TODAY, WE ARE DELIGHTED TO WELCOME BACK OUR GUEST AUTHOR, ALEX MARCHANT, WHO IS SHARING TWO ACTS FROM ONE OF HER SHORT STORIES 'MILADY' FROM HER BOOK, 'WATCHERS' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
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‘Watchers and Other Stories’ by Alex Marchant
A collection of new and previously published short stories
Does the ghost of King Richard III roam the moors above Middleham Castle?
What befell Francis Lovell at the Battle of Stoke?
What if Juliet survived after Romeo’s death?
Who is the real Milady de Winter?
What will Drew discover inside the Tower of Shadows?
And will a ‘son of Clarence’ help his cousin win the throne of England?
All these questions and more may – or may not – be answered in this collection of new and previously
published stories by Alex Marchant.
Watchers and Other Stories showcases Alex’s ‘masterful’ writing enjoyed by both children and adults
– from The Order of the White Boar series, acclaimed by the Richard III Society as No. 11 in its ‘Top
50 Ricardian novels’, to standalone books for younger readers, Time out of Time and Tower of
Shadows, and a variety of short fiction.
The new stories include a piece of Ricardian flash fiction and an extract from The False Prince, the
forthcoming fifth book in The Order of the White Boar series.
Milady – in Three Acts
Much of my writing has been about King Richard III and his times, but not all. The following short story (along
with its companion piece ‘The Three-Hours Wife’) was prompted by a call for submissions to an anthology
entitled ‘Anna Karenina Isn’t Dead’, based on the notion that the fates of many women in literature are unfairly
pre-ordained by men. Both imagine alternative outcomes for women who otherwise died because of men as their
male authors intended – and in the case of femme fatale Milady de Winter from The Three Musketeers, at last
now has the chance to tell her own story, rather than have it told solely by the men in her life, each with his own
agenda. A very different tale from that penned by Dumas emerges when those far-from-impartial men’s versions
are reinterpreted. ‘Milady – in Three Acts’ is told from the points of view of three characters from Dumas’
classic book, starting with Milady de Winter herself…
Act I
He recoils, shock scrawled across his face. His dark eyes stretch wide.
A moment ago his hand was sliding the white silk from my shoulder. I had shivered at the warm touch.
Too late I remembered. Too late I snatch at the fabric of my shift, try to slip it back across my skin. But he stops me, clutching my fingers.
I see it reflected in his eyes as he stares at it. As though it is burned in them as it was burned upon my flesh. The faint fleur-de-lis. Brown etched on a pale ground. Once livid, scorched, searing under the branding iron.
‘Milady?’ He stammers, bewildered. ‘That is—’
‘The mark of a common criminal,’ I spit back. ‘Yes, I am aware.’
The silk rustles as I at last retrieve it, drag it back over my shame.
‘But—’ He hesitates again. ‘You—? I—’
I twist away, slide from the couch, swing a robe about me. Stalk towards the table on which the remains of our meal are scattered.
I dare not look back at him. I know what is upon his face. I have seen that look before.
‘Yes. Now you know what I am. Or what I was. It was a long time ago, D’Artagnan. I was a different person then.’
He is silent. I do not hear him move. I stand still myself, hand resting close to the pommel of his rapier, abandoned on the table when he entered the room.
His silence unnerves me. This is not what I expect. It is so very different from before.
I curse my mistake. To allow him here this evening. It was not my intention. Yet he arrived so suddenly, demanded entrance so fervently. And, in my anger at Monsieur de Wardes – at his betrayal of me, at his dismissive letter after I declared my love for him – I let him in. Seeking to use him somehow in my vengeance. I was not thinking clearly. I should not have let my guard down. I did not prepare.
I can see it now. On my dressing table. Among the litter of perfume bottles, brushes, jewellery caskets. The tiny pot that is so often my saviour. The salve I apply to hide the brand. To conceal also the scars about my neck if the ribbon at my throat should slip. The apothecary in London vouchsafed me the recipe, and a trusted woman in Paris makes it up for me whenever I require.
But my hand now creeps not towards it. It closes upon the rapier’s hilt.
‘Milady.’ His voice, softer now, breaks into my thoughts. ‘Milady de Winter. Tell me all. You say it happened long ago. Yet you are only young now. Tell me.’
My fingers uncurl. I turn towards him. He rests, still, upon the couch, propped up on one elbow. His eyes bright with curiosity. No accusation flames there. So unlike that time before …When – out hunting with my husband – my horse shied and I tumbled hard to the ground.
Winded, unable to draw breath. When my husband – all action, all concern – leapt down from his mount and with his dagger slit open my riding habit, cut through the suffocating bodice to let my breath return.
As I heaved air deep within me, he started back. As D’Artagnan did tonight. And terror gripped me.
He had seen.
What would he do?
Shock gave way to fury, his mouth working as he tried to speak. Then a blank hardness descended. Grasping my wrist, hauling me to my feet, refusing to listen to my protests – my explanations – he ripped my habit fully from me and dragged me to the nearest tree. There he lashed my hands behind me, cast a noose about my neck. The rope rasped as I struggled.
My fingers inch now towards the ribbon about my throat. The satin is soft under their touch.
The skin beneath…
‘You truly wish to know, D’Artagnan?’
This rough Gascon, this farm boy. This raw young musketeer who tried to deceive me with words of love. Will he listen now to what I have to say?
‘No man has ever asked about my life before. Why should you be different?’
‘Try me, Milady,’ he urges, with his fresh-faced gallantry. ‘I am not like all the rest.’
‘No, indeed. I see that.’ My lip curls. ‘No other man has come to me in the dark, pretending to be my lover. No other man has forged letters to me. No other man has been so rash.’
To his credit, he casts his eyes down under my chastisement.
‘But, Milady, it was all through love of you. Try me.’
Perhaps I will, I think. Perhaps I will. What harm can it do? If he believes me, word of what he has seen and heard will go no further. If not …
His rapier lies still upon the table behind me.
Act II
I owe her this. After the tricks I have played upon her. Pretending to be another man, speaking words of love to her in the guise of the Comte de Wardes, writing letters to her from him seeking assignations – then, as him, spurning her love. No man of honour would have done all that. And, above all, I wish to be an honourable man. Yet my passion swept that away, in the heat of the moment. Or moments – for there have been many over recent days.
What power does she wield over me? Power that has even made me forget – almost – my beloved. The reason I came to Milady in the first place. To discover what has happened to my mistress, Constance Bonacieux, missing these many days. Has Milady a hand in her disappearance?
No matter now. I must listen to her tale. Honour – such as I have left – demands it.
I remain upon her couch, reclining against the gold-embroidered cushions, awaiting her words.
Still she stands. Beneath the hem of her shift, her feet are bare and white upon the richly woven carpet. Her face too glimmers pale, haunted. Framing it are golden ringlets, touched to flame by the flickering firelight. Only her eyes, luminous blue, are animated.
I am aware, always, that my sword is beyond my reach – there, upon the table, where I cast it is I greeted her. I trust I shall not regret my action.
Then she speaks….
Watchers and Other Stories can be found on Amazon via https://mybook.to/watchersandothers
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Author bio:
Born and raised in the rolling Surrey downs, and following stints as in archaeology and publishing in London, Stirling and Gloucester, I now live and write surrounded by moors in King Richard III’s northern heartland.
My first novel, Time out of Time (pub. 2021) won the 2012 Chapter One Children’s Book Award and my second (now published as Tower of Shadows) was put to one side in 2013 when the rediscovery of King Richard’s grave in a car park in Leicester was announced. A Ricardian since my teens, it prompted me at last to write a novel about the real Richard III for older children. So The Order of the White Boar and its sequels, The King’s Man, King in Waiting and Sons of York, were born. Together the four books explore the life and legacy of the real King Richard III, not the fictionalized villain of Shakespeare's play and 'raditional&' history. They have been called "A wonderful work of historical fiction for both children and adults" and were recently voted 11th in the Top 50 Ricardian novels by the Richard III Society.
I've also edited three anthologies of short fiction by authors also inspired by King Richard: Grant Me the Carving of My Name, Right Trusty and Well Beloved... and A Spirited and Most Courageous Prince, all sold in support of the Scoliosis Support and Research charity, helping people today who have the same spinal condition as King Richard. I’m currently working on the fifth book in the White Boar series, The False Prince, an excerpt from which can be found in Watchers and Other Stories.
Social media links:
LinkTree: https://linktr.ee/alexmarchantauthor
Twitter: @AlexMarchant84
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COMING SOON: On Sunday 20th September, we are thrilled to welcome back our guest author, Dee Stewart, who will be sharing an excerpt from her novel, 'Loving Emily'.
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