eyes of his Mam, and laughter and glowing faces all around – a cheer from the boys. A grand moment not soon forgotten . . .. Brian could feel the rush of devil-mongerin’ pride, risin’ up in him. There would be no weaslin’ out – ‘twould be runnin’ the gauntlet of slaughter – or die tryin’! Besides . . . he’d fought this battle before. Setting: The Chapel – In front of the door. Brian gestured with his hand up, casting an evil eye, and grunted for Chulainn and Lug to stay! And shush! Which they protested with a pitiful whining, Lug laying down with the long puss of the hang-dog look, and Chulainn panting, and whining, eyes on fire with mischief, like the wanton harlot, Queen Maeve of the North, looking for a quick bend-over the altar, so says his Da, in the tomb of Newgrange. And Brian had always wondered why she would bend over the altar to pray, instead of on her knees in front, like the rest of the world. . . but then she was the “wanton,” one, his Da always said, with a sly wink to him . . . and then, he’d always wondered what she was wantin’ for . . . her bein’ a Queen and all? She could have anything she wanted. He moved towards the door, crossing himself, as best he could with his hands full, and whispering a prayer, of thanks, like his Mam had taught him, for small blessings – like no piss bucket, and old Patrick’s Prayer . . . “Christ be before me” . . . he whispered, “Christ behind me . . . on me right hand, and on me left . . . “Which he always followed by a whispering of the battle cry of the Dal Cass, as he always heard his Da call out after a few too many ales – Here’s to singin’ the short and curlies, lads! May the flames of ye’r fires be short – and the arms of ye’r women be long! He wasn’t really sure of the meaning of it all, but he thrilled to the tears it brought to the old warrior’s eyes, as they nodded, and swilled in affirmation, to rid themselves of the lump in their throat, and banged their cups down upon the table, chanting, Dal Cais! . . . Dal Cais! . . . Dal Cais! He reached out, and with his dirty big toe – pushed ever so gently at the door . . . Setting: The door of Lachtna The thick Irish oak door, heavy as a cart of rocks, and hewn by Lachtna himself, to not only keep out the fustering Danes, but the hordes of godless Angles, and the odd Saxon, sniffin’ about for the south end of a ripe ewe. Not to mention, scarred with nearly two hundred years of ax, sword, and spear blade mutilations. Pissed on by more than a few drunken Danes, before they set fire to it – and pissed on, by more than a few drunken Dal Cass, to put the fires out . . . swung slowly open . . . The rusted-out, bog-iron hinges, forged in the time of Methuselah, let loose with a never-ending, banshee-screeching creak, to raise the headless bog sacrifices of the Fomorians. The clatter of the boys ceased, silence filled the void, save for the shrieking wail of the rusty door . . . As one by one, every head, every shade of red in the world, and slathered with freckles, face filled with a wonder, turned to him. Every satanic, mischievous green eye in the chapel gawking at his fish. Not a murmur, not a whisper, not a flutter of an eyelash filled the void, only . . . pure and utter reverence for the grandest, most glorious salmon in all this world! Setting: The Lay of the Land – Maelsuthain’s chapel Father Maelsuthain’s school, a small rectangular stone chapel, built in commemoration of when the first of the wild Pagan Clan Dal Cais, had stopped severing and collecting of the heads of other Clans’ men, for the decorating of their chariots. Long enough to be baptized by Patrick himself, with the first Priest-blessed water drops, ever taken from the Shannon. The oak table in front, now serving as an altar, still bore the ax-cleaving by his great, great, grand Da. Who, deafer than a yew post, took offence, mistaking Patrick’s odd speech of the North, and Roman ways to boot . . . splashing water on him, and waving his ram-headed crozier about, thought it to be an invoking of the banshees of black pools – to shag his mother – almost ended Christianity in Killaloe, before it began. But the gouge in the table, bore witness to the miracle – the staying of the blade of the old pagan – as all knew the fearsome old King never missed, when hewin’ off a head – ‘twas blessed by Patrick, still sportin’ a head, as a proof of the true Christian God’s, power. And so, the altar remained revered down through the ages. All subsequent children of the Clan, when baptized as a babe, had their tiny hand placed in the very spot where Patrick’s had been, for good luck, and long life in God’s blessing. Upon the altar stood a simple roughhewn cross, singed black on the top, and bottom, made from a branch of the ancient Druid Oak upon the hill of Mag Adair. When lightning struck and cleft the trunk down the middle, the tree survived; but the old King Lachtna with his sword in his hand, lit up like the shooting star named after the long arm of Lugh, sparks flying, eyes glowing red, smoke shooting from both his ears, and cursing like an Ulster goat-shagger – didn’t. So, the cross, stained with blood and singed hair, and declared sacred by Maelsuthain, his childhood friend – stood as a token of his oath to a dying King, that he would uphold the Clann, until his last stifled breath. And laid down the law, that all Princes of the Dal Cass must attend school, develop their minds, and be in their seats by the time the bell stopped ringing or pay what’s due. This vow insured Father Maelsuthain, would invoke God’s blessing, upon his pupils if he was in a good mood – and Lachtna’s, of the fiery temper, armed with the ashen hurl, he kept by the altar leg, if they were late. The good Father was a man of his oath, and the twelve sons of Cennetig had the splinters in their arses, to prove it. Narrator - Setting Ireland – Saga-teller – Hill of Tara – Foreshadowing, Intrigue, Suspense And so, the young cub, the sky-jewel of Irland, who burned brighter than all the rest . . . Would one day, consume the traitors, oath-breakers, snakes in the grass, Descending like an eagle, hurtling down from the sky, His shadow passed over moor, and meadow, and mountain, First to the South, and then to the East, and West and Northward, The breath of Erin, whispering his name before him, Mists through ancient stones, A shiver in the trees, A rustle of leaves, A ripple of quiet waters, Demon, they murmured . . . Drakkar-Slayer . . . And the cowards and murderers, and brokers of children, trembled behind bolted doors, Shivering in the dark, Their armies, in chainmail, with ramparts and moats, and murder holes surrounding them – A shield wall of cobweb, against the steel blade of a mighty Warrior’s heart, They hid and drank, and laughed aloud, Boasting in the company of their slaughter mongers, As if, when alone in the dark, they did not piss in their trews, And always, in their nightmares, they saw his specter, Wild and ruddy – Cennetig’s cub, The young lion in valor, Eyes gleaming, mouth agape, fangs bared, dripping with the blood of traitors, Coming for them . . . And all the while, One-Eye’s ravens, hovered – circling – biding their time – Until they slaked their thirst on coward’s blood . . . End Book I

Hi Coryn! Glad to see a friend again in the trenches. I love your story. It was my favorite. I'm going to the Pitch again in December. All the very best!!! ps. I'm probably submitting the wrong thing in the wrong spot again, but I wanted to say Hi!

HAMMERED STEEL CRIMSON FIRE – is two stories. One within the other. The true story of Brian Boru’s life from insignificant orphan to the only True and Rightful High King of Ireland, united in peace – book-ended, as you watch over Geoffrey of Monmouth’s shoulder, as he steals Brian’s life – His dreams, deeds, and glory; to fabricate a Hero for King Henry Ist – King Arthur of England. HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE ~ 6 Book Series The Life of Brian Boru High King of Ireland 951-1014 Based on a true story High Concept, Commercial Fiction History, Biography, Adventure, Romance, Intrigue, Mystery, War (No fantasy) Braveheart of Ireland meets Uhtred of the Last Kingdom, and the Da Vinci Code (Solving the mysteries of the Real, King Arthur, and the nature and location of the original Grail) Concerning ~ A boy who would never be King, A “certain most ancient book” that would never be found, A thief in the night who would never be caught, The most compelling mystery never solved, The most successful and perfidious fraud ever committed, The two most famous, enduring, and beloved, imposters of all time, King Arthur of Britain, and the Holy Grail, And the truth. Fact: - Geoffrey, cleric, of Monmouth Wales, in 1136, penned the first account of 5th century King Arthur of England. Despite what 800 years of historians, nonfiction books, documentaries, and scholars, claim – there is absolutely no mention of 5th century King Arthur, Hero, Defender, Uniter of Britain, before Geoffrey – not one. - Though, for centuries, historians and archeologists have searched England, for any evidence, the real King Arthur lived; or of Camelot, his castle; Avalon, the place of his burial; or Camlann, the site of his great final Battle – though some has been, speculated or fabricated – nothing has ever been found. - To date, experts have declared Geoffrey’s account of King Arthur of Britain, a king who: united his people, defended, won, restored his country, for a period of peace and prosperity, and finally gave his life in a final battle for the homeland he loved – a figment of Geoffrey’s imagination, a literary device, a myth, or compilation of several men. They adamantly claim – there never was a real man behind the larger-than-life legend, nor could there have been. - However, Geoffrey states quite clearly in his introduction, his source for King Arthur of Britain – “a certain most ancient book”, given to him by Walter, Archbishop of Oxford. - Norse, Njal’s and Thorstein’s Sagas, with accounts of the Battle of Clontarf, known as King Brian’s War, reference a book for their recounting, called – Brjans Saga – Brian’s Story. One of the great mysteries of Norse Literature, is what became of it. Although many Sagas of this period survived – Brjans Saga was “lost.” - Scholar, Einar Olafur Sveinsson, and academic Donnchadh O. Corrain, experts on Norse Literature and History, claim there must have been such a book, referenced by Njal’s and Thorstein’s Sagas, based on their accounting of events, from the Irish perspective, leading up to the battle of Clontarf. They hope one day it will be found. - The few Norse and their allies that barely survived the apocalyptic battle for Ireland, King Brian’s War, on Clontarf field, Dublin, Ireland, Good Friday, April 23rd, 1014, and made it to their ships, headed for the closest landfall – the Norse longphort, just across the Irish Sea from Dublin and the battlefield – Anglesey Wales. Book 1 ~ INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND ~ The Twelfth Son ~ And so, it was . . . That all of Killaloe lay smoldering in embers and ashes, And the Shannon ran red with blood of the sons of Cennetig, And blood red, the hills, and meadows of Erin. In years to come, the old ones would say, looking back at the time of dragonships, That was the day the Banshee of Craig Lia, who loved the boy, The last, and least of twelve sons, found him trembling, burned, and broken, And drenched in his mother’s blood, And she drew him to her breast, and wiping his tears away, blessed him with her own, For she could see the days to come – the evil, the horror – the seas of blood rising! And vowed she would be with him – even unto the end. Then Avril, of the high crag – guardian of the crumbling ring fort of Beal Boru, Shee of the ancient ones – riders of the white horse, mound builders, chariot racers, Raisers of stones – and the child of the last Thracian King, Issued forth a keening wail . . . an oath of reckoning . . . a vow, Even as the thinnest veil of moss, covers the ancient bones of Erin, So too, the sprinkling of a priest, binds the Warrior’s heart, All that is needed – a single thorn, borne on the wind . . . Then she placed her mark upon, The heads of his enemies, The soul of a priest, And in the hearts of three women. Then raging in wild and savage fury, Scored their fates, into the face of her cliffs, By thunder, of hammered steel! And lightening, of crimson fire! For the courage in the heart of the boy, Destined – him to be the one . . . The Instigator of freedom for Ireland! Part ~1 The Boy, The Book, and the Thief in the Night ~ The Saga-teller ~ Hill of Tara, Ireland April 23rd, 1137 “Tell us a tale,” the people called out in the night, and drew back like the tides of the Red Sea, “Of myths and monsters . . . of demons and dragons!” The old man, gnarled and weathered as a druid oak, made his way to the top of the windswept hill, drawing near to the fire. Then placed his hand upon the ancient pillar stone, gently as a grandfather caresses the face of a child. “I have no fairy tales,” he said. So, the people turned away, and went down from the hill. And the old man bent his head, so that his tears fell at the base of the Stone. But Eireann was listening . . .. And she summoned the wind and the waves from the edge of the world, over the Western Sea, and flung them into the cliffs, and hurtled her breath up and over the hills and valleys, tumbling in fits and torrents, and blew in their faces, and tore at their clothes, and fanned the flames of the fire, till sparks flew up into the night sky, to dance with the stars. Just then . . . The old man felt a tugging at his gown. A thorn in the wind, he thought, and tugged back. But the pesky thorn would not be denied and yanked harder still. So, he set his jaw, to give it a righteous thrashing – but . . . when he looked down, he saw, not a thorn bush but . . . a boy . . . a small boy, a thin and grimy and raggedy child, hair standing on end, eyes bright with longing. “Have, ye a true tale then, Sir?” the boy asked, “Of a real hero?” But he hesitated then, shivering in his thread bare rags, and looked down at his dirty feet, ashamed for he had no shoes. When he looked up again – ‘twas with eyes bright with tears . . . “Who was once an orphan child, that no one wanted . . . but, because he was brave, became something else, entirely?” The old man looked around the hill, but the child was alone, neglected and forgotten as the old stone. The strings of his heart tightened, even as his eyes stung. Fingertips traced along a scar upon his cheek, as if a touchstone to his memory, “Ah so,” he smiled, “I have a tale, of a boy who was brave. . .” He squinted then, and looked up into the night sky, searching the stars, and hesitating, as if he might have forgotten something – then, remembered. And looking down with a sly wink and a nod, “And a girl.” Then the old man looked out from Tara’s hill, to where moon shadows of clouds, raced in rippling waves over shimmering seas of grass. His rime-frothed hair, and cloak, and gown whipped madly about him, as sparks burst and swirled, blazing, but not as wild and brightly as his deep blue eyes. As though what he saw, belonged not to this night – but to another long ago. “The truest of tales,” he murmured, searching the stars, for just the right one, “The only kind told, by real heroes ‘round campfires in the sky.” But the people had gone down from the hill and turned their backs on the boy, the stone, and the stars. When the old man spoke again, ‘twas a fearsome thing – a rumbling, come from way down deep in the earth, up through the hill and the stone. The growling of a feral beast, to scold, and score, and shake the earth from its slumber, and wind blew over Hill of Tara, hurling his voice like rolling thunder, across the plains, over the mountains, and beyond the seas. “Oh, you foolish children, who seek what is not there, and never was – a reflection in the pool, a shadow upon the meadow, an echo in the hills – has no beating heart! Don’t you know, there can be no courage, nor valor, nor Hero, nor deeds worth remembering, nor story worth telling without truth. All else is chaff in the wind.” And Eireann’s breath whispered all around them, quickening every blade of grass, ruffling the leaves silver, and tumbling the clouds in moon-glow. . . “Listen well!” The old man roared, a mighty stag upon the mount. “For, I will tell you of a myth that is true, and of the monster who fed upon it, Of a boy who became a giant, and of the serpent who dragged him down to Hel, Of a light, a brilliant light, as bright as a blood-ember, glowing, And of a demon in the darkness, black as a tomb in a new moon, And of the shadow he conjured, that grew upon the wall, Twisting and writhing, and slithering through the cracks, Until it spread o’er the land, extinguishing the light, And with it came a pestilence, a poison, a plague, on the children of Eireann, To scorch and shrivel every meadow and flower, and dream and dawning, For every dew drop in Erin, turned to blood! And the most sacred of all fell on this hill, on this stone, on this very night . . . And it all began – the day the dragons came.” So, the people gathered once again around the Lia Fail Stone, the Stone of Destiny, upon the Hill of Tara. The crowning place of the ancient High Kings of Erin. The high hill between the Seas, where more blood and tears, lay shed, and dreams born and shattered, than any other. The old man put his arm around the shivering child and drew him into the folds of his gown. Then, borne up by the rushing wind, and the longing of a boy, he drew himself tall and straight as a yew mast, arms outstretched, cloak beating around him like billowed sails. His hoar-frost hair, a glowing banner of moonlight, whipped about like sea-frothed surf in the fury of a winter storm. Voyagers all – a ship in the offing – bound for the stars . . .. And the old man stirred the dying embers of their cold and empty hearts, searching for a Hero, as all men do. And set them ablaze with forgotten memories, and abandoned dreams, as his voice shattered the night, and shuddered the earth, even as thunder waves pounded the sea-cliffs to sand. . . “O’r the lap of the land, o’r Sea-kings’ road, From sea-eagles’ nest, on cragged mount, To fen of troll, in Hel-fires below, Dwell many thieves, Ring thieves, who steal a man’s silver and gold, Fiend thieves, who ravage homeland and savage loved ones. Demon thieves, who lie in wait to blood-eagle his soul, No matter, These treasures belong to the man and will fade soon enough. But – the most craven of all – are the Liar Thieves! Robbers of treasure that belongs to all men, for all time. Cowards, who claim another man’s glory, His courage, And his dreams, And the deeds that were his life, And call them their own. This I know. I saw. And I tell you now, the truth of it. For I, Sword-Dane, and Spear-Dane, and brother to God’s dastard, Was there in the beginning . . . the middle . . . and the end . . . I knew the boy, the young Rebel and Outlaw, the Warrior and the King, I held the book in my hands, I touched the blood-smeared names . . . And, I saw the Coward, thieving in the night!” Chapter 1 ~ PLAGUE RAVEN 1134 ~ Anglesey, West Coast of Wales ~ 3 years earlier Geoffrey of Monmouth, cleric to Walter, the Archdeacon of Oxford, perched on his stool like a plague raven gargoyle, casting a loathsome eye back and forth between the piles of musty manuscripts, and the trencher of spitted piglet carcass on the table before him. The corners of his right eye and mouth ticked spasmodically, like the twitching of maggots flicked onto red embers. And rightly so, for he drew nearer to a spit-scorching himself, every day. He’d exceeded his deadline for the King. There by, reneged on his contract, betrayed the trust, and spat in the face of the King’s generosity. Ah yes, and how had the First Henry put it? Coyly, with one arm about his shoulder, and his dagger in his other hand, the tip of the blade, darting about his face like a poison-fanged adder, as he walked him to window gesticulating East, over Wales to England. His broad sword and small mace jingling; and compliment of soldiers with all the aforesaid, as well as battle-ax, boar-spear, neck-cuffs, chains, and gaffing hook, helped to make his point. “You, Geoffrey, hold not only the outcome of my war with France – in your right hand – but my very life, and the future of all Britain, as well.” His eyes narrow-slitted, and glinting, “Do you think you can manage?” Geoffrey, his right hand usually occupied with himself, let go to wipe the sweat from his upper lip, and flap at his gown to fan the water running down his legs and moth-eaten stockings, into his scuff-worn sandals. Indeed, Henry 1st, King of England had decked the Tower of London, for Yule – with bowels and bollocks – for far less disappointment, than this. How his entrails would be removed to garland the Great Hall, and his cods to roast with the chestnuts, during the hymn singing, evoked in Geoffrey intolerable pain and a constant sweating, so that he wondered if he might be bleeding from every pore. He quickly crossed himself over the blasphemous thought, turning his gaze away from the waning sun’s rays, palely illuminating the three crucifixes hanging upon the stone chamber wall, above the fireplace before him. A thief on each side, and Christ in the middle, who loved scabby lepers, filthy Samaritans, and poxied prostitutes, diverted His gaze from Geoffrey as well. Glistening like a freshly boiled tripe, bald as a bladder and mottled as mange – pocked as a sea sponge, and as white and dimpled as a leavened loaf, needing to be punched – Geoffrey possessed the sweaty sheen about him of a cooling corpse, and the odor of a rancid sausage casings. His eyes bulged, black and bloodshot as festering buboes. Jowls hung swollen and hairless as milch cow udders. Nose inflamed and purple-veined, as a cankered teat with mastitis, he tended well with copious amounts of Sacramental red wine – the pilfered blood of Christ, meant for the poor. Pouring from a large pewter pitcher, he filled his Rhineland glass goblet, a parting gift from the King to the brim, and gulped greedily. Balm for his tormenting physical incarceration and mental self-flagellation, within the piddling tower chamber. With a pang of self-pity, Geoffrey acknowledged he’d seen horse stalls bigger and more congenial than this, and far less foul smelling. His chamber, a flue for the kitchen below, cow-pen, pigsty and stable just outside and up-wind, possessed stone walls stained with several hundred years of smoke and greasy soot, and infused with the smells of rotting rubbish heap, rancid swine slop, and pungent horse dung. In one corner, the stone floor opened to a steep and winding staircase down, contrived so that one Kingsman, with a sword in his right hand, could defend the tower against an upcoming horde of Saxons. Perhaps left-handed, he’d obviously failed his task, the filthy drunken Saxons having used his chamber for a privy for three hundred years, and the stench remained. In the other corner – a rudely constructed cot, lumpy with infested horse-hair mattress, home to bed lice, and other small vermin, attracting certain barn foul, which in turn deposited defecated remnants of said vermin, all over the contents of the chamber. Next to the bed, a small chest contained everything shabbily made and thread bare, he owned. And beside it, a wicker basket with his only other set of grimy linens, which the Archdeacon’s cat, following the Saxons lead, befouled on a regular basis as well. No, he’d had one thing and one thing only, of any value, his entire life – his mother’s little copper pot, he kept on the windowsill. Geoffrey sniffled. Every meal she had ever made for him, simmered in that pot, from nettle soup to mealy-worm gruel, and frog-broth when he burned with fever. She would cradle him in her arm while she stirred at it, telling him he possessed a poet’s heart and one day, he would be a great man, important to the King. And after she was gone, her cherished copper pot would be his, to remind him of her forever. Up until the day the King’s men burned the hovel down about her. She would not leave her only gift for him behind. And although she managed to fling it out to him, from the window, she succumbed to the flames. He scraped up what was left of her, after, with a scorched wooden spoon, and carried it with him in her pot, always placing her gently upon the windowsill, so she could see the hills of the west-lands, she loved. Geoffrey snorted, then poured liberally, raising his goblet, and toasted the barren sill. Then sloshed down another draught. All in all, his world – up until Henry Rex had trodged up the Saxon stairs, stood perusing his realm, took a piss out the window, and deposited the rancid eel he ate in France, into his mother’s little copper pot, could be summed up in two words – awful and offal. A tear rolled down his cheek, at least he had been blessed with the poet’s heart she longed for. But that was two years ago. And after Henry had trodged back down the stairs, Geoffrey vowed to rid himself of the pot, its contents, and all sentimentality with it. No more copper in his life – shimmering, pale green, Rhineland glass, silver chalices and golden adornments, crimson silk and finely laced-linens hovered on the horizon before him. Even, as odious as the task of extracting a credible history had become, the plethora of manuscripts piled high around him, lay upon a beautifully carved and highly polished table of English oak. The King’s Oak. And everyone in England knew to pluck even a branch of the King’s Oak, meant being skinned alive and boiled in oil. The table, yet another gift from Henry, to grease the skids, he said, of the project, along with a silver ring inlaid with a large sapphire and engraved with the King’s initials, HR – Henry Rex. And no one doubted Henry’s ability at . . . skid-greasing . . .. He’d the reputation of procuring whomever, and whatever he wanted, in the class of human, flora or fauna, Abbess, novitiate, or mutton, in several kingdoms. Lucky Geoffrey, he reminisced, dabbing at his forehead with his sleeve, and pulling on the chaffing neck of his gown, receiving a commission from the racking, and disemboweling King, Henry I, to write a History of the Kings of Britain from the Trojan horse, to time remembered. “A gift to his people, from their beloved Monarch”. Henry gloated, displaying brown teeth, and purulent gums, “A beacon of inspiration for the ages! Something for them to revere me by!” But Henry lied. For his “Historia” was to be a scheming far more insidious than that – and he, Geoffrey – complicit. His innards grumbling, and outards shriveling, he considered what would happen if he failed to deliver the wherewithal for the King’s intrigue . . . "Concerning Geoffrey of Monmouth – Oath-breaker! Procrastinator! Renegar! Of the King’s good grace! Shall be taken to the Tower, forthwith. To be mutilated, drawn, and quartered! Each limb to the four corners of the Realm! Head on a pike, cods on a skewer, what is left, interred in an iron basket, to dangle above the castle gate, until his maggot-ridden flesh should rot, and bones fall to the ground to be eaten by worm-infested dogs, carried away, buried, and pissed on by drunkers and scabied crones, from this day, and henceforth!" Geoffrey poured another goblet full, the translucent pale green, shimmering in the firelight, his eyes stinging, a knot rising in his throat. What else could he do? Thanks to Walter, the Archdeacon, his superior and benefactor – from whom all moldy porridge, runty-piglets, and slatternly necessities in life flowed – The King of flogging England had promised him, upon completion of his task: The Priesthood, an anointing in Westminster Abby to Bishop, consecration to Archdeacon, with a position at Aslaf, and – his pending missive, Historia of the Kings of Britain to be published, to the far reaches of Christendom, ad infinitum. Not to mention, recognition and acceptance in the courts of Kings, with good food, fine robes, a feather bed, no doubt his choice of belly-warmers, and everyone genuflecting before him, and kissing his right hand all the time, bearing the bejeweled ring from the King. He, Geoffrey, lowly cleric from Monmouth, who would otherwise be trapped in the cave-infested, midden-heap of Anglesey, in the farthest foul dregs of west Wales, beyond the outer edge of the Roman Empire and civilization, and the closest landfall to the barbaric Irish. Even mighty Caesar, though he conquered the rest of the world – loathed to go to Ireland. And if he refused? His future loomed bleak. Nothing had ever come from puking Wales, beset with superstitions, ghosts of ghoulish Danes skulking in the mists, and wailings echoing throughout the hills of evil otherworldly demons. The last of the headless Celts, festering in tombs, and bansheeing about in vile winds, forever blowing over from the Irish Sea, with the fetid breath and blustering bowels of the Irish! Geoffrey sloshed himself another glassful, consumed with melancholy, tipped, and guzzled. And why should he alone, bear the burden of the fate of Britain? The fact of the matter – Henry 1st, King of England, Scotland, Wales, and Duke of Normandy – 4th son to bastard, William the Conqueror, and some whispered, father to at least 22 ill-conceived gammy get out of bowlegged sheep on both sides of the Channel. Though over-sexed and nonselective, remained incapable of producing, even one living legitimate son. Geoffrey grunted – that made Henry, 0 for 22 – an astounding feat in any wager hall in all of Christendom. And with a new wife, pronounced, pox-free, womb-worthy, sluice-sanctified, younger, and ever more virginal than her predecessor. And although, with everything considered, and the odds favorable for his success upon his return from war; many of his subjects lined up to accept the wager – against their King. In fact, Geoffrey mused blurrily, jokes aplenty were chortled in the shadows of every castle, ale house, and sacristy. And written on privy walls from Cardiff to Whitehall, inspiring him to wax poetic – a ditty concerning the new odds of the King managing a legitimate son, in his own bed. He sneered sadistically. A hymn of sorts, from the soon to be Archbishop, to his beloved benefactor – Henry Rex. Refilling and swilling, abandoning for a moment his besotted melancholy, and normally dour and petulant demeanor, he raised his goblet to the Crucified, jowls aquiver, and broke into an unholy, hand slapping, foot stomping, slurry of tone-death, song . . . “Whilst Henry was off fighting his wars and tending his wounds, His nobles, guards, and grooms of the stool tended his wombs, So, by the time he returned in the spring, His odds had taken an insufferable swing, His fields – over tilled – and amply slung, Well seeded – and deeply plumbed . . . Possessed a far greater square acreage, Then his entire Kingdom!” “Ha!” Geoffrey smirked wickedly at the poetic irony, tinging the glass goblet with his crusty brown, rat-gnawed, third fingernail. Thus, Henry’s once favorable odds for success – Now, down the privy – floating with Mum!” The fact of the matter – the King of England, brutally successful in all things base or unconscionable, waxed undisciplined in all things kingly or sanctified. Simply put, Henry I, the rutting old whore-hound, lived to run trash – in the hunt, and out. And now out of money for his wars, sporting a raging brothel disease, with only one legitimate daughter, and in dire need of his people accepting his eldest bastard son, Robert 1st Earl of Gloucester, as heir – he expected Geoffrey to rectify the rat's nest, of all his many bastards – in his family tree, buried in the roots, and stinking up the place. And he expected him to accomplish this feat, a fortnight ago, before he returned to England from France. . . any minute now, still steaming from battle, sword bloodied, pissed off, broke again, with a full bladder, itchy crotch, empty bollocks – the apparent curse of his Viking forefather, Ivar the Boneless – and a frustrated yearning to mutilate something! Geoffrey swiped at his tears and sweat, mixed with pigeon dung, dripping down his barren pate with a malodorous sleeve. Then deposited it again with two swipes across both cheeks. All the while, his stomach howling from hunger, and bowels convulsing in terror Hazily drawn back to the moment, sniffling, he remained wretchedly racked by two pressing problems. The first – the didn’t know whether to eat or shite. And the second – Geoffrey concealed a secret of his own . . .. As if on cue, a spasmodic coughing echoed through the tower, from the adjoining chamber, a croaking, huffing, gaging, hurling fit of what he knew to be a greenish slurry, of phlegm, a congealant, looking considerably like moldy bread pudding, spraying the walls, oozing from the pustules of fetid rot in the occupant’s lungs. Hocked up, and spit everywhere, except into the spittle pot. Followed by an intense wheezing and choking as air was sucked in, along with whatever congealed, yet un-hocked. Just when he thought his plight couldn’t get worse – the grunting of a wild boar rooting for truffles, combined with the wheezing of a heevy horse, filtered up the stair-well. Walter, the Archdeacon, with the paunch of a pregnant palfrey, flatulent and stiff with gout, lumbered up the winding stone stairs of the keep, bracing himself against the wall at the top, scarlet faced and puffing like a blacksmith’s bellows. In one corpulent fist he pressed a lace-embellished handkerchief to his copse of sprouting nose-hair, bearing the embroidered emblem of Pope Innocent II. In the other – an item of dubious origin, and malodorous construction, he dangled as far away as possible from his person. Geoffrey sucked his tongue against the back of his teeth, waggling his own itchy ballast against the stool, resentful for the piling on of his other piles – yet another manky missive, from the puffing little pisspot. Needing fortification, he funneled more of the sacramental red wine, first into his goblet, swigged it, and then sloshed it around in his mouth and through his sparse teeth. Puffing out first one cheek, then the other, and finally down his gullet, belching loud and long, with great satisfaction at the perceived quavering Crucifixes. Even by candlelight, and brined in wine, Geoffrey discerned the hideous thing could never have been any sort of a book, as might have been passed down by a family of nobles. Newborn calf-vellum meticulously tied into folio and bound with fine leather, in any reasonable way. Nor a manuscript of venerable worth, scrolled and wrapped in velvet, and embroidered with silver thread, as one would find in the collection of the Holy Church. Nor was it finely rendered in unborn translucent lambskin, illuminated in gold-leaf, embellished with silver trappings, and ensconced in a bejeweled reliquary from the library of the King. To the contrary, it appeared more like the hideous saddle bag collection of used privy papers, belonging to a vile Visigoth in the sacking of Rome. Sneezing convulsively, Walter waddled and wheezed over to the desk, dropping the repugnant midden heap, in front of Geoffrey, in a puff of dust, and other indistinguishable flotsam. Then snorted into his linen and lace handkerchief, blowing like a trumpeter swan, the congealant from each nostril. Inspecting it thoroughly, he continued, “Some foul relic of a waesucks, looking as though he’d been tossed from a godforsaken dragon ship, a century ago, showed up at the door. Had the manner of the churlish Irish about him, mumbling codswallup about a High King . . . as if there’s anything higher than a King! . . . soused old sarder, lying on the front steps like a worm-infested dog. Had him doused with a bucket of cold water . . . then hot piss, and sicked the hounds on him, but he refused to leave until you were given this . . . this . . . sheer bloody evil . . . Heard you’re compiling a record of Kings.” Walter sneezed, spasmodically, beflummoxed by vapors in the air. . . “As if that old boothahler would know anything of Kings! I was afraid he’d die on the doorstep, let loose of his pesty bowels, and spread the plague . . . Anything to get rid of him . . . the filthy, pribbling old stank!” He turned and fled the chamber, groaning and wheezing, his slack rear sally-port flapping like wet laundry, in a stiff March breeze. At the top of the stairs, he called back to Geoffrey, “The crazed old laggard kept mumbling something about . . . the grayest . . . or gravest . . . rubbish like that . . . King that ever lived! . . . Can you imagine that . . . by Satan’s hairy ass! . . . If he’s ever been close to a real King, I’ll drink the piss pot next time . . . the gorbellied old gudgeon.” And with that, the dried-up old chitterlings, puffing and grunting, lumbered his gout-oozing legs, and dying bagpipe effluvium back down the Saxon stairs. Geoffrey sighed heavily, closing his eyes, and bowed his head, sanctimoniously, feigning prayer. Then with a momentary air of abject concentration – heaved a rancid belch, before reluctantly studying the loathsome pile of middlings upon his desk, nose twitching, striving to separate the fetid reek of the bundle, from the fomenting dregs of Walter. His entire face puckered in disgust, ultimately deeming his latest acquisition far worse – reeking as a kilted Celt’s saddle blanket, and rank and worn as the womb, of the brothel-bred, third wife of Claudius. Whatever would he want with a grayest or gravest King? Just what he needed, an account from one half-dead old scrote, to another half-deaf! Requiring further sustenance, he poured another brim full, sucking greedily, until breathless, eyes watering, belching like a bloated toad. Well, he had to admit, it would be original . . . an old and dignified King. If there was one thing, that the piles of manuscripts in front of him, and the piles in his ass, for the last two years, bore witness – in the entire privy-porridge before him – old kings, as well as dignified kings, didn’t exist. And for good reason; they were a miserable, sadistic, gold-grubbing, mank-mongering, brutish bunch. In fact, all Kings, he had found so far, waxed more of the: brutal-torturing, limb-quartering, treacherous-poisoning, eye-gouging, bowel-extracting, tongue-lopping, burning at the stake types. Hated by not only their enemies, and own people, but by kith and kin as well. And deservedly so, all of them tormenting him now with their tediously unremarkable lives. Apparently unworthy of any sort of a mention at all – the boring, abysmally inconsequential bastards! . . . What’s he supposed to do, make the rubbish heap up? He fought to swallow the lump in his throat, a fuzzy moment of melancholia, washing over him. Casting a furtive glance towards the wall, he wondered if he were being condemned to Purgatory by the all-knowing, ever-present, all-powerful Crucified Christ. In all the stacks of manuscripts and books on his desk, and four centuries of dredging up every old geezer: Gildas, the Venerable Bede, Nennius, Welsh Annals, Anglo Saxon Chronicles, and God help him – the fomenter – Ireland’s Patrick! . . . even flogging Beowulf! – Who all claimed to make record of the history of Britain, after the Romans fled; none of them mentioned a King of Britain by name, who rose to defend against the barbarians, won battles, restored peace, and united the Kingdom – not fetching one! Henry’s command: “I need a King! A great Warrior! Defender against invading Saxons, and Franks, Sacker of Ireland, Guardian of Christendom, a Uniter and Protector of his people, and Bestower of Peace and Prosperity! A Hero among men – a shining light upon the hill against the black plague of filthy Barbarians!” Then, affably placing his arm around Geoffrey’s shoulder, he slid it further along, until locking his head in his clenched elbow, just at his throat. He squeezed, teeth grinding, voice growing ever more menacing and thunderous – “What I need now, cleric – succinctly . . . is Precedent . . . to invade Ireland! . . . the ignorant little pissants would rather give their gold and silver to God, then to their King, and stubborn too . . . I’ll have to slaughter them all, to get it. And to butcher fellow Catholics – which I might add, has never been done before – even Irish Catholics – I need a Papal Bull . . . and that I need, that before my doddering, moldering, bribable, English Pope, is supplanted by the German anti Pope. He growled menacingly, “Which means you’ll have to hurry, or we’ll all be gagging on head cheese, and sauerkraut!” Henry Rex, wild-eyed, red in the face and raging, bellowed into his ear. . . “No one seems to understand the stress I am under – the bloody bastards! It costs, to make war on everyone, in this country and out, and on both sides of two seas. Do you see my predicament now – Geoffrey – hopelessly insignificant, smelly little flea-infested cleric of Monmouth?” King Henry the 1st, pressed his cold wet lips, and putrid hot breath against his ear, snarling like a baited bear – “Precedent Geoffrey. He’s in your piles somewhere – find him!” Geoffrey swayed on his stool, his face puckering to fight the tears, and raised his blurry glass, delivering a swaggering toast, to the eminent specter of the King, who would soon appear at top of the stairs. “Well, come on up Harry, you boneless little bastard, and have a good and close looksee at my piles, why don’t you” . . . he garbled, gulping and welling up with melancholy, eyes brimming, throat tightening even as visions of flames engulfed him . . . the sounds of his fat crackling, the smell of his own searing flesh and singeing hair, what was left around his ears – his carcass, and little stunted pink and hairless chestnuts, crackling on a stick over the brassier of some cankered toothless hag, gummed to death, hawked out, and frog-gulped by a filthy mongrel dog, and cast off as a hairy, toothy turd. Gasping for air he slammed the goblet down on the table. It shattered in his hand. A drop of blood oozed from a tiny, imperceptible sliver of glass in his palm. Sniveling, his breath catching, he held his hand up for the three wavering Crucifixes to see, lower lip quivering, “As if any of you give a rat’s ass!” Well, he’d checked his piles. There was no such beloved British King, Defender, Uniter, Protector, Sacker of Ireland, named in all bloody Britain . . . not bloody flogging one! Geoffrey sniveled and wiped again. First his nose, then his eyes on his threadbare crusty-sodden sleeve, smearing pigeon dung anew, from cheek to crevasses of jowl. He could see it now . . . Henry’s ghost clanking up the stone stairs in his bloodied armor, spurs clinking across the wooden floor. He hovered at his shoulder with his steel-studded mace, swinging in a calculated arc, that if moved the width of a ferret’s fanny, would crush his skull . . .. “Well, let the fusty-lugging Henry come.” He drooled. If he was to be carried away to the Tower of Whitehall. any moment upon the Rex’s return, he might as well enjoy himself. He raised the pitcher, in toast, to the three blurry crucifixes – “To imposters and thieves all – and last suppers!” Then swilled his well-deserved draught to the dregs, just to spite them, wine running in rivulets down the corners of his flaccid lips. With soused and reckless abandon, he would deny himself no longer. He cast all thought of deadline and disembowelment out of his mind and pulled the wooden trencher closer. He studied the roasted little corpse before him from every angle. . . the sheen of grease, the curling of the rind around the edges, the shimmer of seeping fat. De-spitting it, his mouth watered at the bloody oozing of juice, from the gash along the belly, as he rubbed his thighs together tingling in anticipation. Tucking the white linen tablecloth into the crusty neck of his frayed woolen gown and pushing up his sleeves; he commenced the only thing that felt good all day – tearing limb from ribs, skin from breast, popping joints, excoriating bones with his teeth and tongue, his cheeks twitching like a toad-stuffed weasel. A teeth-sucking, fingernail-tooth plucking, messy business. When he realized, rather stuporously, bits of flesh, and juice splashing around the trencher upon his own ink-blotched, scratched-through, pigeon-dunged, manuscript. His bowels convulsed again, clenching in spasm, at the reminder of his own work. Two years’ worth of heartburn and bowel-bloat, a hodge-podge of wizards and dragons, Trojan Horse to Vortigern hog-swill. In a drunken quandary, he surveyed the table covered with antiquated lore, on loan from some stogy self-righteous Venerable or another. All of whom he had to bow on his knees and kiss their rings, and pimpled, hairy asses, in return for their sacred manuscripts. Always on the right hand . . . well he knew where their right hand had been, the same place he kept his! A flood of self-pity washed over him – strangely followed by something else . . .. He spied the only missive, whose mutilation wouldn’t mean his own fat, bursting and oozing in runnels of grease, into the fire. Reaching out, he stabbed his greasy knife tip into the pile of grimy rags and gaffed the Visigoth’s privy-papers closer. Upon blurry-eyed inspection, he thought it was quite possibly the most befouled pile of scat he had ever seen. It appeared to be slovenly wrapped in tatters of squalid linen, begrimed with sard knows what, and carelessly leather bound in tough old cow hide. As if a child had fashioned it from a sharp rock, a dull blade, and cured it in reechy curds. Black as pitch from smoke, green with mold, and rodent chewed along the edges; it appeared to be warped from sea water and cured with salt-scum. And for a moment . . . he could almost see . . .not blurry like everything else in the chamber . . . but clearly . . . the image of it . . . the old book washed up on a distant shore, mixed with flotsam of pink foam, and the blood and gore of mutilated bodies . . . the waves tugging and flipping the pages . . . and running the ink . . .transforming the words . . .. He rubbed at his eyes, just as quickly, the image went away. A drunken belligerence followed. He would show Walter, the King, and the old scutters on the steps, just what he thought of his newest acquisition. His brain wallowing in wine, and the room swaying, he roughly sheared the tattered covering away with his grease smeared blade. Then sliding the tip underneath, severed the layers of contracted thin leather thong, wrapped around it, binding the leaves of calfskin together. As he did, the roar of wind from over the Irish Sea throttled through the window, blowing open the shutters, banging them against the stone wall, and careening through the chamber, fanning the flames of the brasier, sparks flying, all around him, whipping loose velums from the Venerables, around the chamber, in a maelstrom, swirling in a vortex of ancient texts. Geoffrey grabbed at them, trying to keep them from igniting, or being sucked out the window. Geoffrey froze . . . He heard something . . . a voice? A wave of dread washed over him, and even – guilt, as if he were somehow – trespassing . . . or worse – violating . . . and even more than that, before the scowling crucifixes – profaning. He quickly crossed himself, sloppily missing each intended mark. Then let the pages loose. Rattled, and wild-eyed, he reached for the pitcher again, raised, tilted, and swilled long and hard, sucking at the empty brim, until slamming it down on the table, swiping at the crimson dribbling down his chin. This time, he would be master of his own destiny, rejecting the prompting to leave the book intact. He stood over it, inspecting it with all the cunning of a drunken butcher and grunting like a lusty bull; he thrust the tip of his knife into the heart of the book. He stabbed, and gouged viciously, piercing deeply, and in increasing rapid succession, as if slaughtering a tough old sow, that wouldn’t fall to her knees. The vellum pages, brown with age and welded together, seemed unwilling to give up their secrets, clinging to the leather covers, as if bound and sealed by some unfathomed covenant. Then standing to gain leverage, he put his full weight into it, prying the lacerated calf skin, open, until he had enough to grip. Flopping his weight upon it, he wrenched the covers down, splintering the spine apart. The sinew binding the leaves together ruptured. Until it lay, like a deboned chicken, filleted and flattened, a broken thing. The vellum, stiff and crusted together with what appeared some sort of mold, muddied, and darkly stained, quivered in shreds, so that various strips of flayed skin lay in mess of disparate layers, indiscernible as pages in form or content. The mutilation left him breathless, heart pounding and exhilarated, for once in his life, he reigned as the only Master and subjugator of his realm. The brutality serving to whet his appetite even more. He slid the eviscerated carcass under his trencher of piglet, so that its insignificance, might further serve his appetite. It felt good to let the bits of torn flesh and ruptured tendon fly, and the juice splatter, and the grease run all over the grimy old pages – the one bit of flotsam in his life, no one would miss. He belched, cheeks puffing, lips flapping, spitting out the bones, once slurped and sucked of marrow, upon the old book. He let the fat drip, and bloody juice ooze off the trencher on to it. The thickest grease, salty and sweet, running down through his fingers, he savored before it could get away, plunging each appendage into his mouth, one after the other. Circumventing each joint, he licked, working his way down to the fist and finally backing out, while sucking it clean. His lips pursed around each one, as pink and puckered as the tail-end of a winking she-goat in heat. Then wiped, first the front and then back of his slimy fingers, off on the pages, smudging charcoal, and soot, and foraged on, until the last, canted beam of setting sunlight withdrew from the arrow-slitted window. There! The goose flesh rising, like a plucked chicken, on his hairless arms, in mid-mastication of the suckling creature’s heart. He strained to see in the dimming light, his mouth slack and gaping, like the wanton lips of the Sheela-na-gig of Rattoo. With a taper, he lit a candle and moved it closer, straining to see in the darkening chamber, struggling to find again, the melding and morphing phrase of words that had caught his eye – now illusive . . . He pushed his trencher and assorted bones, and the worst of the bloody juice off the dismembered pages, carelessly onto the rest of the Venerables’ manuscripts. Then moved the candlestick closer, until the incandescent light, illuminated the scourged and bloody skin before him. With grease-slicked fingers, he tried frantically, to smooth out the mutilated vellum, to make sense of it. Upon closer inspection, he found it to be a muddle of mismatched drawings, words, and images, faces and places, creating a riddle of sorts, in a jumble of bits and ragged pieces. Utterly sloshed, eyes blood-shot and blurry, he thought he had seen a phrase, a run of words that intrigued him. But try as he might, he could not get them back. He licked his corpulent thumb with a thick tongue, again and again, and shoved the tattered, pieces back and forth, smudging the inked words and images, desperate to find the right combination to patch together an entire page . . . Dragon heads with tongues extended . . . mouths dripping with blood . . . flames leaping high, consuming cots of a ringfort . . . shooting out from a round tower windows . . . enfrenzied horses, eyes wild with fear . . . hideous monsters, bearded, with fangs . . . a chariot flying through the air, one wheel landing . . . the face of a beautiful little girl . . . a small boat with oars and mast . . . swords dripping with blood! He flipped down a strip of tattered vellum – not dragons but Dragonships! And the monsters – Northmen in pointed helms and chainmail, with battle-ax, and broad-sword – all rendered in the primitive hand of a child. There . . . from the fractured spine of the book, protruded the tip of a quill, feathered in variegated stripes of white and dark gray, and stained a faded and rusty pink. He tugged at it, and out it came, along with a legion of – wispy milk-weed seedlings – of all things. Hovering around his head, on his face, in his eyes. He swatted at them. To no avail, as they swirled around him, floating on the drafts, luminous in the quavering candlelight of the chamber. The tip of the quill, darkly stained, had been carved into a point. Inspecting it for sharpness, he tapped it against the vellum, a fine dark-rust colored powder fell upon the page, the pungent odor – moldering blood. Distracted, he sucked at the back of a broken tooth, spit on the tip, of the quill, wiped it on the page, then used it to pluck a stubborn bit of bowel sheath out, from between his festering gums and blackened teeth, all the while inspecting the page before him. Then slurped the bit of sheath, off the tip, fondling it with the tip of his tongue, savoring, and swallowed. Strangely, the rust-colored powder had fallen into a pool of grease, upon the aged manuscript before him. There . . . beneath the grease . . . words he could barely make out. He wiped at the pool, smearing it with a large suety thumb. It immediately turned to a bright crimson streak of what appeared to be fresh blood. He swiped again, and beneath the bloody smear – words appeared – still illegible. He reached for the pitcher – empty, save for a few drops, and frantically shook the last of the Sacramental wine upon the letters. It pooled over the stain on the page, stripping away grease and grime, time, and ages until – there they were . . . Again, came the wind, blasting the shutters open, hurting them into the wall, rupturing the hingers, in an explosion of wooden splinters, and whirling around the chamber, sweeping the pages of the Venerable ones up and hurtling them around, the flying sparks igniting them into flames! As they flew up, swirling around the tower, and out the window. But Geoffrey, paid no mind. For upon the flayed calf skin before him, streaked with crimson blood – lay the fragment of words that had eluded him, in all the venerated piles of manuscripts. Words of the pleading old scutters on the doorstep, Words the stone-deaf Walter didn’t hear, Words for which he had been searching desperately, for two years, Words that might just keep his fat from sizzling in Henry’s fire, The very words to seal his future, filled with gold and silver, crimson and lace, and Kings kneeling before him, to kiss his ring . . . Written in blood . . . Bound and sealed in blood . . . And redeemed only – by the blood of Christ . . . “. . . the greatest High King who ever lived . . ..” (Geoffrey continued bookend for end of book I) Geoffrey froze . . . mind racing in reckless abandon . . .. He began to pace back and forth, across the chamber, eyes locked upon the blood-stained, wine-blurred words, his besotted brain, sloshing around inside his skull, with him. Is it possible, he possessed the only book in the world with a record of, “The greatest High King that ever lived!” He savored the words slowly. It was true, that on the West Coast of Wales, rumors were heard in drunken ale halls, and scratched on the walls of privies, and murmured in the cobwebs and shadows of the superstitious Welsh. He’d heard tall tales of an Irish King, that all the people loved, who fought great battles, against Sea-raiders, and Irish traitors, to achieve what all knew to be impossible – peace in a united Ireland. “Ha!” He sneered, “As if anyone would ever believe that!” Only to be betrayed by his very own his wife, and stepson, enticing a huge Viking army to come and sack the Isle, steal the treasure, kill the King, and all for the very hand, of his cuckolding wife of astounding beauty! What was it the Sagas called her . . . the “balm in bed for her many Kings!” Rubbish! But they were just tales, murmurings, gossip, who would believe that an Irish King accomplished what no British King or Roman Emperor had? Ridiculous! Still . . . he could drop the High – sounded too Irish . . . The Greatest King who ever lived?” “Well,” smirked Geoffrey . . ." I’ll give old Henry Rex what he wants . . . a Hero for Britain, who invaded Ireland. and every place else!" Once the British had a Hero of their own, who would give a ferret’s fart, about an extinct Irish Hero? Certainly not England, and France, and the rest of the world! Geofrey giggled -" I'll give Henry his Hero - a bloody Emperor of all Britian! Geoffrey grabbed up the hem of his moth-eaten gown, and diddling a tone death tune, began to dance around, like a princess in anticipation of the ball. He dipped and whirled, toes pointed, lifting his skirts, in a dance for joy. As the shutter’s blew open again, and the wind hurtled in, sparks flying from the nearly dead brazier, igniting the flying pages, and the smoke and ashes and sparks flew out into the night. Geoffrey, giggled, and pranced about, in wild and reckless abandon . . . Twas then the voice came again . . . murmuring . . . “Geoffrey . . . Geoffrey. . . What profit it a man . . . if he gain the world – but lose his soul?” Geoffrey wheezed and grinned coyly. This time he knew the answer . . . and he picked up the pitcher of red-wine and tipped it sucking at the brim . . . but it was dry. And he looked at the words of the page of the old book, where the last of the Sacramental wine, pooled across the words, that would give him all. . .. And he took his knife and spearing the page of vellum, ripped it out of the book, and holding it up so that the Crucifixes might witness, licked the page, the last drop of Sacramental wine, the ink, and the words, until they could barely be seen. Then grinning and drooling at the Crucifixes, eyes glinting black and empty and red as coals, For he knew the answer to the riddle . . . And he queried . . . “What does it profit a man, to gain the world – but loose his soul? . . . . . . “Why 30 pieces of” . . .. and he hesitated then, for he knew the scripture well – 30 pieces of Silver, was the price Judas received, for betraying Christ to the Romans. Then, feigning piety, he stood at attention, and saluted the image of Christ on the wall . . . and the two beside him, thieves, nailed to a cross for stealing a bit of bread, who would, before the end of the day, be with Christ in Heaven. Then sweeping his arm across the table, hurling the Venerable’s manuscripts around the chamber, pages igniting in the brazier, then snatched up by the wind, swirling, in a vortex of smoke and ash, sparks and flames – he reached for the only thing left on the table . . . a strange looking pouch, of indistinguishable material, shabby, and slightly hairy, and warty looking. Yet when Geoffrey shook it, it jingled like the bells, of the Sacrament in Winchester Cathedral. Because he had already chosen – crimson silks, lace, silver and gold, the company of Kings, fame, fortune, glory, and copies of his Epistle read round the world – ad infinitum. Geoffrey grinned, with his darkly, ink stained, slack lipped, lips and drooling, as he held the strange bag up to the Crucifixes . . . eyes lit up, red and glinting, as the handmaiden of Lucifer . . . “Why” . . . he giggled – “It profit me . . . 30 pieces of . . . Gold!” Chapter 2 ~ WOLVES AT THE EDGE OF NIGHT King Brian’s War ~ Clontarf Battlefield ~ Dublin Ireland ~ Good Friday April 23rd, 1014 124 years earlier Young Latean, attendant to the High King, thrust his foot up and down with all his might into the mutilated face of a youth not much older than himself, but the mass of gutted wound-slurry would not let loose of his ankle. A ghastly claw, white and bloodless, tethered him to the battlefield of blood and gore – the specter of death haunting the corpse’s eyes, plotting to drag them both down to hell. He swiped at his eyes with a blood-soaked sleeve, and kicked frantically until his shoe slid off, talon and all, then staggered on up the battlefield, towards the tent at the top of the hill. He bore a message for the Ard Ri, he’d sooner cut out his heart than deliver – but deliver it he would. The gory dead conspired to trip him up, their severed heads and limbs scattered among their own entrails. The dying moaned out to him and tore at his clothes. He slipped and fell, again and again, crawling on his hands and knees, retching, and gasping for air. Blood, warm and cold and clotted as blood pudding, oozed through his fingers. Smoke and ashes seared his lungs. Scarlet spurted from sword slashings and dripped in stringy rivulets down from tree branches overhead, upon his face. The salt from the blood, mixing with the salt in his sweat-soaked tears, ran into his eyes, stinging and blinding him so that he could not see. All around him, the great oaks of Tomar Wood grew black with ravens, as corpses twitched and writhed from hill to sea. He struggled to stand, and clinging to a sapling, looked back down the battlefield, his stomach revolting at the sickening stench of burning flesh and ruptured bowels. The pallor of death had spread over the land, strewn with corpses, gray and bloodless. For it was all on the field – all the blood in the world, oozed and gushed, and seeped onto the mud and trampled flowers of Clontarf meadow. To the West, the last of the sun, blazed like a dying ember in a windblown fire. To the South, black smoke churned, and carcass-flames leapt up from the walls of Dublin Castle into a scarlet sky. To the East on the seashore, Danes, drowning in chainmail thrashed at water’s edge, flickering silver and blue, in scarlet foam, like a bucket of bait-herring. Their dragon ships, born out and away by the high tide and offshore wind, drifted empty and rudderless. All around him, the edges of the earth, burst into flames. And all the while, Erin’s treasure, in a river of crimson, flowed down the battlefield, across the strand, and into the Irish Sea, staining the dark green, like red wine spilled onto a silken gown. For bestowed overall, meadow, man and beast, a blessing – an Irish blessing of blood, borne, on a crimson, rain-soaked wind, up from the frothing sea. Latean wiped at his eyes with a blood-soaked sleeve, looking up to the Heavens, wondering at the hand, that could offer such a benediction over the end of all dreams. At the top of the hill, wound-ravaged warriors encircled the High King’s tent. The last of the original Dal Cassians, Brian’s boys from the beginning, now gray with age, scarred, and battle battered. They listed back and forth against the gusting wind, leaning upon gore-slurried spears – splintered shields locked together, dulled swords encrusted in blood-clotted scabbards. Still, they stood bravely at the ready, loyal to their Chief until the end, their silhouettes, etched in torrents of red rain, lashed sideways upon the outside walls of the tent. Ghosts, and blood of ghosts born over the battlefield, on banshee winds hurled up from the wild Irish Sea. In front of the tent, a terrible pain stabbed at his heart – a scene more sorrowful than bearing. “Amergin,” he whispered. Three battle weary warriors struggled at the ends of ropes, around the neck of an enfrenzied gray war-horse – the King’s stallion – his valiant battle companion for more than thirty years of warring. The beast, crazed with pain, thrashed between them, dragging, and tossing them like wet rags, desperate to be free. Oblivious to his war wounds, he skittered and reared, trying to bolt. Broken shafts of spears pierced his shoulders and flanks. Deep slashes laced his powerful chest. Arrows pierced his heaving belly as streams of blood trailed down over his legs, strafed with sword cuts. The aging stallion screamed, fierce and blood-curdling, charging towards the tent. The whites of his eyes shot with blood, as he tossed his proud head. His thick muscular neck, flexing and twisting, snake like. His massive rump bunched and coiled to bolt, rearing, and pawing the air. A profuse white mane and tail, blood-drenched and muddied, churned about him like the fury of tempest-tossed waves, spraying spirals of blood over his restrainers. Even as scarlet foam blew from his nostrils – barbed arrow tips twisting in his lungs. Still his great heart would not give in, he too, fighting to get to his beloved master.

STORY STATEMENT: Book 1 INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND After Danes slaughter his family and brutalize a little girl, he promised to keep safe; an orphaned boy must find a way to save her from a burning tower, escape capture, avenge his family, find her again, and make it back home. STORY STATEMENT: 6 Book Series: HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE In 10th century Ireland, as all others cower, an insignificant orphan becomes rebel, outlaw, warrior, Chief of his Clan, King of the South, King of North and South, and the only Ard Ri – High King, over a free and united Ireland in peace. Yet the forces of envy, betrayal and greed, lead him to an all or nothing battle for the fate of his people, and the destiny of homeland. Brian wins, but pays the ultimate price, with the lives of his three sons, and his own. Only to have the greatest Liar Thief in history, steal his life story – to fabricate the most famous, and beloved Imposter of all time – King Arthur of England. HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE Series – is two true stories, one within the other – The life of Brian Boru: Insignificant orphan – to greatest High King – Geoffrey of Monmouth plagiarizing Brian’s life: Cleric – to Bishop and famous Author ANTAGONISTIC FORCES: Events are true and Characters real GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH – Antagonist of Series Mystery Lowly cleric, is commissioned by King Henry 1st, to come up with an historical Hero for Britain. Henry needs gold to pay for his wars; and therefore, precedent to invade, sack, and kill fellow Catholics in Ireland – to steal theirs. The problem – there isn’t one. Until Geoffrey is given “a certain most ancient book”. We watch over his shoulder as he steals Brian’s life to fabricate a Hero for Henry. He is rewarded with fame, fortune, the company of Kings, and 886 years of reprints – pulling off the most successful fraud in history. Indeed, Geoffrey’s 1136, “true” account of, Imposter 5th century King Arthur, is for sale on amazon.com/books. today. Geoffrey – The Liar Thief Antagonists of Main Story – NORSE VIKINGS – Gofraid, Olaf and Ivar, descendants of Ivar the Boneless, have Ireland surrounded, and are closing in. Their goal – finish what the Boneless started – the rapine and plunder of Ireland. And most lucrative – the selling of her women and children for slaves. Gofraid, sets out to attack Killaloe, slaughter Brian’s family, and claim the only cattle crossing of the river Shannon for 240 miles. He kills all but two of his brothers. At every turn of his life, Brian must fight the Danes. Gofraid will die of leprosy from shagging sheep, Ivar is killed by Brian, and Olaf will marry Gormlaith, spawn Sigtrigg Silkbeard. These three, forgiven thrice by Brian, for coming against him; will conspire and recruit, the largest Norse army ever assembled, to bring war against Brian, for Ireland, her treasure, and his head. Danes – Nonselective Insatiables MALACHY II – Possessed it all. Next in line to the 600 years of Ui Neill Dynastic High Kings – Represents the entitled, rich and self-serving. A schemer, only too willing to sacrifice honor, for lying, cheating, stealing. He might have been great, but shaped by his father, turned out narcissistic, weak, obsessed with jealousy. All his life he shadows Brian, becoming ever more desperate – unprovoked, cuts down his 1000-year-old, sacred oak tree, tries to kill him, passes his poisonous ex-wife onto him, breaks his oath, betrays him, refusing to take his place on the field, in the Final Battle; and after Brian and his boys are killed, takes his place as High King. Ironically, this ultimate traitor is admiringly recorded in history as Malachy Mor –“Malachy the Great”. Malachy – Duplicitous Political Snake 5 IRISH PROVINCIAL KINGS – Sycophants, dogs in the manger, who will betray anyone, for any advantage. Cronies of Malachy, they have no loyalty, betraying their own people for crumbs of the High King – and betraying the High King, for table scraps of the Danes. They conspire and collude, giving an oath to join Brian and his brother Mahon, in battle against Ivar the Dane. Once the battle begins, Irish, Donovan, Donald, and Molloy, in league with Ivar, abandon the field, lure and kill Brian’s brother, and try to kill him. Brian escapes, goes back and takes revenge, killing Ivar, and hunting down all three traitor Kings – one after the other. It is not Brian’s ambition that makes him King of Munster, as often reported – but these cowards’ conspiracy, and dastardly betrayal. The eejits have just slaughtered themselves, and made Brian, King of the Dal Cass, King of Munster – one 5th of Ireland. Provincial Kings – Treacherous Bottom Feeders MURCHUADA IRISH PROVINCIAL KING of Leinster – next to Norse held Dublin, the most lucrative slave port in Europe. He is the brains and Puppet Master of the viper pit. He uses his daughter as a Pawn, to manipulate the Kings of Ireland into self-annihilation. He toys with the Danes, and controls with abject terror, of what he might do next. And molds Gormlaith in his own image –controlling her in every possible way. Until out-played by his “line-bred” daughter. Sick Control Freak. Sins of the father. Murchuada – Deviant Chess Master GORMLAITH– a legend in her own lifetime, in the sagas of the Norse, for her beauty, brains and cunning. Her father’s little pawn, and apt pupil, makes it across the board to become the most infamous Queen in history. (Her true story has thus far been under-reported). The strategy learned from her father – You make them choose – between what they want most – and what they love most. “Tis the choosing, that breeds the undoing.” You – Pin, Fork, Skewer. Until the field is cleared, and you are the last one standing. In a Chess match, cage fight, or in battle – that is winning. Gormlaith, looking for love in all the wrong places, is torn between conscience and winning. Life has taught her – beating the boys, feels best of all. She becomes – wife and “poison cup” to the three most powerful Kings in Ireland, Olaf, Malachy, and Brian. Gormlaith – Instigator and Prize of Battle – and “The Last one Standing” BREAKOUT TITLES: up to three Series Titles: HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL KING GOLDEN CHESSMEN OF THE GODS Book 1 ~ BLOOD GAMBIT INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND THE RAVENING Book 2 ~ CLEARANCE SACRIFICE STRIPLING WARRIOR DRAKKAR-SLAYER Book 3 ~ PIN, FORK, SKEWER YOUNG STAG IN VALOR RECOMPENCE Book 4 ~ ENTOMBED EAGLE UPON THE ROCK HAWK-FELL OF MY HAND Book 5 ~ SMOTHERMATE GAUNTLET OF SLAUGHTER RUINS OF RAGNAROK Book 6 ~GOLDEN CHESSMEN OF THE GODS HELL-VORM WOLVES AT THE EDGE OF NIGHT COMPARABLES – GENRE: HAMMERED STEEL AND CRIMSON FIRE – The Life of Brian Boru High King of Ireland – Based on a True Story High Concept, Commercial Fiction – History, Biography, Adventure, Intrigue, Mystery, Romance, War (no fantasy) Braveheart of Ireland, meets Uhtred of The Last Kingdom Solving mysteries of: Da Vinci Code’s – The True Grail And the Real King Arthur Concerning ~ A boy who would never be King, A “certain most ancient book” that would never be found, A thief in the night who would never be caught, The most compelling mystery never solved, The most successful and perfidious fraud ever committed, The two most famous, enduring, and beloved, imposters of all time, King Arthur of Britain, and the Holy Grail, And the truth. Book 1 ~ INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND ~ The Twelfth Son (loss of innocence, coming of age) 10-13 Book 2 ~ BLOOD GAMBIT ~ Rebel, Outlaw, Warrior (lone rebel without a cause, finds one )17-26 Book 3 ~ ENTOMBED ~ King of the South (gladiator becomes beloved hero of people) 26-35 Book 4 ~ WOLVES AT THE EDGE OF NIGHT ~ King of the North (dude with big problem) 35- 45 Book 5 ~ SMOTHERMATE ~ High King of Ireland (monster in the house - and bed) 45-60 Book 6 ~ GOLDEN CHESSMEN OF THE GODS ~ Last Ard Ri of Erin (war – Destiny of Ireland) 73 Premise: The least likely of us can achieve the impossible – if we Dare to dream it – have Courage enough to fight for it – Heart enough to never give up – and Guts enough to pay the price! High Concept – Braveheart of Ireland meets Uhtred of the Last Kingdom THE SAXON TALES Series – the LAST KINGDOM - WAR LORD – Cornwell’s number 13, in the tales of Uhtred, is recently published, and testament to commercial interest of a similar Series: the Viking Age in history, the true story of an orphan turned Warrior, who must find his way amidst: Viking savagery, treacherous Lords, and scheming Kings, to take back his home, in the face of impossible odds, worthy quest of Freedom against Savagery, and a ripping cage fight for the Throne of King, destiny of people and homeland. All 13, books in Series – best sellers. With a huge fan base, and by demand, there is currently a film in production to finish the Series. Uhtred is missed already. Secret to success: Dreymon’s well-loved Uhtred is the only truly lovable, funny, and relatable Hero, with great buddy and love stories as well, and heart wrenching – to the end of limits – acting and emotions, since Braveheart, (what all the others are missing). BRAVEHEART (the first and best – characters against archetype, sense of humor) – of Ireland, Similar Hero and quest - unlikely orphan becomes beloved Hero of people, uniting the Clans, against tyranny, sacrificing himself in the cause of Freedom. And true story. Same Subject Success – LION OF IRELAND, EMPEROR OF IRELAND YA, PRIDE OF LIONS, and 1014 – BATTLE OF CLONTARF – the Life of Brian Boru in 4 books Morgan Llywelyn’s books on Brian Boru’s life, have sold over 40 million copies. At the 1000 year celebration of the Battle of Clontarf, in Dublin, 60,000 people showed up. Love for Brian’s story endures. HSCF is more specifically – Brian’s life story - The Irish Version: anti-archetypical characters, tone, slightly wicked sense of humor, themes of Freedom and Loyalty, endearing Buddy and Love stories, with a goal to inspire, and use of screenwriting techniques. THE VIKINGS – VIKINGS VALHALLA – Series Similar setting and characters: Antagonists, familiar to readers - All true contemporaries of Brian: In HSCF – The real Uhtred, Lord of Northumbia (16 years younger), makes several appearances, along with: Ibn Fadlan, Eric the Red, Harald Hardrada, Olaf and Ivar, great-grandsons of Ivar the Boneless, Sitric Silkbeard, Cnut, Harold Bluetooth, Wulf the Quarrelsome, and others. DA VINCI CODE – Starting with Historical Facts: the same mystery Solved – The true Nature and Location of the Grail. Which was first mentioned in connection with Arthur in 1190 – As well as the true Identity of the Real King Arthur. However very different conclusions, style, and delivery, and genre than Dan Brown’s. TIMELINE – EATERS OF THE DEAD – Same: starting with historical facts, like Crichton, then recreating true events, bringing historical characters to life. Unique: THE HAMMERED STEEL and CRIMSON FIRE Series is unique, from the only other fictional account of Brian’s life – Llewellyn’s, “Lion of Ireland”, which is beautifully written – in English King’s, English grammar and vernacular. HSCF–The Irish Version – is committed to mischief, mayhem and mangling, of all things English. I offer proof. My Nonfiction companion book, “The True and Rightful King” will make the case for Fraud by proving Geoffrey’s plagiarism, to the highest standard of the Law – Perpetrator, Means, Motive, Opportunity, Preponderance of the Evidence, Smoking gun, Bloody glove, Beyond a Reasonable Doubt, and Beyond the Shadow of Doubt, meaning there can be no other. Commercial value: According to IMDB - Llewellyn’s “LION OF IRELAND”, the life of Brian Boru, is currently in development for a TV Series 2019. The TV Series, THE LAST KINGDOM, based on Cornwell’s Saxon Tales of Uhtred, is the highest-ranking Series in Great Britain, one of the highest ranking in the US. Well loved, and well done, with a huge fan base. There is a much anticipated film in production, finishing up, to complete the Series. Fans are saddened. Everyone is going to miss Uhtred the Godless! Dan Brown’s DA VINCI CODE, theory of the Grail – sold over 60 million copies, fueled by HUGE CONTROVERSY, rattling the cages of, the Vatican which claims to possess the True Grail, Catholics, and Christianity, in general, with his theory – the Grail being the womb of Mary Magdalene, and the Holy Grail, Mary Magdalene herself. (Ironically, Mary Magdalene has been classified as a prostitute since the Middle Ages, by an early Pope – not to be confused with Mary the virgin Mother of Christ). I remember well – on Nightly News, Dan Brown, at the top of the NYT Best seller list forever; “verbally scourged” by the Christians and castigated down to Hell by Catholics – is videoed, lamenting in self-defense, “Its only Fiction!” His beautifully crafted novel, and ingenious original Theory, became the object of crazed condemnation, boycotting, and slander. Result – The Da Vinci Code has become the world’s all-time best seller. ~ The take-away – the greater the outrage, the crazier the controversy, the more spectacular the sales I think it is fair to assume; HAMMERED STEEL and CRIMSON FIRE Series, proving : All this time: the experts have been looking in the wrong time and place, for the 5th century English Hero, King Arthur – that he is really Irish – that Brian Boru’s life was stolen, to create the IMPOSTER – by Geoffrey of Monmouth – as well as the theory, then proof, that the Grail, is not a womb, but quite the most scandalous opposite imaginable – well connected to the Real Irish Hero – “The True and Rightful King” – and I can prove it . . . Is most certain to rattle, then spontaneously combust a few cages as well. Inciting Controversy: There is nothing the British love more than a Royal scandal, as does the world’s media. What will the reaction be when they find out: Deliciously Scandalous: ~ Queen Elizabeth II– the longest reigning English Monarch, the best, and most beloved; Is the 35th Great Granddaughter of the – Irish Rebel, Outlaw, Instigator, Brian, orphan of Beal Boru? ~ Making her heirs, Charles, William, and George – who all bear the name Arthur – the Imposter – direct descendants of the Real King Arthur. Anyone who has followed Queen Elizabeth’s life, can decidedly see that she is far more like Brian: a brave, uniter, forgiving, devoted to, God and country, and beloved by her people, than any of her subjugating, beheading disemboweling, despoiling, abdicating, ancestors since him. ~ The Queen’s great 35th grandmother, was Brian’s second wife, who gave him one son – murdered by his half-brother, Gormlaith’s son. In my story, she is a wonderful character, anti-archetypical, rescuer of the fallen in battle, chariot mechanic, fantastic rider and horse lover – as was the Queen herself. (This portrayal is my humble tribute to a wonderful, Lady, Mother, and Veteran, whowho would have much rather been riding her horse, in forest and field, with the sun on her face and wind in her hair – but instead, hopped on the grenade in stockings and heels for 70 years . . .) ~ Deliciously scandalous, as well; Harry the lovable, Rebel, Outlaw, Outcast, Fomenter of chaos, Instigator of outrage, and his beautiful children, all have Brian’s red hair. Proof positive of the pesky, Irish, rebellious, rapscallion strain, in the stodgy, rather shallow, Royal gene pool. These revelations, together along with the “Irish Version”, should be enough to give the entire British Empire the vapors. ~ But then – perhaps – the greater the vapors, the crazier the controversy, the more the sales . LOGLINE WITH CONFLICT AND CORE WOUND: Book 1 – INSTIGATOR OF IRELAND In 10th century Ireland, when Danish Vikings attack, young Brian promises to watch over a little girl. Beaten nearly to death, he is forced to watch helplessly, as she is savagely raped and burned, and his family slaughtered. He vows he will, never be powerless again to protect those he loves, avenge their deaths, and drive the Danes back into the Sea, and drown them in their own blood. LAYERS OF CONFLICT: Inner Conflict – Brian’s inner conflict – the wound that he carries all his life, and the secret he keeps, is the stuff that rips his, and our heart out: guilt, regret, the wrong choice, shame, sadness, helplessness. When Brian 10, and a little girl 8, are caught in a Dane attack; he promises to keep her safe, by running to the 100 ft round tower. They make it to the top, but Olaf and Ivar follow them. As Danes are ax-cleaving the trap door apart – Brian must decide – take her to the window and jump to their quick deaths – or try to hide her and fight the Danes himself. Though he has her by the hand, and they stand upon the sill, with the slaughter going on below them – he cannot do it. Seeing her dead mother on the grass below, he hides her in some rags and baskets. Tells the Danes she jumped. They are beating, and kicking him to death, when he sees her come out of hiding, to beg them to stop. Though he is powerless to move; he witnesses her, to save him, being brutalized in every possible way, as flaming arrows set the tower ablaze. External Conflict –Sea-Eagle, Danes, Traitor Irish, High King, 11 brothers, and two pups Just a boy like any other, Brian dreams only of one thing – to catch the biggest fish in all the world, to flaunt it before his eleven older brothers, and take his place around the campfire this night, with the best tale to tell, his Da proud, and his brothers green with envy. His biggest torment, thus far – his two pups, that sabotage him at every turn, and his brothers who have one goal in life – use him for their hurling practice dummy, at every opportunity Brian has the biggest salmon in the world, by the tail, and is being dragged naked through the Shannon River; when he is attacked by a giant Sea-Eagle and must fight for his fish. Winning, though mutilated, he fights unsuccessfully, his two Lucifer-spawn pups for his clothes. And consequently, is caught celebrating, dancing around, bare-arsed, toes pointed spritely, his nether-parts flogging him to keep up, like a soused fairy under a Rowan tree – by a little red-headed girl hiding in the tall grass. And so, he dives into the only cover – a thicket of thornapple, thistle, and stinging nettles – with the high pitched, girly scream, of a neck rung stoat! Only to be late for school, again, God help him, with his eleven brothers, lying in wait, to make him to run the “gauntlet of slaughter”, to his seat in the front of the Chapel. Fairly demolished already, he is picked up, passed along, and slung from the window to the chants of “Runt! Runt!! Runt!! Dal Cass scores – One! Against the langers of Ulster – None! Brian gives, thanks to God, for the tender mercy of the flinging. And runs to the shore. His new goal in life now, is to put the flames of Satan’s, every class of a Hellfire out, by plunging arse first, into the cool waters of the Shannon; hidden from the eyes of God, man, and the little girl, and finally get a good scratch where it itches, without touching anything, he’d have to confess for, after. His goal in life changes again, when the Danes attack – trying to survive. Social and Interpersonal Conflicts – Clonmacnoise Monastery –Brian is sent away to school. A name and blessing from the Abbot The fires of hell licked at the top of his head. The talons of Baal clamped to his scalp, wrenching hair out by the roots! Brian 13, yelped in pain, “Please Father, not the tower again. Anything but the tower,” and unleashed his most pathetic howl, long and drawn out, “I’ll repent. I’ll be good, I swear . . . I’ll die if ye lock me in the tower again!” “One can only hope!” The Abbot growled through sanctimoniously clenched teeth. “Please Father, if I must suffer,” Brian pleaded most mournfully, “don’t lock me in the tower again with the old geezer Plutarch, and all his whinin’ about the Thracians, and the ruttin’ Spartacus,” he sniffled, “Anything but the Plutarch.” The Abbot pondered his last wish . . . “Get me the Plutarch!” he bellowed to the crowd of boys, sniggering sadistically, “It’s to the tower with ye, and no food nor water until ye’ve memorized the Plutarch entirely!” Brian wailed louder, “Please, Father, I’m beggin’ ye, instead, of the Plutarch, may I have the Book of Saints? Oh, how I love the Saints! Ah, the blessed virgins. I love the one who, sacrificed herself, refusin’ offers of marriage and all, and shavin’ her radiant hair off, and scaldin’ her lovely face, with the boilin’ water, so’s that no man would want to have carnal knowledge of her.” The Abbot, red-faced and teeth barred like a trap-strangled ferret, yanked the young orphan of the Clan Dal Cass, up, glaring into his eyes, “The blessed Saint would roll in her grave, to know her sacred virginity was on the mind of the likes of ye! Ye, vermin from the South, and the son of Cennitig to boot, with the foul tongue, and the filthy mind!” And he shook Brian by the hair on his head until, what was left of his own teeth rattled. “Ye’re a wart of the arse of the sainted Lady,” he hissed, and yanked him viciously towards the isolation and imprisonment of the tower. Brian, wincing through the pain, couldn’t help but conjure the image of the lovely young woman bare-pelted, from behind. . . “Have ye seen her arse then, Father? I mean the wart and all?” The novitiates clamped their hands to their mouths, to stifle the giggles, and the boys roared and hooted, doubled over with the laughter, “She’s a Saint, and been dead for 600 years, you goat’s spore!” Father Alphonsus, holding him arm’s length, by the hair, stopped and tried to kick him in the soft parts, and then the buttocks, alternating – bollocks, buttocks, bollocks, buttocks, but Brian dodged the blows, hurtling himself, front and back, and side to side, like when his brothers had him up against the wall and all trying to pummel him in the goolies with the sliotar, practicing their hurley swings. And all the while Brian trying to explain, “It’s just that, when I’m on me knees in prayer, Father, I’ve often thought fondly of her Holy Relics, and such. I know her lovely head is in Rome, her little foot is in Venice, and her finger, her sacred finger, in Ravenna – with a ring made from the foreskin of the baby Jesus” . . .. And he wondered how that worked, exactly. For one thing it sounded painful for the sweet little babe, and for another, it seemed unlikely a Jewish Rabbi would place such a thing on the finger of a Catholic nun . . . and then he couldn’t help it, his mind ran to the bit about shavin’ her hair off, and he wondered if they meant all her hair . . . and even if Saint’s had a place for hair other than the top of their head . . . and then there was the part about scaldin’ her face off, and he thought she might have done it so’s no one would notice the wart and all on her arse . . . but still . . . she might have looked lovely, naked, from the front . . . with a sack over her head . . .. “Do you suppose her breasts are with the rest of her then, Father? . . . I’d like to think so,” he grinned. “Ye little rabble rouser! Fomenter of chaos! Instigator!” Wailed Father Alphonsus, responsible for the edification of souls, of the young Princes of the Isle . . . “I’ll feckin’ kill ye!” SETTINGS IN DETAIL, SCENE BY SCENE: The settings in 10th century Ireland are simple – a stone chamber, a tower, the forest. It’s the situation, characterization, humor, that makes a scene interesting, and impossible to convey without illustration. Setting: Craig Lia - a rocky crag above the ancient ring fort of Beal Boru, where the jagged stones from the beginning of time, protrude from blankets of moss and bracken. It is a matter of historical record, that Brian believed in the pagan myth passed down in his Clan, that a Shee – Avril, the fairy Queen, who lived in the crag, was a: guardian for the children, companion for a lonely warrior, on a cold night before battle, gift of memory for the old ones, and of prophesy for the King. Narrator – Beginning and end of each book, to recap and foreshadow And so, it was . . . That all of Killaloe lay smoldering in embers and ashes, And the Shannon ran red, with blood of the sons of Cennetig, And blood red, the hills, and meadows of Erin. In years to come, the old ones would say, looking back at the time of dragon ships, That was the day the Banshee of Craig Lia, who loved the boy who would never be King, The last, and least of twelve sons, found him trembling, burned, and broken, And drenched in his mother’s blood, Then Avril, of the high crag – guardian of the crumbling ringfort of Beal Boru, Shee of the ancient ones – riders of the white horse, mound builders, chariot racers, Raisers of Lia Fail stone – and the child of the last Thracian King, Issued forth a keening wail . . . an oath of reckoning . . . a vow . . . To the enemies of Erin . . . Then raging in wild and savage fury, scored their fates, into the face of her cliffs, By thunder, of Hammered Steel! And lightening, of Crimson Fire! For the courage in the heart of the boy, destined – him to be the one . . . The Instigator of Freedom for Ireland! Setting: The Hill of Tara – The Hill of Tara is the jewel in the crown of Ireland, today, and in Brian’s story. It begins and ends on this Hill and is the setting of several of the most poignant scenes in his life. There is a single standing stone, for thousands of years it has been known as the Lia Fail, or The Stone of Destiny. It is where, Brian is crowned High King, and Ard Ri, and when he is lost, prays on his knees to God, to show him the way. And finally, after the final battle, jumps over the setting sun, with his lifelong friend, on their way to take their place – where only true stories of real Heroes are told . . . ‘round the campfires in the sky. Prologue: The Saga-teller – delivers Theme: Truth vs Lie/fairytale – Courage vs Cowardice “Tell us a tale,” the people called out, and drew back like the tides of the Red Sea, “Of myths and monsters . . . of demons and dragons.” The old man, gnarled and weathered as a druid oak, made his way to the top of the windswept hill, drawing near to the fire. Then placed his hand upon the ancient standing stone, gently as a grandfather caresses the face of a child. “I have no fairy tales,” he said, and bent his head so that his tears fell at the base of the Stone. When the old man spoke again, ‘twas a fearsome thing – a rumbling, come from way down deep in the heart of Erin, up through the hill and the stone. The growling of a feral beast, to scold, and score, and shake the earth from its slumber. And the wind swirled all around them, in a fury of waves and torrents, up and over the cliffs at the edge of the world. And tumbled over the Hill, hurling his voice like rolling thunder, across the plains, over the mountains, and beyond the seas. “Oh, you foolish children, who seek what is not there, and never was – a reflection in the pool, a shadow upon the meadow, an echo in the hills – has no beating heart! Don’t you know, there can be no courage, nor valor, nor Hero, nor deeds worth remembering, nor story worth telling without truth! All else is chaff in the wind.” And the breath of Erin whispered all around them, quickening every blade of grass, ruffling the leaves silver, and tumbling the clouds in moon-glow. . . Setting: Ireland – Hook, Mystery, Intrigue, Suspense to come (metaphors no fantasy) “Listen well!” The old man roared, a mighty stag upon the mount. “For, I will tell you of a myth that is true, and of the monster who fed upon it, Of a boy who became a giant, and of the serpent who dragged him down to Hel, Of a light, a brilliant light, as bright as a blood-ember, glowing, And of a demon in the darkness, black as a tomb in a new moon, And of the shadow he conjured, that grew upon the wall, Twisting and writhing, and slithering through the cracks, Until it spread o’er the land, extinguishing the light, And with it came a pestilence, a poison, a plague, on the children of Eiru, To scorch and shrivel every meadow and flower, and dream and dawning, For every dew drop in Erin, turned to blood! And the most sacred of all fell on this hill, on this stone, on this very night . . . And it all began – the day the dragons came!” Setting: Geoffrey’s Chamber –Thief in the Night – lowly cleric to, rich and successful Author Geoffrey of Monmouth, cleric to Walter, the Archdeacon of Oxford, perched on his stool like a plague raven gargoyle, casting a loathsome eye back and forth between the piles of musty manuscripts, and the trencher of spitted piglet carcass on the table before him. The corners of his right eye and mouth ticked spasmodically, like the twitching of a maggot flicked onto hot embers. And rightly so, for he drew nearer to a spit-scorching himself, every day. He’d exceeded his deadline for the King. There by, reneged on his contract, betrayed the trust, and spat in the face of the King’s generosity. Ah yes, and how had the First Henry put it? Coyly, with one arm about his shoulder, and his dagger in his other hand, the tip of the blade, darting about his face like a poison-fanged adder, as he walked him to window gesticulating East, over Wales to England. His broad sword and small mace jingling; and compliment of soldiers with all the aforesaid, as well as battle-ax, boar-spear, neck-cuffs, chains, and gaffing hook, helped to make his point. “You, Geoffrey, hold not only the outcome of my war with France – in your right hand – but my very life, and the future of all Britain, as well!” His eyes narrow-slitted, and glinting, “Do you think you can manage?” Geoffrey, his right hand usually occupied with himself, let go to wipe the sweat from his upper lip, and flap at his gown to fan the water running down his legs and moth-eaten stockings, into his scuff-worn sandals. Indeed, Henry 1st, King of England had decked the Tower of London, for Yule – with bowels and bollocks – for far less disappointment, than this. How his entrails would be removed to garland the Great Hall, and his cods to roast with the chestnuts, during the hymn singing, evoked in Geoffrey intolerable pain and a constant sweating, so that he wondered if he might be bleeding from every pore. He quickly crossed himself over the blasphemous thought, turning his gaze away from the waning sun’s rays, palely illuminating the three crucifixes hanging upon the stone chamber wall above the fireplace before him. A thief on each side, and Christ in the middle, who loved scabby lepers, filthy Samaritans, and poxied prostitutes, diverted His gaze from Geoffrey as well. Setting: Geoffrey’s motive – what he is giving up With a pang of self-pity, Geoffrey acknowledged he’d seen horse stalls bigger and more congenial than this, and far less foul smelling. His chamber, a flue for the kitchen below, cow-pen, pigsty and stable just outside and up-wind, possessed stone walls stained with several hundred years of smoke and greasy soot, and infused with the smells of rotting rubbish heap, rancid swine slop, and pungent horse dung. In one corner, the stone floor opened to a steep and winding staircase down, contrived so that one Kingsman, with a sword in his right hand, could defend the tower against an upcoming horde of Saxons. Perhaps left-handed, he’d obviously failed his task, the filthy drunken Saxons having used his chamber for a privy for three hundred years, and the stench remained. In the other corner – a rudely constructed cot, lumpy with infested horse-hair mattress, home to bed lice, and other small vermin, attracting certain barn foul, which in turn deposited defecated remnants of said vermin, all over the contents of the chamber. Next to the bed, a small chest contained everything shabbily made and thread bare, he owned. And beside it, a wicker basket with his only other set of grimy linens, which the Archdeacon’s cat, following the Saxons lead, befouled on a regular basis as well. Setting: Geoffrey’s chamber on the West Coast of Wales He, Geoffrey, lowly cleric from Monmouth, who would otherwise be trapped in the cave-infested, midden-heap of Anglesey, in the farthest foul dregs of west Wales, beyond the outer edge of the Roman Empire and civilization, and the closest landfall to the barbaric Irish. Even mighty Caesar, though he conquered the rest of the world – loathed to go to Ireland. And if he refused? His future loomed bleak. Nothing had ever come from puking Wales, beset with superstitions, ghosts of ghoulish Danes skulking in the mists, and wailings echoing throughout the hills of evil otherworldly demons. The last of the headless Celts, festering in tombs, and bansheeing about in vile winds, forever blowing over from the Irish Sea, with the fetid breath and blustering bowels of the Irish! Setting: Clontarf –Flashback in media res. Latean brings severely wounded Brian, news of his sons Young Latean, attendant to the High King, thrust his foot up and down with all his might into the mutilated face of a youth not much older than himself, but the mass of gutted wound-slurry would not let loose of his ankle. A ghastly claw, white and bloodless, tethered him to the battlefield of blood and gore – the specter of death haunting the corpse’s eyes, plotting to drag them both down to hell. He swiped at his eyes with a blood-soaked sleeve, and kicked frantically until his shoe slid off, talon and all, then staggered on up the battlefield, towards the tent at the top of the hill. He bore a message for the Ard Ri, he’d sooner cut out his heart than deliver – but deliver it he would. The gory dead conspired to trip him up, their severed heads and limbs scattered among their own entrails. The dying moaned out to him and tore at his clothes. He slipped and fell, again and again, crawling on his hands and knees, retching, and gasping for air. Blood, warm and cold and clotted as blood pudding, oozed through his fingers. Smoke and ashes seared his lungs. Scarlet spurted from sword slashings and dripped in stringy rivulets down from tree branches overhead, upon his face. The salt from the blood, mixing with the salt in his sweat-soaked tears, ran into his eyes, stinging and blinding him so that he could not see. All around him, the great oaks of Tomar Wood grew black with ravens, as the fallen twitched and writhed from hill to sea. He struggled to stand, and clinging to a sapling, looked back down the battlefield, his stomach revolting at the sickening stench of burning flesh and ruptured bowels. Setting: The view towards the sea The pallor of death had spread over the land, gray and bloodless. For it was all on the field – all the blood in the world, oozed and gushed, and seeped onto the mud and trampled flowers of Clontarf meadow. To the West, the last of the sun, blazed like a dying ember in a windblown fire. To the South, black smoke churned, and carcass-flames leapt up from the walls of Dublin Castle into a scarlet sky. To the East on the seashore, Danes, drowning in chainmail thrashed at water’s edge, flickering silver and blue, in scarlet foam, like a bucket of bait-herring. Their dragon ships, born out and away by the high tide and offshore wind, drifted empty and rudderless. All around him, the edges of the earth, had burst into flames. And all the while, Erin’s treasure, in a river of crimson, flowed down the battlefield, across the strand, and into the Irish Sea, staining the dark green, like red wine spilled onto a silken gown. For bestowed overall, meadow, man and beast, a blessing – an Irish blessing of blood rne on a crimson, rain-soaked wind, up from the frothing sea Latean wiped at his eyes with a blood-soaked sleeve, and looked up to the Heavens, wondering at the hand, that could offer such a benediction over the end of all dreams. Setting – outside the King’s Tent At the top of the hill, wound-ravaged warriors encircled the High King’s tent. The last of the original Dal Cassians, Brian’s boys from the beginning, now gray with age, scarred, and wounded. They listed back and forth, shivering and blood soaked, against the gusting wind, leaning upon gore-slurried spears – splintered shields locked together, dulled swords encrusted in blood-clotted scabbards. Still, they stood bravely at the ready, loyal to their Chief until the end, their silhouettes, etched in torrents of red rain, lashed sideways upon the outside walls of the tent. Ghosts, and blood of ghosts born over the battlefield, on banshee winds hurled up from the wild Irish Sea. In front of the tent, a terrible pain stabbed at his heart – a scene more sorrowful than bearing. “Amergin,” he whispered. Three battle weary warriors struggled at the ends of ropes, around the neck of an enfrenzied gray war-horse – the King’s stallion – his valiant battle companion for more than thirty years of warring. The beast, crazed with pain, thrashed between them, dragging, and tossing them like wet rags, desperate to be free. Oblivious to his war wounds, he skittered and reared, trying to bolt. Broken shafts of spears pierced his shoulders and flanks. Deep slashes laced his powerful chest. Arrows pierced his heaving belly as streams of blood trailed down over his legs, strafed with sword cuts. The aging stallion screamed, fierce and blood-curdling, charging towards the tent. The whites of his eyes shot with blood, as he tossed his proud head. His thick muscular neck, flexing and twisting, snake like. His massive rump bunched and coiled to bolt, rearing, and pawing the air. A profuse white mane and tail, blood-drenched and muddied, churned about him like the fury of tempest-tossed waves, spraying spirals of blood over his restrainers. Even as scarlet foam blew from his nostrils – barbed arrow tips twisting in his lungs. Still his great heart would not give in, he too, fighting to get to his beloved master. Setting – Inside King Brian’s Tent – Battle of Clontarf, as the slaughter closes in A single candle flame flickered . . . then sputtered . . . then glowed . . . first tentatively, then defiantly, in the darkness and drafts surrounding it. Though the battle raged ever closer. The screams of men, and the spear-gored war horse, shattered the coming twilight, together with the clang, and sparks of steel on steel, and flames of fiery torches, seething, and writhing upward in twisted funnels, to the blackening sky. Latean reached out his trembling and bloodied hand, and lit another . . . and another . . . and another, blinking away blurry haloes of light. The honeyed scent of bee’s wax wafted aloft, mingling with smells of smoke, and battle-sweat and charring flesh. Candlelight suffused the tent with a soft amber glow, casting molten shadows upon the walls, and illuminating the tokens of a Warrior’s lifetime of battle. In the center, of the tent, a roughhewn table, about which all of King Brian’s brave generals had sat. Lucifer’s minions – snakes in the grass, lying in wait . . . rabid dogs in the manger . . . wrist-claspers, and oath-givers, and vow breakers . . . Judases all! ” Now, it stood awash and dripping with hero’s blood, their beloved Chief and King. Setting: Brian’s sword, his battle companion, carries his blood to the “book”. (MacGuffin) . . . And in the hand, that still wielded it, a great double-edged sword – woven and forged in steel, tempered in the blood of murderers, and burnished with the blood of cherished ones, bearing his father’s name, his grandsire’s, and his father before him. The hilt and pommel filigreed with gold. The hand grip – stag horn wrapped in silver wire. Once, gleaming in the sun, held high before the Army of the Dal Cass, in battle-charge; or hilt up to make a cross, over a King’s blessing of his men, on bended knee, before waging war; or glistening in the prow of the lead war ship of, the Navy of Erin – Now, it lay cold and chipped, and darkly smeared – and still wet . . . As blood flowed from the mighty heart, along the scarred and sinewed arm, down the blade . . . and onto the tip, a pool of scarlet collected, then dripped down onto the page . . . of a book. Settings: The Shannon River - Gofraid’s dragon ships on their way to attack Dead-eyed and soulless the dragons came. Preening black swans – their fine boned, worm-whorled prows and arched necks, skimmed the water, caressing their breasts, barely stirring a wake. Crimson sails billowed in the wind, from yew masts, like blood-eagled lungs from cloven-ribs of corpses, floating on the river Styx. They came without sound, without warning – reivers from Hell, in the dawning. And in each belly, Lucifer’s seed – One hundred mail-clad, pointed-helmed, steel-bladed Danes – engorged with mead, and bloodlust for rapine and ax-slaughter. On their arms, rings of silver and gold, filthy lucre for the children of Erin, sold as slaves to the harems of the Moor and Persian Kings. Atop each mast, a saffron banner thrashed in the wind – a tusked black boar, eviscerating a great horned stag – the banner of Gofriad, master of all, standing in the prow of the Long Dreki. Gofraid, defiler of children, and desecrator of Christian altars with innocent blood, throughout Angland, Frankland, Scotland, and Irland. Gofraid, son of Sigtrigg Gale, son of Sigtrigg Ivarsson, son of Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok – King of the Norse, and scourge of all Christendom. He had decimated Killaloe, and the Irish Tribal King of Thomond before, in his youth with his father. But enough time had passed for the boar-tough, Cennetig, of the Clan Dal Cais, to build up his stores of cattle, pigs, lamb and horses, and a round tower with treasures of precious gems and metals, forged steel blades, crosiers and crosses, silver reliquaries, horse-trappings, and bejeweled covers of their sacred books, illuminated in gold – And his stores of sons . . . Twelve he had now. None in all Norseland, could claim such a gift. Setting: The Nursery His crib, and then cot, being the one farthest in the corner of twelve, had made his life challenging from the get-go. At bedtime, before his Mam arrived to hear her boys’ prayers, as a babe he was tossed from one brother to the next like a chunk of turf . . . as a small boy, slung like a sheaf of goat turds . . . and more recently, hoisted aloft and jettisoned along over their heads, as they chanted “Who will score! Who will score! Until building up momentum . . . launched him like tossing the caber, as close as they could get him to the piss-bucket in the corner. It took a few years, and although he was always accused of stinking the place up, by wetting the bed, to their mam, and the brunt of all manner of smirking, verbal castigation, facial contortion, and obscene gesticulations his way, while his Mam’s eyes were closed during the prayers . . . he never ratted them out. For which he earned their respect, if not mercy. As the mighty Bebinn, would have flogged their bowels out, for tormenting her. . . favorite one, her changeling babe, with the lovely red curls, left by the faeries, and not related a’tall to the rest of Cennetig’s hooligans . . . so they all mimicked. As time passed, he learned quickly, he could duck, tuck and roll, twist in midair like a cat, and land on his feet straddlin’ the bucket, without spillin’ a drop. With his brothers cheering him on, “The Runt holds, against the langers of Ulster!” Firbolg one! To Ui Neill pissers, none! Hie! Let’s hear for the Runt! Runt! Runt! And in their Mam would come, eyes a twinkle trying to keep a straight face with their Da’s hurl, flailing the air, and boys jumping up and down like fleas in a hot pot, sliotars whizzing, pillows, and feather beds, flying around the chamber, in a flurry of goose down and horsehair. And finally, Mam tuckin’ him in as she did all her boys and givin’ each a kiss, she’d bend low so only he could hear her, “I know ’twasn’t ye’r fault Bri. Did ye know, each of ye’r brothers was the Firbolg in his turn, your Da, and Grand Da, as well? Never ye mind, the day will come when ye’ll be as big as they are, and they’ll have to face ye in the Tourney for the wrestlin’ and all. And ye can show them then. Then she would bend close to his ear, and whisper, “Never forget . . . the finest steel, is hammered the most, and forged in the fieriest furnace!” Then she’d wink, eyes sparklin’ and full of the mischief, and kiss him on the forehead. “One day the Runt will rise!” She’d say . . . and I’ll be lookin’ down on ye with a smile on me face . . . me own little Bri . . . the bravest and fiercest Firbolg of all.” Setting: Family campfire in the graveyard, under the ancient oak of Mag Adair But . . . whatever it would cost him in the class of torment . . . he could conger up this very night, already. All his brothers gathered ‘round, a wink and a nod of affirmation from Father Maelsuthain, and his Da’s face all aglow with firelight and pride, at the telling of the battle of Brian and the great white sea-eagle for the most glorious salmon in all the world! . . . Well, young Brian, ye’ve got a warrior’s heart in ye, right enough, he’d say. No, Da could ask more of his son. . . All the rest of ye boys look to ye’r young brother . . . and remember this day . . . and his Da would grab him under his chin in the crook of his elbow, plunging his face into his rank hairy oxer, and rub his knuckles on the top of his head, the closest thing Cennetig ever gave to a hug . . . The grandest fish goes to the biggest heart, and the smallest cods, eh, lad! . . . . And there would be laughter and teasin’ for the Runt, the manky little Firbolg, and pride in the eyes of his Mam, and laughter and glowing faces all around – a cheer from the boys. A grand moment not soon forgotten . . .. Brian could feel the rush of devil-mongerin’ pride, risin’ up in him. There would be no weaslin’ out – ‘twould be runnin’ the gauntlet of slaughter – or die tryin’! Besides . . . he’d fought this battle before. Setting: The Chapel – In front of the door. Brian gestured with his hand up, casting an evil eye, and grunted for Chulainn and Lug to stay! And shush! Which they protested with a pitiful whining, Lug laying down with the long puss of the hang-dog look, and Chulainn panting, and whining, eyes on fire with mischief, like the wanton harlot, Queen Maeve of the North, looking for a quick bend-over the altar, so says his Da, in the tomb of Newgrange. And Brian had always wondered why she would bend over the altar to pray, instead of on her knees in front, like the rest of the world. . . but then she was the “wanton,” one, his Da always said, with a sly wink to him . . . and then, he’d always wondered what she was wantin’ for . . . her bein’ a Queen and all? He moved towards the door, crossing himself, as best he could with his hands full, and whispering a prayer, of thanks, like his Mam had taught him, for small blessings – like no piss bucket, and old Patrick’s Prayer . . . “Christ be before me” . . . he whispered, “Christ behind me . . . on me right hand, and on me left . . . “Which he always followed by a whispering of the battle cry of the Dal Cass, as he always heard his Da call out after a few too many ales – Here’s to singin’ the short and curlies, lads! May the flames of ye’r fires be short – and the arms of ye’r women be long! He wasn’t really sure of the meaning of it all, but he thrilled to the tears it brought to the old warrior’s eyes, as they nodded, and swilled in affirmation, to rid themselves of the lump in their throat, and banged their cups down upon the table, chanting, Dal Cais! . . . Dal Cais! . . . Dal Cais! He reached out, and with his dirty big toe – pushed ever so gently at the door . . . Setting: The door of Lachtna The thick Irish oak door, heavy as a cart of rocks, and hewn by Lachtna himself, to not only keep out the fustering Danes, but the hordes of godless Angles, and the odd Saxon, sniffin’ about for the south end of a ripe ewe. Not to mention, scarred with nearly two hundred years of ax, sword, and spear blade mutilations. Pissed on by more than a few drunken Danes, before they set fire to it – and pissed on, by more than a few drunken Dal Cass, to put the fires out . . . swung slowly open . . . The rusted-out, bog-iron hinges, forged in the time of Methuselah, let loose with a never-ending, banshee-screeching creak, to raise the headless bog sacrifices of the Fomorians. The clatter of the boys ceased, silence filled the void, save for the shrieking wail of the rusty door . . . As one by one, every head, every shade of red in the world, and slathered with freckles, face filled with a wonder, turned to him. Every satanic, mischievous green eye in the chapel gawking at his fish. Not a murmur, not a whisper, not a flutter of an eyelash filled the void, only . . . pure and utter reverence for the grandest, most glorious salmon in all this world! Setting: The Lay of the Land – Maelsuthain’s chapel Father Maelsuthain’s school, a small rectangular stone chapel, built in commemoration of when the first of the wild Pagan Clan Dal Cais, had stopped severing and collecting of the heads of other Clans’ men, for the decorating of their chariots. Long enough to be baptized by Patrick himself, with the first Priest-blessed water drops, ever taken from the Shannon. The oak table in front, now serving as an altar, still bore the ax-cleaving by his great, great, grand Da. Who, deafer than a yew post, took offence, mistaking Patrick’s odd speech of the North, and Roman ways to boot . . . splashing water on him, and waving his ram-headed crozier about, thought it to be an invoking of the banshees of black pools – to shag his mother – almost ended Christianity in Killaloe, before it began. But the gouge in the table, bore witness to the miracle – the staying of the blade of the old pagan – as all knew the fearsome old King never missed, when hewin’ off a head – ‘twas blessed by Patrick, still sportin’ a head, as a proof of the true Christian God’s, power. And so, the altar remained revered down through the ages. All subsequent children of the Clan, when baptized as a babe, had their tiny hand placed in the very spot where Patrick’s had been, for good luck, and long life in God’s blessing. Upon the altar stood a simple roughhewn cross, singed black on the top, and bottom, made from a branch of the ancient Druid Oak upon the hill of Mag Adair. When lightning struck and cleft the trunk down the middle, the tree survived; but the old King Lachtna with his sword in his hand, lit up like the shooting star named after the long arm of Lugh, sparks flying, eyes glowing red, smoke shooting from both his ears, and cursing like an Ulster goat-shagger – didn’t. So, the cross, stained with blood and singed hair, and declared sacred by Maelsuthain, his childhood friend – stood as a token of his oath to a dying King, that he would uphold the Clan, until his last stifled breath. And laid down the law, that all Princes of the Dal Cass must attend school, develop their minds, and be in their seats by the time the bell stopped ringing or pay what’s due. This vow insured Father Maelsuthain, would invoke God’s blessing, upon his pupils if he was in a good mood – and Lachtna’s, of the fiery temper, armed with the ashen hurl, he kept by the altar leg, if they were late. The good Father was a man of his oath, and the twelve sons of Cennetig had the splinters in their arses, to prove it. Narrator - Setting Ireland – Saga-teller – Hill of Tara – Foreshadowing, Intrigue, Suspense And so the young cub, the sky-jewel of Irland, who burned brighter than all the rest . . . Would one day, consume the traitors, oath-breakers, snakes in the grass, Descending like an eagle, hurtling down from the sky, His shadow passed over moor, and meadow, and mountain, First to the South, and then to the East, and West and Northward, The breath of Erin, whispering his name before him, Mists through ancient stones, A shiver in the trees, A rustle of leaves, A ripple of quiet waters, Demon, they murmured . . . Drakkar-Slayer . . . And the cowards and murderers, and brokers of children, trembled behind bolted doors, Shivering in the dark, Their armies, in chainmail, with ramparts and moats, and murder holes surrounding them – A shield wall of cob web, against the steel blade of a mighty Warrior’s heart, They hid and drank, and laughed aloud, Boasting in the company of their slaughter mongers, As if, when alone in the dark, they did not piss in their trews, And always, in their nightmares, they saw his specter, Wild and ruddy – Cennetig’s cub, The young lion in valor, Eyes gleaming, mouth agape, fangs bared, dripping with the blood of traitors, Coming for them . . . And all the while, One-Eye’s ravens, hovered – circling – biding their time – Until they slaked their thirst on coward’s blood. End Book I

MARKET VALUE: EVALUATION THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL KING ~ TTRK Book 1 ~ Blood Gambit • Originality: 4 Listed are seven Original Premises, found in TTRK Series that contradict accepted history. ~ Brian Boru is the real King Arthur for whom experts have been searching for 900 years. ~ Proof that Geoffrey of Monmouth, did, not only steal the life story of Brian Boru to create the legend of King Arthur of England, but committed this fraud in the employ of King Henry I, of England, setting precedence for his invasion of Ireland. ~ Proposes intriguing solution, to the nature and location of the real Grail, connected to King Arthur from the beginning; Refutes the Da Vinci Code theory of the womb of Mary Magdalene, by historians and scholars; and claims that the Grail is a Chalice in the Vatican, a myth, destroyed, impossible to find, a literary contrivance, figment of the imagination, buried in Oak Island. ~ Solves the mystery of the missing Bryans Saga, mentioned in two Norse Sagas, concerning Brian Boru and the final Battle. Searched for by Irish and Danish historians, for hundreds years to present, and never found. ~ Offers evidence that all the experts that claim there never was a man behind King Arthur – are wrong. And that Geoffrey’s claim he found the historical account of a real King Arthur in a “certain most ancient book” – is true. The nature of the book, the contents, and why Geoffrey states, no one will ever find it again. ~ What if: For 800 years, all the experts, non-fiction, documentaries, historians, archeologists, film makers, learned professors, looking in England, in the end of the 5th century for King Arthur; have been looking in the wrong time and place. When in fact, he did exist – ironically, in the very last place on this earth they would ever look – 9th and 10th century Ireland. ~ Original Nonfiction ~ COMPANION BOOK TO TTRK ~ Making the Case (outline available upon request). Will present my theories, evidence and proof of all my Premises: THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL KING THE REAL KING ARTHUR ~ THE TRUE GRAIL ~ THE MISSING SAGA Concerning ~ The most successful, beloved and perfidious case of fraud, In history Offering evidence of : Perpetrator, Eye Witnesses, Victim, Case for Fraud, Means, Motive, Opportunity, Preponderance of the evidence, Beyond a reasonable doubt, even Beyond the shadow of a doubt, “the smoking gun”, “ the bloody glove”, and damages. • Freshness: 4 ~ Draws different conclusions, then all other fiction and nonfiction. A fresh portrayal of the lives of Brian, Malachy II, and Queen Gormlaith. The best dedicated Biography of Brian Boru, to date is the Lion of Ireland, and YA, Emperor of Ireland, by Morgan Llewelyn. One book, to cover his entire life, in the “King’s English”, with no connection to King Arthur, the Grail, or the missing Brjans Saga. ~ TTRK - Five books to cover his amazing life. Based on an historic timeline. With the wonderful colloquial Irish voices, larger than life, anti-archetypical, fascinating multilayered characters. Explored, poignant and provocative themes, the outer limits of emotion, love, passion, betrayal, deep psychological fears. Characters ravaged by true excruciating dilemmas, their most secret motives, and the real choices they made. ~ The transformational life journeys of three real people who would determine the destiny of Ireland. Brian, Malachy, and Gormlaith, who were; political enemies, allies turned betrayers, vanquisher and vanquished, lovers, spouses, friends, divorced, parents, mortal enemies, and combatants, in that order. ~ Outlined with extensive screenwriting techniques and structure ~ Includes all literary devices, complete character arcs for all primary characters, complicated, tormented, tragic and triumphant characters, symbolism, metaphor, analogy, irony, theme, strong multiple 4 3 POV. ~ Resonance: Isis terrorists of today, parallel the Danes savaging and selling Irish women and children as slaves to the harems of Persia. ~ Told through five different voices: In the book ends for each Book in Series: Ospak the Dane, a historic character, looking back, omniscient tale-teller, with attitude, (my pov) similar to the style of Beowulf: rhythm, kennings, alliteration, personification, metaphor. (John Gardner chose this inspiration and many same techniques in Grendel). Geoffrey of Monmouth, Cleric, subjective Antagonist pov. Cleric, story fabricator of King Arthur, Norman English POV condescending to Irish, voice, superior, hostile, the same tone the real Geoffrey uses in his Historia of Kings of Britain. Main Story: Brian Boru – and the Irish of Southern Ireland, just as it is today different from the North, rich with reference to history, ancient writers, Herodotus, Plutarch, Amergin, Patrick, poetry, self-deprecating humor. Colloquial Irish voices, and vocabulary. Malachy son of the Northern Ui Neill High King, and northern tribal kings, with condescending POV to the Brian and the South, just as Ireland is today. Queen Gormlaith – a woman’s pov, just trying to get through the day, in a man’s world. And the Danish Vikings invading Ireland – uneducated with no love of books, history, country – fatalistic, superstitious, sociopaths, with no guilt, focused on gold, greed, and glory. Non stereotypical, there are a few who become important allies of Brian. Ospak, the real brother to the Dane who kills Brian, and Brian’s ally in the final battle, (the old man tale teller) is one. • High Concept ~ 4 Original plus Twist In 10th century Ireland, as all others cower, an insignificant orphan becomes rebel, warrior, High King to defeat; Olaf, the most powerful Viking in Europe, Malachy the latest High King in a 600 year dynasty, and a Queen, legend in her own lifetime – who was married to all three. Brian Boru wins the battle for Ireland, but pays the ultimate price, with the lives of all his sons, and his own; only to have his life story, stolen by his enemies, and attributed to another, enabling the Kings of England precedent, to invade and ravage the people and land that he loves – the Precedent – the fabrication of the most successful, beloved, and perfidious fraud in history – King Arthur • Clear target readership ~ 3? Would love to hear your opinion of this. After the Inciting incident, Brian comes back at 14, 17 - then jumps to 24 for second half of the book I was initially unsure of this, as I could not find any close comparable, in genre books, but Donald Maass’ book helped clarify this for me. Both he and Gardner state the best way to achieve Break Out status is to cross genres. I believe TTRK will appeal to both men and women, in the readerships below. THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL KING ~ Cross over genre: History, Biography, Adventure, Romance, Intrigue, War, Suspense, Mystery Readers: 1. Outlander Series: who love a beautiful love story and scintillating lust story, and a Hero with a warrior, outlaw, rebel heart – but who wish the story was more centered on the lovable James Fraser, his POV, his agenda, (which the TV series tried to do, and Gabaldon does in 3rd book Voyager.) So as to be attractive to men as well as women. TTRK is told primarily through two POV’s, Brian and Queen Gormlaith. 2. Bernard Cornwall Series : who love a great adventure, Man’s ultimate test, with brutal enemies, the joy of triumph, the agony of defeat, and rising from the ashes to kick butt. Viking war games, battles, sword play, war, trials by courage, treachery, loyalty, limits of physical pain, buddy aspect of TTRK, between the life long bond between Brian and his loyal friend Finn. Brian’s most worthy opponent, who proves herself his equal in all things –“The most beautiful, gifted and cunning of all women,” The kind of quest, tests, and woman, any “warrior’s heart” would yearn for. 3. The Military – TTRK, as stated in Churchill’s quote, in the beginning, is so that the real warriors who participated and sacrificed their lives, in Brian’s war, as well as all those today who make the same sacrifice to serve and protect, will not be forgotten. At its most basic level, TTRK is the life journey of an insignificant youth – who becomes a soldier, guerrilla fighter, and General of the Army of Erin, who refuses to stand by. And like any Navy Seal, Army Ranger, Marine, Academy Cadet, who summons the courage in their youth, and takes the oath, to risk all for homeland and freedom for their people. I know Warriors, and their hearts. My children are four of them. Three sons and a daughter (like Brian Boru) made history when they all attended Annapolis together. I was there when mine took their oaths to uphold the Constitution with their lives. They are my inspiration for Brian. 4. All Ages - TTRK is also a journey of the hearts and minds of a man and woman, from youth through the winter of their lives, youthful drives, yearnings filled and unfulfilled, and perspective looking back, and ahead to whatever lays behind the stars. Though violent, possessing adult content, beautiful love and scintillating lust stories, brutal war scenes, rape, incest, torture - there is no explicit, sexual content described, or language (in English – however, quite colorful medieval Irish, English and Danish). 5. Arthurian: TTRK is the life story of the real King Arthur, and he is everything for which all these readers have been searching, for 1000 years – the real man of flesh and blood, whose life story was plagiarized, is so much better! 6. Brian Boru is the Republic of Ireland’s National Hero: And the Irish love their history. 60,000 came to a reenactment of Brian Boru’s battle for Ireland, April 1014, for the millennial celebration of his life. Morgan Llewellyn has written 4 books on the life of Brian Boru, she has sold 40 million books including these. Her last, nonfiction about the Battle of Clontarf 1014. 7. Lovers of Ireland, anything Irish: The last time I was in Ireland, in July at the Hill of Tara, by the Lia Fail Stone, (Where TTRK begins) and where Brian Boru, and all the ancient kings of Ireland, were crowned High King; there were three buses of tourists at the Stone having a lecture of the history. One bus each, from Japan, Germany, and England. Unbelievably my son’s 6th grade teacher showed up as well, from Shrewsbury Vermont! A case for widespread appeal. Many magical settings for the historical events that take place in Brian’s real world – are still there and can be visited : battle grounds, hills, castle, towers, monasteries, sacred wells, tombs, ancient ring fort, standing stones, waterfalls, caves, round towers, the Shannon, Craglea, Cashel, Armagh where he is buried, and Cliffs of Moher. 8. Lovers of History in general: The true story of Brian Boru, the young rebel, guerrilla war chief, General, King, High King, declared Emperor of the Irish, and the only Ard Ri, of united Ireland. Deserves to be studied along with the great Kings, and Generals in European History. Women who like to read of famous Queens –Katherine of Aragon – the True Queen, (just published), will love the real Gormlaith the Queen of Dublin, who accomplished what Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, Matilda, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Elizabeth I, and none of Henry VIII’s wives, could not – initiate, orchestrate, manipulate, and win the final battle, determining the fate of a Nation, orchestrate the death of ten thousand kings and world class sociopathic mercenaries, as well as the greatest General of the time – with no army of her own, just beauty, brains, and cunning. Brian Boru’s story, is also a true story concerning the descendants, of the ancient Thracians (Spartacus), who moved west from Turkey to became the ancient Celts of Europe, ( Boudicca, Vercingetorix, the King Arthur of Legend). Who became the Irish, the last bastion of pure Celt; the rest of the Britons becoming intermingled with the Picts, Danes, Norse, Saxons, Romans, Angles in England, Wales, Scotland, and Britany. Had Brian lost his battle against the Danes, Ireland would be no different than Scotland, or Wales today. O Reilly has written best sellers – Killing Lincoln, Killing Kennedy and Killing Reagan – all ancestors of Brian Boru. And he is Irish. I wonder, if after TTRK is published, Killing Brian Boru, Ireland’s, maligned, forgotten, defrauded national hero – the real King Arthur, might prove irresistible to him. Especially since his and our enemies are the same, the Persian Caliphates of the Middle East. 9. Lovers of the Historic TV Series: TTRK has a connection to: The Vikings ~ Ragnar Lodbrok is the great great grandfather of Brian’s enemies, Gofraid, Olaf, Ivar the Danes Bastard Executioner ~ takes place in Wales, just across the Irish Sea from Dublin, origin of the King Arthur stories. TTRK ~ the main Character in hiding, outlaw, outcast, hunted. The White Queen ~ illustrates the motives for Geoffrey’s fraud, and motives for Henry I, the King who commissioned him – his need for precedence to invade Ireland, acquiring money for his wars. Outlander ~ Brian will be loved by all those who love James Fraser, outlaw, outcast, rebel, warrior, Chief, leader of his Clann, fighting to save his country and people. All historic accounts claim, the real Brian was big, tall and red-headed, and a fearsome warrior, guerrilla fighter, inspirational leader. TTRK is a warrior’s story – his most fearsome battles – for love and lust and the human heart. Black Sails ~ sociopathic marauders, fortune, fame, and glory - Vikings in the Bahamas King Arthur and Merlin ~ stereotyped, fantasy, cliché, shallow, graphic novel types. TTRK ~ Real people, men and woman who lived legendary lives far more fascinating than any fantasy Game of Thrones ~ TTRK similar -fascinating, multilayered, personalities, larger than life characters, vying for thrones and power, family intrigue, treachery, betrayal, unpredictable – sycophants, sociopaths, and survivors. Camelot ~ a recent version of the King Arthur Story. Daytime Drama/ Fantasy Rebellion ~ Documentary, recent mini-series about the rebellion after the execution of Irish leaders in the Easter Uprising, inspired by Brian Boru. The Irish Declaration of Independence from Britain, reads : “ Irish men and Irish women :In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nation hood - Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom! The only time in history, Ireland was united in peace and freedom, was 12 years under Brian. The Irish Revolution - the Easter Uprising was initiated that day, inspired by the Good Friday Battle of Clontarf when Brian Boru defeated the enemies of Ireland, and sacrificed his life. 10. Documentary history lovers ~Many searching for The Real King Arthur, Behind the Di Vinci Code, Search for the Grail, the Real Robin Hood, Sacred Places of Ireland, The Underground and Viking Ruins of Dublin, and the recent - 1916 Rebellion 10. The stories of England, Wales, Scotland, Denmark, have all been told. A Series, based on a True Story of the Irish Celts vs Vikings will be fresh 11. Lovers of the Films: Michael Collins ~ Hero of Ireland, fighter in Easter Uprising, inspired by Brian Boru King Arthur ~ TTRK – the real King Arthur Gladiator ~ TTRK – journey of Brian Boru ~ Outlaw, Leader, General, Hero Robin Hood ~ TTRK – Brian, outlaw, gruella warrior, against tyranny for helpless Braveheart ~ TTRK - insignificant orphan sacrifices all to save his people and country Troy ~ TTRK - the massive invasion, treachery, annihilistic war because of a woman Camelot ~ TTRK - true story of real King Arthur, Guinevere, Camelot, Mordred, Grail Lion in Winter ~TTRK – Brian’s war, love, betrayal, relationship with his wife, jealous sons Freedom Within the Heart – a film currently in development (imdb) about Brian Boru. Covers the same material as my first book only. Northmen: the Saga – new movie currently released – Viking adventure 12. Lovers British Royalty, English history~ Brian Boru is direct ancestor, the real great grandfather 35 times back of Queen Elizabeth II. That makes William, Harry, Charlotte and George descendants of the Real King Arthur – Hero of the English, who are all awaiting his return. He is also an ancestor of Kate Middleton. The English are obsessed with any scandal of the Royal’s. Having a wild Irish Brian Boru in the gene pool, would certainly explain Prince Harry, his wild streak and red hair. England hasn’t lost their King Arthur – but gained a beloved member of the Royal Family. 13. American Political History lovers ~ Researchers have proven, Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, Ronald Regan, Bill Clinton, Barak Obama, have Brian Boru for an ancestor. Brian’s life parallels many American Heroes. Washington’s dilemma: Where draw the line? English on both sides, in a fight for freedom against tyranny, treachery, betrayal. When to start the war? All or nothing. Brian’s dilemma. The great dilemma of Lincoln; to save the country and free the slaves, he must bring death, and destruction, hundreds of thousands dying in a terrible war. Though successful, he paid with his life, and the hostility from both sides echoes today. Brian’s dilemma exactly. I watched a recent documentary, Camelot, about John and Robert Kennedy. Cennetig was the name of Brian’s father, from which the Kennedy’s are descended. They both possess many similarities to their ancestor, Brian Boru, both in character, and in what they tried accomplish: Defend the defenseless, unite the country, chose negotiation for peace rather than war, and lead by inspiration. Both, though beloved by the people, decisive, fearless, willing to risk all, under threat, flawed, were unable to survive the treachery and betrayal around them. Their sacrificial deaths still inspiring a nation today. I saw both the film and the speech of JFK, when he spoke of his love for the film Camelot, declaring Arthur’s “brief shining moment”, an inspiration to him. His presidency and his days in the White House, coming to be known as Camelot . . . is such sweet irony. Brian Boru’s real castle is Cashel, the real Camelot, and the brief shining moment – Brian’s 12 years of peace in a united Ireland – the only in Irish history – the inspiration for King Arthur. One of the first copies of my books has already been requested by Robert Kennedy’s son, Joe, who bought two of my Irish Terrier pups. Their pup’s mother, my “Gunny”, fearsome and fearless, is the inspiration for Brian’s pup Chulainn. 14. Lovers of Controversy-- the solving of the Grail riddle in the Da Vinci Code: Like the maelstrom around Dan Brown’s supposition – the scandalous revelation of the true Grail – a womb, sacred feminine, child of Christ . . . could not be further than the truth. TTRK’s revelation of the true Grail, debunking Dan Brown’s theory, will ignite a firestorm of controversy . . . rattling the cages of the British Empire, the Vatican, and all previous theories of the Grail for 1000 years. True Grail’s nature, and location is revealed in the last page and last images of the Series. 15. Readers of my Non Fiction Companion Book: Controversial and Original ~ Evidence presented, as if making a legal case: Perpetrator, means, motive, opportunity, witnesses, preponderance of evidence, proof beyond a shadow of a doubt, damages, ramifications for today, resonance around the world. Import: King Arthur and the Grail, are the two biggest icons in Christendom – after Jesus Christ. 16. Stephanie Meyer readers - I have the same Mormon Church, 5.7 million in USA, and BYU Alumnus,(30,000/yr students), connection as Stephenie Meyer, vastly interconnected (Ben Hewett, Plague Runner, as well, and 4 others in just my group at the NY pitch Conference). A very small close knit world, book stores from one end of Utah to the other, word of mouth is huge, many of whom, I believe will be drawn to Brian’s story. As it will sound familiar. You might not know, the name Mormon comes from a great military General, Mormon – a beloved leader of his people, who, in a final battle, made a last stand on top of a hill with an army of young warriors, in an ill-fated attempt to defend the last of his people. His final act – to make record, leaving behind a book, so that the courage of his stripling warriors, his people, and the battle in which they defended their freedom, to the death . . . would never be forgotten. • Hook ~ 3? I think this is pretty well covered with hooks for different readers, and explanation. My question – Is there anything here that should be left out of the Novel, and perhaps just kept for the Non Fiction Companion? Like the Preface, Introduction, or List of Facts: Which of following should be included in the beginning of Blood Gambit? Because, TTRK – Book 1 ~Blood Gambit, is the beginning of a Series, concerning historical events of some import– I have chosen to draw readers in by layers, so that they may be a participant in the solving of the four mysteries. From a publisher’s point of view, I think you'll find, these layers will draw in readers of different genres. I consider all the following to be my Hook: Each provocative with respect to the four mysteries to be solved: Who, What, How, Where, Why. Title, Author’s note, Introduction, Quotations, Prologue in two bookend layers, Ospak the Dane, and Geoffrey of Monmouth, framing each Book, for the entire Series, as well as Chapters 1 and 2 {Hook for Mystery} THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL KING The Life of Brian Boru High King of Ireland ~ The Real King Arthur ~ A true story of Ireland 941-1014 AD Concerning ~ A boy who would never be king, A “certain most ancient book” that would never be found, A mystery that would never be solved, A thief in the night that would never be caught, And the most successful, beloved, and perfidious fraud, In history . . . . Book 1 ~ BLOOD GAMBIT ~ Rebel, Warrior, Chief Book 2 ~ ENTOMBED ~ King of the Dal Cass Book 3 ~ PINNED, FORKED, SKEWERED ~ High King of the South Book 4 ~ SMOTHER MATE ~ Emperor of the Irish Book 5 ~ CHESSMEN OF THE GODS ~ Ard Ri of Ireland By C. W. C. Whitmer {Hook - for Historical, Mystery and Arthurian Readers} THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL KING Preface In 1136-1138, on the west coast of Wales, a monk named Geoffrey of Monmouth received a commission to write, the Historia Regum Britanniae - the History of the Kings of Britain. His Norman benefactor – Robert 1st of Gloucester, the illegitimate son of King Henry I, of England. After a rather colorful accounting of several hundred years of serpents, dragons, wizards and warriors, and the history of the Kings of Britain, from Julius Caesar to Vortigern; the Historia included the first account of Arthur, a boy who became King, who united Britain and invaded Ireland, defeating the Irish, and Saxons in a series of wars, and established a shining beacon of peace and law, as the rest of the world floundered in the dark. Geoffrey’s well-loved tale of King Arthur, recounted as history, proved to be a lucrative best seller, garnering him fame, fortune, two promotions, and 876 years of reprints. Incredibly, 200 original copies survive. Indeed, Geoffrey’s History of the Kings of Britain, is still available on Amazon.com today. A run, for which many writers might be tempted to sell their soul. Argument can be made, that Arthur and the subsequent Grail stories, forever connected with Arthurian legend, have become the two most famous icons, in Christendom, after Christ. Both played a powerful role, historically, literarily, and politically – inspired Chivalry, recruited Knights Templar, and fueled the Crusades. Geoffrey’s account, taken as fact in 1138, would set precedence for the only English Pope to ever sit in Rome, to give permission by Papal Bull, to Henry II to: invade, pillage and plunder Ireland, its monasteries, and the unprecedented murder of fellow Catholics, and become King. The Grail, ever associated with King Arthur, has been an object of inspiration and quest, by everyone down through the ages from Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Adolf Hitler, to Dan Brown in the Da Vinci Code. King Arthur can be found listed as the 5th century King of England, in history books, timelines, and documentaries, I have a library full of them, as I have loved the story of Arthur since childhood. Colleges offer classes of Arthurian studies. Noted Professors claim that the Grail, is indeed, the sacred womb of Mary Magdalene, or a chalice under the protection of the Pope in the Vatican, or the simplest of wooden cups, hidden in an obscure cottage. Bestselling novels, nonfiction, film, and documentaries, claim to have evidence as to the origin or whereabouts of Arthur and the Grail, I have sought after them all. Of course there are the naysayers. Experts in many fields have gone on record stating, no one man could have accomplished all the deeds of King Arthur of England. Either, he is a compilation of many men, a gross exaggeration of one, or most likely, a figment of Geoffrey’s imagination: a literary fantasy, an inspiring metaphor for us all. Experts also claim: Chrétien de Troyes’, “Perceval, Le Conte du Graal,” the very first account of the Grail, written in approximately 1269 – is only a literary device, a metaphor as well, for the object of a worthy quest. Sadly, for most of us, unattainable, as the object can be found, (and I say “object” because Chretien did not mention, exactly, the nature of the Grail), only by a valorous and righteous soul. The only truth that can be stated, unequivocally, concerning King Arthur and the Grail – for 800 years, unmeasurable amounts of people – have read, loved, searched for them both . . . and wished the story was true. . . . {Hook for Historian, Arthurian, Mystery and Grail Seekers, echoing the beginning of the Di Vinci Code} Fact: - Geoffrey, Cleric, of Monmouth Wales, in 1138, publishes the first account of 5th century King Arthur. Despite what you read – there is no mention of a King of Britain, named Arthur before this – not one. - Though, for 800 years, historians, archeologists, researchers, scholars, have been looking in England, for any evidence of the real King Arthur, Guinevere, Camelot, Avalon, and the Battle of Camlann - none has ever been found. - Present day, historians and scholars have declared Geoffrey’s account of King Arthur, a king who united his people, defended, won, and restored, his country and gave his life in a final battle, for the land he loved – a figment of his imagination. They claim, there never was a real man, behind the legend. - However, Geoffrey states quite clearly, his source for King Arthur of Britain - “a certain most ancient book, written in the British language.” Given to him by Walter Archdeacon of Oxford, which shall never be found. - Chretien de Troyes was the first to write of the Grail, and linked it to King Arthur, in 1269. Despite what you see and read; before Chretien, there is no mention of the Grail in history or literature – not one. Nor any precedent for the word “Grail, or Graal.” - Chretien died before revealing the true nature of the Grail, stating only that his source was an old book given to him by Phillip, suspected to be of Celtic origin, and believed to have originated in Wales. - Norse Sagas, Njal’s and Thorstein’s Sagas, give accounts of the Battle of Clontarf, known as King Brian’s War, referencing a book named - Brjans Saga. - Scholar, Einar Olafur Sveinsson, and academic Donnnchadh O. Corrain, experts on Norse Literature and History, claim there must have been such a book. One of the great mysteries in Norse Literature, is what might have become of it. Although many Saga’s of this time period survived – Brjan’s Saga was “lost.” {Hook for all} Introduction As a King Arthur lover from childhood, and a collector of Arthurian fiction and nonfiction; I was immediately drawn to the historic Brian Boru. A true story of an insignificant orphan who spent his life trying to defend, unite and restore his people, amid the devastation wrought by Danish Vikings, never giving up until he accomplished it. Only to have his dreams dashed, and life ended by a tragic and treacherous War, then to be completely forgotten by most of the world. To this day Brian is the only ArdRi, or High King to unite Ireland in peace. I loved that his story is true – not myth, nor legend, nor fantasy – a man of flesh and blood. As warrior and Christian, he tried hard to do the right thing – not very kingly. The more I read about Brian, the more similar he and legendary King Arthur became. I wanted to know more about both. I read every nonfiction book I could find, and the ancient manuscripts, considered most accurate, of Brian Boru’s life. When I began my research, one of the things I found most baffling, is the cynicism, dismissiveness, even hostility of many authors, and critics of nonfiction, towards Brian, though he lived an amazing life of accomplishment, with much to be admired. Curious, I went to the first real source of King Arthur of England – Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia of the Kings of Britain. Only to be further surprised at what I found. The detractors of Brian, mirror exactly the sentiments of Geoffrey of Monmouth when he speaks with distain of the Irish in general in his 1138 “factual” account of King Arthur. A tone not present in the rest of his history, of dragons and wizards, from The Troy to Vortigern and Uther’s magical and illicit fathering of Arthur, all recounted as historical fact. To the contrary, King Arthur is spoken of with reverence by Geoffrey, and 900 years of authors to come, whether he be myth or legend, or figment of imagination. My nonfiction resources, all offered their opinions, beyond just the facts, as to Brian’s motives, hence defining his character for the worse – ambitious, usurper, not a real uniter, didn’t eliminate the Danes from Ireland, so he did not really win the war. Even holding distain for his efforts and the life he sacrificed, in the greatest battle in Irish history. The more I read, the more unsettled I became – something seemed horribly wrong. Not only unfair, but a tragic disconnect, a misrepresentation, a deliberate nullification. A fiction made real, and a most beautiful and poignant truth, relegated to fiction – and if deliberate, by Geoffrey of Monmouth, knowing that it was intended for precedence to invade and sack Ireland – a most successful and enduring fraud. Of course every writer is entitled to his interpretation. However, I decided from the beginning – theirs would not be mine. I would accept no previous slant as to motive of any of the characters, but rather make as detailed and factual an outline as possible, and with an open mind, based on the lifetime choices of the real people – discern for myself their motives, crucibles of dilemma, and essence of true character. I believe, what we are at the core – is revealed by the choices we make throughout our lives. Just as this is true for all of us today, it is only fair to judge those that vied for the fate of Ireland, King Brian, Malachy II, and the real woman out of legend, Queen Gormlaith, this way as well. At the end of each Book is the Historical Timeline, I referenced. All events in bold, are the results of my best efforts in research, from multiple nonfictional sources. When I found conflicting entrees by year dates, I picked the one from the more reliable source, and made most sense in relation to the others. The factual, fictional or estimated, in my timeline, are easily discerned from the historical, by italics, inviting the reader to make their own conclusions. There is significant discrepancy, as to the number of wives and children, including several foster children, Brian possessed. Accused of having many, speculatively, by the same distaining sources, and not wishing to speculate myself, on these two subjects; I have chosen to recount those mentioned in my research that are certain. Three wives, five sons, and two daughters who played a role; in the final battle, or by marriage in the destiny of Ireland, and by gene pool – Queen Elizabeth II, the future Kings of Britain, and five of our American Presidents. For names, I have chosen the most easily read and pronounced versions, usually English equivalents of Irish Names. In the case of duplicates, I differentiated between them in spelling. All representation of: characterization, motive, emotions, dilemma, adventures, romance, drama, not found on the historic timeline, are mine, based on the lifetime of choices of the real people. Events were chosen to: support the timeline, shed incite to decisions made, portray the deepest essence of true character, and to entertain. It is my strong belief that larger than life, real people, who become legends in their own lifetime, as did King Brian and Queen Gormlaith, shape the fates of nations, impact major turning points in history, and are mentioned in the Sagas of their enemies – lead rather more interesting lives than many of us. My quest: to breathe life into these Warrior Kings, and Queen, wives, husbands, lovers, fathers, sons. To sound the depths of their hearts, souls, minds and bodies. To watch them; in the terror of crucible, agony of dilemma, dread of decision, and consequence of choice; their private moments of love and lust, treachery and betrayal, triumph and tragedy: whose courage, cunning, and weaknesses, would determine the destiny of Ireland, and the last remnant of a Celtic people. I would ask my readers – when the firestorm comes, and it will . . . whatever the opinions of my attempt, to recreate this beautifully inspiring, tragically gut-wrenching, story; you can be sure of two things: I cannot say for certain, the most defining moments in Brian’s, Gormlaith’s and Malachy’s life happened the way I imagined . . . But then, neither can anyone say – they did not . . . . C.W. The truth of things is always underneath. It has to be imagined. James Goldman {Hook for Romance Readers – Whatever else these books may be – they are first, a love letter to a real man. Whose warrior’s heart, has captured my own. It is my passion to tell Brian’s story, the way it has never been told before – and do what he would have me do – make certain, those he loved are not forgotten. Dedication: For Brian, the boy from Beal Boru . . . and all warrior hearts . . . . Ggcasaimid le cheile aris la amhain, timpeall tinte campa sa speir . . . . With love, C {‘Till we meet again, around campfires in the sky} {Hook for Arthurian, Military, History and British Empire, readers.} Opening Quote~ Of King Arthur . . . “If we could see exactly what happened we should find ourselves in the presence of a theme as well founded, as inspired, and as inalienable from the inheritance of mankind as the Odyssey . . . or the Old Testament . . . It is all true, or it ought to be; and more and better besides. And wherever men are fighting against barbarism, tyranny, and massacre, for freedom, law, and honor, let them remember that the fame of their deeds, even though they themselves be exterminated, may perhaps be celebrated long as the world rolls round.” Sir Winston Churchill {I hope the excruciating sweetness of this quote is not lost – The ultimate irony for England and Churchill. The national Hero they revere is really Irish. And even more exquisite irony - Brian Boru is the Queen Elizabeth II’s, 35th Great grandfather. Of Geoffrey of Monmouth “Forger he may have been, but he writes of underlying truths.” Bryniey F. Roberts {Hook for all: Intro to mysteries – The ancient stone, the boy, the book, and the thief in the night. Theme, Metaphor for all conflict to come, and great stakes} Abridgement: of Prologue THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL KING Book 1 ~ BLOOD GAMBIT ~ Rebel, Warrior, King PROLOGUE Ireland ~ the Hill of Tara April 23rd, 1138 Ospak speaks: . . . .“Oh, you foolish children, who seek what is not there, and never was - a reflection in a pool, a shadow upon the meadow, an echo in the hills . . . has no beating heart. Don’t you know, there can be no courage, nor valor, nor Hero, nor deeds worth remembering, nor story worth telling . . . without truth! . . . “Listen well!” he roared . . . like a great red stag upon the mount, “For, I will tell you of a myth that is true, and of the monster who fed upon it, Of a boy who became a giant, and of the serpent who dragged him down to hell, Of a light, a brilliant light, as bright as a blood ember, glowing, And of a demon in the darkness, as black as a tomb in a new moon, And of the shadow he conjured, that grew upon the wall, Twisting and writhing, and slithering through the cracks, Until it spread o’er the earth, extinguishing the light, And with it came a pestilence, a poison, a plague, on the children of Eiru, To scorch and shrivel every meadow and flower, and dream and dawning, For every dew drop in Erin, turned to blood, And the most sacred of all fell on this hill, on this stone, on this very night . . . . And it all began - the day the dragons came!” {Hook – For all readers, especially Historical, and Mystery - second part of prologue frame – The ancient book, the Thief in the Night 1135 ~ West Coast of Wales Geoffrey of Monmouth, Cleric to the Archdeacon of Oxford, perched on his stool like a plague raven gargoyle, casting a loathsome eye back and forth between the piles of musty manuscripts and the trencher of spitted piglet carcass, on the table before him. The corners of his right eye and mouth ticked spasmodically, like the twitching of a maggot flicked onto red embers. And rightly so, for he drew nearer to a spit-scorching himself, every day. He had exceeded his deadline for the King. {Hook for Bernard Cornwell, readers, any one loving the blood and guts of the Vikings, History, Adventure, Suspense, War – The story of the one of the greatest, and most successful Generals, Kings, and leader of his people that ever lived. Led his own Army into many battles. And won the biggest, most important war of his time, against the world’s most brutal enemies.} Chapter 1 ~ THE END OF A DREAM Ireland ~ Good Friday April 23rd 1014 Clontarf Battlefield The boy, Latean, attendant to the High King, staggered up the battlefield, towards the tent at the top of the hill. The mutilated dead conspired to trip him up, their severed limbs and heads, scattered among their own entrails. The dying moaned out to him, and tore at this clothes. A gory hand reached out and clasped his ankle. He tripped and fell, sliding backwards, on his hands and knees. Blood, cold and clotted as blood pudding, oozed through his fingers. In revulsion, he thrust his foot up and down with all his might into to the mangled face of a youth not much older than he, but the mass of gutted wound slurry would not let loose. Ghastly claws, white and bloodless, tethered him to the field of gore, the demon specter of death in his black eyes, conspiring to drag him down to hell. He stopped, gasping for air, looking back in agony. Great ragged breaths tore at his chest, his stomach revolting at the sickening smell of burning flesh and ruptured bowels. The pallor of death hung over the land, gray and bloodless. For it was all on the field, all the blood in the world oozed and gushed, and seeped, onto the field and the trampled flowers of Clontarf meadow. {Hook - Romance – Timeless love story - Brian is drawn back in memory to the day the Danes came, and his life would change forever. And the first time he saw the little golden boat, at the end of a string in the hand of the little red-headed girl, who would become his timeless love – Leira} Latean looked with horror, back to the High King; but, even as the portals of Hell had flung wide, and demons loosed, to ravage the souls of men, and all the world came crashing down around him . . . his beloved Ard Ri saw none of it. For there, upon the spot, burnished clean by the tears of a boy, at the end of all hope and dreams – reflections of candle flames, shimmered, and sparkled, and glowed, like the sunlit ripples of the Shannon . . . dancing upon a golden bow . . . “I am a salmon in the water” . . . Brian whispered . . . and the tears coursing down his cheeks . . . were tears of . . . joy! . . . The little golden boat is a real artifact, the symbol of the love between Brian and Leira. The boat is Brian’s connection to the joy of the past, his secret longings, and hope for the future. {Hook: for Historical, Suspense, Viking, Cornwell, readers} Chapter 2 ~ DRAGONS SWARM “In the habitation of dragons . . . . . . a highway shall be there, and a way . . . Isaiah Ireland ~ 951 Dead eyed and soulless the dragons came; preening black swans, their fine boned, worm-whorled prows, and arched necks skimming the water, the foam-flecked waves of the Shannon, caressing their breasts barely stirring a wake. Crimson sails billowed in the wind, like blood-eagled lungs from cloven ribs of corpses floating on the river Hades. They came without sound, without warning – demons from Hel in the dawning . . . . STRUCTURE: • Act Zero backstory development ~ 4 As Gardner advises, I prefer to not interrupt the “fictive dream.” But rather inject exposition through Character POV, with attitude, and in conflict. Prologue: Backstory for the time, motivations, political intrigue of Geoffrey’s commission to write his History of the Kings of Britain. Geoffrey of Monmouth: The problem – Henry 1st King of England, Scotland, France and Wales, Duke of Normandy – 4th son to bastard William the Conqueror, and some whispered, father to at least 22 ill-conceived gammy get, out of bowlegged sheep on both sides of the Channel – though over sexed and nonselective, remained incapable of producing, even one living legitimate son. The fact of it was, King Henry, brutally successful in all things base or unconscionable, waxed undisciplined in all things kingly or sanctified. Simply put, Henry, the rutting old whore-hound, lived to run trash – in the hunt – and out. And now out of money for his wars, sporting a flaming brothel disease, and in dire need of his people accepting his eldest bastard, Robert 1st Earl of Gloucester, as heir – he expected Geoffrey to rectify the plight of all bastards everywhere – in his family tree, and buried in the roots and stinking up the place. And he expected him to accomplish this feat, a fortnight ago. Before he returned to England . . . any minute. Geoffrey wiped at the sweat dripping down the creases of his neck with his sleeve. His stomach howling from hunger, and his bowels convulsing from utter terror; he was racked by two pressing problems – he didn’t know whether to eat or scite . . . . And – Geoffrey was hiding a secret of his own. In all the piles of manuscripts and books on his desk, and four centuries of Gildas, the Venerable Bede, Nennius, The Anglo Saxon Chronicles, Welsh Annals, who all made record of the late 4th and 5th century. None of them mention an English King, by name who rose up to defend Britain, after the Romans abandoned them. Henry’s command; “I need a King, a Warrior King! Defender against invading Angles and Saxons, Guardian of Christendom, A Uniter and Protector of his people, and Bestower of Peace and Prosperity, a flaming Imperator! Among men – a shining light upon the hill in the black plague of pustulent Barbarians!” However, there was no such beloved Warrior King, Defender, Uniter, Protector, Imperator, against the Saxons, named, in all of his piles, and all of fetching England . . . not even one . . . . Antagonistic Forces already in motion before story begins, creating conflict, eminent disaster. Exposition given for Danes, motive, goal, and target, and the coming nightmare for Brian’s Clann. Chapter 2 ~ ATTACK - Backstory - Dane/Viking conflicts with Dal Cassian Tribe Atop each mast, a saffron banner undulating with a tusked wild boar eviscerating a great horned stag – the banner of Gofriad, master of all, standing in the prow of the Long Dreki. Gofraid, King of York Angland, the Isles, Limerick and Dublin the richest slave trading port west of Constantinople. Gofraid, defiler of children, and desecrator of Christian altars with innocent blood throughout Angland, Frankland, Scotland, and Irland. Gofraid, son of Sigtrigg Gale, son of Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lodbrok, the Hairy Breeks – King of the Danes, and scourge of all Christendom. He had decimated Killaloe and the Irish King of Thomond before, in his youth with his father. But enough time had passed for the boar-tough Cennetig, of the Clann Dal Cais, to build up his stores of cattle and pigs, lamb and horses, and a round tower with Christian treasures of silver and gold, forged steel blades, jeweled crosiers and crosses, reliquaries and covers of their sacred books. And his stores of sons. Twelve he had now, and by the same woman. His breeding fame, beyond his bulls had spread around Norse fires, for none in all Daneland had twelve sons, and no bastards to follow him, twelve sons to seek vengeance or wergild. They would be hard to kill, like their father, and grandfather before. And the eldest already renowned for fighting with a sword in each hand. A bad omen, for only Norse gods could master such a feat. He knew well, besides the treasures of King Cennetig and his renowned Great Hall of Kincora; Killaloe lay strategically on the Shannon, at the neck of Lough Derg, giving it the high ground above the narrows, for control of the River. The longest river in Irland, and the divider between east and west whose long arms extended into the Westland, Midland, and Northland, and mouthed into the Western Sea. Killaloe - the only cattle ford, along the 240 miles. All who passed there paid the King of Thomond, a tax, in cattle or gold for safe crossing. Making Cennetig the richest cattle king on the isle of Irland, and the great Hall of Kincora a prize worth keeping, beyond razing and plunder. This claim on the river, and this virile strain that coursed through his blood, and the blood of his bulls, made Cennetig a fearsome warrior, like the old ones, the ancient tribes, before the Christian God made them weak. And unlike the other Irish Tribal Kings – unimpressed, for he had no need, nor want to be a sycophant to the Danes. You cannot enslave a man, untempted by envy or greed. And with twelve sons, the very pride of Cennetig, coming up after him, a pack of lion cubs in his mold, meant little chance of the King of Thomond relinquishing his rath to the Danes, anytime soon. It would be harder in the years to come – now, the time to strike. Celtic Backstory: Heroes of the Irish Celt, Vercingetorix – metaphor for what is at risk, what lies ahead, and the choices Brian will be forced to make. Recounting the Battle of Alicia, integral to Brian’s decisions in the future. “Then,” Cerin whispered, his voice horse and ragged and fighting tears . . . “ the finest hero of the ages, greatest general to ever have lived and defended his homeland, sacrificed himself for the people he loved, because he could not watch them starve. ‘Twas then the high and mighty Julius Caesar, for lucre and glory, full of himself, and salivating to be Imperator of Rome, starved and killed the women and children anyway, and left the mighty Vercingetorix in a hell hole prison to rot and starve for 7 longs years, to be sure that he had sapped his strength before his dragged him out in chains before the screaming and cheering crowds of Rome, Caesar . . . Caesar . . . Caesar they screamed. Imperator . . . Imperator . . . Dragged the Hero of the Celts before the cheering crowds of Rome. His hands and feet, bound in chains, and a chain around his neck, forced him to his knees in the dirt. And the coward of all cowards . . . before the roaring citizens of the Empire and placed his sandaled, foot in the back of the tormented Vercingetorix and from behind strangled on his knees with a chain around his neck, and choked the life from his greatest adversary. . . to the cheers of the blood lusting crowd. Only a coward to the bone kills a man bound, on his knees, from behind, two cowardly to face him, to look into his eyes. Only a coward can let a man rot to death in a prison. But, only the fiendish, and most foul man on this earth can starve a child to death in his mother’s arms. The mighty Julius Caesar was just such a man. Men born to foul the earth . . . and so too the Danes who mutilate the children of Eiru.” • Concise, effective setup with inciting incident 3? I believe the setup is covered as far as plotting goes. My question - am I taking too long to get there? Are Brian’s trials by fire interesting/entertaining to you? After the attack, we jump to Brian 14 at school, then 17 at the Tournament of Princes, Book 1 from mid-point to end, Brian is 24. Gabaldon and Llewellyn both, do not get to their adult Hero until about page 70. The story of King Arthur always starts with him as a boy. Brian's story must start with the inciting incident of his life - the attack and slaughter of his family. It is cliché to have the attack, then the brief bit, where the hero is being trained by the “Jedi”. There is a philosophy I ascribe to in creating my scenes: “Take the cliché and throw it away. I do my best to have something in each chapter, I have not seen, read, nor heard of before. I wanted to spend time developing Brian and Gormlaith as a children and youth ( as does all Arthur stories) – where all of us develop our mental, emotional, physical capacities and psychological wounds – my goal – unforgettable characters. If there is one descriptor of TTRK above all others, it is that it goes deep, uncovering many layers – not wide, nor scattered, nor cluttered. The Inciting Incident of the historic attack on Brian at age 10, destruction of his home, death of Mother, Father, and almost all his brothers would have been a major turning point in his life. The significance of this nightmare is set up by Ospak the story teller. In Media Res, with old King Brian near the end of his life, and the apparent loss of all hope is taken back to the day just before the attack, in memory, to show contrast of exquisite joy and innocence – against the tragedy of heinous brutality. The Main Story begins with the Danes sailing up the Shannon to destroy Killaloe. Then cuts to Brian, trying to catch the biggest fish he has ever seen. • Plot line arc, and subplots ~ 4 Arc of story is tight following Brian’s, Malachy’s and Gormlaith’s transformational journey. Every chapter working towards Book Climax, working toward, Series Climax. Main Story Plotline: The life of Brian Boru and the history of Ireland. From insignificant 12th son of one of the 150 tribes, to Rebel, Warrior, Chief of his guerrilla army, to King of his Clann, King of Munster, King of the South, High King, Emperor, the only Ard Ri in history of united Ireland. Main Antagonist Arc: The life arc of Gormlaith, from little girl like any other, born daughter of Provincial King, Queen of Dublin and wife at 15 to the most powerful Viking in Europe, Wife to Malachy, the heir to 600 years of High Kingships, divorced, wife to Brian Boru, he makes her High Queen, Empress, divorced, cast aside three times, with no army of her own – decimates thousands of Kings, Earls, Viking mercenaries, berserks – to be the last one standing – and by default – the winner! Secondary Antagonist Arc – The life story of Malachy 11, the son of the High King, and heir to the High Kingship, a seriously flawed individual, consumed with Brian envy, weak, easily manipulated, no heroic core – Prince to become High King by inheritance, to whom Brian vows allegiance, Husband of Gormlaith, threatened by Brian’s rise, betrays him, attacks him, tries to destroy him, is beaten by Brian, ex-husband of his wife, allies again, betrays him again in the final battle. After Brian’s death and all his sons, Malachy, who sits out the battle of Clontarf, becomes inept King, is known in Northern Irish history as Malachy Mor – the great. Subplots – limited, all involve one of the three Main Characters. Conflicting Triangles • Brian and Malachy complete for Leira • Brian, Malachy caught in Gormlaith’s web –seduction, instigating jealousy, competition • Gormlaith trapped by father, brother, Olaf the Danish King • Gormlaith playing Irish and Danes against Brian and Malachy for control of Ireland • Gormlaith’s web weaving to snag first Olaf, then Malachy, then Brian • Malachy’s losing his grip of 600 years of High Kingship, as well as his wife – to Brian • Enemies of Erin scheming for control, targeting Brian, enlisted by Gormlaith or Malachy • Brian and Finn finding their way – living a Kamikaze life, committed to killing Danes, until they die. It takes a lot longer than they ever expected. Each book has secondary antagonists, Danes, traitor Irish Kings, Half Danes, half Irish, the High King Malachy, Gormlaith’s brother, son. Like the Game of Thrones, shifting alliances, machinations of greed, and betrayal, jealousy, infidelity, intrigue all swirl between Brian, Malachy, and Gormlaith. No parallel universes, like Outlander. No 7 different story lines like Game of Thrones. What these three people, did to each other – is mythic in scope for depth and dirty; mentally, emotionally, psychologically, physically. I prefer to go ever deeper into character, conflict and theme. Brian, Gormlaith, and Malachy each possess: What they appear to others to want. What they think they want. What they come to realize they want. And what is hidden even to them, what they really want – to become whole. The same four levels; for revealing their fears, hate, love, lust, ambition, envy. All five books, an Escalation of Crucible, Dilemma, Crisis, Climax, Revelation. All emotionally torn, and mentally, and physically stretched on the rack – think Shakespearian. The best analogy for TTRK Plot Line Arc: This triangle, of Brian, Malachy, Gormlaith, from beginning of this true tale – to end, is one continuous braid, three strands twisting, turning, convoluting over itself, driven by deep seeded fear, obsession, ambition, conflicting moral dilemma, and sociopathic neurosis. Now imagine, a match lights, setting the top of the braid aflame, conflagrating downward – the other end, dangling over the fires of hell. The thing about braids – they are always uneven at the end . . . you cannot know which of the three strands will be consumed – first . . . second . . . and last . . . . Therein lies the rub! • Well-designed reversals (major and minor) ~ 4 There are minor reversals in every chapter, from where the character starts, mental, physical, or emotional, or movement towards goal. McKee calls it a “change in value.” All chapters are part of a sequence which ends in significant reversal. All sequences end in Act, major reversals, all Books in cataclysmic reversal. Brian’s major reversals involve the murder of his family, his realization the he could not save the little girl. His losing Leira in the Tournament to Malachy, betrayal by brother. When he is driven over the Cliffs after the Danes. His failure to save another little girl and her family, killed by Danes. When all is lost, in the aftermath, he doubts God and decides to go Pagan. He realizes all his life he has been going down the wrong road, and commits to finding the right road, and going after what he really wants – Leira, love, family and to go home. • Pinch points (at least two) ~ 4 Geoffrey of Monmouth, Antagonist for Series plots with King Henry I to come up with a British Hero. Gofraid is in his dragon ships, with 100 Danes, head to attack Killaloe and murder Brian’s family. Olaf and Ivar plot to kill Gofraid, take all of Ireland and divide it between them, with Murchuada Irish Provincial King of Leinster. Murchuada has his wife killed to deliver a baby, he thinks is a son, to provide him with heir, requisite for High King. Gormlaith plots to seduce Brian at Samhain. • Catalytic situation driven ~ 4 There are strong catalysts driving main story arc, and subplots. The attack on Killaloe and murder of Brian’s family gives him his life’s Outer Goal – eliminating the Danish threat in Ireland. His failure to keep the little Leira safe from savaging by the Danes gives him is life’s Inner Goal – He will never again be powerless to save the ones he loves. Malachy’s cheating to win the Tourney is the catalyst for Brian running away to find a “fair fight”, and going rogue. The riddle of the “Lost Thracian King”, and the three concentric half circles of Dun Aengus, drives Brian to vow, never again will his people have their backs to the sea. They will be the ones pushing. His inability to save Maeve drives him to go Pagan, the night of debacle at Samhain shakes him, to find another way he is completely lost. The shadow of the Lia Fail stone cast by the rising sun, pointing to the west, is the catalyst for him realizing which way he should go – to Leira, to love, and to home. • Conflict, tension, rising action, ~ 4 There is, character yearning, goal, escalating conflicts, disaster, dilemma, crises, decision, climax, moment of realization in every chapter/scene, and sequence. Sequences in escalation: 1. In Media Res, foreshadows, cataclysmic Climax at series end – the battle for the fate of Ireland, and the Celtic Race. 2. The nightmare begins with the attack and innocence lost. No going back. 3. Enemies of Erin Rising, 4. Brian 17, Rebel with a cause, win Tourney, claim Leira. 5. Rebel without a cause – lost, piling on loses. 6. Beyond bearing – Kamikaze death wish – Brian driven beyond the pale, mentally, physically, emotionally frustrated – jumps. 7. Riddle of the lost King – searching for the right road. 8. We are all wolves starving at the edge of night, Brian and Gormlaith both are being shaped by their circumstances. 9. Brian finally belongs – finds a family. 10. Family killed – he loses control. 11. Free fall in to Hell all is lost, he is lost in the mists. 12. Finds the right road and headed in the right direction . . . but finds out . . . Theme of Book 1 ~ flying too close to the flame . . . there are far worse things than getting burned. Think – two men and one woman with guns, knives, axes, garrotes – consumed with love, lust, envy and ambition, locked in cage fight to the death – no refs, no stalling, no injury time, and no tapping out. • Every scene relevant (i.e., to driving plot forward) ~ 3? Please let me know if anything is boring. Every scene/chapter subject matter was chosen to be on, one of the two main character’s story arcs. Unlike Outlander which has two parallel storylines, or Game of Thrones which has 7 separate story lines. In TTRK Brian, Malachy, Gormlaith and all their enemies are intertwined and on a straight and escalating trajectory to hell . . . some will survive as triumphant, but most will go down in flames. Think – Musical Chairs on the edge Dante’s Inferno. • Effective, believable climax ~ 4 Book 1 ~ Blood Gambit – Climax: Brian who has finally found a home with a little girl named Maeve, (reminds him of little Leira), and her family, it is another chance for him to keep her safe. A stranger comes to tell Brian that the Danes have a group of young boys, held hostage and plan to sell them for slaves, Brian and Finn cannot stand by. He goes to try and rescue them. It is a trick, the Danes trying to catch him, attack Maeve and family. When Brian realizes he has been duped, his is frantic to get back to Maeve. Sees smoke and flames from a distance – finds many dead, and the little girl he promised to keep safe, on an altar in a burning chapel, tied, savaged, her nose cut off. He rides his mare into the conflagration to get her. They are all burned, the little girl and his mare, die in his arms. • Resolution ~ 4 Brian, devastated buries the bodies of his loved ones, who he promised to keep safe. The priest is there and reminds him that he should be happy, God, sacrificed his son, so He could atone, for their sins, and if they confess, eventually they will be released from Purgatory. Brian, beyond the pale, rages at the priest and God –“ If God had really loved his son, he wouldn’t have sent him down, weaponless, amongst a bunch of betrayers, and he would slaughtered the bastards that killed him, and staked their heads on spears from the foot of his cross, to Rome. – If God had really loved his Son!” These words will come back to haunt Brian after the final battle at Clontarf. He realizes his sons have all died in battle, fighting for his cause, and he agonizes, wondering if God is punishing him for the insult, so many years ago. He has an epiphany at the end of his life, (like everyone else) wondering if there really is a heaven. Will he ever see his sons again – God and he did not send their boys to die – none the less – they ended up on the hill, on the field for one reason, and one reason only – as Father’s, they could not take their courage from them. Brian realizes then, that God could only have let his boy go – if he was absolutely sure, he would be with him again . . . . CHARACTERS: • Antagonistic force ~ 4 Gormlaith, daughter of Murchuada, King of Leinster, is born killing her mother. Her father gives her a blessing that she will become the most beautiful, and gifted of all women, possessed by no man – except him. Twisted by her childhood; his little pawn, in his scheming to become High King, makes it across the board and becomes infamous Queen. Just as he has taught her, with the game of chess, to control the destinies of Kings; she will Pin, Fork, and Skewer her way to the top. Making them choose between what they want, and what they love – forcing them to sacrifice one to save the other. Until she brings them all to their knees, and she is the last one standing. To win is everything. Her deepest fear – being powerless, or restrained, or ending up like her mother. At the end of the final battle, as Brian lies mortally wounded; she realizes there is one thing she wanted more than; he, and his three sons, and grandson, and thousands of Irish, and Norse dead – which she has achieved ~ she wanted him to love her. Gormlaith, daughter of the father from Hell, is a child of Ireland like no other. Abused, used, and extremely gifted, “the sins of her father,” has twisted her psyche. Like Brian, she must find the courage and fight to survive, honing her craft to perfection. Her greatest fear - being powerless at the hands of men, to save herself. She becomes control obsessed with becoming High Queen, there by beyond the control of any man. This means destroying all rival Kings, including her third husband, Brian, the only man she has ever loved. Brian’s greatest fear – being powerless at the hands of sadists, to save the innocent and defenseless of Ireland. He is obsessed with control as well – that he and his people will never be under the control of tyrants again. He can only accomplish this by marrying Gormlaith to make an alliance for peace, and becoming High King of all Ireland. Gormlaith and Brian, determined by the circumstances of their birth, are set on a cataclysmic collision course where; the casualties will be devastating, only one can survive, and the destiny of Ireland hangs in the balance. • Antagonist Sketch: Gormlaith, infamous Queen of Dublin Gormlaith, a complex character, by the real choices she made in her life, yet truly gifted if judged by what she was able to accomplish as a woman, in a world dictated by men and their armies; with only her beauty, brains and cunning. The facts prove, she was a match for the most powerful men of her time. Competed with, manipulated, and destroyed them. My goal, to bring her to life, explore her motives, her secret fears, hopes, and longings – the private moments that had to have taken place, between her, Olaf, Brian and Malachy – the triumphs and tragedies of her very real and human heart – unarguably a warrior’s heart. And so see, and know her through Brian’s eyes, and heart. She is her IDENTITY: The infamous, seductive, cold and cunning Queen of Dublin. The object of desire and possession of all her many kings, Irish and Dane. The Jewel in the crown of Ireland. And known as Kormlada in Norse Sagas, “The most beautiful and gifted of all women, but ill-willed toward her husbands, and anyone over which she had power. She is her ESSENCE: What Brian sees that others do not; an innocent child of Ireland, like so many others, ruined at the hands of men. A champion, that has the fearless courage and fight of a warrior, he so admires; and the mother of his youngest son, the blessing and last hope, of an aging King. And she is REAL: Tragically and irrevocably scarred as a child, she is what she hides from all others, Brian and even herself: afraid, sometimes when she should not be; and unafraid sometimes when she should. But really, just needing to feel safe, and wanting to love, and be loved - like all the rest of us. PSYCHE PROFILE: Gormlaith is a truly heroic, and tragic character of staggering proportions: objectively, a sociopath, and on rare occasions – tormented by conscience. But not until it is too late, and only with regard to Brian. Tragic: Had she had a different father, she might have been Brian’s dearest love. Or had she been born a man, she might have become High King, or Brian’s best friend and retainer, or his Captain. There is much he loves and admires about her. Her choices make her the ultimate winner of the Battle of Clontarf; yet, unloved, an anathema all her life, and forgotten down through history. Heroic: She accomplishes a staggering feat, no man could, and orchestrates the deaths of thousands of Kings, Vikings, Danes and Irish. At 58, she is responsible for bringing the greatest battle in Irish history, to Ireland, initiated by two powerful Viking Earls, both incentivized by the promise of her hand in marriage. And she wins! One of the truly great “clearance sacrifices,” in history; she is responsible for the death Brian Boru, Ireland’s greatest High King, eliminates all her enemies and rivals, and determines the destiny of Ireland. Gormlaith is an: Atheist (God abandoned her as a child, placing her in the arms of the Devil), but seems to change her mind in the end. Opportunist, Ambitious, Strategist, Seductive, Secretive, Cunning, Gifted, Control Freak, and by all historic accounts, very beautiful. She loves horses: mares and their babies; stallions, too wild and crazy for others, she understands them, admires them, they are everything men are not. Unduplicitous, beautiful, loyal, recklessly courageous, heedless of pain or danger, muscular and strong, willful, most happy between her thighs, and content to let her be in control. She loves any challenge, to outdo men at anything, riding, archery, chess, sex, war, brain games, everything is a competition for her, and she has to win. Interestingly, she has one child at 15 by Olaf, the Dane. And though she is married to Malachy for 17 years, she never bears him a child. Yet, less than a year after Brian takes Dublin, and her hostage, at 43; she gives birth to his son, which she loves more than anything. She hates weakness, cowardice, whining, and self-pity, of any kind. Especially in men, Olaf, Malachy, her brother Maelmorda, her son by Olaf, Sitric, her father on his deathbed. Once she senses it, like a wolf with the scent of blood on its prey, and its teeth on a thumping artery – she feels the need to “let it rip.” She is afraid of: losing, her circumstances being out of her control, locked in, bound, held down, and in anyway, at the mercy of men. That her son will never follow Brian as High King, as long as Brian’s three sons by Leira live. Of dying like her mother, in child birth. At the end of all things, the final Battle she has brought to Ireland, and Brian is dying and all his sons and grandson are dead, she realizes that what she really wanted all along, was for him to love her . . . The source of her power: Gormlaith has learned to perfection - what all women know - and all men do not: There is a moment in time, between a man and woman, when no matter how powerful the man: his armies, navies, weapons; his gold and silver, his allies, and bodyguards; ramparts and murder holes, outside his bolted door – none can save him. He is hers completely: physically too weak to defend himself; emotionally too fragile to extricate himself; psychologically reduced to the needs of his animal self; and mentally craving what only she can give him - a release, a momentary oblivion. And this is what he wants, more than a sacred vow to God, life, air to breathe, or his own soul. Wielded as a sustained offensive – she has complete power over all he possess, all he is – and ever will be. Amazingly, though borne out by the historic decisions all these mighty Kings made - this “power,” is the only possible explanation, for the series of events leading to the fate that befell Ireland on April 23rd, 1014 at the Battle of Clontarf. Ironically, this same power is relevant in the headlines today – in the bringing down of mighty men. • Consistent opposition ~ 3? Conflict/Opposition: is on every page, chapter, sequence, act, Book. Internal, External, Mental, Emotional, Physical, Psychological, and Subtext A great analogy for TTRK: The war for Ireland in TTRK has three dynamics: - Relentless - Rounds of musical chairs. Only every time the music stops, another combatant for a throne is dead. And the music starts again, until all are eliminated but one. - Explosive - A cage fight to the death, with no refs, no fouls, no time outs, no tapping out. - Uncertain - A three man chess game, with shifting alliances, where the playing field is warped, and you never know where the pin, fork or skewer, smother mate, sword in the back, is coming from next. And in the end, allies turn on each other, until they win complete submission or annihilation. And only one King is left standing – or Queen. Three man chess. I have this chess set, the matches are far more hair raising than two man Chess. The pace is much faster, less time to strategize, less time to react, The warped and labyrinthine field, an uncanny mechanism for shifting alliances, subterfuge, ruse, faint, reversal of power by replacement pieces, pin, fork, skewer, with no straight lines – you have no idea; which man, from what direction, or even from which side, the attack is coming next! Imagine, this chess board is the checkered fields of Ireland, the three warring factions are Brian, Malachy II, and Queen Gormlaith, married to both of them, along with the most powerful Danish Viking in Europe. • Protagonist’s goals ~ 4 Brian Boru’s Story Statement for Series: Do whatever it takes to rid Ireland of her enemies, unite, heal and restore her. Story Statement for the Entire Series In 10th century Ireland, one young Irish rebel refuses to cower. He vows to achieve the impossible: rid Ireland of the brutal Danes; eliminate a viper’s nest of traitor Irish Kings; unite 150 bellicose tribes; restore his savaged homeland; and defend his people, the last of the pure Celts against annihilation – culminating in the greatest battle in Irish history. Only to have the dreams, deeds, and glory that were his life, stolen by his enemies and given to another – the most beloved, and fraudulent icon in history – King Arthur of Britain. Story Statement Book 1 ~ BLOOD GAMBIT ~ Rebel, Warrior, Chief After the slaughter of his family, betrayed by brother, Brian, refuses to acquiesce to the Danes, becomes Rebel, Warrior, Chief of his own guerilla army. When a little girl is tortured and killed, he first loses his way, then finds the right road – he will fight to get back: his men, his love, and his home, and the future of Ireland. Story Statement ~ Book 2 ~ CLEARANCE SACRIFICE ~ King Thomond Out cast by Irish nobility, and outlawed by invading Norse; Brian vows to stop the mayhem and murder of his people. After the slaughter of so many innocent, decimation of his guerilla army, and attempt on the life of his wife and child; he realizes he must unite the Irish Tribal Kings, before he can rid Ireland of the Danes. Story Statement ~ Book 3 ~ ENTOMBED ~ King of the South Betrayed by his allies, and targeted for death; Brian must now rid Ireland of all her enemies, by uniting the Irish people, against the Danes and the traitor Irish Kings. Story Statement ~ Book 4 ~ SMOTHER MATE ~ High King of Ireland Betrayed and hunted by his sovereign, in league with the Danes and Irish Kings; Brian must challenge and defeat, the latest in 600 years of all-powerful Ui Neill High Kings, and unite all of Ireland, Irish and Dane. Story Statement ~ Book 5 ~ CHESSMEN OF THE GODS ~ Ard Ri of Erin Betrayed by those he loves; Brian and his sons must defend Ireland in the greatest battle in Irish history - the Battle of Clontarf, against the most formidable army of: Viking kings, mercenaries, berserks, and Irish traitors, ever assembled; all recruited by the infamous Black Widow Queen of Dublin - his wife. • Sympathetic protagonist ~ 4 Brian is what we all are, just a child, a youth, a man, like any other, trying to find, his way . . . and the joy that’s in the day. Needing to love and be loved, have adventures, and some find meaning in his life, do some good, do well, and leave something behind. This describes all the warrior hearts that I know. He is sympathetic to us because of how hard he tries, ever the idealist, dreamer. His flaw – blind to how things really are, sucker for courage, wherever he finds it, be it friend or foe, or the most beautiful and cunning woman to ever live. His wound is the suffering he has witnessed. His night terror, to never be powerless again to save those he loves. His goal, to drive all the Danes in Erin, responsible for brutal carnage, back into the sea and drown them in their own blood. At the beginning of the story, as the Danes come to slaughter his family, destroy his home, Brian is trying to catch the biggest fish he has ever seen. Followed, in the first act: a rampaging by – an eagle after his fish, his brothers after his fish, Danes, trying to rape, burn, beat, he, a little girl he cares for, and his dogs to death. Orphaned when almost all his entire family is slaughtered, he finds the courage to fight back – for the rest of his life. • Protagonist Arc ~ 4 Book 1 ~ BLOOD GAMBIT ~ Rebel, Warrior, Chief Introduction In 10th century Ireland, Tribal Kings either cower under the onslaught of Norse Vikings, or acquiesce for mutual greed. As the powerful commit rape, murder and mayhem against the defenseless; there is one who refuses to stand by. Brian Boru, the 12th and youngest son of one of the 150 Irish tribal kings; has no chance, nor desire of ever becoming king of anything – and nothing to lose. Rising Action Brian 10, is forced to watch his family be slaughtered by the Danes. An orphan, he is sent to school, doesn’t fit in, tormented by abbot, runs away, gets captured by Danes, rescues a young women, and goes home, no longer a child, but a Rebel against all authority. After he is cheated from winning the Chariot Championship, he runs away. Jumping off the Cliffs of Moher, to attack a Danish ship. Finn drags him from the sea into a sea cave, they find an ancient Thracian King. Brian, sure that the King is trying to warn him, finds a drawing on the cave wall - Dun Aengus, Brian vows that never again will the Irish have their backs to the sea. After saving a little girl, Maeve, and her family from Danes, Brian finally has a place where he belongs. The little girl, who has stolen his heart, is a second chance at saving Leira. Climax When a stranger comes and tells Brian of a group of youths that the Danes have captured for selling as slaves, he rides out to free them. It is an ambush, and a trick, the real target is Maeve and her family, and Brian. Frantic to get back he finds Maeve, tied, savaged, with her nose cut off, on the altar of a burning chapel. Denouement Brian, burying some of his boys, and little Maeve, in agony, at his failure to keep her safe, Brian questions God and his fitness to lead his boys. He runs off to go Pagan, and finds a hedonistic celebration of Samhain. Cliffhanger His worst nightmare – he runs into a drunken Malachy, and a black feathered serpent, seductress, with an agenda of her own. In a maelstrom of drunken: hate, lust, jealousy – he fights with Malachy, rejects Gormlaith and runs off into the night – completely lost, in every possible way. Surprise Twist 1 As the mist rises he finds himself on the Hill of Tara, before the standing stone, Lia Fail, asking for forgiveness and guidance. The rising sun and the standing stone make a shadow . . . pointing to the West, to Leira, to home Surprise Twist 2 As he runs down the hill, back into the mist, he hears galloping hoof beats, but he cannot tell from what direction. The black feathered serpent – the Night Raven, just misses him, but rakes across his face with a talon – leaving a scar he will bear for the rest of his life, before disappearing back into the mist. Theme Flying too close to the flame – there are many worse things than getting burned . . . . Book 2 ~ CLEARANCE SACRIFICE ~ King of Thomond Introduction Brian makes his way west, finds Leira and old Cerin, in a round tower at the monastery of Clonmacnoise, when Finn and the boys find him . . . The Danes are on their way to sack the monastery, by land. Brian’s dilemma, stay here and fight, against impossible odds, or try another way. Rising Action Brian and Finn attack Limerick, steal Ivar’s ships and attack his army at Clonmacnoise from the River. Drive them away. Brian, devastated when he learns Leira is promised to Malachy. He begs her to come for one last ride. He asks her to marry him, and will wait for her at the Stone of Tara until she comes. They marry. Brian assumes responsibility now. Chief, of his own guerrilla army, they harry the Danes. After an attack, where his wife and child are nearly killed; Brian realizes he cannot do it alone, goes home, and unites his brother and three Irish Kings, to destroy Ivar, Danish King of Limerick. Irish King Molloy, offers Brian’s pregnant wife and child protection at his fortress of Cashel. Climax In battle, the Irish Kings, in league with Ivar, betray Brian, murder his brother and mark him for death. Brian must flee to Cashel, fortress of his brother’s murderer, to rescue his wife and child. Denouement Because, all his 10 older brothers are dead, save for the one who is off becoming a monk; Brian 24, is crowned King of Thomond. The last thing he ever expected or wanted, he must now assume the mantle of protector and provider, for his entire Clan. Cliffhanger Brian receives word, the three Irish Kings are coalescing. Risks and stakes are increased now. The traitor Kings will have to kill him, his family, and Clan. He cannot wait for their armies to come. The betrayers and murderers of his brother must die, he must leave his army to protect Killaloe, and he must go after them - alone Surprise Twist Brian takes his 18 month old son fishing in the Shannon, just like his father did with him, in case he never makes it home again. Later he climbs into bed, with what might be his last night with his wife Leira, only to find her gone – and a note on the pillow – “You for her . . . Molloy.” Theme True Courage, is the standing up for what you know in your heart is right, never giving up - no matter the cost. Book 3~ ENTOMBED – High King of the South Introduction The enemies of Ireland cluster: Irish tribal kings, Danes, Malachy, all want total control. Gormlaith at 15, is married to aging Olaf, King of Dublin and the most powerful Viking in Europe. Discontent, as the most infamous and powerful Queen in Daneland, she sets her sights higher. She conspires to rid herself of Olaf, with Malachy - soon to be High King. Rising Action Molloy’s men, having kidnapped the very pregnant Leira, race through the forest to get to the safely of the Rock of Cashel – when Brian catches up with them. Her baby son is delivered under the stars. Brian then hunts down and kills the three Irish traitor kings, murders of his brother, one after another, and Ivar the Dane. He is crowned King of Munster, one fifth of Ireland. Growing ever more intimidated by Brian’s success, Malachy accepts Brian’s fealty to him as High King, and swears his loyalty to him in return. Gormlaith sets Olaf up in an ambush. Malachy defeats him, takes Dublin, and her for a wife. Brian, with Ivar’s captured ships, takes four Norse ports; he now has control the South, Dane and Irish. Malachy, filled with ambition and envy; is goaded by Gormlaith into plotting against Brian’s growing strength. Malachy, breaking his solemn oath, lures Brian away, burns his Hall at Kincora, cuts down the Clan’s sacred 1000 year old Oak, and kills many of his Tribe. Leira, Brian’s pregnant wife, and four small children are chased into the woods by a Black Rider. Climax Brian realizes he has been tricked, and rushes home to his worst nightmare. Leira has managed to save her four small children, but by sacrificing herself. Brian must cut her unborn baby from her, trying to save it, then buries them both. He sends a messenger before him. “Tell Malachy, that Brian, the last son of Cennitig, is coming for his entrails, to feed to his swine – and the rest of Ireland! Denouement Brian is crowned High King of Southern Ireland, equals to Malachy. Then mercifully allows him to remain High King of the North, fearing the day will come, when they will be enemies again. Cliffhanger When Malachy finds out Gormlaith is responsible for Leira’s drowning; he divorces her, demands she leave, throws her on a horse, and sends her off alone into a rising storm. Brian, after the coronation, inconsolable in his grief, gallops off into the maelstrom, as well. The two greatest forces in Irish history, careening towards each other since birth – collide, Theme Those consumed with jealousy, destroy not only themselves but the objects of their obsession. Book 4 ~ SMOTHER MATE – High King of all Ireland Introduction Brian wants peace and works to rebuild the South, threatening any invading army with annihilation. Gormlaith decides only Brian is strong enough to make her High Queen. She conspires to use him to get: rid of Haraldr, Olaf’s son, her brother Maelmorda, and revenge on Malachy. Rising Action Gormlaith incites Haraldr and Maelmorda to attack Malachy and Brian. But, betraying her brother and step son, instead; she warns Malachy. Malachy and Brian kill Haraldr, imprison Maelmorda. Malachy gives Brian Dublin, “and everything in it,” including the Queen, knowing she will be his undoing. Gormlaith tricks, the greatest battle strategizing General in Irish History, Brian, into marrying her and gives him a son, Donnchad. A son Brian never believes is really his. As Brian works to keep united Ireland from fragmenting, Gormlaith garners unrest. She goads Brian into attacking Malachy, to acquire the North. Brian, ever honorable, gives Malachy one year to raise an army, to come against him for Ireland. Malachy desperate, finds no allies, and is forced to surrender to Brian. Brian is now High King of a united Ireland, Gormlaith – High Queen. Malachy, three times loser, is consumed with jealousy. Brian has his: title, country, people, glory, and - the wife, and the son that should have been his. Climax When Maelmorda, Gormlaith’s brother, brings his tribute to Brian, he loses a button and asks Gormlaith to sew it on. She ridicules him for being a sycophant to Brian. Fuming, he storms out of Kincora, killing a messenger boy that Brian has sent to ask him to return. Brian, infuriated that she is responsible for this schism, and the murder of an innocent child, divorces, and ejects her, sending her off into the night alone. Denouement Brian hunts with Donnchad, they find a magnificent old stag. Neither one of them can bring themselves to kill it. Donnchad 15, confesses to his father, he is not like his three older brothers, “He never wanted to be king.” Brian calls him son for the first time. Cliffhanger Gormlaith, on the wild ride home to Dublin, is abducted by outlaws, she discovers one is Brian’s nephew, Mahon’s son, too young to assume kingship of Thomond at his father’s death. Aed believes Brian stole the crown from him. Aed will be her sacrificial pawn to bring Brian down. Once she is finally home, she unwraps the bundle that the robbers tried unsuccessfully to take from her. She has stolen Brian’s most cherished possession – Leira’s little golden boat. Theme The sins of the fathers, are visited on the children Happiness, is a choice we make Book 5 ~ CHESSMEN OF THE GODS – Ard Ri of Erin Introduction Everything Brian has worked for is in a free fall into Hell. Tribal fighting brakes out, Maelmorda and Sitric raid their neighbors. His nephew conspires against him. Brian realizes; there can be no peace until he has locked up Gormlaith, her brother and son, permanently. Brian and Malachy bring siege against Dublin for three months. Brian, unable to starve anyone to death, withdraws for Christmas and will resume in spring. Rising Action Gormlaith sends her son Sitric to every Viking port in Europe recruiting them to come, kill Brian, and take the riches of Ireland. She promises her hand in marriage to two Viking Kings, Brodar and Sigurd, at the same time. Ospak, defies brother Brodar, and leaves, to warn and fight with Brian. Brian, his three sons, and grandson, an army of 7000, meets 10,000 Vikings for the Battle of Clontarf. The battle goes back and forth, a war of: cunning, trickery, betrayal, superstition, nightmare twists, and traitors. Malachy betrays Brian and never enters the battle with his men, until he sees that the battle is won by Brian, and all of his sons are dead. Brian has won the battle, but lost the war to insure Ireland’s continued stability, with the loss of all if Leira’s sons, and grandson. Climax Brodar gets to Brian’s tent, they fight and mortally wound each other. When the battle appears lost, Brian remembers the riddle of the Thracian King and forms a new strategy that gives them a chance. A miracle, an unusually high tide carries all the dragon ships out to sea - empty. All Danes, not already dead, are driven into the sea, in their heavy armor, by women and children, old men and dogs; and drowned in their own blood. Never again will Norse terrorize Ireland. Brian has fulfilled half his vow to God – but broken his promise to Leira. Gormlaith vows to Brian, that she will make sure, he, his sons, and all the Irish who spilled blood, at the Battle of Clontarf will be forgotten. Denouement Gormlaith and Malachy both come to mortally wounded Brian, they all reveal their secrets, a series of ironies, mysteries solved, cruel twists, brutal truths and worst nightmares. Brian and Finn just make it to the Hill of Tara, to the ancient standing stone, to say goodbye as the sun rises. Gormlaith has won the match. 10,000 warriors, all Irish and Norse kings, Brian, his sons, are dead. She is triumphant. Her son, Donnachad, by Brian will follow Malachy as High King. Fresh out of Kings; she now has a High King son of her own, to manipulate. (Just like her brutalizing father). At the end of the battle, she is the only one left standing. Malachy, the betrayer of Brian, hides crouched in the shadows, lest the people of Ireland find him. Sitric, Brian’s traitor son-in-law, is curled up in the fetal position at his mother’s feet – kicked in the groin by Brian’s daughter, his wife. Gormlaith, alone on the battlements, overlooks the carnage; first standing up straight and proud, defiant, at all she has wrought – then falls to her knees, alone, broken, inconsolable – realizing in the end, all she really wants is to go back and have another chance – for Brian to love her. Brian, Finn and Amergin, Brian’s stallion; all severely wounded, head off to the Hill of Tara, leading a procession of the bodies of Brian’s three sons and grandson, all killed in Battle. The way is lined with the people of Ireland, young and old, Dane and Irish, women with their babes, who have just lost their sons, husbands, fathers, all come to say goodbye to Brian as he rides on a blood soaked Amergin, with Finn walking at his side, to keep him from falling off. They just make it to the Hill, watching the sunrise over a free Ireland, leaning against the Stone of Tara, and confessing lifelong secrets to each other. Cliffhanger Geoffrey of Monmouth, finishes plagiarizing the life of Brian Boru, from an ancient manuscript; revealing before our eyes, the transformation into King Arthur. He then, throws the only evidence – into the fire. The wind blasts the window open and sweeps one of the burning pages out, over the hills. Surprise Twist – Elixir The epiphany of the True Grail follows, as the tide washes over the words, and image, in the page of an ancient book, swept up onto the shore of Wales, across the Irish Sea from Clontarf battle field – revealing – the nature, and location of the Real Grail today. Series Theme The most insignificant of us can achieve the impossible, if we possess: desire enough to dream it, courage enough to fight for it, heart enough to never surrender, and guts enough to pay the price. In the end, we are but two things: The legacy of the choices we made; and what we leave behind – perhaps in the pages of a book – or in the hearts of those we loved – or in tales told around “campfires in the sky . . . .” Post Script: Though Malachy betrayed Brian three times, abandoning him in battle, and contributing to his and his sons’ deaths at Clontarf, Malachy becomes High King, inheriting Brian’s kingdom. He is known as Malachy Mor (the great), in the history books. Gormlaith’s and Brian’s son, Donnachad, follows Malachy as High King, he has his half-brother killed to attain the throne. (Irony - this slain son, is the son of Brian from which Queen Elizabeth 11 is descended) They are not Brian, and Ireland falls apart in tribal warfare, starting before the corpses are cold on Clontarf Field. Gormlaith, the Black Widow Queen, who destroyed all three of her King husbands, two Danish Kings and responsible for the deaths of about 10,000 warriors - outlives them all. Her granddaughter will become the real “Lady Macbeth,” and infamous villainess of Shakespeare. (It is not difficult to speculate, on who was the real inspiration for all the bloodied hand washing.) Geoffrey of Monmouth, in 1136, incentivized by a retainer from a royal benefactor, and two big promotions; becomes wealthy and famous, scoring reprints of his bestseller, History of the Kings of Britain, for the next 880 years. It is still available on Amazon.com today. King Arthur of Britain will go on to inspire Chivalry, fuel the Crusades, and become the most beloved icon in Christendom: subject of history, film, and documentary; literary, academic, and even political admiration. Indeed; Geoffrey’s exploits of King Arthur’s sacking the barbaric Irish, set precedence for the invasion of Ireland, for the next 800 years by English Monarchs. My great, great grandfather, Tresham Dames Gregg DD, of some renown, was the Archbishop of Dublin, Chaplain to the Orangemen, enemy of all Irish Catholics, he wrote 23 letters to Disraeli, Queen Victoria’s Prime Minister, in defense of Home Rule. He was also an author, and playwright. His writings are available on Amazon today. Brian, the boy from Beal Boru, who would remain, the only true Ard Ri, High King of united Ireland, who sacrificed everything to save a land and people he loved, is forgotten, by all but his Irish. Well . . . 60,000 did show up to celebrate the millennial celebration of his triumph and death at Clontarf, April 23rd, 1014. But, the “Lia Fail,” the ancient standing stone on the hill of Tara, that declared Brian Boru the True and Rightful King, when he was crowned Ard Ri – though forgotten as well - is still there, and bears witness. • Supporting characters ~ 4 Cerin ~ monk, mentor, teacher, and suspected Druid of the dubious arts, under the full moon . . . Although Cerin is a fictional character, Brian would have had such a person, or persons in his life. Cerin represents the Old Druid pov, finding the new Christian ethic sometimes lacking in its outrage and need for revenge. He is Brian’s inspiration and example, and gateway to the old ways and the future of Erin. He is my grandparents, their wisdom, ability to see clearly, and taken away with beautiful stories and poetry. Cerin, a mighty blackthorn cudgel of a man, almost as weathered, nicked and scarred from battle, with great lumps of muscle, and bone lappings of steel, and stout as Irish oak, and as lethal as Cuchulain’s hurl, hurtled the ancient sword through the air again and again, the force of his swing brushed over Brian’s cheek, and ruffled his hair. He raised the wave-sheened blade up over his head, again and again, his eyes green and gray as the tormented Irish Sea, glittering like sunlit water on wet stones. He’d a face like the jagged rocks of the Craglea, and a serrated scar from his brow to chin like the crevice in her face struck by lightning. With the long shaggy mane of a ruttin’ stallion, wild as thistledown in the wind, heavy jawed and ruddy faced, and brows bushy as bracken and mustache of all proud Celts. Thick and unruly across his upper lip and down both sides of his ruddy cheeks, creatures of the crag as well, they took on a life of their own, twisting and twitching and puckering, in the throes of battle. Sure, he’d the heart of an angel, but when his blood was up – the unholy terror of Otherworld creatures, soul mongers to the Devil, with eyes as black as a starless sky. No tales dare tell of all the times of Cerin’s life. For some he guarded well. To the Dal Cassians he was monk, druid, and mentor, but to Brian, he would always be the most fiercesome of all men - and most beloved. Attacking Vikings – The Danes are the pure sociopaths in the story – at the core, cowards, as all bullies are. They represent the worst of mankind. A people without God and Christ, soul, conscience, heart, valuing fame and glory, materialistic, greed mongering. Their world is created in wood, and consequently transient as a separate culture. There are exceptions. A few Danes that come over to Brian’s side. Dead eyed and soulless the dragons came; preening black swans, their fine boned, worm-whorled prows, and arched necks skimming the water, the foam-flecked waves of the Shannon, caressing their breasts barely stirring a wake. Crimson sails billowed in the wind, like blood-eagled lungs from cloven ribs of corpses floating on the river Hades. They came without sound, without warning – demons from Hel in the dawning . . . . And in each belly, Lucifer’s seed – 100 mail-clad, pointed helmed, and steel bladed Danes – drunken with mead, and blood lust for rapine and ravening. On their arms, rings of gold and silver, payment for the children of Erin, sold as slaves to the harems of the Persian Kings. Atop each mast, a saffron banner undulating with a tusked wild boar eviscerating a great horned stag – the banner of Gofriad, master of all, standing in the prow of the Long Dreki. Gofraid, King of York Angland, the Isles, Limerick, Waterford, Wexford Cork, and Dublin – the jewel of the emerald isle, richest slaving port west of Constantinople, and the envy of all Norseland. Gofraid, defiler of children, and desecrator of Christian altars with innocent blood throughout Angland, Frankland, Scotland, and Irland. Gofraid, son of Sigtrigg Gale, son of Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lodbrok, the Hairy Breeks – King of the Danes, and scourge of all Christendom. Gofraid, Olaf and Ivar~ Just as his two brothers regained their positions on their benches, he drew back his spike-studded gauntlet and pommeled each of them across the face, lacerating their cheeks and jaws, raking their eyes and again knocking them off their seats into the bloody bilge. They curled up into balls, cringing, like dogs. He grabbed one in each massive hand, by the throats of their mail-shirts, his huge eyes black with fury. His voice low and guttural, “Show me which one of you sows, is worthy to be King after me. There can be only one.” He drew their purpling and gasping faces up close to his. And growled through grinding teeth, so that specks of spit flew into their eyes, “What will the whore-sons of Sygtrigg, strike down this day!” They screwed up their pimpled faces, gasping for air, and whimpering like pups, as a rumble of laughter spread over the ship. Gofraid cast a wicked smile to his men, then banged the heads of his younger brothers together, and flung them down, in their own bilge-blood and puke. Olaf and Ivar staggered to their feet, bent over, wiping blood oozing from cuts all about their heads, and from their red and swollen eyes. Each went to the opposite side of the bow, pulling swords and hefting axes. They looked upriver now, sullen, cursing and festering, with the salty taste of their own blood in their mouth, and axe hand’s twitching. The two youngest sons of Sygtrigg Gale, each made a silent vow. One day they would kill their half-brother, Gofraid – bit by bit – and then kill the other. Before they stepped back in this ship again, they would inflict pain and draw blood of their own. The River Shannon would run red with blood - Irish blood - so too, the thighs and buttocks of the children of Killaloe. NARRATIVE DEVELOPMENT: • Scene length and structure ~ 3? Each Chapter is a Scene – Goal, Conflict, Disaster, Dilemma, Crisis, Decision, Realization Every Chapter is part of a sequence – building to Crisis, Climax, TP Every Sequence builds to an Act and Major Turning Point Every Act escalates to Book Crisis, Book Climax Every Book builds to spectacular Series Climax My chapters average about 7 pages in 11 font, 1.5 spacing. Usually, no shorter than 4 pages, no greater than 10 pages. To get everything I want in the life of Brian, based on an historic timeline, will take at least 4 books, probably 5. Tom Colgan asked me to keep each book about 110,000 words. However, I can be flexible on this, to publisher’s wishes. Because my research, and historic outline is extensive, and my outlining accomplished with screenwriting techniques – Scene/Chapter – Sequence – Act – to major and minor Turning Points etc. I have complete command over the entire project. Could be less or more books, depending on the amount of content they wish in each book. I have no problem with putting words to page (as you might have noticed) What I thought was to be the first book, by the words piling up after Michael’s Program, is now enough for two. I love screenwriting techniques for outlining. When I completed years of research, and because I wanted the writing to be tight, and always moving towards Dilemma, Crisis, Climax; I used Dramatica Pro, and Script techniques to outline the entire Series first as one film, then broke it into 4 films. This insures each Book is an escalation in its own right, and satisfying read, building to final conflagration at the end of Brian’s life and final battle. (I actually have 120 pages of first draft script, class with Mark Troy, screenwriter, film project developer and teacher out of UCLA film school, including his notes), I completed before I started the Book. Brian’s story is perfect for this type of outlining, as his transformational journey is in increments. Historically, each step in his being responsible for more and more of Ireland, was preceded by a tragedy. Or marrying the infamous, and ambitious Queen of Dublin. Complete 5 book Outlines available: I will include these as separate Attachments after my 100 page submission – if you care to see them: List of Chapters and content by: Sentence. Plot Outline/ Neff, and short paragraph from Prologue to Epilogue. I will include the most abbreviated Outline by Chapter at the end of my 100 page submission. I actually have an abbreviated first draft of Entire Series, 180,000 words, conflicts, dilemma’s, climax for each chapter, not edited. If a publisher wants to know what the Conflict, Dilemma, Crisis, Climax, Nightmare twist from Hell, closing image, or hear dialogue – from chapters 54, 99, 184, or any one in-between, including epilogue – I can tell them. The last page of the TTRK 5 book Series: Back to the beginning, Book ~1~the Hill of Tara, the Lia Fail Stone, the old man and the boy. “And where does courage come from asked the boy?” “Why,” said the old man, “I suppose, the courage is in the child . . . They bring it from where ever they come, And it’s still in them whenever they go. You can’t put it in, And you sure can’t get it out. It’s just there is all . . . And what a wondrous thing it is . . . What, they do with the Courage, well, that’s their choice – for good or for ill . . . But, this much I know for certain, The bit of earth upon which the child falls, Why, that’s God’s choice . . . for his purpose under Heaven . . . And aren’t we blessed to have it so . . . . And the old man looked down at the boy, smiling at a tale well told. But the child’s eyes glistened with tears. “What ails you now child?” “It’s just that I’m sorry, I shall never know him . . . the boy from Beal Boru . . . “Dry your eyes!” the old man cried. And he thrust his arm up into the night sky, “Do you see that, boy? . . . The biggest and brightest star in the sky?” “I do, Sir.” “Well, that’s Brian’s fire . . . and they’re all there . . . for the story telling . . . and he promised to save a place for me . . . and I’ll save one for you . . . and on . . . and on . . . Until one day, we’ll all be together again . . . ‘round campfires in the sky! The end My Chapter / Scene Structure ~ • Opening Image/action – symbolic for theme or meaning of chapter • Tension - Character already in heightened state of longing, desperation, obsession, etc. • Outer Goal – for both MC and Antag • Inner Goal – for both MC and Antag • Subtext -What the scene is really about, someone hiding something, threat, dread, desire • Jeopardy – Risks, Stakes, if he fails • Conflicts – escalating • Disaster – I try to have at least three in a row, Disaster, Crisis, Dilemma, Decision x 3 • Dilemma – excruciating – between two really bad choices • Crisis – piling on – must choose • Climax – brutal – can go either way • Exquisite or nightmarish moment of realization, sometimes Magical . . . • Decision – ripping your heart, soul or guts out. • Every man marker – just a kid, youth, man – trying to figure life and love, out • Always a change in value from beginning of chapter/scene to end, positive to negative or versa: life/death, love/hate, triumph/tragedy, hope/despair, lust/revulsion etc. • Closing: image, thought, new dilemma, question, nightmare, longing, symbol, foreshadowing, threat, twist Unarguably, storytelling is going to the Dark Side, and staying there – depths of lust, depravity, mayhem and murder, I know Fresh and Edgy, and the sicker the Antagonist. The better the story – the deepest dark against the light – sells. I understand this, there is plenty of Dark in TTRK, although not explicit. What separates TTRK from others – is the brilliant Light after the Dark – the height to which the characters climb up and out, and despite all the torment – some of them, with hearts and souls intact. Taped to my computer – my goal: summing up TTRK ~ author unknown “Up-ending stories express the optimism, hopes and dreams of mankind, a positively charged vision of the human spirit, life as we wish it to be.” • Effective transitions ~3? Examples of transitions from TTRK ~ Transitions are important to me. I like to use: an image, a conflict, a character, sometimes a continuation, often in contrast, suspense from Antagonistic POV. Ospak (a historic character/ the Dane in the In Media Res chapter from the Climax), also the omniscient tale-teller from the beginning, is injected into the main story, to deliver theme, foreshadow, add, iron, intrigue, threat, interpretation. Example: At the end of Act 2, after the Attack on Killaloe. Ospak speaks ~ And so it was, that all of Killaloe lay smoldering in embers and ashes, and the Shannon ran red with the blood of the sons of Cennetig. The stories, of the day the dragons came to Killaloe, followed up the river and streams and brooklets, and the account of the murder of the nine cubs of Cennetig. All lay slaughtered that day, save three; Marcan, away to monastery becoming a priest – on his knees – praying, Mahon the eldest, who fought bravely with a sword in each hand – on his knees – because he could not stand, And . . . young Brian the last and least of Cennetig’s sons, who stood at the hill by his brother’s side, with naught but his hurl, and ran into the river of blood after the demons and dragons, with his slain father’s sword – because, he would never kneel – save to God. Young Brian, the last Prince of Thomond, the last great hope – of a Clan – of a King – and a mother’s prayers . . . no small thing to God’s ears. In times to come, the old ones would say, looking back at the time of dragons – that was the day when the Banshee of Craglea who loved the boy, Brian, put a mark on the heads of his enemies – Gofraid, Ivar and Olaf – Malachy Mor and Princes of Munster, And scored their fates in the face of the cliffs; by lightning and thunder . . . For, the day would come when the littlest cub would become a lion, And he would find their scent . . . and hunt them . . . and drag them down to hell, but not before he would . . . Take the mark of the Banshee off again – with his slain father’s sword – and the heads with them, Take back the reflection, of his dying mother’s face – with her brooch – and the eyes with them, And rip the blood veins from their throats . . . that fed the eyes and the heads – with his teeth – and the beating hearts with them . . . . Prologue: End of Book End 1: Ospak speaks – at the end “I held the book in my hands. I touched the names. I saw the coward, thieving in the night.” Beginning of Book End 2: (Jumps to the coward – the thief in the night) “Geoffrey of Monmouth, Clerk to the Archdeacon, perched like a plague raven gargoyle” Ending of Book End 2 : Geoffrey ironically finds what he is looking for in the ancient book. “There they were . . . upon the flayed and scourged skin before him . . . the fragment of words that had eluded him, in all the venerated piles of manuscripts surrounding him . . . . words the old deaf Walter didn’t hear . . . words of the pleading Irish on the door step . . . words for which he had been searching desperately, for two years . . . the very words that might just keep his fat from sizzling in the fire . . . appeared to be written in blood . . . bound and sealed in blood . . . and could only be redeemed by blood – The greatest High King that ever lived. “ Beginning Chapter 1: To the battlefield and the tent of the old, mortally wounded Greatest High King that ever lived – and the book of his life Clontarf Battlefield The boy Latean, attendant to the High King, thrust his foot up and down with all his might into to the mangled face of a youth not much older than he, but the mass of gutted wound slurry, would not let loose of his ankle. Gory claws, white and bloodless, tethered him to the battlefield of blood and gore – the specter of death haunting the corpse’s eyes, plotting to drag them both down to hell. He kicked frantically until his shoe slid off, talons and all. Then staggered on up the battlefield towards the tent at the top of the hill – he bore a message for the King, he’d sooner cut out his heart than deliver – but deliver it he would. End Chapter 1: “For there, upon the blood-stained spot of the tiny ship, washed clean by the tears of a boy, at the end . . . of all . . . and dreams . . . and light – reflections of the last candle flame, shimmered and sparkled, and glowed, . . .like sunlit ripples of the Shannon . . . dancing upon a golden bow . . “I am a salmon in the water,” he whispered . . . eyes sparkling . . . And the tears running down his cheek . . . tears of joy!” Transition - goes from Brian at the end of his life, and the final battle – to when he was 10 years old – the day the dragon ships came to Killaloe. The day he first saw the little boat. Beginning Chapter 2: The Danes are in their boats coming for attack, Gofraid lets loose his eagle Dead eyed and soulless the dragons came; preening black swans, their fine boned, worm-whorled prows, and arched necks skimming the water, the foam-flecked waves of the Shannon, caressing their breasts barely stirring a wake. Crimson sails billowed in the wind, like blood-eagled lungs from cloven ribs of corpses floating on the river Hades. They came without sound, without warning – demons from Hel in the dawning . . . . End Chapter 2: The sea eagled of Gofraid’s finds the prey she’s been looking for She circled high above. Down on the shore, by the bend in the river, at the narrow neck into the lough, an ancient ring fort; concentric circles of mound and ditch, once grand, now naught but a rabble of stones and weeds and a young forest of ivied oak, gleaming blue in the filtered sun, as if moonlight upon the floor of the forest, and thick with tall ferns on the banks of the river . . . waiting . . . watching. Then soaring down, almost skimming the satin ribbon of blue and green . . . she spied it – a glint of light, against the dark. A flicker of molten metal. Her heart raced. She tipped a wing, banked and circled, swooping down out of the sky, her rapier sharp talons extended – at the gleaming of quicksilver, fluttering beneath the sparkling blue . . . . Beginning Chapter 3: Young Brian 10, has a salmon by the tail in the River Shannon – his naked body it the quick silver – he is the prey. Young Brian, ten, the 12th and youngest son of Cennetig, hung on tightly with both hands, to the tail of the biggest salmon he had ever seen – though it be the death of him. The massive fish flexed and shuddered her powerful body, heavy and thick with roe. She thrust her tail back and forth, pitching and flinging him about. She thrashed him up and then twisted around, whipped to the right and plunged to the left. Down into the cold deep blue, she dove, and then up towards the sunlight. The strength and the will of the fish, pulsed through him, the pull and the push of the water rushed against his naked body. Beginning Chapter 4: The sea eagle brings its prey to Gofriad on the ship on its way to attack The spent osprey released her bloody talons dropping the gasping new lamb, its lungs impaled, at Gofraid’s feet. Then alighted upon his gauntleted forearm, head cocked, eyes locked on her prey, her beak open and tongue quivering in anticipation. He slammed an iron studded boot down upon the head, pulled his dagger and plunged it into the quivering little body, cutting out the still beating heart. Then held it up to the raptor as she grasped it with her talons, and tore greedily into the warm twitching mass. Flecks of blood and tissue spattered the white feathers of her breast, and the face and beard of her gloating master, murmuring to her in the hushed tones of a lover. End Chapter 4: Gofraid’s two younger brothers, in the bow of the ship, plot The two youngest sons of Sygtrigg Gale, each made a silent vow. One day they would kill their half-brother, Gofraid – bit by bit – and then kill the other. Before they stepped back in this ship again, they would inflict pain and draw blood of their own. The River Shannon would run red with blood - Irish blood - so too, the thighs and buttocks of the children of Killaloe. Beginning Chapter 5: Cuts to the innocent children/thighs and buttocks, of Killaloe The bell stopped ringing. Brian, in dire straits to not be late again, but late again already, ran as best he could, his heart racing, scalded from the nettle rash, chafed raw, and breathless, with his fish in tow, and desperate to keep his trews up without his belt, so’s not to mortify the world any further. • Clarity of spatial set ~ 3? Do I have enough of this? I'm saving the River King technique for when Brian comes back home, for the first time after the attack - he is two years older. Geoffrey of Monmouth’s tower room where he writes With a pang of self-pity, he acknowledged he’d seen horse stalls bigger and more congenial than this, and less foul smelling. His chamber, a flue for the kitchen below, cow pen, pig sty and stable just outside, and down wind, possessed stone walls stained with several hundred years of smoke and greasy soot, and infused with the smells of rotting rubbish heap, rancid swine slop, and pungent horse dung. In one corner, the floor opened up to a steep and narrow winding staircase down, contrived so that one man with a sword in his right hand could defend the tower, against a horde of Saxons. He’d obviously failed his mission, the filthy drunken Saxons having used his chamber for a privy for three hundred years, and the stench remained. In the other corner, a rudely constructed cot, lumpy with infested horse hair mattress, home to bed lice, and other small vermin, attracting certain barn foul, which in turn deposited defecated remnants of said vermin, all over everything in the room. Next to the bed, a small chest contained everything shabbily made, and thread bare, he owned. And beside it a wicker basket with his soiled linens which the Archdeacon’s cat, following the Saxons lead, befouled on a regular basis as well, missing the piss pot underneath. • Comprehensible prose narrative ~ 1? Looking forward to any feedback as to my writing, style, or content. Does it illicit any emotion at all, make you laugh, cry, curious, nauseous? The fish writhed in his hands, as the flesh ripped, and blood spurted. Back and forth they went, the giant bird lashing out with its wings, dragging Brian and the salmon, up out of the water, then plunged him back down again beneath the surface, and all the while striking at his eyes. He could feel wind from the pounding wings, taste salty blood in his mouth, both his and his fish, mingling together, and he stared into the eyes, inches from his face, yellow eyes – the cold cruel eyes of a predator – fixed upon him, with fury, as it tried to peck out his own. The bird meant to blind him, or drown him. He could save himself, let go of the tail, and lose the biggest salmon he and his brothers had ever seen. But then, if he lived, he would just have the story, and not the fish, and he would be the brunt of their jokes. Or . . . he could hang on to the fish, and be blinded, with one eye and half his face missin’; but forever be, young Brian who caught the biggest fish of all. No, if there was one lesson learned from the curse of havin’ 11 older brothers – ‘twas, his fish, he had it first, and come what hellfire may – he wouldn’t be lettin’ go. His lungs near to bursting, pain shooting through skull, he took one last gulp of breath, with the hellish bird gouging at his cheeks and forehead, and then plunged under the surface kicking as hard as he could, dragging the huge fish and wroth white eagle, behind him to the bottom of the Shannon, in a whirling dervish of feathers and scales, bubbles and bloody foam. The osprey, choked and gasped as it sank under the water, her wings thrashing. She let loose of the fish, with one claw, and fought to get to the surface. Then let go with the other. Nearly drowned, blood smeared, and missing considerable feathers, she floundered to the surface. Beating her great wings, she struggled to lift off. Brian’s shaggy, little red devil pup, Chulainn, protecting his boy, growling and chasing after anything that moved, stuck out at it, catching bits of tail feathers with its clacking teeth. And the gangly wolf hound pup, Lug, trying to fetch it. The immense bird desperate to fend off this fresh attack, finally lifted, barely clearing the ground, with the devil pup barking like mad, and chomping out tail feathers, chasing it along the river, around the bend. Brian staggered up onto the shore, hauling the twitching fish out by the tail, and wiped the streaming blood coming from his scalp and forehead, out of his eyes. Bent over, naked and dripping and covered in cuts, and bloody scales, his hands on his knees, he gasped for air. Feathers stuck to his face, and in his hair; Lug the huge wolf hound pup tried to lick the blood from his wounds, as Chulainn, back from chasing the monster, attacked the only other thing moving – the gasping fish. He snarled and growled, at the heaving gills, first circling it, then clamped his teeth down on the twitching tail, shaking what was left, of the life out of it. Brian fell down to his knees and called the feisty red pup to him, and hugged him close, looking upon his lovely fish with his heart pounding out of his chest. Though gashed and bloodied, for it was a righteous battle; yet the beauty of her shimmering in the sunlight, touched him and he knelt absolutely still, in a moment of reverence. Tears stung his eyes and he’d a lump in his throat. He reached out and stroked her pink belly, luminescent in the sunlight, and thick with eggs, and he felt a little sad for the end of her days in the cool currents of the river. And he made a solemn promise to her that she would live on, his favorite tale to tell around the campfires of the Dal Cassians – the biggest, most beautiful and bravest fish that ever swam the Shannon . . . who fought with him against the white sea-eagle . . . and he would carry her in his heart, forever. • Tension on the page ~ 4 I always try to have tension on the page, either outside conflict, interpersonal, or inner conflict – and subtext – what is hidden, is what the scene is really about. Suddenly, a bloody dagger pierced the rear of the tent, slashing down through the back wall. Two more followed. Like vipers, they struck, quick and cold with a glint of steel - then withdrew. . In their place, thrust three gore-splattered swords! And the Spear-Danes that wielded them. The King’s Guard and Captain, pivoted as best they could to meet the threat. Candle flames flickered wildly. Malevolent shadows twisted and writhed upon the walls, like the death throes of dragons. The wind tore in, careening and thrashing about the tent, as if the portals of Hell, had been flung wide, unleashing Lucifer’s hell-hounds - intent on devouring the last vestiges of a dream . . . snuffing all the candles out, save one. “Please Ard Ri,” the boy pleaded, “Do you see?” . . . . A flaming arrow whined through the side of the tent . . . two more followed in rapid succession. Flames shot up the sides, seething and roiling like the breath of dragons across the ceiling, spewing sparks and ashes about the tent. Latean looked with horror, back to the High King; but, even as evil loosed, rampant, to ravage the souls of men . . . his beloved King saw none of it - for his eyes blurred with tears . . . fastened upon the little boat . . . • Dialogue mastery ~ 3? I am interested in what you think about my dialogue. There are no biographies of Brian Boru with colloquial Irish – all in the “King’s English,” collectively, all enemies of Ireland. I wanted my story to be different. The entire Geoffrey of Monmouth scene is as a result of Michael’s, PDQ. An exercise in wild reckless abandon! “Unleashing the Kraken!” I’m not sure I can ever regain total control again. . . Thanks! So much fun! The Archdeacon puffed, through his linen and lace, “Some foul relic of a waesucks, looking as though he’d been tossed from a godforsaken dragon ship, a century ago, showed up at the door. Had the manner of the churlish Irish about him, mumbling codswallup about a High King . . . as if there’s anything higher than a King . . . soused old sarder, lying on the front steps like a worm infested dog. Had him doused with a bucket of cold water . . . then hot piss, and sicked the dogs on him, but he refused to leave until you were given this . . . this . . . shear bloody evil . . . heard you’re compiling a record of Kings”. . . Walter sneezed, spasmodically, and blew his nose, flummoxed by vapors in the air. . . . “As if that old boothahler would know anything of kings. I was afraid he’d die on the door step, let loose of his pesty bowels and spread the plague . . . anything to get rid of him . . . the filthy, pribbling old stank.” Sneezing again, Walter dropped the repugnant rat’s nest, upon the desk in front of Geoffrey, turned quickly and fled the chamber, groaning and farting, his rear sally port flapping like wet laundry in a stiff wind. At the top of the stairs he called back towards Geoffrey, “The crazed old laggard kept mumbling something about . . . the gayest . . . or grayest . . . something like that . . . King that ever lived . . . can you imagine that . . . by Satan’s hairy ass . . . if he’s ever been close to a real King, I’ll drink the piss pot next time . . . the gorbellied old gudgeon.” And with that, the dribbling chitterlings lumbered his gout oozing legs, and dying bag-pipe farts back down the stairs. • Exposition delivery ~ 3? I prefer to let my characters give the exposition, from their pov, with attitude, and extreme prejudice. The fact of the matter – Henry, King of England, Scotland, Wales, and Duke of Normandy – 4th son to bastard William the Conqueror, and some whispered, father to at least 22 ill-conceived gammy get, out of bowlegged sheep on both sides of the Channel – though over sexed and nonselective, remained incapable of producing, even one living legitimate son. Geoffrey grunted, that made the First Henry 0 for 22 – an astounding feat in any wager hall in England. And with three wives, each one younger than their predecessor. And although, with everything taken into account, and the odds favorable for his success, upon his return from war, many lined up to accept the wager against their King. In fact, Geoffrey mused blurrily, jokes aplenty chortled in the shadows of every castle from Cardiff to Whitehall, inspiring him to wax poetic . . . a ditty concerning the new odds of the King managing a son in his own bed. Refilling, and swilling, abandoning for a moment, his melancholy, and normally dour, and petulant demeanor, he broke into a slurry of song . . . Whilst Henry was off fighting his wars, and tending his wounds, His nobles, guards and grooms of the stool, tended his wombs, So, by the time he returned, in the spring, His odds had taken an insufferable swing, His fields; well seeded, amply dunged, over tilled, and deeply plumbed, Possessed a far greater square acreage, than his entire Kingdom! Geoffrey smirked wickedly, tinging the glass goblet with his third finger nail. Thus, Henry’s once, favorable odds for success – now down the privy. The fact of it was, the King of England, brutally successful in all things base or unconscionable, waxed undisciplined in all things kingly or sanctified. Simply put, Henry, the rutting old whore-hound, lived to run trash – in the hunt – and out. And now out of money for his wars, sporting a raging brothel disease, with only one legitimate daughter, and in dire need of his people accepting his eldest bastard, Robert 1st Earl of Gloucester, as heir – he expected Geoffrey to rectify the plight of all bastards everywhere – in his family tree, buried in the roots, and stinking up the place. And he expected him to accomplish this feat, a fortnight ago. Before he returned to England . . . any minute, still steaming from battle, sword bloodied, pissed off, with a full bladder, itchy crotch, empty bollox – the apparent curse of his Viking ancestor, Ivar the Boneless – and – a frustrated yearning to butcher something. • Narrative composition (quality of set, tension, cinema, character interactions) ~4 Above the roar of the wind, the sounds of battle – closer now, louder and more desperate. Just outside the tent, cursing and screams of battle frenzy. The ear shattering ring of steel against steel, crash of sword against sword, frantic cries of warning , and screams and grunting of death blows, both giving and receiving . . . See to the King! Protect the King! The huge guardsman Dane, whirled to pull the tent flap aside, surveying the battlefield that had been that morning before dawn, a lovely green meadow, sprinkled with wild flowers. Then let it fall, and turned slowly, swaying slightly blood flowing through his chain mail, from chest and gut wounds, to the King’s Captain, still on his knees by his Chief. His gaze tragic and resolute, his voice calm, “The battle has come to your King, Irish,” he said, pulling himself up, tall and straight as he might, despite his desperate wounds, and arrow next to his heart. He took a deep rattling breath and with a raspy cough, spit out a large amount of blood, his voice, soft, “Are ya able to stand?” The King’s Captain, still on his knees by the side of the cot, an agonizing sadness about him, though loathed to do so, released his hold staunching the flow of blood from the wounds, on the chest of his friend, and clasped his wrist to his, placing his forehead upon both, for a long moment, even as blood once staunched, now flowed freely. “I am,” he grunted, splinting his ribs, trying and failing to pull his sword in one motion. Forced to pull it out of the gore-glutted sheath, hand over hand; he then stuck the point in the ground, tried to hoist himself up, but collapsed back, too weak to stand. The sword slashes, and arrows in his arms and leg, and back, all seeping blood. Breathing heavily, he said, “You’d best run now boy, under the back of the tent, up the hill and into the woods.” Latean shrank back, shaking his head no, fighting the tears. “Brian would want you to go, lad, off with ye . . . find ye’re way home, he’d say . . . and grow old, telling the tale of the brave lads that fought this day . . . in King Brian’s War, for the heart and soul of our Erin . . . fought with all courage they had, until they could fight no more.” Latean unable to see anything his eyes blurry, “No.” The Captain studied him for a moment, his eyes moist, and voice hoarse, “Then tend to your King, child, I’ll do the best I can, for the both of ye.” Then he looked up to the Dane, his sworn enemy, all his life long. And the boy could see, Behind the wretchedness in his eyes, lay something else – glowing embers. He extended his hand, upward, “If ye give me ye’r hand, Dane, I’ll help ye up.” The Dane, his own eyes glistening, strode across the tent, giving him a nod, and thrust his hand as well, down to the wounded warrior on his knees. The Captain, took it, grasping him by the wrist firmly, and nodding back, their eyes meeting. A battle-mate’s oath to fight side by side, to the death. The Dane hoisted him up, to his feet, like a water logged sail; drawing his arm up around his neck, his shoulder bearing the dead weight. “Well,” said the Captain,” his voice husky, “Looks like there’s goin’ to be a fight. You’d best get behind me.” Both knowing if he let go, the Irish would fall, the Dane put his head back and laughed out loud, his bright blue eyes twinkling, “You’ll have to kill me first, Irish!” “I would have, growled the Captain, starting to tilt, “an hour ago . . . Ye’r late!” “I was born lucky”, grinned the Dane hefting him up. “Not that lucky, ye Northern bastard, ‘Tis me arrow, ye’r sportin’ next to ye’r heart.” “We’ll ya missed didn’t ya, Irish?” “I wasn’t tryin’ very hard. I couldn’t decide which side ye’re on.” “Well, have ya made up your mind yet, I haven’t got all day. Besides,” groaned the Dane, shifting his dead weight, “Did ya forget, that’s my three arrows you’re riddled with.” “Obviously you can’t hit the broad side of Munster ox. Ye little puff wristed mucker.” “Truth be told, Irish, I wasn’t trying to kill you neither, just trying to stop ya from killing me.” “Well, if ye won’t get outta the way, try to ye keep up, will ye? By-the -jayses, I’m glad me Ma’s not alive to see me holdin’ hands with a bowsie Dane. Sure, she’d rip me liver out through me nose, flail me pelt off with a thorn apple switch and nail it to the gates for the crows. ” “If it makes ya feel any better, Irish, my Mudder would do the same to me, only she’d aim a little lower and to the left, wielding a dull whale spear, with a bent and rusty tri-hook.” They both rumbled with laughter, then grunted, and groaned, holding their ribs and growling with pain. A moment of silence passed between them, eyes shiny around the edges. “May your God bless your good King, Captain, to see the day won, or in Heaven with those he loves. I’m sorry I won’t be there, I don’t suppose there’s a place around the fire for a wretch like me, not baptized a Christian and all?” “Well, said Finn, “If I know Brian, and I surely do . . . and he was standin’ here, he’d say, “It’s not how ye start out – it’s how ye end up, that matters.” “There’s no Priest here to baptize me, if I die with my sword in my hand, I’m bound to Valhalla, forever with horde of bare breasted women, riveted in armor, and what’s the point in that, and drunken Danes, fighting, and pissing, and spitting, and spouting all day long about who’s got the most gold and silver, had the most women, slinging the biggest spear. Truth be told – I’d sooner go fishing with the boys from Beal Boru, or die, frozen in a bog, next to a worm infested troll-wench. ” The Captain wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffed, and cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a fix for everything,” Brian would say . . . “and there’s a fix for that.” Finn reached out, and yanked off the Thor’s Hammer around the Dane’s neck, flinging it away, and struggling to lift his arm, replaced it with a silver cross from around his own neck. “This was Brian’s, he gave it to me, when I was sore in need. It meant the world to him, and to me, all these years. I think, all things considered, he would want you to have it now.” The Dane, his cheeks puffing and eyes squeezing to keep the tears at bay, sniffled like a little girl who’d lost her kitten, his tears spilling down upon it. While distracted, Finn hawked and spat into his hand, and slapped it onto the forehead of the huge warrior. “That’s the way Brian would do it, in a pinch. He’d say, “Lug’s nuts, there was no Priest in the river Jordon when Christ walked in to it. And no priest hangin’ about on the cross next to Him on the hill, neither.” And then he’d lean in and give ye a wink and a nod, “He was particular about the lads He hung out with, if ye know what I mean.” Then the Dane, red in the face, gritting his teeth, wincing and puffing, his eyes bugged out, neck veins throbbing, reached up and jerked the arrow out of his chest, and flung it down. Then picked the Captain up off the ground, with both arms, hugging him, like a big she bear shaking a beechnut tree for the nuts. “Simmer down, now,” grunted the Captain, flinching, nervously looking about. “It takes more than a minute to work.” “Is that’s all there is to it” . . . the Dane asked with all earnest, His eyes glistening. “To get into your Heaven? “Well, there is one other thing . . . .” the Captain started . . . But he never had time to tell it, for a spear hurtled through the tent door and out the back wall, followed by another that stuck into the main tent post, between their heads. Cinematic imagery (static and dynamic) ~ 4 Breathless, Latean stopped, looking back down the field, his stomach revolting at the sickening smell of burning flesh and ruptured bowels. And all the while, the pallor of death spread over the land, gray and bloodless. For it was all on the field – all the blood in the world oozed and gushed, and seeped, onto the field and the trampled flowers of Clontarf meadow. To the west, the last of the sun, blazed like a dying ember in a windblown fire. To the south, black smoke churned, and carcass-flames leaped up from the walls of Dublin Castle into a blood-soaked sky. To the east, on the shore of the Irish Sea, Danes in chain mail thrashed at water’s edge; flickering silver and blue, in scarlet foam, like a bait bucket of smothered herring. Dragon ships, born away by the high tide and off shore wind, drifted out to sea, empty and rudderless. A crimson stain flowed down the battlefield, across the shore and into the sea, like red wine spilled on a silken gown. blood, carried by a red, wet, wind, up from the frothing sea . . . . The boy looked to the Heavens, his heart breaking, and wondered . . . at the hands that offered such a benediction, over the end of all dreams . . . . At the top of the hill, blood-soaked warriors encircled the High King’s tent, fragile from wounds, and bent with age. They listed back and forth against the gusting wind, leaning upon gore-slurried spears; splintered shields locked together, dulled swords encrusted in blood-clotted scabbards. Still, they stood bravely at the ready, faithful to their Chief till the end. Their silhouettes etched in torrents of crimson rain blown sideways upon the walls of the tent. Ghosts, and blood of ghosts born up over the battlefield on banshee winds, from gore spilling into the sea. In front of the tent, pain stabbed at his heart. “Amergin,” he whispered. Three battle weary warriors struggled at the ends of ropes, around the neck of an enfrenzied gray war horse – the King’s stallion. The beast, crazed with pain, thrashed between them, dragging and tossing them like rags, striking out with, first his front and then hind hooves, frantic to be free. Oblivious to his war wounds, he skittered and reared, trying to bolt. Broken shafts of spears pierced his shoulder and flanks, deep slashes laced his powerful chest. Arrows stuck out from his heaving belly as streams of blood trailed down over his legs, strafed with sword cuts. He screamed, charging towards the tent, the whites of his eyes, shot with blood, as he tossed his proud head, his thick muscular neck, flexing and twisting, snake like, his massive rump bunched and coiled to bolt, rearing and pawing the air, the mark of fearless battle-stallion. His thick white mane and tail, blood drenched and muddied, churned around him like bloody tempest tossed waves, spraying spirals of scarlet over his restrainers. Even as red foam blew from his nostrils, wounds seeping from the barbed arrow tips twisting in his lungs. Still his great heart would not give in, he too, fighting to get to his beloved master. • Proper point-of-view ~ 3? Omniscient POV – tale-teller – for Objective Story, foreshadowing, perspective, transitions Ospak speaks ~ And so the young cub, the sky-jewel of Irland, who burned brighter than all the rest . . . Would consume the oath breakers, Descending like an eagle, hurtling down from the sky, His shadow passed over moor, and meadow, and mountain, First to the south, and then to the east; the breath of Erin, whispering his name before him: Mists through the cracks in the mortar, A shiver in the trees, A rustle of leaves, A ripple of quiet waters . . . demon, they murmured . . . Daneslayer . . . And all the while, the traitors and murderers trembled behind bolted doors, shivering in the dark, Their armies, in chainmail; with ramparts and moats, and murder holes surrounding them - A shield wall of cob web, against the steel blade of a mighty heart, They hid and drank, and laughed aloud, in the company of their warriors, As if, when alone in the dark, they did not piss in their trews, And always, in their nightmares, they saw his specter, wild and ruddy – a lion in valor; Eyes gleaming, mouth agape, fangs bared, dripping with the blood of traitors . . . Even as One-Eye’s ravens, hovered - circling, biding their time, until they slaked their thirst on cowards, blood. 3 POV- 4 Brian The fires of hell licked at the top of his head, the talons of Baal clamped to his scalp, wrenching his hair out by the roots. Brian 13, yelped in pain, “Please Sir, not the tower again. Anything but the tower,” and unleashed his most pathetic howl, long and drawn out, “I’ll repent. I’ll be good, I swear . . . I’ll die if ye lock me in the tower again!” Father Alphonse, receiving the assignation of Abbot to the monastery Clonmacnoise, by the High King in the North, and entrusted with the preparing and preserving the souls, of the young princes of Ireland, twisted harder, his mouth watering. He meant to make an example of the youngest son of the dead Cennetig, dragging him across the yard before the assembly of young nuns, and the sons of the Tribal and Provincial Kings, not to mention the son of the High King, Malachy II, all of which stood in line to one throne or another. “One can only hope!” The priest growled through sanctimoniously clenched teeth, “If God is truly merciful, he’ll put ye out of all our misery. Come on with ye, ye manky little louter. Ye’ve tested me for the last time. I’ll break ye, so help me I will, and the Blessed Virgin Mary will weep tears of joy!” “Please Sir, if I have to suffer,” Brian pleaded most mournfully, “don’t lock me in the tower with the geezer Plutarch, and all his whinin’ about the Thracians, and the ruttin’ Spartacus,” he sniffled, “Anything but the Plutarch!” “Get me the Plutarch,” he bellowed, “It’s to the tower with ye, and no food or water until ye’ve memorized the Plutarch entirely!” “Please, Sir, I’m beggin’ ye Sir, instead, may I have the Book of Saints? Oh, how I love the Saints. Ah, the Blessed St. Catherine, how she sacrificed herself, refusin’ all offers of marriage and all, and shavin’ all her hair off, and scaldin’ her face, with the boilin’ water, so that no one would want to have carnal knowledge of her.” The Abbot, red-faced and teeth barred like a ferret, yanked Brian up glaring into his eyes, “The blessed St. Catherine would roll in her grave, to know her virginity was on the mind of the likes of ye. Ye, vermin from the South, and the son of Cennitig to boot, with the foul tongue and the filthy mind.” And he shook Brian by the hair on his head until, what was left of his own teeth rattled. “Ye’re a wart of the arss of the sainted Lady,” he hissed, and commenced to drag him towards the round tower. Brian thought about this for a moment. “Have ye seen her arss then, Sir, I mean the wart and all?” The novitiates blushed and covered their faces and the boys roared and hooted, doubled over with the laughter, “She’s a Saint, and been dead for 500 years, you goat’s spore!” Father Alphonse stopped and tried to kick him in the soft parts and then the buttocks but Brian dodged the blows, hurtling himself, front and back, and side to side, like when his brothers had him up against the wall and all trying to nail him in the goolies with the sliotar practicing their hurly swings. And all the while Brian trying to explain, “ It’s just that, I know her body’s in Rome, and her foot is in Venice, and her finger, her lovely finger, in Ravenna, with a ring made from the foreskin of the baby Jesus” . . . . And he wondered how that worked, exactly, For one thing it sounded painful for the sweet little babe, and for another, it seemed unlikely a Jewish Rabbi would place such a thing on the finger of a Catholic nun, and then he couldn’t help it, his mind ran to the bit about shavin’ her hair off and he wondered if they meant all her hair . . . and even if Saint’s had a place for hair other than the top of her head . . . and then there was the part about scaldin’ her face off, and he thought she might have done it so’s no one would notice the wart and all . . . but still . . . she might have looked very nice, naked, from the front . . . with a sack over her head . . . . “Do you suppose her breasts are with the rest of her then . . . I’d like to think so” . . . . “I’ll feckin’ kill ye!” wailed Father Alphonse, responsible for the edification of souls, of the young Princes of Ireland. • Wise use of craft technique ~1? I’m not exactly sure what you are looking for here. I guessed a combination of all technique. The bell stopped ringing. Brian, in dire straits to not be late again, but late again already, ran as best he could, his heart racing, scalded from the flaming rash, chafed raw, and breathless, with his fish in tow, and desperate to keep his trews up without his belt, so’s not to mortify the world any further. And Chulainn, snarling and yanking at his fish’s tail, and the big clumsy Lug pup, leaping about and shaking dirty water and fish slime, all over the place, pulled up all together in a bedraggled, dripping and reeking heap, like a doused string of fortnight old bait, outside the door into Cerin’s school. And Brian needing to give a good scratch at what plagued him, the only way he could in the light of day – tugging back and forth on his course woolen trews, like an old lady and her flea infested nightshirt – and puzzle out what came next. The manglin’ he could bear, but how to get to his seat in the front of the class, past his 9 brothers without them stealin’ his fish, was another matter entirely. Being covered in blood and scales and such, and stinkin’ to the high heavens, with cuts, and thistle welts and the welts all over his face, with no shoes, and his white linen shirt all in pieces and browner than a brook trout, from being dragged and yanked on from thither to yon, pretty much prevented him from sneakin’ in and down the aisle to the front row without being noticed. Not to mention, he sportin’ the most glorious salmon his brothers had ever seen. Still . . . there was part of him that wanted to traipse down the aisle, pompous as the Queen of Armagh, so as for all of them to see, and turn green as frog’s eggs, with envy. If he made it, with Cerin as witness to the fish, and the tale of the battle; he’d be the Hero, and become legend, told around campfires of the Dal Cass for all time – he could hear it now . . . that’s young Brian that battled the great white sea-eagle, for the grandest salmon that ever lived, the auld ones would say . . . . But then . . . there was the part of him that wanted to avoid the mayhem, altogether, that would surely follow – he bein’ fairly maimed to death already – do the smart thing, and stow the fish for later, make a shaggin’ run for it . . . For after they stole his fish, he would be, “the swine spore runt, that claimed he caught the biggest fish to never swim the Shannon”, and the brunt of their jokin’. Sea eagle me arse . . . they’d say . . . the right little eejit that he is, more likely playin’ with his own mickey, jumpin’ into the nettles instead of the tall grass. . . . No. He made up his mind. He’d fought the sea eagle for his fish, right enough, and he had the bloody white feather, and the cuts and gouges to prove it. He could fight his brothers as well. And besides . . . what could the nine of them possibly do to him . . . in a chapel no less . . . and under the very nose of a priest. But . . . there were priests, and then there were priests . . . and Cerin, mentor, monk and Seanachie of the Clann Dal Cass, had long been suspected to be of the second kind – the class of Pagan Warrior Priest, left over from before Patrick drove the snakes from Erin, back in the days of the Tuatha Da Danna, and the old gods. Adornin’ their necks with entrails, and chariots with severed heads, saunterin’ around naked with stag horns, dancin’ about bonfires, howlin’ to the full moon, despoilin’ beautiful young maidens in the wood, under the Druid Oaks. Therein lay the second rub . . . . Late again for the third time in as many days, he had more problems than just his brothers. Old Cerin would be in a righteous fury and ‘twould mean the strop for him, for certain. Sure, he wouldn’t be sittin’ down for days, but then he had to admit, the hidin’ would be a small price to pay, to see his brother’s faces when they laid eyes on his fish. Then again . . . he might just have a bit luck. There was one thing Cerin loved more than floggin’ one of Cennetig’s rapscallion sons, into a Dal Cassian warrior. For he had learned both on the knee of old Cerin – the floggin’ and the fishin’. And none loved the fishin’ more than Cerin. And truth be told, there was no fish he loved to eat, staked out by the fire, for the story tellin’, half as much as the lovely pink salmon. He could hear his Mam’s voice in his ear . . . “The root of all evil, is pride. And the torment that comes with it – God’s way of sortin’ it out.” Flauntin’ his fish before his brothers would be prideful, sure enough, and the torment, he knew well, swift to follow. . . . Still . . . all things considered, it seemed more like the root of all his evil, was being the youngest of 12, and havin’ his seat in the front of the class . . . and the shear bloody mayhem and murder, that came with getting’ to that spot on the bench, every day. • Interior Monologue and rumination ~4 Brian locked in the tower at Clonmacnoise telling Chulainn, his dog, the story of Spartacus “The Roman’s declared that they had killed him in battle and they crucified 6000 of his men all along the Appian Way from Rome to Capua. But his body was never found . . . It was said by those who knew him . . . all he wanted - was to find his true love and go home. And Brian liked to think that old Spartacus was lookin down on him, along with his father and grandfather and brothers, and his mam as well . . . he could feel them sometimes lookin’ in on him, and hear their voices, tellin’ tales about the fire, the laughter, and sometimes, the great fierce warriors, would grow quiet and their eyes would glisten like the stars, at some of the tales of one who was by their side and lost to them in battle, And more than anything he wanted to make them proud. He wanted them to look down and say, Ah, so Cennetig, isn’t that your boy? Fine lad, and his Da would say, that’s a way to do it Bri, Ah, you make me and your Ma proud. . . And how’s our Erin, bright and shiny and green, as a dew on the meadows. And his mam would call out, Brian, love, are ye sayin’ ye’r prayers, and changing’ ye’r under trews? And his brothers – Hey Runt, have they dropped yet? Have you killed any Danes lately, ye little puss? And then he wondered if Heaven was as beautiful as Erin. And thought ‘twould be impossible. And he missed the boys, the wrestlin’ and tacklin’ and all the rough horse play, and he would give a million bloody noses, or gouges, or his hair pulled out till he was bald, to have them all back again . . . tormentin’ him. . . But most of all, when his eyes were closed, when he was either comin’ or goin’ from sleep and half dreamin’ . . . he would go back to the minutes before the dragons came . . . to when he caught his fish, to when first saw the golden boat, and the little red-headed girl, the curls in her hair standing on end by the wind, a halo of molten amber around her smiling face, and little feet dancing’ in the shallows of the Shannon . . . .to that very moment of joy . . . before he plunged himself into the nettles . . . and he felt if he could just somehow hang onto it, the sweetness of it, as if his life depended upon it . . . and never let go. . . And he wiped at his eyes quickly with the palm of his hand. Oh, how he wanted to go home, to go back, back to that day and have a few more hours in the sun, before the Danes came, and the tower burned, and spare the little girl of the pain and shame, and keep her safe . . . if he could . . . he would surely give the rest of his life for it . . . . He gazed out at the Shannon, shimmering with the sun settling down over the hills, a ribbon of molten gold, through the plains . . . and he knew that the very sparkling drops that floated by the tower window below him now, would soon reach the banks of the Shannon running through Killaloe, and everything thing, and every happy memory that was left, of what he once loved . . . But, most of all, he knew . . . by the time the sun next came up, over the Arra Mountains . . . he would be stone cold dead . . . or . . . he would be home. Geoffrey sighed heavily, belched and reluctantly studied the loathsome thing upon his desk, his nose twitching, striving to separate the fetid reek of the bundle, from the fomenting dregs of Walter. His entire face puckered in disgust, ultimately deeming his latest acquisition far worse – reeking as a kilted Celt’s saddle blanket, and rank and worn as the womb of the brothel bred, third wife of Claudius. Whatever would he want with a gayest or grayest king? Just what he needed, an account from one half dead old scrote, to another half deaf. Needing continuing fortification, he poured another brim full. Well he had to admit, it would be original . . . a happy, and old King. If there was one thing, that the piles of manuscripts in front of him, and the piles in his ass, for the last year bore witness – in the entire privy porridge before him – happy kings, as well as old kings, didn’t exist. And for good reason . . . they were a miserable, sadistic, gold grubbing, mank mongering bunch. In fact all the Kings he had found so far, waxed more of the: brutal torturing, limb quartering, treacherous poisoning, eye gouging, bowel extracting, tongue lopping, burning at the stake types. Hated by not only their enemies, and own people, but by kith and kin as well. And deservedly so, all of them tormenting him now, with their tediously unremarkable lives, apparently unworthy of any sort of a mention at all – the boring, abysmally inconsequential bastards . . . what’s he supposed to do, make the compost heap up? Geoffrey swayed on his stool, his face puckering to fight the tears, toasting the eminent specter of the King, that would soon appear at top of the stairs, Well, come on up Harry, you boneless little bastard, and have a looksee, why don’t you . . . he garbled, welling up with misery, eyes brimming, throat tightening even as visions of flames surrounded him . . . the smell of his own searing flesh, singing hair, what was left around his ears, fat crackling – his little hairless chestnuts on a stick over the brassier of some cankered toothless hag, gummed to death, hawked out, and frog-gulped by a filthy mongrel dog, cast off as a hairy, toothy turd . . . . Gasping for air he slammed the goblet down on the table, it shattered in his hand. Blood gushed from the palm. Sniveling, his breath catching, he held it up for the three wavering crucifixes to see . . . as if any of you give a rat’s ass. Well, he’d checked his piles – There was no such beloved Warrior, King, Defender, Uniter, Protector, named in all of bloody Britain . . . not even one

Book Reports Connie Whitmer WRITING THE BREAKOUT NOVEL Donald Maass I found Donald Maass’s book empowering, and invaluable as a writing craft reference, in general, and for my project in particular. “If I write an amazing story, well – they will come!” His advice improved every paragraph, page and chapter, knowing what to cut, and what to leave in. And affirmed the passion I feel for the importance of my story, and my need to tell it. And, most exciting, he reaffirmed exactly what I am trying to do. “To write a Break out Novel is to run free of the pack – To go beyond what has been done before - delve deeper, more original, unexplored realms of setting, character, dilemma, crisis, climax, theme, meaning, significance.” Most successful Break Out Novels are cross genre. Both Maass and Gardner agree on this. TTRK is cross genre. I was having difficulty finding comparables. Now I am confident in my choices, if I do something original – and it’s good enough – they will come. Deepening characters will affect plot. Deepening layers of plot will intensify your theme. Break out novels are highly detailed and generally complex. Authors do not stint on material if it deepens the impact of the story. Many break out novels are long, and sprawl. But you need conflict on every page - I love this. It’s all about conflicting deepest desires. !!!! This has actually made a big difference in my writing. My goal to make every chapter, page, paragraph, not about conflict – but about conflict based in conflicting deepest desires. (which are really my deepest desires . . . ) This is one of my favorites: My motivation exactly ~ Break out Novels are written from the author’s passionate need to make you understand, to expose you to someone special, or to take you somewhere you need to see. It confronts, rattles and illuminates! It is real. It is the truth! These novels change us, because the author is willing to draw upon their deepest selves without flinching. They hold nothing back, making their novels the deepest possible expression of their own experience and beliefs. There is purpose to their prose. 1. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? Maass’ template for writing a Premise is the best template and explanation I have seen for a Break out Premise. Breakout novel Premise – 91 words, three sentences: Hero, flaw, complication, problem, the key, a flawed mentor, multiple barriers to worthy goal. To write a Premise you need: 1. Plausibility, 2. Inherent Conflict, 3. Originality, 4. Gut emotion. It’s the grain of truth that makes us care: strange, off center, unexpected, intriguing, provokes us, draws us in. What If? ~ Every Hero needs: Tortuous need, consuming fear, aching regret, visible dream, passionate longing, in escapable ambition, exquisite lust, tragic flaw, deep wound, fatal weakness, unavoidable obligation, iron instinct, irresistible plan, and noble ideal, undying hope. We care, because he does so deeply, fanatically, desperately. ~ Make days even more hellish! Crucible, crushing, choking, collapsing, denigrating, conflagrating, excoriating, ~ It’s all about escalation towards the edge! Chapter, sequence, act. ~ Have great first lines – first 10 words of paragraph/conflict drawing you in. It’s all about strength of Convictions – what you will always do no matter what. And what you will never do! VS. Do anything you have to, to get the outcome you want. ~ Do not get the wrong agent. Find someone who is excited, and passionate about your project. This is so important to me. TTRK is about righting a wrong, getting back at bullies, telling the Truth. Having the world fall in love with these real people . . . Gives you feed back before you send it to publisher! ~ I loved this book so much, I bought Maass’ Workbook as well, and recommend it highly. I have 10 pages of what I call Donald Maass Gems, a list of techniques I read at least once a week, so as to incorporate all into my writing. 3. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program. If so, what were they? I found nothing that conflicted with the writing program. To the contrary, Maass confirms the methods, philosophy and enthusiasm for new writers, of your great program. I am extremely grateful for his book being a required read, as he answered all my most frustrating quandaries. THE ART OF FICTION John Gardner How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? The day I decided I would try and write the story of Bran Boru, the first book I bought was the Art of Fiction. Not having any idea where to start I found a passage in this book, I copied and taped it to my computer. This was my inspiration for my opening of TTRK. The Tale teller, omniscient POV, a setting remote in time and place . . . “Tell us a tale,” the people said, and drew back like the tides of the Red Sea, “Of myths and monsters . . . of demons and dragons . . . .” The Old Dane, gnarled and weathered as a druid oak, made his way to the top of the windswept hill, drawing near to the fire. He stood before the ancient standing stone and put his hand upon the Lia Fail, gently as a grandfather caresses the cheek of a child. “I have no fairy tales.” he sighed wearily, bent and buffeted by the wind, as if a great sadness upon him. Though much has evolved in crafting my story – this opening has remained the same Events are those scenes by which the character comes to know himself. I love this one. If you read any of my writing, even the MOD 1 exercises, you will see I always use this. This coming to an understanding, a moment of realization is the best part for me. Genre crossing is behind most of the great literature. Epic and Romance. I’ve got that covered. Fiction is an instrument to come to understanding. Make the world of characters come alive! Again I love the moment of Character’s realization, which is the reader’s moment of the same realization as well. 2. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? Other craft techniques, I have employed: Every chapter should open with Characters who want something desperately. A great work asks questions and then gives answers to the questions it raises. Show both sides of an argument – this gets to the heart of the matter – and proves Theme, by telling the Truth. In serious fiction the highest form of delay or suspense is – AGONY OVER DECISION – CHOICE! I try to deepen my dilemmas, by always having a grinding crucible, unexpected complications, and nightmare choices, going on at the same time. Treat passages individually – Description – Dialogue – Action. Develop separately. This is great clarification I needed. Define action first, need, tension, conflict, then dialogue if relevant, then description. Resist temptation to explain. A good writer can get anything across with action, dialogue – Never say what character is thinking. This is a tricky balance between interesting interior monologue, and not explaining. My favorite writer who does this well is Cormac McCarthy in his Cities of the Plains trilogy. I try hard to enrich the character, add to emotion or suspense of dilemma, in interior monologues. But leaving subtext, so although you get into their minds, something is hidden, from the reader or the character himself. Great subtext, or that which is hidden is what makes a scene, and characters most interesting to me. I have found that most historical fiction books I have read, to not do this. Watching and listening to Characters to find out what is really going on, what they are hiding – is so much more interesting, and endearing, that being told what they are thinking. 3. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program. If so, what were they? There was one discrepancy: between Gardner and your Program. I’ll never forget how I felt, having just decided that I would do whatever needed to be done, to write Brian story, and bought Gardner’s book first, and read on page 12, his criticizing the potential of writers without University Creative Writing, and Literature Degrees. My BS was in the medical field, with no creative writing - only technical. Gardner: - “A self-educated” writer is sure to bear the mark of his limitation.” - “One notices the spottiness and awkwardness of their knowledge which makes their work less than it might have been.” - “One finds that their interpretations, suffer by comparison with what the myths really say and mean.” - (I have an interpretation of the trials of Beowulf in TTRK, as Gardner has in Grendel which differs from his – looking forward to comparison and critique) - “No one can hope to write really well without a University Education.” Of course telling Brian . . . and me, that we can’t possibly accomplish something . . . is throwing down the gauntlet. I vowed that day . . . that I would prove him wrong . . . I love the NY Pitch philosophy, in contrast to Gardner’s. If you are willing to work hard, learn, take advice, as long as it takes, you can achieve a Break Out Novel. And Michael and his team will do everything they can to help you. Also, offering the Author Salon, a successful plan to get there, and a short cut to agents and editors, as well. An entire package for success, with no prejudice. WRITE AWAY ~ Elizabeth George 1.How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? This book is very helpful, and gave me the following new incite. It is the character in jeopardy keeps you reading. Dialogue is Character. Show don’t tell. The greater significance of setting, not just magical . . . but seducing, threatening, prejudiced, nurturing. Give the Scene’s setting a name – Seducer, Threat, Lover, Guardian, Banshee, Mother, Loyal Friend, Evil. Every scene starts with a Character’s longing. Think of events of Dominoes, building to unexpected end. Work- Delusions, Obsessions, Compulsions, Addictions, Denial, Hysterical Ailments, Hypochondria, Illnesses, irrational Behavior, Destructive, Manias, and Phobias, Sexuality – Use anecdotes to illustrate all the above. 2. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? Decisions under pressure – is who they are. Show don’t tell. Describe from a pov under pressure. No need to be obnoxiously explicit. Use Step Outline. Subtext is what is going on underneath – the best part. 3. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program? If so, what were they? Nothing conflicted with the writing program, only reinforced it. THE WRITING LIFE Annie Dillard 1. How did the book help you as a writer? What overall aspects of it taught you something? Very interesting. Lovely prose – I found myself swept away to another time and place – a week long, Women’s Writers Free Verse Conference. Looking back on my life . . . Only the pain of am impacted wisdom tooth extraction, and breech birth, without anesthesia, compares. I found the complete randomness of it, the rubric’s cube concentration it required, the constant motion, the swaying back and forth between nuanced observation and illuminating metaphor, exhilarating. Like free-balling in a kilt, on a windy day, must feel. A freedom and sensation, sadly, I am incapable of experiencing, (Sorry, I’m still far and away with my soul mate Maass). One excruciatingly beautiful and descriptive slice of verbiage, after another, never-ending . . . Wonderful metaphors, descriptions, Easy to see why it is a prize winning piece of literature, and to be admired. And sadly foreign to me – a world without story. I think I read someplace, only the Dunkards and the Caliphate of Isis are worlds without story . . . . Long ago, after reading several blistering critiques of some of my favorite authors; I vowed I would never criticize a fellow writer's writing. . As we are all in the trenches together. However, I also felt that any unfair criticism of another's efforts - fair game. I would take issue with two things, however, since Annie drew first blood. First: Dillard’s utter distain for writings, she deems “striving to be film worthy”, “have a faint but unmistakable, and ruinous odor. I cannot name what . . .” My story started out as a screenplay, and one of the things that separates it from other writing; is the cinematic imagery, action, use of subtext, pacing, building of sequence to excruciating dilemma, moment of realization and decision. Comparing my efforts to - a pathetically confused, dry-humping butterfly – seems a bit choleric. Indeed, a Dillard world would be devoid of the treasures of all great films – Images of: deep morally conflicted characters, that rip your heart out with their yearnings, dilemmas and choices, crucibles, triumph and tragedies, subtext, dialogue to die for, (James Goldman – Lion in Winter, Robin and Marion – my favorites) Story-telling . . . that makes you laugh, and cry, wrenches your guts out, and changes your heart forever – theme written with blood, and excruciatingly beautiful images, upon your soul . . . . Dillard: “In my view, the more literary the book – the more purely verbal, crafted sentence by sentence, the more imaginative, reasoned, and deep.” This explains everything. Second: Her utter distain for a poor inchworm, bullying more like it, of a little fellow, 1.426 millionth her body weight, doing his best to get through the day with the gifts God gave him – who might be perceived as being obviously trapped in the nightmare, of a literary writer, without an outline, she so eloquently recounts in her opening paragraph. Dillard: “When you write, you lay out a line of words. The line of words is a miner’s pick . . . it digs a path and you follow. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end . . . You will know tomorrow, or this time next year. You make the path boldly and follow it fearfully. You go were the path leads. At the end of the path you find a box canyon. The writing has changed . . . The new place interests you because it is not clear . . . I hope the tracks have grown over; I hope birds ate the crumbs; I hope you will toss it all and not look back.” Lovely metaphor . . . With all due respect, if Dillard were an artist, with all her gifts, and by her own words – she would intrepidly start at one corner, and process her art on canvass, like an inkjet printer, diagonally from one border to the other. expecting to create: a mountain or seascape. . . the face of child . . . a dying warrior . . . not by planning out: light against shadow, and shadow against light, nuance of tone, warm or cool, pattern against simplicity and simplicity against pattern, perspective, fore, mid, distance, layer after exquisite layer, guiding your mind’s eye, and a theme, and focal point, saving the very last strokes, after all others, the symbol overlaid, echoes from the beginning – adding the luminescence of,sun, moon and star light, shining through: cloud, leaves, the tangled hair of a lover . . . playing upon shadow, drawing in your eye, and heart with it . . . breathing in life . . . All the most beautiful art – is images - and tells a story. Dillard - an abridged excerpt, page 6-7. My favorite passage, and her most enlightening metaphor, onwriting. “Few sights are so abused as that of an inchworm leading its dimwit life . . . pale and thin, an inch long, and apparently unfit for life in this world. It wears out its days in constant panic. Every inchworm I have seen was stuck in long grasses. The wretched inchworm hangs from the side of a grass blade and throws its head around from side to side, seeming to wail . . . he rears back and flails in the air, apparently searching for a footing. What! No further? It searches everywhere in the wide world for the rest of the grass, which is right under its nose. By dumb luck it touches the grass. I’s body makes a loop. All it has to do is slide up the grass stem. Instead it gets lost. . . . Its davening, apocalyptic prayers . . . bump it into something. The blind and frantic numbskull makes it off one grass blade and onto another one, which it will climb in virtual hysteria for several hours. Every step brings you to the universe’s rim. And now – What! What! No further?Yike!” “Why don’t you just jump?” I tell it, disgusted, “Put yourself out of your misery.” Dillard must be from Bakersfield, perhaps Bisbee . . . There is nothing much cuter than a little green inch worm . . . to call him dimwit, unfit for life in this world, in constant panic, wretched, dumb luck, blind frantic numbskull, in virtual hysteria, disgusting - "Why don't you just jump. Put yourself out of your misery" . . . . I say, is looking through the glass, harshly. Have you never walked barefooted, out in tall grassy meadow in spring, still dew laded, and lain on your back looking up at the clouds floating by, wishing you were on one. When you spy . . . pure unadulterated yearning, desire against all odds, infatigable try, a worthy quest, a warrior's heart (all the stuff of story) - a little green friend . . . reaching . . . believing . . . there is no chasm too wide . . . And you extend a friendly finger . . . a conduit to his dreams . . . and in that moment, you are transformed, through his eyes into – God’s miracle . . . a part of his most worthy life’s journey . . . . “In the habitation of dragons . . . a highway, shall there be . . . and you are his way.” Isaiah Dillard did however, elicit emotion – she move me to tears – for the poor maligned inch worm, intrepid, striking out into unknown, relentless, valorous, trusting in fate. . . inch by inch, if his courage carries him far enough - he will find his way home. Pithy as well, her statement, she does not care if her readers die, before she finishes her book. I cannot relate to this at all. If I don’t get Brian’s story out there . . . and his life remains stolen, defamed and forgotten, forever . . . I’m going to self-immolate! Perhaps MS Dillard could use a little cheering up, a rose colored glass, a smidgen of a sense of humor. May I suggest . . . Mark Twain’s (one of my heroes, also maligned by the literary writers of his day) opinion on the subject: “I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read Pride and Prejudice I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.” Twain I loved the film . . . . 2. What two or three major lessons did you learn from the book that you can apply to your writing and/or your novel? ~ Not outlining, makes you a cranky. ~ Not being able to tell a story . . . makes you verbose. ~ Denigrating inchworms for fame and fortune, makes you a bully, and a coward . . . and a Pulitzer Prize winner! I just happen to have the criteria for winning a Pulitzer Prize taped to my laptop – eye level: “Up ending stories express the optimism, hopes and dreams of mankind, a positively charged vision of the human spirit; life as we wish it to be.” Ironically, of all the how to write books reference books I have in my library . . . I have read, dog-eared and highlighted, hundreds . . . Annie Dillard provided me with what I yearned for above all else, and for this I shall always be grateful – One single IMAGE that illustrates, without words, the Theme of the entire incredible story of Brian Boru's life: ~ The most insignificant among us, can achieve the impossible, if he has desire enough to dream it, courage enough to fight for it, heart enough to never give up, and guts enough to pay the price . . . Now and forevermore I shall think – inch worm. Yah, baby . . . You go little inch worm! . . . That’s why they call it – a leap of faith . . . Oh Ye, who gaze through the looking glass darkly - with your cup half empty . . . You just keep on . . . keepin’ on, with your mighty warrior’s heart . . . and believe . . . . Ooo Rah . . . little stud . . . Ooooooooo . . . Raaaaaaaaaah! 3. Was there anything in the books that obviously conflicted with lessons and readings in our novel writing program. If so, what were they? Yes. The writing program, I have come to love – is all about telling a great story - with unforgettable characters that make you laugh and cry - touch your heart and inspire your soul forever.