and here is a short excerpt from On The Account, the fifth Sea Witch Voyage - set in this very spot:
(note excerpt is unedited)
Chapter One
Exmoor March 1719
An hour after dusk had settled into the darkness of night, Tiola
fed another stick into her meagre fire. The wood was damp and it gave off more
smoke than heat, but it was better than nothing up here on the windswept
openness of Exmoor’s exposed coast. She was sheltered in the hollow behind the
magnificent tor of rocks that separated the valley from the sea, three hundred
feet below, a place steeped in myth, legend, and mystery. There was nothing
left, now, of the wooden and stone circles, or the monument standing stones
erected by the people who had lived here long ago in the shadows of Holden
Hill. It was said that the devil had resided here in a castle of rock with his
many wives, but angered at their infidelity he had blasted the eyrie to pieces.
All that remained were the bare, jagged bones, the skeleton rocks piled stone
upon stone. Nothing but a story, an old tale to explain the strangeness of a
natural formation - the devil did not exist, but Tiola was aware that something
was lurking out there in the darkness, watching her.
The stick flared into flame and the
light caught the glint of an eye a few yards off. Tucking a loose strand of her
black hair behind her ear, Tiola calmly added more wood to the fire and smiled
to herself. This was the Valley of Rocks known also for the herds of feral
goats that thrived on the coarse sea-salt grass. A huffed snort and a stream of
misted breath evaporated into the cold air. A pony then, not a goat; one of the
distinctive two-thousand year old Exmoor breed with their shaggy coats and
light-coloured muzzles. Had she borrowed such a pony from the stables at
Tawford Barton she would be at her destination by now, but her mission was secret
and she wanted to know who had been following her these past seven days. Had
she asked for a mount they would have insisted on a servant to accompany her –
for young ladies were not supposed to wander the lonely moors on their own, but
then, her strange shadow would not reveal himself.
The pony moved away, uncomfortable at
the smell of fire; she heard his hard little hooves clatter on some rocks, then
the sound of him cantering away, the drumming thudding as if the very ground
was hollow.
She fed the flames with yet another
stick. “You are welcome to share my warmth and light,” she said as she moved
her hand slightly in a figure of eight motion and the sulky fire leapt into
vigorous life.
A shape approached from the opposite
direction to where the pony had disappeared. Tall, lean and lithe of figure, he
was dressed immaculately in knee-high leather boots and black breeches; a
sumptuous green-velvet longcoat and an exquisitely embroidered waistcoat covered
a linen shirt with the froth of a French Lace cravat beneath his chin. At his
left hip, a rapier scabbard delicately engraved and inlaid with silver and
lapis-lazuli enamel: a gentleman’s slender weapon sheathed inside. Over it all,
a hooded, ankle-length sable-lined cloak fastened across his chest with a gold
chain looped to two diamond-encrusted clasps that glistened in the star-light -
an elegant man, his fastidious apparel incongruous out here on the open moors.
He pressed his slender-fingered, manicured
hands together as if in prayer and bowed, his bright, sapphire-blue eyes gazing
at her from beneath lustrous, raven’s-wing black hair.
“Namaste,
señora preciosa.”
She returned the greeting, but did not
rise from her seated position on the damp grass. “Namaste. Well met, Mahadun of the Night-Walkers. Are you alone, or
does a companion accompany you?”
Mahadun bowed again, smiled. “I am
alone.”
Tiola was certain this was untrue, but
the Night-Walkers did not lie. Mahadun, however, was adept at skilfully
circumnavigating the truth. He had answered correctly, no Night-Walker
accompanied him, but she could sense a second presence lingering out there
somewhere in the darkness. Was Mahadun unaware that he, in turn, was being
followed? Unlikely, for the Night-Walkers’ senses, as with her own, were highly
sensitive. His answer had been literal; perhaps she should re-phrase the
question to be as precise? Leaving the matter for now she said instead, “I
would know why you have followed me so closely these last seven days. What is
it you want?”
Smiling, showing perfect white teeth,
he indicated the fire seeking permission to sit.
When Tiola nodded, he sank elegantly down
to sit cross-legged opposite her. “Am I not old friends with Tiola of the White
Craft? Do I need a reason to be in her company?”
