*I've collected all my Elizabethan Era short stories into a short book called The Private Wound. The title story is an alternate history with Queen Elizabeth. The book also contains two mysteries and (I'm sorry!) a vampire story. About half of the stories are unpublished. One way or another, it is rather Marlowe Infested. If you like these stories, consider taking a look at my book No Will But His, the story of Kathryn Howard. sarahahoyt.com/nwbh-excerpt.html*
The ebook is available in various formats here: http://cornerbooth.sarahahoyt.com/bluepl
Feel free to download, pass the links around and/or mug innocent passerbyes and make them read.
This is an excerpt from The Private Wound:
Elizabeth was the last one to leave the choir, at the end of the line of grey sisters of the tertiary order of Saint Francis.
A thin young woman, her pale face looked out of the dark headdress, its perfect features seeming rather to belong to an ancient idol lovingly carved in ivory.
She lingered and dawdled, at the end of the line.
If pressed she might confess that she wanted nothing more than a respite from the company of the other nuns, like her cloistered prisoners of this inglorious convent. A respite from company and a moment alone..............
And from Juggling, another short story in the collection:
"Be it a crime, then? To be a juggler?" the young man in the fine lawn collar asked. His fashionable black velvet doublet -- close fitting, winged at the shoulders, tapering at the waist slashed through to show taffeta in a bright flame-color like a harlot’s stockings -- couldn’t have looked more out of place in this tavern, filled with rough-dealing men and the lowest grade of itinerant laborer that England had to offer during the reign of Good Queen Bess.
He seemed unaware of, or untroubled by the crowd that surrounded him, though they were out of their seats, their mugs of beer abandoned, their mouths distorted in menace, their hair matted, their clothes dirty and ragged, their hands big and calloused and half-tightened in menace.
Kit Marlowe knew well enough that had this crowd not had sport enough on their hands for this evening, they would have turned on him with like fury, because he was different, with his fine clothes, his scholarly manner, the courtly affectation of his gestures. Nor could he tell what drove him to this class of tavern, where cutpurses and their molls, beggars and their doxies gathered. Except maybe that very danger that they would turn on him. Except the pulse-pounding excitement of traipsing into the forbidden and walking into the yawning maw of fear.
Kit, you are an idiot, he told himself...
- Current Location:Lost in my own mind, yet again