Hic ! "A,B&E", "Not In My Name" and "52FF" (flash fiction anthology) all available on Amazon Kindle

"How a psychopath makes sweet love. I can get you ringside. Royal box even."

Silas sat there scratching his chin now, thoroughly bemused. His trap had caught something, he'd heard the commotion - then when he got there, nothing could be seen.

'Bait intact,' he muttered to himself, eyebrows raising, 'trap still open...but no beastie.' He shook his head. 'I mun stop drinking that gin - it's making me see things!'

He staggered off and left the trap to it's own devices. 'Bugger it, I think I'll have another gin after all.' Work as if you live in the early days of a better nation - Alasdair Gray

Threaded, ply...it's all good as ling as it's with gin - just got bitten by a rat. Hi ho... Work as if you live in the early days of a better nation - Alasdair Gray

Sir Lance de Boyle espied his noble Lady Ped de Stall and immediately dropped to one knee afore her in hommage. I say immediately, but his stiff joint was playing up again in the damp air. Compounded by further stiffness in his armoured hinge, which clearly his squire had been remiss in keeping in good order. In fact he squeaked with the whole exertion and his Lady wrinkled her nose in displeasure.

Fortunately for Sir L, this entailed her taking out her finespun linen kerchief as she dabbed genteelly at the very tip of her refined but affronted nostrils. The holy grail of courtly love, to obtain a token of your lady's chaste affections. For her to pledge her pure troth with an amulet embodying her essence. But Lady P was sure of delicate hand and neglected to have it flutter groundwards for Sir L to scoop up in his gauntlet. Which was just as well, for his elbow was also afflicting him most grievously.

I shall just have to catch her eye in tomorrow's tourney he mused inside his helmet. It was either that or compose some more verses to accompany his strung catgut. Since his visor was down, his words redounded on him off the sheer metal and he was subject to the carious aroma of his own rotten teeth. The Lady turned on her dainty heel and took her graceful leave. A fine lavender and civet scent, wafted in her wake. But it could not penetrate the impermeable metal plane of his helmet, so he was left to battle his own stench. His squire had counselled him to forego a few more silver ducats in order to commission a vented visor from the king's own smith. But he had adhered a flea in his ear to go with the full circus he had there already and studiously ignored his advice. It was the sole thing Sir L could ever have been accused of doing studiously. That's why his verses were more jellied than the strung catgut.

After the horse winch was manoeuvred through the casement in order to raise him back up from his humbled knee, Sir L returned to his chamber. Once the cinque homme team of divestors peeled him out of his armour, he retired abed. Where he was stabbed and picked at, not by nocent dreams of the combats awaiting him in the morn, but of yet different trials. Essaying to conjure different images of his beloved, in her in her bed of night, just three stone walls west of his. But nothing came to his mind. Somewhere beyond the castle walls, a cat started up its wauling. At least I shall have me some new strings to play for the morrow he thought. He rose from his sheets and reached out for his crossbow ... "A,B&E", "Not In My Name" and "52FF" (flash fiction anthology) all available on Amazon Kindle

"How a psychopath makes sweet love. I can get you ringside. Royal box even."

Well done Sir Lance de Boyle, you took the gauntlet across your chiseled chin with most knightly courage and have redeemed yourself and earned your silver spurs.
Poor pussy catthey always get the butt end of someones temper, and the ladies favour is still as elusive as the review