Those who enjoy historical adventure fiction might already be aware that this is the second in the THURSTAN WILDBLOOD SERIES, and the immediate sequel to THE DEVIL’S KNIGHT, and that it is my fourth foray into this genre overall.
More about this upcoming release further down, including a few choice snippets from the first book in the series.
I’d also like to announce today – because I’ve been asked about this a lot – that an Audible version of my ninth Mark Heckenburg crime novel, NO QUARTER, is now in production.
It’s also time to let it slip that a short collection of horror stories of mine, IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT, will be coming out from Black Shuck Books in July. Again, more info about that – jacket art, table of contents etc – will be posted on here as soon as I’ve got it all to hand.
And now …
MEDI-EVIL
I use that sub-header wisely, I think, and not just because it sounds cool, but because my two Thurstan Wildblood novels to date, THE DEVIL’S KNIGHT and THE DARK ARMY, which follow the fortunes of an English knight gone to the bad and form two halves of the almost incalculably difficult quest he undertakes in order to redeem himself, while not what you’d classify as High Fantasy, have plenty to do with devils, demons and the sorts of eerie supernatural influences that medieval man believed were all around him.
Book 2 in the series, THE DARK ARMY, will be published by Canelo on October 8, and is already available for pre-order. To whet your appetites a little more, here’s the blurb we have thus far (though this may change before it appears on the back cover):
To protect a saint, he must become a devil …
Thurstan Wildblood, English crusader knight, does not believe in God. But after a fever-dream encounter with a demonic bishop leaves him seemingly invincible in battle, he begins to wonder.
He is on a quest to deliver Melinda of Jerusalem, believed to be a living saint, back to Canterbury Cathedral in England on the orders of Richard the Lionheart. The road so far has been hard, the men of his company having fallen one by one until only his squire remains.
This unlikely trio must now face a procession of dangers as they seek to cross Europe, including the ruthless Order of Siegfried, sell-swords in the pay of the German Emperor.
Will Thurstan's unnatural prowess see them safely to Canterbury? Or will their safety cost Wildblood his immortal soul?
***
A few additional thoughts on the Thurstan Wildblood series …
I’m well aware that anyone who hasn’t read Book 1, THE DEVIL’S KNGHT, will probably be hesitant to buy Book 2. I’ll say again that they are two halves of a whole, and I don’t think THE DARK ARMY would be quite the reading experience if you weren’t aware what had gone before. Hopefully, though, that will tempt people to buy both books.
Without giving too much more away from this point (though a couple of teensy SPOILERS are necessary, I’m afraid), Thurstan, by this time the king’s favourite knight and commander of his elite Familia Regis, is tasked with returning a young Italian/Egyptian woman, ‘Melinda of Jerusalem’ to England under armed escort. It is believed the woman controls divine powers and can heal mortally wounded men simply by praying over them. Unfortunately, England and Canterbury Cathedral’s gain will be Rome’s loss. So, not only is it the case that Thurstan and his small group of handpicked knights must now fight their way past the terrifying Assassins, one of the most determined and proficient Muslim war-bands in the Middle East, but their own Christian version of that as well: the Knights Templar.
Other enemies, some of them unspeakably evil, also lurk on the long and arduous road ahead. Thurstan’s group have one advantage in that their leader possesses a martial prowess that is second to none. But deep down, Thurstan Wildblood is a knight in torment, certain that he owes his invincibility to a dreamlike encounter he had with a demonic being on the night he executed 2,000 Muslim prisoners.
Did he sell his soul at that moment?
Is he cursed?
More to the point, will safely installing Melinda of Jerusalem at Canterbury save his soul or damn it all the more because in doing so, he’ll be defying Rome, he’ll be defying the Knights Templar, and perhaps, in taking this living ‘saint’ away from the battle-torn lands where she could do only could for the ailing Christian cause, he’ll be defying God.
It’s as much a story about a war of the soul as a war of kings and sultans.
THE DARK ARMY picks up Thurstan’s quest at its midway point, where he and his companions still have unimaginable distances to travel and face all kinds of terrible opponents. But I’ll say no more about it for now. With luck, that’s aroused your interest sufficiently. But just in case you’ve yet to dip into the first book, THE DEVIL’S KNIGHT, here are 25 very brief snippets that I’ve taken from it, which will may encourage you to start at the beginning:
‘When you do the Devil’s work, you take on the Devil’s mantle,’ Thurstan said. ‘At least in the eyes of those you’re doing it to. You hear me, Pandulf? There’s no real Devil here. Men can do terrible things without the Evil One standing at their backs…’
The Templar appraised him coolly...
He was clad entirely in black. Thurstan ripped at the garb, exposing a white tunic underneath tied with a blood-red sash.
‘Assassins!’ Bertrand looked dazed. ‘The Assassins are here!’
Creaks sounded from the passage, made by multiple pairs of feet...
‘You can be certain of only one thing, Pandulf,’ Bertrand said. ‘Thurstan Wildblood will die in battle. At some point. We all of us share that destiny. The best any of us can hope for is to die well…’
‘There’s an old tradition in England… That in the presence of spirits, fire burns with a blue flame.’
Melinda’s eyes roved the mist-shrouded firs. ‘You fear a supernatural foe?’
Again, it seemed that a shapeless something had just withdrawn from sight...
‘Our Muslim servants would tell stories of the djinn, demons of the desert, who would waylay lone travellers. The Muslims would pray to Allah, and he would protect them.’
‘Alas,’ Pandulf replied, ‘I don’t think we enjoy our God’s favour enough for that.’
‘My life is a tale of longswords stained with blood, and burning towns under smoke-black skies,’ Thurstan said.
‘All the more reason for you to persevere,’ Mother Turilda replied.
‘Keep ploughing forward until my chance for redemption comes?’
‘What else?’
‘Templars,’ Pandulf said glumly. ‘They have a willpower that can’t be broken.’
‘Thankfully, the same can’t be said for their bodies,’ Thurstan replied...
‘One must admire Thurstan’s perseverance,’ Melinda said. ‘It’s an impossible task he’s been set. It’s killed all his men already. Yet he struggles on.’
‘He’s safeguarding a saint.’
‘He doesn’t believe that, Pandulf. He doesn’t believe in anything sacred.’
It was so alien to Melinda, this land of rock, ice and shadow. The cold too was relentless. And then there was the eerie stillness. It was easy to remember the age-old tales she’d heard about far-distant Europe, with its ogres, werewolves and witches...
‘Anyone dreams of Bishop Belphagor, I pity them.’
‘You know such a churchman?’ Bertrand asked.
‘Learned about him in our village chapel.’ Mercadier clucked with disapproval. ‘Am I alone in that?’
‘Who is he?’ La Hors said.
‘Who else? The Bishop of Hell.’
When they’d brought Melinda along the passage the first time, she’d been playing dead. With eyes firmly closed, she hadn’t seen through the bars into any of the adjoining cells. Now she did and it was an effort not to scream with horror ...
De Vesqui laughed. ‘You really think we’re doing God’s work? You believe that by committing mortal sin after mortal sin, your souls will be saved? Just because some rodent in a mitre says it will? Don’t any of you understand? We’re already damned!’
Melinda hung back, hands over her face.
‘Just remember,’ Thurstan said, steering her on past the new-made corpse. ‘He was complicit in these horrors.’
‘I know… but it should still be for God to decide.’
‘God’s deciding right now.’
The atmosphere of that terrible feast lingered: the darkness, the decadence and decay, the gluttony all around him, the rankness of the air, the globular and bestial Bishop Belphagor, draped in his blood-red vestments…
‘This is the Holy Land?’ Bertrand said. ‘More like a land of demons.’
‘There’s more in that than you know,’ Bishop Hubert replied. ‘These empty places in the East are filled with evil spirits. Anthony the Great was taunted by the most hateful fiends…’
‘My lord archbishop! Divest yourself of these illusions!’
‘Lord king,’ Bishop Hubert protested. ‘Archbishop Ubaldo is Rome’s agent. He is God’s representative…’
‘And I am God’s Fist!” Richard thundered. ‘And God’s Fist trumps all powers on Earth!’
Bertrand greeted Thurstan with haggard eyes. ‘We should bury them,’ he said.
‘The desert can have them.’
‘Thurstan, these were Christian men.’
‘They chose their own beds, Bertrand. They should have known they’d be lying with ants and scorpions...’
The blood in his veins simmered again, and when he sensed the wall of spears and shields closing from all sides, it turned to brimstone. He felled the first two with a single stroke of his longsword...
He was in a roughened, raddled state, his hair a matted mop, his beard a bush, his features ingrained with dirt. But all these things he could tolerate, and worse, if they could reach their goal: Jerusalem, where their souls would be saved...
‘The city of Gomorrah once stood here,’ Bertrand said.
‘You know such a churchman?’ Bertrand asked.
‘Learned about him in our village chapel.’ Mercadier clucked with disapproval. ‘Am I alone in that?’
‘Who is he?’ La Hors said.
‘Who else? The Bishop of Hell.’
When they’d brought Melinda along the passage the first time, she’d been playing dead. With eyes firmly closed, she hadn’t seen through the bars into any of the adjoining cells. Now she did and it was an effort not to scream with horror ...
Melinda hung back, hands over her face.
‘Just remember,’ Thurstan said, steering her on past the new-made corpse. ‘He was complicit in these horrors.’
‘I know… but it should still be for God to decide.’
‘God’s deciding right now.’
The atmosphere of that terrible feast lingered: the darkness, the decadence and decay, the gluttony all around him, the rankness of the air, the globular and bestial Bishop Belphagor, draped in his blood-red vestments…
‘This is the Holy Land?’ Bertrand said. ‘More like a land of demons.’
‘There’s more in that than you know,’ Bishop Hubert replied. ‘These empty places in the East are filled with evil spirits. Anthony the Great was taunted by the most hateful fiends…’
‘My lord archbishop! Divest yourself of these illusions!’
‘Lord king,’ Bishop Hubert protested. ‘Archbishop Ubaldo is Rome’s agent. He is God’s representative…’
‘And I am God’s Fist!” Richard thundered. ‘And God’s Fist trumps all powers on Earth!’
Bertrand greeted Thurstan with haggard eyes. ‘We should bury them,’ he said.
‘The desert can have them.’
‘Thurstan, these were Christian men.’
‘They chose their own beds, Bertrand. They should have known they’d be lying with ants and scorpions...’
He was in a roughened, raddled state, his hair a matted mop, his beard a bush, his features ingrained with dirt. But all these things he could tolerate, and worse, if they could reach their goal: Jerusalem, where their souls would be saved...
‘The city of Gomorrah once stood here,’ Bertrand said.
They gazed across the empty plain, now scorched and strewn with blistered rocks. Great gusts of hot, black dust swirled over it ...
The nun’s habit was cinched at the waist by a rope of beads, which accentuated her generous bosom and round hips. Uncombed straggles of straw-blonde hair hung down. Her mouth was full and red. She stared at Wildblood with eyes as blue as honed steel...
‘It’s pity you can’t conjure up a real miracle,’ De Verneuil told the girl. ‘Maybe make the sky fall on our enemies’ heads.’
‘Whatever powers I call on, I’d never direct them to do harm,’ Melinda replied.
‘Then in all honesty, what use are you?’
‘Then in all honesty, what use are you?’
Thurstan loosed, hitting his target square in the chest. He didn’t like using the crossbow. It went against all his chivalrous vows. But he needed to remind himself that these were pagans, and pagans must feel the wrath of God any way it came to them...
‘You didn’t really think this fabled Christian brotherhood that brought all these people East was going to last, did you?’ Thurstan replied. ‘We’ve been fighting these Saracens for the last hundred years. But we’ve been fighting each other a lot longer.’
‘You didn’t really think this fabled Christian brotherhood that brought all these people East was going to last, did you?’ Thurstan replied. ‘We’ve been fighting these Saracens for the last hundred years. But we’ve been fighting each other a lot longer.’
Obviously, this lower section of the column is illustrated with original medieval depictions of knights in battle. I have no idea who the original artists were or who might have done work on them since. I simply found them floating around online. They were in NO WAY created to portray or endorse the two novels under discussion in this post. However, if anyone has a reasonable objection to their use in this context, I will happily take them down, or alternatively, will give credit to the artists where it is due.
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