23rd July - Picture promppt

Welcome to Tuesday's Tales

A place where books are born.

This month's picture prompt is a road scene, and while my tale for this week is a continuation from Regency I hope you will be able to envisage the type of road travellers experienced back in  1813

Last week my hero, Juan, was stranded at an inn after returning to England. This week he has been rescued by his friend Lord Charles Vidal, but now disaster has struck again...

 

Within seconds of him (Vidal) pulling Juan and their mounts through a gap in the bushes lining the road two horsemen came thundering round the corner and pulled up sharply.

 

“What ails you?” One of the men asked.

 

 The other urged his mount closer to the coach muttered an expletive before dismounting and peering into the coach. “Where’s your master?” he interrupted his companion and grabbed the groom’s arm.

 

“Master?”

 

Vidal grinned at the slow drawl his servant employed.

 

“Don’t waste my time man. That is my lord Vidal’s coach, is it not?”

 

“Aye.” His groom swiped his hat off and rubbed the back of his hand across his hair before he scratched his head and replaced the cap on his head.

 

“So —"

 

His groom looked about him then at his interrogator. “He ain’t here.”

 

Vidal choked back a laugh.

 “That is obvious,” the second man stated. “But where is he?”  

 The laugh died in Vidal’s throat when he saw the raised gun in the newcomer’s hand.

 

“He’s been gone these last fifteen minutes sir.” Real fear showed in his groom’s eyes, and yet the man still managed to defy his interrogators. When Juan shifted at his side he spied the gun in the Spaniard’s hand. He shook his head and held up one hand. His own pistols were still in the coach, they couldn't save lives with only one weapon between them. He watched the two men confer together then one turned and shot his fist out. The blow to his groom’s chin lifted him off his feet and slammed him against the stricken vehicle. In the next minute sunlight flashed off polished steel as the other man faced his second groom. A loud report shattered the air and the swordsman slid to the ground, landing on his own weapon.

 

Thank you for reading this week's offering, and please hop on over to read everyone's offering for this week's Tuesday's Tales prompt.

Tuesday's Tale - 9th July

Welcome to Tuesday's Tales

A place where books are born.

Thank you for stopping by. This week's word prompt is long, my snippet is from Consuela's story, my sequel to Vidal's Honor. This scene takes place in Spain in 1813 when my hero, Juan, and his men are under siege.

He monitored the men as in groups of four they started moving back. Not crawling on their hands and knees. Not walking. To do that would make them sitting targets. As he had done moments before, they crawled on their bellies keeping their weapons just above their heads.

His band of sixty men had been reduced to just over forty three days ago when they’d been ambushed. Juan still wondered how any of them had come out of that skirmish alive. Now he watched the survivors make for the small incline in the distance. How many men would survive long enough to welcome the end of the day?

The whistle and crump of another shell reduced the number by another six. They had to reach and cross the bridge before his brother’s men shelled it. He crawled to the dead, passed the rifles and ammunition to the living and moved on. Two of the injured were taken up by their colleagues. More like dragged along by their colleagues, Juan thought.

Inch by inch he advanced towards the knoll. Mud clung to his jacket and britches, his boots felt like lead weights holding him down, holding him back.

And the rain!

It took several minutes for him to realise the pounding of shells had stopped.

“Do you think they’ve had enough?”

The croak beside him came from his second in command, Jim. Dismissed, through injury, from the English army, Jimmy Smith had insisted in returning to Spain with him. Now wracked with a cough that had steadily worsened over the last week, he could hardly breathe let alone talk.

“Not them.” Juan spat out a wad of mud he’d almost swallowed. “Let’s make the most of our reprieve.” He grabbed Jim by the arm and half pulled and half carried him to the rear of their sparse covering.

While those who’d made it recovered, Juan assessed the distance left to reach the bridge. Dare he risk more men in trying to get there in daylight? What option did he have? The fact his brother’s men had ceased their asault may mean they were even now manoeuvring to better attack his men if they attempted to cross the river.

Thank you for reading this week's offering, and please hop on over to read everyone's offering for this week's Tuesday's Tales prompt.

Sweet Saturday Sample

For today's Sweet Saturday Sample I'm offering a sample from my NaNo wip, Consuela's Story, although this is from Juan's pov.  Being a NaNo sample, please make allowances for the lack of editing. :-)

He couldn’t sleep. Wellington’s news had robbed the remaining energy from his legs and had him slumping into the nearest chair regardless of military protocol. Not that he was a member of any official army.  He’d returned to Spain with one goal in mind.  To hunt down his brother, and seek retribution for the murder of his wife and daughter.

And now…

The silent passage of the moon beyond his window failed to bring the usual sense of peace. Since his brother’s attack on his family he’d spent many a night staring up at the moon and pretending Maria and Francesca were riding across the sky while they looked down on him.

And now… he wondered again.

While he’d rushed back to Spain, his brother, Diago, had made his way to London, and according to his friend Lord Vidal, was even now making advances to Consuela.

The only available room left in the inn was tiny, with a window locked down tight against the night air, so the room smelled of stale ale and other unmentionable odours. He smote one fist in the other and strode from the edge of the bed where he’d sat to the window and peered out.

“You been and gone and missed it by five minutes.” The innkeeper told him when he’d rushed in to enquire when the next coach left for London.  “Won’t be another ‘afore tomorrow afternoon.”

His enquiries into hiring a coach hadn’t fared any better.  It seemed there was a prize cock fight in the village just five miles down the road and every available vehicle for hire was already spoken for. Assuming there’d be no spare horses for hire either he’d not even asked, but now as he watched the shadows shift across the ground below his window he wondered whether the plan forming in his mind would land him in prison if he was caught.

‘Another day won’t make a difference.’ A silent voice in his head urged, but instinct told Juan the voice lied.  If he didn’t know better he could almost swear he heard Consuela calling out to him, for him to help her.

 

 

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