OUTLAW KNIGHT!
What do you get if you cross Richard the Lionheart, the Fourth Crusade and the Empire of Nicaea? My new novel, that’s what - currently titled OUTLAW KNIGHT (BOOK ONE): CRUSADE.
This will follow the adventures of Philip of Cognac, Richard’s bastard son, and his adventures in France, Constantinople and Anatolia. Philip was a real person, but we know so little about him I thought he made an ideal hero for adventure fiction.
The book is still in very early stages, but I will post some excerpts on here, including sample chapters and cover art etc. Below is a draft of the first chapter, in which the Lionheart meets his untimely demise:
Châlus, France, 26 March 1199.
“On!” The king’s voice roared above the din. “Go on! None of us rest tonight until this dog-hole is taken!”
Our infantry pressed forward with the ladders. Meantime the archers and crossbows kept up a steady stream of missiles, forcing the defenders to keep their heads down. Teams of sappers laboured like ants to undermine the curtain wall.
It was already dusk, and the light was fading. My father, Richard the Lionheart, cared little. He would storm this little castle, even if it took all night.
I was just a few paces away from his gigantic figure. He wore no armour, save an iron headpiece, and a large rectangular shield carried before him by two squires. Foolishly, he wore a golden coronet and a red jupon showing the royal pards of England.
Perhaps he wished to tempt the Devil, and present himself as a target. Madness, you might say, but we Angevins are all a little mad.
“Ho!” He jabbed a finger at one of the crossbowmen on the rampart. “Look at this mad bastard with the frying pan - he is aiming at me! Shoot at the king, would you? Try your luck, then!”
His knights laughed. The figure on the wall was a familiar sight. A young sergeant, about the same age as myself, tall and gawky, with a shock of red hair spilling out from under his pot helm.
Come rain or shine, the red-haired lad had manned the ramparts of Châlus and shot his crossbow at us, shielding himself with a massive frying pan. He not only looked ridiculous, but couldn’t shoot to save himself.
Until now. Richard was late in ducking behind his shield, and the bolt struck his left shoulder. He frowned at it, looking more perplexed than hurt...’
