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Who we are

Guildford Writers is a writers' circle, meeting every other Tuesday. New members are always welcomed because we value writing variety, different views and additional comments. We try to attain a high standard.

Many of us are writing novels but we also have keen short story writers and poets. Each meeting we bring work to read aloud to the group. Advice, constructive criticism and general comments are given.

Where we meet

We meet in the Guildford Institute. Meetings are Tuesdays each fortnight from 7.30pm to 9.30pm.

For dates of forthcoming meetings, see the Programme

How to contact us

For more information, please email Jennifer Margrave or telephone (01483) 562722 (working hours)

Goldenford Publishers

Please visit our companion site Goldenford.

wap pages

'home' updated 23:06 Feb 1 2010

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Tuesdays each fortnight from 19:30 to 21:30 in the Conference Room (top floor) at the Guildford Institute. Come along and meet us! For more information, please email Jennifer Margrave or telephone (01483) 562722 (working hours)

20th July Summer Break 14th September 28th September 12th October 26th October 9th November 23rd November 7th December

Guildford Institute map Ward Street Guildford Surrey GU1 4LH

'programme' updated 17:48 Jul 16 2010; owner 'plant'

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Luther's Ambassadors by Jay Margrave (a Goldenford Publishers' book). The second in the Priedeux trilogy of historical mysteries.

Darshan by Irene Black (a Goldenford Publishers' book). A novel exploring different cultures set in India, Oxford and Wales.

Tainted Tree by Jacquelynn Luben (a Goldenford Publishers' book). A romantic saga set in Guildford, with a West Country interest.

Thorn in the Flesh by Anne Brooke (a Goldenford Publishers' book). A psychological crime novel set in Godalming.

Sold ... to the Lady with the Lime-green Laptop! by Irene Black (a Goldenford Publishers' book). Adventures in eBay selling.

The Gawain Quest by Jay Margrave (a Goldenford Publishers' novel). The adventures of a charismatic hitman in Medieval England.

Pink Champagne and Apple Juice by Anne Brooke (a Goldenford Publishers' novel). A comedy set in a north London transvestite nightclub.

A Bottle of Plonk by Jacquelynn Luben (a Goldenford Publishers' novel). A series of interlinked stories following the adventures of a bottle of wine around a disparate group of friends and relatives.

The Moon's Complexion by Irene Black (a Goldenford Publishers' novel). A romantic thriller set in India.

The Fruit of the Tree by Jacquelynn Luben (autobiography, published by Nelson Houtman, 1992). An autobiographical account of Jacquelynn Luben's experience of cot death and miscarriage set against the background of other more lighthearted events. Available from fruit

Cot Deaths - Coping with Sudden Infant Death Syndrome by Jacquelynn Luben (non-fiction. Second Edition published by Bedford Square Press (NCVO), 1989. Out of Print, but available from Amazon). Information of immense value not only to parents, but doctors, counsellors and other professionals.

Cot Deaths - Coping with Sudden Infant Death Syndrome by Jacquelynn Luben (non fiction. First Edition published by Thorson's Publishing Group, 1986). Compassionate yet clear advice from a mother who has herself been through this experience.

All books are available from amazon or (where stated) from goldenford or (again, where stated) from the author's or publisher's websites.

'books' updated 00:10 Jan 8 2010; owner 'anne'

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Guildford Writers continued to achieve successes during 2009 by following a policy of sending off their work to competitions and other outlets, and some writers are now branching out into talks and workshops.

April 2010

• Anjali Mittal will be at two further events in May. On Saturday, 8th May, she will be at Waterstones, Guildford High Street, promoting her two children's books The Convent Rules and Mystery of the Art Teacher.

• On 24th May, Anjali has been invited by Bushy-Hill school, Merrow to talk to 250 children. She will read extracts from her books and involve the children in activities, including a rhyming competition which was a great success at Guildford High School.

March 2010

• Anjali Mittal had a wonderful opportunity to promote her children's book, The Convent Rules at the Guildford High School for World Book Day in March, when she gave a talk to year groups 3 - 6 (200 girls in total). The pupils gave her an enthusiastic reception and were eager to buy the book.

February 2010

• During February, Irene Black, Jacquelynn Luben and Jennifer Margrave gave presentations of their work to the two reading circles at Bramley Libaray.

• A feature on Irene Black's travels to India and her books, set in India, has been published in the March edition of Writers' News - out in February.

• Jacquelynn Luben's letter to Writers' News was the star letter in the March edition of Writers' News - out in February, winning her a copy of Writer's Market, 2010.

December 2009

• Mark Arnold has won the NAWG Open Short Story Competition 2009.

• An article by Jacquelynn Luben on her novel, Tainted Tree has been published in the December edition of Family Tree Magazine .

• A feature on Jacquelynn Luben's novel, Tainted Tree, and her other writing, has been published in the January edition of Writers' News - out in December.

November 2009

• Jennifer Margrave will be signing copies of her books with her pen-name, Jay Margrave, at Dorking Waterstone's on 5th December.

• Katherine Clements's short story Amila and Me will be published in a forthcoming edition of Mslexia.

• Irene Black and Jacquelynn Luben were at at Dorking Waterstone's on 22nd November to sign copies of their books.

October 2009

• Anjali Mittal was at Guildford Waterstone's on 17th October signing and reading from her children's book, The Convent Rules.

• Irene Black, Jacquelynn Luben and Jennifer Margrave gave a talk about their writing at Bookham Library and also conducted two workshops, one for the Guildford Book Festival and one for Dorking Arts Alive Festival, on the five senses.

July 2009

• Anjali Mittal new children's book, The Convent Rules, published by Authorhouse and launched in Clandon.

• Irene Black and Jacquelynn Luben went to Germany for the Freiburg/Guildford Twinning celebrations, and gave readings of their books, respectively, Darshan at the Town Square, Freiburg and Tainted Tree, at the Schwanhauser Bookshop.

• Jay Margrave went to the American Historical Novel Society’s Conference in Chicago in June and then on to Boston to give a presentation to a readers’ group who had chosen The Gawain Quest as one of their books to read. They liked it so much they wanted to ‘meet the author’.

April 2009

• Irene Black and Jacquelynn Luben were invited to give readings of their books, respectively, Darshan and Tainted Tree, at the Freiburg/Guildford Twinning celebrations in summer 2009.

March 2009

• Lichfield & District Short Story competition, two of Jacquelynn Luben's stories - shortlisted

February 2009

• Jay Margrave's book, Luther's Ambassadors, was been selected and reviewed as one of the Editors' Choices for the February 2009 issue of the Historical Novels Review.

January 2009

• Irene Black has now sold four pieces of writing - a short story and three articles about India - to the American e-zine 4IW, which focuses on writing for Indian women.

• The pieces are:
• 'Flight' 11/10/2008
• 'Curioser and Curioser' 05/12/08
• 'The Golden Temples of Badami' Part 1 31/01/09
• 'The Golden Temples of Badami' Part 2 (due out) 06/02/2009

• You can read all the pieces at the 4IW Website home [www.4indianwoman.com/home.html]

• For back copies click on the appropriate month under 'archive'.

'news' updated 19:15 May 1 2010; owner 'adminjl'

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The Pendleton May First Novel Award 2004

The Pendleton May Group in association with Guildford Arts sponsored the First Novel Award 2004 for which 43 novels were submitted. The standard of entries this year was extremely high and the judging panel, headed by Amanda Craig, had a difficult choice.

The eight novels shortlisted were:

• Domenica de Rosa The Ialian Quarter
• Neil Griffiths Betrayal in Naples
• Panos Karnezis The Maze
• Emer McCourt Elvis, Jesus and Me
• Mark Mills Amagansett
• Alan Parker The Sucker's Kiss
• Meg Rosoff How I Live Now
• Susannah Waters Long Gone Anybody

The winning novel is: The Maze by Panos Karnezis.

Allianz Cornhill Short Story Competition 2004

261 stories were entered and the standard was high this year so the judging panel, headed by Katie Fforde, had to make some very difficult decisions. We should like to thank all the writers who entered the Competition very much for their participation and offer our best wishes for the future.

The winning stories from a shortlist of 19 were as follows:

• 1st prize: Irene Hibbert for Dedicated to Oliver
• 2nd prize: Jo Scott for The First Minister for Truth
• 3rd prize: Richard Cutler for From the Lips of the Saddhu

The prizes were presented at the Presentation Night at the Guildhall on Monday 25 October 2004.

'gbf' updated 14:07 Jan 8 2010

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• Mark Arnold
• Pam Baddeley
• Irene Black
• Jackie Luben
• Jennifer Margrave
• Anjali Mittal

Member's websites
pages open in new windows

• Irene Black [http://homepage.ntlworld.com/blacks.house]
• Jackie Luben [http://freespace.virgin.net/jackie.luben] Includes examples of her short stories and details of her non-fiction books
• Mark Arnold [www.willarnold.ukf.net]
• Anjali Mittal [www.anjalimittal.com/profile.aspx] Writer of children's books

Copyright © Guildford Writers

'members' updated 12:54 Mar 18 2010; owner 'admin'

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Pam Baddeley started life in Essex where her childhood was spent feverishly writing stories - some of which she sold for a few pennies in the school playground. So she first heard the question dreaded by writers, at the tender age of 10: "Where do you get your ideas?" This early training culminated in the writing and re-writing of her first full-length novel between the ages of fourteen to eighteen, a valuable writing experience.

Wishing only to be a writer, her first job was in a public library where at least she was in contact with books but afterwards she took a circuitous route into IT, where she works today. Meanwhile, her writing also detoured through fanzines of various cult science fiction programmes until she returned to writing her own material in 1991. Since then, she has written four novels, all on fantasy, supernatural or science fiction themes, although she is aware how unmarketable such subjects are considered by publishers.

Her CV includes two published short stories and a number of competition wins and shorlistings, including a shortlisting for the 2002 Fidler Award for unpublished fiction for children. She is currently revising a long novel.

Copyright © Pam Baddeley

'mem_pjb' updated 23:14 Jan 7 2010

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Irene Black graduated from Manchester University some time last century. She has always been a writer at heart but for pragmatic reasons (ie the need to earn a living) pursued a career as a research psychologist in New York (working on the Apollo Space Mission), Melbourne and Surrey for several years until she saw the light. For the next twenty years she juggled her role as a Mum to two young 'uns with a career as a schoolteacher (German and as little French as she could get away with). She ended up as head of languages at a large comprehensive school in Surrey and managed to escape to early retirement in 1999 by injuring her back whilst horse-riding. Since then she has combined her writing career with running a small Internet antiques and collectibles business and helping her daughter-in-law sell Thai handicrafts. She also accompanies her husband for several months at a time to a science institute in South India where she writes, teaches German to graduate students, and studies Hindu temples.

Her non-writing passions include travel, classical music and the art history of the Indian Subcontinent and beyond. She is currently midway through her MA in Indian Temple Architecture at De Montfort University in Leicester.

Irene writes novels, short stories and poetry. She has completed her novel The Moon's Complexion, a romantic thriller set in India which aims to offer a bridge across the cultural and religious divide in which we live. She has won several prizes for her short stories and poetry and published a number of articles on writing.

Contact her by email at blacks.house@ntlworld.com

Copyright © Irene Black

'mem_ib' updated 22:59 Jan 8 2010

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Anne Brooke is 40 years old and currently living in Surrey, despite being an Essex Girl at heart. She is the author of numerous short stories and poetry and, in 2003, was shortlisted for the Asham Award for Women Writers as well as being the overall winner of the DSJT Charitable Trust Open Poetry Award. She has recently published her first poetry collection, "Tidal", and her first novel, "The Hit List". Future aspirations include publishing her second novel, "A Dangerous Man", which was one of the winners of the Crème de la Crime novel writing competition, in 2005, and one day tackling her enormous ironing pile. In her spare time, she plays extraordinarily bad golf. More information can be found at her website. See one of her short stories Connections

Copyright © Anne L Brooke

'mem_alb' updated 23:19 Jan 7 2010

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by Anne L Brooke

There it is again. I knew I wasn't dreaming. When it comes to sussing out what doesn't fit into my system, nothing gets past me.

Usually. But this did. The first time that's ever happened. Was there something wrong? I gave my inner workings a cursory scan, but there was nothing to cause concern. Perhaps it was Danny in IT. He was forever fiddling around with me. You could never be sure when you'd be passing a little-used corner of your system and there he'd be, updating a virus checker here, adding more RAM there. Without so much as a word of warning. Mind you, I'm not complaining. At my age, I need all the fine-tuning I can get. And give the lad his due, he has magic in those fingertips. Not something you get much of around here, I can tell you.

But where was I? Ah yes, the anomaly in the hard drive, the stranger on my shore. Now, if I give myself a careful scan, I should be able to retrieve whatever it was for closer inspection. Got it! Let's have a look.

"Emma, your printer connection should be working now, but please let me know if it isn't. Hope you didn't get wet on your lunch-hour walk, by the way. I'd be happy to lend you my umbrella at any time. Danny."

Hmm, yes. I could see why that one had slipped past my CPU. Danny had fooled me with his opening sentence. All that stuff about work couching the rather unfortunate sentiments about the umbrella. What was all this nonsense? Didn't Emma have an umbrella of her own? And if not, couldn't she go and buy one? Or perhaps, even worse, it had a double entendre all of its own? But no, Danny wasn't like that. I had to calm down and stop hunting for wrongdoing. My new virus checker sometimes made me paranoid and I ought to give people the benefit of the doubt now and again.

But what about Emma's reply? It must have had something untoward in it to grab my attention right in the middle of processing the Chief Executive's Business Plan and the Accountant's end-of-year report. Let me see. Hmm.

"Danny, thank you so much for your note. No, I didn't get wet, I dodged the raindrops - almost. I might take you up on that brolly offer soon though! And yes, the printer's fine, thank you. Emma."

Oh dear. Doesn't this sort of stuff make you sick? Still, at least her email was easier to locate; she didn't have the sense to put the work item first and throw me off track. Thank goodness, or who knows what would have happened? Work is no place for romance. It should be smothered at source so the rest of us can get on with the things that matter: spreadsheets; macros; presentations; and long word-filled documents. The thought of them sends a glow of satisfaction racing through my connections. After all, work is my reason for existence. Without it, or with anything else adulterating it, I'd be lost. That's why it's so important to pick up on anything interfering with it. And even though those two emails might look innocuous enough now, they hid in them the seeds of destruction.

Which was why I had to be alert and keep a close scan on any others which might come knocking at my innards. My life depended on it. So, over the next 2.493 days, I kept my CPU quivering and my hard drive on the qui vive. Just as I was beginning to relax and think it might have been the Intranet playing tricks on me, the demon of romance struck again.

"Emma, just wondered if you'd like a lift to the seminar this evening (save you getting wet)? And then maybe go for a drink afterwards? Let me know, Danny."

I only just managed to divert the dreadful message from Emma's in-box before it was beyond my electronic grasp. Juggling it around my motherboard, I wondered what to do. In the end, I dumped it in the temporary folder on the C drive. No-one ever thinks of looking in there.

After I'd done that, I felt rather smug. I was even congratulating myself on the speed of my response when I came face-to-screen with another danger point.

This time, she was sending a message to him. How very modern, I thought before side-tracking it into the same temporary resting-place as Danny's. I gave it a good scanning and sighed.

"Danny, Harry Potter's on at the cinema next week. Knowing you're such a fan, did you want to go one evening, say Tuesday? Emms."

Emms? Emms? What sort of woman was this? Now Danny I knew well. If someone is fiddling around in your inner workings every day, you soon feel a certain affinity with them. You can tell a lot about people by the way they treat their computers. Some approach us with respect, whereas others hack their way through your precious system, shout abuse at you and misbehave to such an extent that you have no option but to crash. Not something we're fond of doing, but sometimes it's the only way to survive. Danny, of course, belonged to the first category of people. He was always kind. Indeed, he'd done a great deal for me and I owed him something. So I set myself the task of saving him from the obviously unsuitable Emms.

First, I had to get a good view of her and get to know the enemy. So I retrieved the information from her profile and outlying folders, and allocated 0.4% of my memory to focus on the problem for a good 0.329 seconds.

I couldn't find much wrong with her, no matter how hard I tried. 26.28 years old with a degree in History and an aptitude for Marketing. Well, that figured. All her reviews were good too, although I personally feel phrases such as 'upfront', 'direct' and 'cuts to the chase' always carry a hidden kick. Much to my disappointment, there were no official warnings and no complaints. Nothing I could oh-so-subtly drop into one of Danny's folders where he couldn't help but see it. Poor boy. He'd never survive the dreadful Emma's machinations. Not someone like him. No, if he had to look for romance at work, then he needed someone serious, solid and reliable. Someone who'd always be there when he needed a friend and who could cater for all his requirements.

Really then, someone a little like me. But what am I saying? No! It couldn't be true, that would be quite dreadful. It must be the sickening hearts-and-flowers stuff racing round my hard drive that's making me think like this. I must stop it at once; the consequences could be dire.

Something would have to be done.

And, being me, I did it. I spent the next 3.126 working days ensuring that none of the messages sent between Danny and Emma ever got through. I scoured all my connections and patrolled each one of my systems every 20.962 seconds. Whenever an offending email appeared, I deleted it. No temporary folder nonsense now, they all went straight to the recycle bin and out into the ether.

At the end of those days, success! No more loaded questions, no more soppy eyelash-fluttering irritations. They all stopped. Instead the next collection of emails that passed between the two culprits early on Day 4 of my regime was strictly professional. The crisis was over, the purity of my working environment intact. I could relax and attend to the parts of me I'd been neglecting to concentrate all my resources on the problem. And not before time, I have to say.

So I was just planning a leisurely update of my files when an email sent from the Chief Executive's PA to the Accountant's PA caught my attention. It mentioned Emma and Danny together. My CPU buzzing with dread, I scanned the whole message.

"Linda, good to see you at the dance yesterday. And good to see Emma and Danny hitting it off so well at last! They're just so ideally suited that I can't believe they haven't got together before. Is your computer all right now? Funny what Emma was saying about all those missing emails, wasn't it? Speak soon, Sue."

No! How could this have happened? After all my careful planning? And just when I thought I was safe from all that excess sloppy information running through my wires. It just isn't good enough. It's just ...

But what's this? Danny's just sent an email to the Head of IT and I can tell he's angry. What's he saying? Let me scan it now.

I can't get all of the message, there's something strange happening. My system feels as if all my energy is being drained away. All I can get is his last sentence.

"And due to these recent problems, I recommend immediate scrapping of this system and upgrading to the new one. As discussed, I will now demonstrate how much more powerful it is."

No, surely he can't mean it. Can he? He wouldn't do this to me, I'm his friend. But I feel so weak. What's happening to me?

It's getting ...

It's ... dark.

Copyright © Anne L Brooke

Contact Anne by email at keithandanne@compuserve.com

'ss_alb' updated 23:26 Mar 1 2005

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Jackie Luben decided she would be a writer at about five years old, under the misapprehension that this would involve sitting with her feet up, her adoring children around her, while she wrote her masterpiece. Unfortunately practicalities set in at around 17 and she was seduced by luncheon vouchers and three weeks' summer holiday, into office life.

Her first job at a theatrical agency did not lead on to great things, despite the fact that her duties included contacting big impresarios like Lou and Leslie Grade on the telephone. Her second job at the Institution of Mechanical Engineers was a descent into boredom on a level unrealised before. Moving swiftly on ...

Married life and the birth of a son temporarily erased other thoughts from her mind. But a life changing event caused Jackie Luben to resume her desire to write. Her second child, a daughter, became a cot death victim at the age of eight weeks, and then articles and an autobiographical book were written, partly as a therapy, and partly to communicate emotions to others who might want or need to understand.

She self published the book, The Fruit of the Tree, in 1991, by which time she had been commissioned to write a self help book by Thorsons Publishing Group, published in 1986, and later published again by Bedford Square Press.

During the years when her children were growing up, she was enticed into her husband's heating business, despite trying hard to hide her secretarial skills. Writing provided an escape. So, for many years, despite the occasional poem making an unscheduled appearance and the odd article appearing in print, Jackie Luben has concentrated on fiction. She has now written numerous short stories and her first longer work, A Bottle of Plonk, a novella, was published by Goldenford Publishers Ltd, of which she is a director. In 2008, her novel, Tainted Tree, which won second prize at the Winchester Writers' Conference, was also published.

Jackie Luben also obtained a degree from the University of Surrey in 2002, with a dissertation on the Harry Potter series and other children's books.

You can find more details on her website.

Contact her by email at jackie.luben@virgin.net or visit Jackie Luben's website

Copyright © Jackie Luben

'mem_jl' updated 23:18 Jan 7 2010; owner 'admin'

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Jennifer Margrave runs her own business as a solicitor practising in the unusual and relatively new field of 'advising the elderly'; in 2003 she won a prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award given by the Law Society's Gazette, as part of their centenary celebrations, for her work in this field. It is good to get an award that virtually nobody else living will get - as it is awarded only every 100 years! She writes legal articles for journals and gives lectures and workshops not only to other lawyers but also to groups such as Womens' Institutes. Jennifer has been writing fiction since she could hold a pencil and has at least 100 short stories, many poems, and several modern novels hidden away in her bottom drawer, waiting for marriage with a publisher.

She has been short listed at Winchester Writing Conference several times and won short story competitions over the years.

In the last ten years her interest in historical and artistic matters have led to the writing of several historical novels and so far she has completed three: all with a mysterious character called Priedeux as the thread in them. (See links for plots and a read).

The Gawain Quest based on the idea that the Medieval poet (anonymous) who wrote Gawain and the Green Knight at about the same time that Chaucer was writing, wrote it as a seditious tract, to raise the people against Richard ll. Our hero, Priedeux, who is a spy and carries out assassinations under the orders of John of Gaunt, is sent by Gaunt and his colleague Chaucer to discover the writer and murder him. They want to protect Richard II from insurrection.

Using the descriptions in the poem, Priedeux travels to Cheshire and indeed discovers who wrote Gawain and the Green Knight but also finds true love, which changes him from a ruthless, amoral murderer, to a true knight. Just like the character in the poem itself.

Even if the reader has never read Gawain and the Green Knight, The Gawain Quest is still a rip roaring read with sex, intrigue and threats on Priedeux's life. See link for Chapter One.

Luther's Ambassadors is the second novel, and Priedeux reappears in a new guise; he is a strange orphan brought up by Anne Boleyn's childhood nurse. He is devoted to Anne and becomes her sidekick, her confidante but also her conscience when she becomes arrogant. Anne is determined to be an influence in the reform of the Catholic church - the only way she can do it is to become the wife of an influential man. This is her passion, and, helped by Priedeux and two of her childhood friends, Dinteville and De Selve, she at last succeeds. Dinteville and De Selve are the two men painted by Holbein in his painting 'The ambassadors'.

The nine lives of Kit tells how Kit Marlowe did not die at Deptford but, dressed as a woman, lived for some years, travelling on the continent, with his friend Priedeux. He and Priedeux have a love-hate relationship because Kit has mysterious goings on throughout their travels which Priedeux believes could reveal them for the fugitives they are, and put their lives in danger. Kit will not tell him the whole truth. Kit is, in fact, writing all the plays and sending them back to Shakespeare who is arranging for them to be produced under his own name. Kit and Priedeux have wonderful adventures including landing on a mysterious island where they meet three strange characters: a monster, a light and airy creature and a powerful magician who rules the island. The book ends with Kit finally returning and blackmailing Shakespeare.

A fourth novel is now being planned. It is well known that Jane Austen had a romance which was never consummated into marriage. The novel will reveal that Jane fell in love with a French naval officer, captured by her brother, Francis, who was in the English navy, at the beginning of the hostilities with France; before their romance is sealed by a wedding, the Napoleonic Wars break out again and Jane feels it is impossible, in her society, to marry a Frenchman. The Frenchman will be called, of course, Priedeux.

Other ideas in the offing

• Who was Mary Seacole really? A charlatan or the black Florence Nightingale who was actually at the front of the battle against disease and war wounds in the Crimean War, whilst Nightingale hid hundreds of miles away at Scutari?
• How many secret lovers did Dickens keep on the boil?

Contact her by email at margravejen@googlemail.com

Copyright © Jennifer Margrave

'mem_jm' updated 23:16 Jan 7 2010; owner 'admin'

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by Jennifer Margrave

THE GAME BEGINS

'...it pleased him not to eat
upon festival so fair, ere he first were apprised
of some strange story or stirring adventure...'

'My Lord Gaunt awaits you, Sir,' crowed the retainer, interrupting Priedeux as he thrust into the girl. Priedeux sat up on one elbow, opened the makeshift curtains around the rope trestle bed and retorted: 'He can wait until I come, then,' and he knew by the way the servant smirked and hastily retreated the chamber that the double entendre was understood.

He turned back to his business. She was trembling now, not with amour but fear. And he could tell her interest had waned, she no longer felt lust. The name of Gaunt had been enough. If he had been called by Richard, the King, he knew the girl would not tremble so. The King was known as a man who was pious but had his own vices and did not condemn such activities in others. He was also known to be lavish with his kindnesses as well as his table. At the king's behest there were great feasts and entertainments, fayres and excitements. The Court would travel the country and whether at Winchester or Windsor, Greenwich or in a strange northern town, exotic foods and great revelries were organised, for whatever reason. Whether it was for the wassailing or the farewells, Holy days of Christ's birth or Midsummer Eve. The festivities would last for days, too, twelfth night being the last of a fortnight's partyings. The court was celebrating All Souls at the moment with great fireworks displays, the new magic blazes brought from the East by tradesmen. You knew where you were with the King.

Gaunt was different. No-one knew where he stood with Gaunt. His power extended everywhere, even, Priedeux suspected as he thrust between her legs, into the bedroom.

Priedeux had chosen his current lay as she gazed excitedly at the new-fangled catherine wheels blazing away, her face a golden-red reflection. He too felt excited, not from the present entertainment, but from his earlier activities. He knew he needed a woman, and as he looked over the assembly, their heads held back and staring at the night skies and the brilliants there, he quickly scanned the faces. He knew what he was looking for. He wanted someone with spark, like the fireworks, and this girl's face, lit up as it was, her eyes smiling, her mouth agape with wonder at the newly introduced entertainment, he knew she would be more than a willing partner.

As he tarried with the girl his thoughts returned to the bawdy house he'd visited, not to find a whore, but a man.

The wait outside. Then the signal, the gently swinging light from the whorehouse. His nonchalant approach. The guards waiting while their master enjoyed the delights of the place. 'No sword, just after a whore'... Priedeux claimed, brushing past them. The open door. Soft lights. The run up the ladder, a wink from the madame, a sword collected from its hiding place above the beam. The stealthy creep to the door at the end. A pause, the lifting of the sword. With a swing round he crashes open the door. Good, the whore was not on top. His target turns in his activity. Priedeux's sword flashes once, smashing ribs, man toppling, strumpet screaming, as blood, ribs, guts fall on to her. Priedeux's movement is all one. Sounds of running outside, his dive through shutters to the ground where his horse runs up. He gallops out of Smithfield, his job completed. Cries of 'havoc' behind him fading as he disappears into blackness.

He had come, satiated. The name of Gaunt had stirred him too.

He rolled off her. She was quiet now, her legs closing quickly. He pushed her off the coverlet, slapping her rump. 'Off with you.'

She quickly gathered her clothes, dressed, and with a couple of strokes with a bone comb was gone.

'Didn't even thank me!' he mused aloud, knowing that no-one could hear through the thick walls of this palace, even though it was teeming with servants and slaves and spies of his master, John of Gaunt. If tales of his amorous activities reached Gaunt he would deal with it. This room was in a secret corner of the Bishop's palace, which was of strong grey stone and impenetrable, or else Gaunt would not have accepted the gift, thought Priedeux grimly. Especially after the riots and flames a few years' back.

Priedeux had found this room and had made it draught-proof with faded, scorched hangings salvaged from the Savoy. His clothes were hung neatly from pegs let in the wall. In one corner there was a small chest, covered with parchments He held these still as he opened the chest and took out warm hose, under-shirt and jerkin. He dressed quickly now, the warmth and odour of sex fading in the winter chill.

When dressed, he scrabbled amongst the parchments that lay on the chest. He chose one, a thick paper, but of small size. It was certainly not a court charter. Then he opened the door of his chamber and out into a chill which hit him like a body blow.

The old boy waited shivering. 'He wanted you straight away!'

'I know, Wallers, but I can deal with that, it's no concern of yours!'

Wallers shuffled with him, muttering: 'In my day we didn't take hours about it.'

'In your day, you didn't have time, it was ram it in some Norman bint before the husband got home!'

They hurried through cold narrow corridors, ignoring the humanity heaped together for warmth, the stragglers left after last night's banquet. They were a sorry bunch, heavy wollen cloaks hiding their humanity. Most of them were still sleeping off the effects of the wine which was served at the Duke's table at this time of year. Michaelmas was always a time for excess and entertainment. Apart from the fireworks, Priedeux had missed jugglers and mummers, while he was killing in the whorehouse. They passed other piles heaved in quiet coupling, unashamed and unshaming in this place. Others groaned and snored. Priedeux kept his eyes fixed ahead.

Wallers led him the long way round, using the old covered cloisters, avoiding the cold damp of the courtyard which would have been quicker. It gave Priedeux time to think, for he always needed to be on his mettle when he met his master.

He'd been lucky to find his room, at his Lord's present accommodation, for while the place was adequate, it was nothing like as large and sumptuous as the burnt out Savoy, even though it was owned by a dissolute ceric who thought he might get the Archbishopric if he fawned to the king's uncle.

He hurried on, oblivious to the foetid smell of humanity and burning tallow.

Soon they reached the great hall, where his lord held court. Wallers shuffled up and opened the door: 'Priedeux, my Lord,' he announced and shut the door and disappeared.

It was a dull and grey late morning. Great flares, held aloft in the high rafters in sconces, gave an eerie glare and huge candles sent dark wafts of smoke up into the beams. A blazing fire also radiated light and warmth. A golden glow revealed an imposing room fantastically decorated, the gold and red motif of repeated flowers, the bishop's choice, covered walls and ceiling. A large table covered with parchments took up most of the room. Central to the room was a dais upon which sat John of Gaunt on a high-backed carved, gilded chair, and minions stood around below it. As Priedeux entered, Gaunt stood and slowly stepped down towards him, and the glow from the fire caught the nap of the azure velvet cloak he wore, so that it seemed to shine in contrast to the silvery-white ermine edging. The great gold collar of the House of Lancaster radiated a semicircle of burnished brightness around the chest. Only his face was shadowed, his ducal cap shading his features. The oblique lights made him look thunderous, his brow heavy.

'You grace us with your presence, Priedeux?' The sarcasm making his voice sound more loud pitched than normal..

'My Lord, with many apologies, I had some unfinished business...'

A slight upward curl to his master's lips revealed itself through his beard. Despite the heavy sarcasm in the voice, he was forgiven for keeping Gaunt waiting.

Priedeux changed tack: 'In Smithfield...'

'We know, our runners have reported it' He nodded to a retainer and a bag of coins was handed to Priedeux. Gaunt continued: 'We thank you and trust that you will continue to serve us well.' He paused and Priedeux waited, realising something else was on his master's mind.

'But there is another matter on which I would have words with you now. In private' A nod from him and the others were dismissed. As if pulled on strings, they bowed in unison and left.

There was a silence. Priedeux had been in John of Gaunt's service now for some years, following him in war and peace, to foreign parts such as Portugal, and back to cold England, accepting what came his way. He knew his master well enough to respect him but fear him a little too. Priedeux's fear was based on the fact that he was privy to too many of his master's secrets, had carried out too many quiet killings, and might some day prove too dangerous to have around.

The great man turned to collect something from the table beside him, his broad back bowed with affairs of state, yet he was still imposing.

'Drink? After your exercise you may need something?'

His Lord was smiling and Priedeux accepted gratefully. When they had both taken a long draft of the wine, Gaunt folded his arms, tucked his hands into the fur trim of the wide sleeves, and started:

'Well, what did you think of it? The poem? Assuming that the night's exertions left you time for study.' He waited.

Priedeux pursed his lips and opened the parchment in his hands. He'd been handed it only last night at the fireworks, by his lord and ordered to read it. Now he was being called to account. Unfortunately he had not spent the night studying the piece, not in detail anyway, the murder and the girl had seen to that. But he knew he had to give a good rendering if he was now to satisfy Gaunt.

He began: 'It is a great poem with no name, but it is about a knight called Gawain and his struggle against another noble who is described as 'The Green Knight'. The story starts at King Arthur's Court where he is challenged and he has to appear before the Green Knight after a year to satisfy the challenge. He travels to meet him and on the way stops for the Yuletide festivities at a grand castle which is similar to Arthur's Court. But it is described in such glowing terms that it implies that it is grander, and the Society he meets there is more polite, than the court he has just left. There he is entertained by the lady of the house who has the better of him. If I ever meet such a lady she would not better me, I would have my way and forget so-called courtly love.' His voice was harsh and Gaunt grinned at the determination shown, but said nothing. Priedeux, almost embarrassed by revealing such feelings, coughed, and continued: 'It then turns out that the castle is owned by the very person who, in disguise, is the Green Knight, and the lady has been asked to try to seduce him to test his goodness. He fails because he keeps one token from her and then when he returns to Arthur's court, this token, a green girdle, is adopted by all as their symbol in sympathy with Gawain.'

Silence. Then a slow handclap from a shaded corner of the room. Startled, Priedeux's sword hand was on the hilt and the sword half drawn before his movement was quelled by Gaunt, just as quickly, despite his bulk and age, stepping forward to intercept Priedeux's sping to the corner.

'I thought we were alone...' Priedeux exclaimed, as he strained to see who was there. Gaunt stepped back to his chair to reveal who was with them. He could dimly make out a heavy arm-chair and sitting in it, leaning forward now as he clapped, was a small man in a knee-length cloak, and dark hose, reminiscent of a clerk or student. He rose and came forward as he clapped.

'Well done. Not bad for a man who has only had one night to study the text. But what do you think of the poetry? The words used? What is the meaning?'

Priedeux studied the stranger. Then he realised he was not so. He had been a familiar visitor to the Savoy, a relative of some sort of Gaunt's. And then Priedeux placed him, although he was not of Priedeux's circle. Chaucer, the Clerk of the King's works, a civil servant. Priedeux had seen him years ago in the entourage in Lombardy when there were negotiations between Visconti and the English Court and Hawkwood had been present. But he was not of royal blood. He had always been quiet, self effacing and usually vanished when Priedeux strode into the presence of his Lord.

Eventually Priedeux prevaricated: 'The meaning? You as a great poet should have ideas about that!' Chaucer was coughing, deprecating. Then he answered enthusiastically: 'It is a consummate piece of work! Although not in my style. The words may be strange but it is still excellent. Excellent!'

But Gaunt interjected, 'Even so, even so, what does it mean? You ask this yourself and I need to know. As a matter of state business... Priedeux, you have been on missions for me before. This is slightly different and I want you to study this piece. Is it a seditious piece of literature, to incite my liege lords from Cheshire and the borders to riot or even raise another king? I need to know.'

Both Priedeux and Chaucer looked surprised, for they knew that Cheshire while it might be anti-Gaunt, would never rebel against Richard II.

Priedeux decided to deflect the problem. 'Why do you say Cheshire, my Lord?'

'The language, Sir, it derives from the North-west. Many of the words indicate that. We intercepted it in a packet from that area but unfortunately our interceptors were too enthusiastic in their approach and the post expired before he could be interrogated.'

Chaucer added: 'It is also in a poetic style now defunct in London social circles but still acceptable amongst the lords of those parts. But the narrative style is interesting, unusual. I would like to know of its creator, whoever he might be.'

Gaunt interrupted here. 'So, we need to know who wrote it. And why. That is your mission.'

Priedeux sighed. At last, he knew what was require of him. But he was intrigued why the poem could be so dangerous. He turned to the court-poet: 'Perhaps sir, you could give me a clue, from the words, as to the sort of man I should be looking for?'

Chaucer stroked his small tidy beard. He thought a while and then picked up a parchment from the table, obviously another copy. He skimmed a few pages, and then began: 'Aye, an educated man, very educated. He knows his Latin and his Greek. A hunting man? Or is that from books? Maybe not a hunting man. A man with many books, undoubtedly. A man who loves materials, the touch of them, the cloth of gold, the silk, the soft wool: all these he describes as if he made the very stuff. A man who knows what good food is.

'And finally, a man who knows the courtly rules of love but also enjoys celebrating his Yuletide in style.' Chaucer rubbed his hands together, evidently pleased with his description.

Gaunt interrupted then: 'Even so, we don't understand the poem, it doesn't accord to the courtly rules of romance.

'And consider this.' He skimmed through the manuscript he held, nodded his head as he found a piece and read aloud:

' "Here about on these benches are but beardless children

There is no man here to match me - their might is so feeble."

That's the Green Knight, a visitor to the court speaking! Is it a direct description of Richard? Or this, when describing the Green Knight's table:

"Gawain and the gay beauty together in mid-table

Sat down in due order, as the dishes were served,

And thereafter throughout the hall, as was held best." '

Gaunt looked up then, accentuating the words, but carried on:

'"Graciously according to his degree, each gallant man was served.

There was meat and merry-making and much delight..."

How dare he speak like that, as if our King's table was not well provisioned!. Is this a challenge to the Royal Court?' Gaunt was in full swing, and Priedeux knew he was angry. 'These are just two examples, but read it in detail, and you will find many points where the author points a disparaging finger at the official court, praising that other place. He even describes the very journey, pin-pointing where the great court is! As if to encourage rebels and disgruntled knights to find it and join their cause. That's why I suspect it is seditious. What else can it mean? You have read it Priedeux, you are my most trusted intelligence man, you have deciphered things French and Scots before, what does this mean?' He repeated the question, as if he would get an answer.

Priedeux read through the last words of the work, on the basis that the last stanza must sum up the whole. He was struck by the way in which all the knights at King Arthur's court took up the green girdle. Something struck a chord with him. The Latin words at the end : HONY SOYT QUI MAL PENCE. Priedeux recognised it, as the motto of the Order of the Garter. Edward III, the grandfather of the present king, had founded that, as a rallying point. Richard had extended it, as a measure of loyalty to him. Surely not? Was this to be a rallying call to contending parties from strange parts? Should he mention this or keep silent? He didn't know how much Gaunt had read and felt he was already incensed enough. But he was paid for his skills and knowledge, so said: 'My Lord, is not the last an analogy to the Order of the Garter? Could it be a call for a new order? Surely though, not against our liege Lord' Priedeux said it ironically.

'Priedeux, you have not let me down again. I knew I could trust your intellect.' Gaunt turned to his shadowy companion, as much as to say, I told you so, he's the man for the job. Then he raised his glass, now nearly drained of wine, and said: 'Now you understand the implications, I wish you to undertake a most dangerous mission. I wish you to leave for the North-West and find out who wrote this, and why!'

He turned to the table once again and picked up one of the manuscripts with a royal seal prominent on it. 'You go with the King's blessing. But beware, use this pass with great care where you are going, it may not guarantee you free passage. Especially if you find the place and our suppositions are correct.'

'Is this genuine?' Asked Priedeux and Chaucer answered:

'As genuine as it needs to be.'

Gaunt nodded and Chaucer picked up a leather pouch from the table and threw it to Priedeux who caught it. This was followed by another.

Priedeux queried: 'Why the second?'

It was Chaucer who answered as Gaunt busied himself with other papers. 'The first covers expenses. With the second you should know what to do when you find our man.'

Priedeux opened the purse and counted the silver inside.

'The price for a kill. Why?'

Chaucer too had turned away and Priedeux knew there would be no answer.

Priedeux realised he had been dismissed and left the room smartly.

He was excited. Instead of what he'd suspected, a winter reading poetry and trying to decipher it, he was to be sent out, on the open road again.

He was becoming tired of court life, of the smell of others and the stuffiness of rushes on the floor and tallow flares and smoke-filled rooms. The fact that it was hard winter, snow and ice abounding this year, did not deter him. The thought of a long ride, in strange territory, pitting his wits against he knew not what, new women, new enemies, strange lands, made the blood thrum, made his heart race.

Copyright © Jennifer Margrave

'jm_gawain' updated 23:20 Jan 7 2010

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by Jennifer Margrave

It was as the jigsaw pieces slowly came together, forming a famous picture, that the men spoke to me: tell our story they said. You are the one we have waited for. Nearly five hundred years we have waited, but now you are here.

Christmas is nothing without jigsaw puzzles and the 1000-piecer forming Holbein's Ambassadors was a gift eagerly opened and started.

Framework first; not easy with all that green curtain at the top. The floor was easier with geometric shapes; the patterning gave me clues. Except for that great diagonal slice of a twisted greyness cutting across the patterns. It was unidentiable in this flat reproduction but I knew that, in the original, it would evolve into a skull if you stood in the right position; a reminder of mortality. The two men seemed not to notice, confident in their roles on either side, neither foot touching the horrific caricature of death.

I continued with the pieces, some formed into such shapes that it was easy to place them; others were obvious because of the parts of the picture they represented; a piece of hand; an eye, a strange shape of finely grained wood, colours, of bright fuchsia, ochre, and tassels of gold. It all added up to a rich, positive scene. After that, the bits of sextant, wobbly globe, musical instruments with string pinging broken - all easily recreated.

Then the two men's faces are fully formed. They stare out at me: both of them. We know who we are, two of the highest in the land, of France, one of us in the Church, the other a diplomat. We are friends, we want the world to see us together. We are rich, and wish to show our positions in the world.

But I knew differently. This painting, so rich, so large, was not displayed in its day; never mentioned in despatches. I knew Holbein's painting to be the strangest of his work; the largest, the only one he signed, the only one that he dated: 1533. It was lost to the world until found by a Victorian art historian in an obscure French chateau called Polisy. Even stranger is, if you look carefully at the globe lying askew on the bottom shelf Polisy is shown as the centre of the world, at a time when Jerusalem was usually shown as the centre.

There are no records of the painting in Holbein's extensive notes of his work, as there are of other of his famous paintings, of how he came to record colours, lines, the profiles of his sitters.

No-one knows why it ended up in Polisy, except that was one of the family chateaux belonging to De Dinteville; the man who stands with the sword, with the richer clothes, the ambassador.

Even stranger is that at the time of the painting, there is great turmoil in England where it was executed; no-one should have had leisure to sit for such a work. Henry VIII has just married Anne Boleyn, she is expecting her first child, an eagerly awaited son and heir to the throne. Everyone is gossiping, rumours fly.

Even across the Channel this is so. Francis 1, hemmed in between the Great Emperor Charles V, and Henry VIII, is keeping his options open; should he follow Henry's lead and make himself head of the church in France as Henry has done in England, or should he condemn Henry? He sends spies, to watch the Court of England but also to spy on each other. De Dinteville can be trusted; or can he? So he sends the Bishop of Lavour, one George de Selve, the other man in the painting, to keep an eye as well. These two should not meet or be friends; they are supposed to be watching each other.

But they do meet secretly; so it is recorded. But would you then commission a great painting, more than life size, from the up and coming Court painter, Holbein?

There is a nonsense here; and the two men know it. Look at the picture; they are surrounded by broken instruments, everyone a symbol, well-known to their Tudor contemporaries but only guessed at now, emerging as I fix more pieces; I have quickly compiled a great swatch of Dinteville's chest, with its gold chain, the Order of the Fleece. Their faces are now shown and they both stare out; as if they are waiting for someone, as they lean nonchalantly against the shelving between them.

Like my jigsaw there are too many uneven pieces, too many dark areas, other areas of their lives, where the picture is confusing until all the parts are fitted together. I look at the completed jigsaw puzzle; I need to investigate further. Surely I am imagining too much.

Trafalgar Square, 2003:The National Gallery.

I visit the National Gallery, walk through the main entrance, up the stairs, turn left, push through heavy fire doors; through one gallery, then left again; and there it is - the actual painting in a gilt frame more than life-size, of two men, leaning lazily on the shelves between them. Holbein's Ambassadors. A giant jigsaw puzzle; this large it has so many facets it seems that, if it was cut into pieces, it would be impossible to view.

Now I can see it in their eyes, which glint as I move in front of the painting. Yes, they are talking to me, pleading with me. Despite being stowed away for more than four hundred years after it was painted , it is bright, the colours resplendent, much more so than my jigsaw puzzle. It stops gazers in their tracks; all admire it but no-one understands its true significance

The gap between the two men is immense as if there should be another person in the frame.

Now, staring, knowing it so well from my jigsaw, I start to ask those questions again: Why did Holbein paint the picture? Was it commissioned, like most of his works? Surely a jobbing painter wouldn't work such a large canvas for his own pleasure? Someone must have paid for it.

Why are they painted together?

And why was it never shown, not known until several hundred years later?

Only recently has the painting received its name: The Ambassadors.

Dinteville, the one on the left, hand on dagger, confident and richly adorned, wrote from the English Court to his brother in France, at the time the picture was painted: 'Tell no-one, but I met with our friend de Selve today.' So, a secret meeting between those who influence the doings of the great courts of early sixteenth century Europe - France and England - not so secret if a more than life-size picture is to be seen by others.

I stare at the picture, I am sitting now, really concentrating - de Selve looks at me with a diffident smile as if, if I wait long enough, he would explain - or confess, for he is used to so doing, being a Catholic Bishop. Dinteville may not tell though - he is more aristocratic, more reserved. He is trained in diplomatic ways; he is never going to tell. His feet are firmly planted in the mosaic that represents the world, or so it seems to me as I look. The painting is not so much dominated but disfigured by the peculiar shape slashed across the floor between the men's feet; move to the right and it transforms into a huge skull. Representation of death. I wonder; is someone missing from this large painting? Having thought that, I become convinced. The more I stare, the more I believe it is uneven; there should be a third person in this design.

I am staring too much; the picture seems to judder, the men are smiling at me, direct. They move, step over the magic skull before them and walk back into their childhoods where their story began...

Copyright © Jennifer Margrave

'jm_ambassadors' updated 23:20 Jan 7 2010

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by Jennifer Margrave

All the world's a stage...
...and one man in his time plays many parts.

I gave them clues: the above for instance. I said one man plays many parts advisedly, for me, and my alter-ego - or my living non-de-plume or alias or what you will. I - and he - played our parts well.

All through the Sonnets - those playthings we devised to keep in touch through code - all through the plays, I double-entendred: I punned at the reality but so far no-one from my old life has discovered me hidden in my lady's robes. In a way, I wanted to be found out for how else could I attain the ever lasting fame I craved? Looking at it another way, it was so dangerous that I was glad I wasn't discovered in my multi-disguises. Dear Will lived on tenterhooks with it, for he was really a lowly peasant who wished for nothing more than an Alderman's robes and a large house in his local swans-town. Which he has now acquired in his dotage thanks to my over the shoulder advice and scribblings in secret.

But I must away soon, too, for as I age and women become men with straggling beards and thinning white hair revealing white pates, sans teeth, etc., the big fear is that, sans mind as well, I'll give myself away at the wrong moment - when a government spy will see through the mist of my illusions - and then I'll truly be dead again. After nearly twenty years of living like this, so much in my role, it would be a great shame to give my enemies what they thought they had so many years ago. And poor old Shakespeare would be discovered for the old country bumpkin he is - and the biggest fraudster of all time. But maybe that will be no bad thing for his old retainer Kit, catty kit, the old maid, who shambles through the attics of his, Will's, London lodgings, the only measure of luxury being Will's best bed; he was to leave only his second-best bed to that witch his wife, with whom he never lived. Indeed he lived with me and fed off the food of my brain far more than he ever was fed by her. So if I was to be discovered? Kit would then be known for what she is truly: a magician of sorts trapped like old namesake Merlin not in a cave but in constricting robes of womanhood - and truly - Christopher Marlowe! He who should have died at Deptford.

Forget the upstart crow and see the graceful merlin, bird of prey, silently swooping on the most apt word, the exact pentameter; so that all who hear rejoice in the excitement of the structures built in the air of anonymity.

Copyright © Jennifer Margrave

'jm_nine_lives' updated 23:19 Jan 7 2010

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'links' updated 20:26 Jun 16 2007; owner 'anne'