Courting Cassandry is currently out to some beta readers, and I'm beta reading for some other authors in return, so I haven't had a lot of writing time lately. But I couldn't stand not writing at all, so I broke down this week and started dabbling with a possible medieval ghost story. (Maybe. I'll let you know when I finish it how much of a ghost story it turns out to be. :-) ) It doesn't have a title yet, so I'm just calling it "my medieval ghost story." In case you're interested, here is a sampling of sentences from what I've written on it this week. (I see I didn't tell you who "he" is. His name is Alric, and for now at least, he's a journeyman pewtersmith.)
Monday: The wind
gasped and shuddered and moaned through the barren branches of the timber
sentinels that soared along either side of the road. Gasped like a woman
laboring for her last breath of air. Shuddered as the waves of the sea lashed
around her. Moaned with despair as the weight of her sodden skirts pulled her
inexorably into the suffocating depths.
Tuesday: But she
was gone, and no repentance could bring her back. Then no more useless tears.
Tonight he would surrender himself once more to the fever and let it burn away
the memory of his sin, as he had for ten years.
Wednesday: He
could feel the fire of luck in his blood tonight. He would win enough silver to
bed in a fat, soft inn—if he did not continue to roll the dice until dawn.
Thursday: A
light, where no light should be, hovering without hands in the air, cast its
muted glow against the old standing cross. An icy tickle shivered down his
spine. What witchery was this?
Friday: Would it
chill him to the quick to gallop through the shade? What if the demon snatched
his soul in the midst of the blast, then let him ride on hollowed out, bereft
of his former humanity?
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