Lionheart Update

 

Remember this teaser? 🦁 One of my favorites.

Remember when I thought I could have Lionheart out by December of 2020? 😭

Been really itching to work on Sons of Rome lately, but have lacked the time to dedicate to it. I’ve had several questions about it across multiple platforms, and I wish I had a release date. But! The series is most definitely not done with. I have *several* more installments planned. There was a period of time, right after Golden Eagle released, when I was furiously working on Lion, that I began to panic a little; I thought, in order to maintain reader interest in the series, I’d have to fast track the rest of the books, cutting some of the slower storylines along the way, reducing flashbacks in favor of a quicker-driving plot. But that’s not what this series IS. This is my passion project, a creative dream that’s haunted me since high school, and it NEEDS to unspool slowly, richly, indulgently. I knew that if I caved, if I narrowed and winnowed and cut back, the final end product result of the complete series would be but a ghost of the series I’d set out to write. With this series, I’m not aiming for mass appeal; not trying to “tighten” it into more manageable chunks for the skimmers, scanners, or GR keyboard warriors. It’s a slow burn by design. It took Nikita more than 2k pages to confess his love. We haven’t BEGUN to see what the mages can do. Newly-immortal characters like Adela and Mia are OF COURSE not as fascinating as Val and Vlad; give them time, don’t expect them to be as interesting as a centuries-old vampire at first blush. We’ve still got kings and gods to meet, after all. Lionheart will be even more challenging to write than Dragon Slayer. Do I really want to shift from modern day Bucharest, to the siege of Acre, to the reimagined legend of Robin Hood? To tie it to Rus’, and a Norse god, and meet a mage who broke bread with Julius Caesar in a Gallic campaign tent? Yes, I really do. The scope of this series as a whole is tremendous; y’all ain’t ready.

So I’ve taken some time to tackle more manageable projects since GE’s release, but trust that our immortals are always on my mind. I can’t wait to return to them soon. With a little luck, and a lot of puppy cooperation, I’m hoping to have the NY pack-centric novella, The Winter Palace, out before the end of the year 🤞🏻

This was yesterday's Instagram photo and caption, and I wanted to expand upon it a little, if I may, and offer a glimpse into our illustrious, titular king. 

It's like I said on Insta: everything about the way I've written this series is purposeful. It isn't that I don't know that I could shorten, tighten, or hold back - it's that the story would be lesser for it. The beauty of being indie is that I don't have to adhere to more rigorous publishing industry standards, which are upheld simply for the sake of making as much money with as little effort as possible, and not because the publishing houses are shining beacons of Quality Literature. Incomprehensible grammar, juvenile and repetitive sentence structure, baffling misunderstanding of the Trojan War and the origin of the Trojan Horse - not an obstacle for the teams of authors, ghost writers, and editors at the big five so long as they can make a buck.

Let me stop here before I digress. 

But, safe to say, I'm well aware that a trad pub version of this series would be pared down severely. That isn't the series I've set out to tell. I could tell you, "So here's Robin Hood and his Merry Men, and here's Richard the First, who was an heirless king who once demanded his feverish, bedridden, ultimate fuckboi self be carried onto the field at Acre on a litter so that he could fire his crossbow at the enemy." And that would paint a picture, yes. But the fun of playing with immortal characters is watching their wealth of experience fuel their decisions and actions, and that experience is more impactful on the story if the audience lives it alongside the characters. Hence the extended flashbacks. For me, the flashbacks aren't simply backstory: they are the story, a part of it just as important as what's happening in the modern day. This is a series meant to be read for the enjoyment of the angst, and trauma, and love, and all the character growth. It is not a "get to the point" sort of read. 

Think of it this way: a book from a major publishing house is like a meal from a big, brightly-lit chain restaurant. The meal is probably good, and the service excellent, and a good time is had by all. 

An indie book is that little out of the way, mom and pop restaurant tucked around the corner; the best kept secret in the city. The Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives feature of the literary world. It's not for everyone, but I'm going to take my time and deliver all that I can for those who are looking for this exact brand of literary indulgence. 

Like I said on Insta, it's my sincere hope to have The Winter Palace out before the end of the year. What is it about the holiday season that makes me crave the epic and fantastical? (It's LOTR dropping for three Christmases in a row when I was in high school. That's the magic I'm still chasing.)

The scene below is from the prologue of Lionheart, which is still most definitely coming, along with the rest of the series. I want to note that, according to historical records, Richard I's favorite swear was "God's legs." That cracks me up.

🦁🦁🦁

The duke’s tent was of finer canvas than those around it, as to be expected, its tasseled fringe flaring and waving in the breeze. The banners snapped overhead, so the lions passant seemed to leap. They dismounted a dozen paces from its half-pinned-back entrance flap, and the commotion coming from inside would have been audible to human ears.

Rob passed his reins to John, who looked at him with a cocked brow. “They are a hot-blooded lot, this family,” Rob said, with a smile he hoped to be encouraging.

John snorted.

From the tent’s depths, a rapid-fire argument was unfolding in Occitan French.

“…but, your grace, if I may–”

“Are you fucking deaf? You may not do anything! I already told you to get him out of my sight!”

“But the bishop–”

“The bishop is a liar and a fraud like every clergyman! And if I have to look at him one second longer–”

Rob heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn.

Followed by shouts of alarm, and a scuffle.

A moment later, a figure came tumbling out of the tent opening: a fatherly-type in modest, dark traveling robes. He landed hard on his side and rolled, the large, silver cross around his neck flashing as he turned end over end and finally landed splayed-out across the roadway, his face contorted with shock and pain.

A second man backed hastily out of the tent, stumbling and nearly falling, hands held up in supplication.

He was pursued out by a third man, and Rob knew who he must be immediately.

The Duke of Aquitaine was a tall, lean, long-limbed youth with a face made for coins and a head of coppery corkscrew curls. Pale eyes blazing, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his throat leaped, he strode out of the tent with all the aggression and swagger of his family’s animal emblem. A young lion in truth.

Rob found himself grinning, even as he watched the duke brandish his naked sword and herd the stumbling man back, back, back, until he tripped on the poor bishop and landed hard in the dirt on his backside.

The duke stepped forward, then pressed in with the tip of his sword until its point just skimmed the man’s trembling Adam’s apple. In a low growl, he said, “When I say that I don’t want a fucking bishop in my tent, I fucking mean it. Am I understood?”

“Y-y-yes, your grace. Understood.”

Richard held his pose a moment longer, then turned away with a disgusted sneer.

The man scrambled to his feet and hauled the bishop to his; limping, they hurried away.

When Rob glanced back toward the duke, he found himself the subject of sharp, blue-eyed scrutiny.

“God’s legs, more? Who are you? If you’ve brought me another sniveling churchman–”

Rob swept into a quick, correct brow, doffing his cap. When he straightened, face schooled to good-humored pleasantness, he said, “No, no, your grace, nothing like that. My name’s Robin, and I’ve come to join your mercenary band if you’ll have me. I’ve brought two good fighters, a medical man, and a squire to serve you.”

Richard’s gaze narrowed. He glanced over Rob’s shoulder toward the rest of his men. Thank God Tuck didn’t go around in brown friar’s robes anymore. When he met Rob’s gaze again, he cocked his head, and said, “My sentries let you through?”

“Not to brag, your grace, but I think my bow skill impressed them.”

Richard’s nostrils flared, an involuntary snort of amusement. “You think highly of yourself.”

“Doesn’t every good soldier? A fine duke should only have the finest of men serving under him, and we’ve come all the way to Aquitaine to serve under the greatest warrior of our age.”

“Now that’s flattery.”

“Do you not enjoy it?”

Slowly, the duke grinned. He had good teeth, and the sort of smile that maidens wrote love letters about. “Where are you from, Robin the bowman?”

“From Locksley, your grace, in Nottinghamshire.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Most haven’t. And it can’t hold a candle to your lands here, to be sure.”

Richard lifted his sword again to point with it, but it didn’t seem a threatening gesture, this time. “There is such a thing as too much flattery, Robin of Locksley.”

“Noted, your grace.”

A moment of consideration passed. His gaze traversed the others again, lingering a moment – on Will or on Much, Rob didn’t know, but hoped it was the former.

Then Richard nodded. “Welcome, then. I hope you’re as good at killing as you are at talking.”

“No worries on that front, your grace. Just point us in the right direction.”