Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I was born May 19th, 1737 to Elise and Marc de Ashencourt in the countryside not far from Paris. In a town that is now called Les Andelys, France. The countryside was, and still is, beautiful. 

Rolling with hills full of trees, the town at the base of them and lining the river Seine’s sharp arc, fields sprawling out on the other side of it. Our large estate was built upon the tallest hill overlooking the river that ran at the bottom of the small town. 

The building was grand; a typical eighteenth century French Chateau, long in stature with a simple front and cream in color. The staircase leading to the door yawned widely, branching out in a half-moon beneath the double story building. The shutters were always open to let in the morning sun that it faced. The stables in the back were always full of life and, besides the rooftop, is where I spent most of my free time when I would get some. I would find myself reading great works of the time on the haystack while my two hunting dogs lay at the foot. It was beautiful; simple yet extravagant. 

What is left of it still stands today, though it crumbles beneath the brutal jaws of time and nature. I’ve been back a few times since I ran away from France after the Revolutionary War began. I ran in fear of being called upon given my father’s history as a chevalier when the titles were still prominent. Before they were stripped. I’ve had passing thoughts of getting the mansion restored to its former glory, but something has stilled my hands. 

Perhaps I will give you the reins on this; perhaps I can’t do it alone. Whatever the case may be, I know my heart aches for it to be returned to its former glory. 

***

You have told me once before that I stood with my hands clasped behind my back and held them in front of me when I was unsure of myself. I will start with me standing like this, hands behind my back, as I watch the class of children my early age of nine make movements of anxiety next to me. We all wore our own wooden swords strapped to our hips, hanging languidly as we waited for our teacher, Monsieur Lebeau, to finish showing us the stances we were going to be learning. I watched with feigned interest, already knowing them. My father was a Chevalier of the Crown and he was already working with me on this and more. 

I kept my respect, though, being patient and not getting angry at the slowness of the class. A child next to me sighed and I looked over, seeing a boy with longer hair like mine but a dark chocolate brown compared to my more auburn curls that dusted the tops of my shoulders. It was straighter and he had it tied back low on the base of his head with a white ribbon. He was tapping his foot impatiently, his fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword he wore on his right side. 

“You’re left handed!” I said with surprise, unable to stop the words from leaving my lips. I blushed in embarrassment as he looked at me, his dark brown eyes meeting mine. 

He gave me a devilish grin and said, “I am.” He held his hand out to me and introduced himself, “Pierre des Collines. Nice to meet you.”

I grasped his hand, my own smile meeting his, though more subdued, “Clarke de Ashencourt.” 

His eyes widened and his lips fell apart, finally seeing the long, fire red curls that draped over my shoulders and honey eyes. “No way!” he whispered in disbelief.

I grew shy, not liking the kind of attention he gave me. “Yeah.” Most children would be ecstatic at the excitement that was drawn forth from the mere mention of their own name but I wasn’t most children. I hated being in the middle; I preferred watching from a distance. I didn’t much like to be bothered upon by the servants who dressed me and fixed my attire before leaving the estate. I always tried to escape their notice but, somehow, they alway found me, dragging me back to my room. This felt too similar. 

Pierre started to say something when our instructor piped up, “Monsieur des Collines, de Ashencourt, pay attention.”

“Yes, Monsieur Lebeau,” we said at the same time. We looked at one another out of the corner of our eyes and Pierre gave a repressed smile that I returned. 

After this interaction, Pierre and I sought one another out, enjoying each other’s company.  Our skills matched one another’s and we oftentimes found ourselves sparring one another in the fields that surrounded our homes. We paired together during sparring and we quickly overtook the class we were in.

By the time we were twelve, we had been skipped up to a class two levels from where we were placed originally and I had found my interest in swordsmanship lacking something. 

“What’s troubling you, Clarke?” Pierre asked me as I sank my metal blade into the grass, voicelessly quitting. He let his own blade tip lower towards the grass as he watched me. I looked over at the river that sparkled beneath the sun, boats going to and from the harbor. The river Seine lay between the field and the town in which we resided.

“I don’t like the idea of actually pointing my sword towards someone I intend to hurt,” I answered. I knew the reason why my father was so insistent on my participation in these classes and I didn’t like it. I obeyed anyway and attended but I soon found myself lacking the motivation to care the longer this went on. I wanted to listen to music and read and dance. I wanted to bring joy; not death.

Father was highly regarded among his ranks. He more often than not was gone from home, away to the Palace of Versailles, giving advice on war plans. With tensions rising, there was a war being predicted in the near future and it gripped my heart in anxiety. He wanted me to tread in his footsteps and I didn’t want to. I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle it. 

“Don’t think of it as what your father wants.” Pierre sheathed his blade and sat on the ground, looking in the direction of the river as well. As if he could read my mind, he said, “Think of it as dancing. That’s mainly what it is, anyway, with all the foot movements we are made to do.” He chuckled and I sat down next to him, my arms propped on my knees. 

I couldn’t think of a response so I said nothing. 

“Alright,” my friend rose and extended his hand. “Let me show you. You clearly don’t know how to dance.” Pierre laughed lightly.

Curious, I took his hand and he pulled me up. It was true, I didn’t know how to dance despite my yearning to learn. I never asked; my family always pushing me to learn history and politics made me doubt if they would approve of the request. I watched Pierre as he went through a series of footsteps I quickly recognised. He stopped and beckoned me closer. 

“Just follow my lead,” he said and we went off, stepping back and forth, spinning as if we were sparring but never once touching our swords. I found myself laughing and moving faster, my feet moving over one another swiftly as I danced to a melody I had heard recently. Pierre cheered me on, clapping as I kept going. 

The desire for the arts settled and solidified in my heart. 

That night, I went home and went straight to my parents without bothering to change, my baldric in my hand. 

“I would like to learn how to play music,” I told them breathlessly, stopping in the doorway of the living room they were residing in. I had run all the way home and I was sure I looked like it. I had never been so sure about something like I was now. Excitement within me was brimming to the point of spilling over if it hadn’t already. 

My mother, Elise, looked up from her embroidering and smiled. My father frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. Before he could say anything, my mother spoke up, earning a sharp look from him that she pointedly ignored. “What would you want to play?” she asked me, setting the fabric down in her lap. 

I didn’t hesitate in my answer. “The viola.” When I listened to music playing, I always sought out the blindingly pleasant sound of that particular set of strings. Something about it always awakened something within me and it moved me no matter how many times I had heard it. 

Elise smiled and shared a look with her husband. They spoke silently in a language I didn’t know about, using just their eyes, and my father said, “It would be good for you to study the art of music. It’s a big part of history.”

My heart soared and I ran across the room, throwing my arms around my hesitant father’s neck. “I won’t let you down, I promise, father.”

He sighed and hugged me back. “Just don’t let it interfere with your other studies. That is my condition.”

I pulled away and nodded passionately. “Of course.”

“And no playing in the halls,” he added sternly.

I grinned widely. “Of course.”

My mother taught me what she could, and she quickly sent me to a more skilled musician who was up for the task of teaching me. I was a quick learner that had become quite demanding and I went through four different instructors before we finally found one that took up the challenge I presented her with. Madame du Fonte. I remember her fondly.

She had long, flowing blonde hair that she always had pulled up into an elegant braid along the base of her head. She wore simple clothing, a full length blue skirt and fitted bodice with a red scarf over her shoulders. Delicate tassels hung off the seams. She made sure to take that scarf off every time she played, folding it neatly and placing it on the top of the closed piano. It seemed to be important to her. She was quite lovely to look at, even in her late thirties. Madame du Fonte played with the same passion I did and I watched and listened to her with an intense love. 

With her, I stayed until I could ultimately teach, myself. 

I had begun to grow my hair out, letting it sweep past my shoulders. The servants began braiding it on the left side of my head to keep the strands from snagging between the strings and bow. I asked them to teach me so I could do it by myself and I wore it like this often. I still find myself doing so to this day.

I eventually ignored my father's request and began playing within the halls of the chateau. Practicing, sometimes, the same thing over and over. No one complained, though I doubted they were brave enough to say anything about it. Not that I would do or say anything.

Soon, I began composing my own music on the spot and those within the walls would slowly gather and applaud and I would bow deeply with my viola out to one side, my bow hand bent across my chest with a huge grin on my face. 

Other times, I would climb up to the roof and dance along the top as I played, spinning and swaying to the music. The feeling of the wind taking my notes into itself and carrying them across the town below me filled me with joy and hope. Seeing pedestrians stop and search for the music until they saw me set my heart ablaze and I would push more passion into what I was playing. 

Music took hold of my spare time, only taking breaks to read when my fingertips hurt too much to continue. I continued my swordsmanship lessons and declined, with a heavy heart, the many offers I had received to play in orchestras through my early teens.

Pierre and I had relaxed on our sparring, only giving it an hour before I would play for him while he danced until the sun went down. He was beautiful; graceful. His eyes were on mine, his smile bright - sharp at the corners - and I think I began to fall in love with his beauty. He spent more time outside than I did and his skin was more tanned compared to my pale, musician’s skin. I wasn’t sure if my father ever noticed this but, during these moments of absolute peace, I didn’t seem to care. 

***

The two of us were walking along the crowded streets one night, bottles in our hands swinging by our sides after one of these sessions. The streets were filled with the commotion of the monotonous daily attributes of life, the market people making the final calls on selling items as the sun began to lower along the horizon behind the hill the town set upon.

Horses being led by their owners clop through the cobblestone streets next to us while shops closed for the day.  The sky was clear, wisps of clouds catching the evening sun’s rays and painting a picture of pinks and purples along the sky. Birds in migration flew above, calling to one another, signaling the end of fall and the coming of winter. 

My eyes caught one stand that had barely sold any of its wares and I walked over to it, Pierre close to my heels taking a sip of the alcohol that resides within it. 

“Monsieur,” I said, trying to gain the merchant’s attention. He was bent down, digging for something beneath the stand. 

“What’cha want boy?” he asked me gruffly. When he stood, I saw peppering hair, tanned skin, and stress lines that had carved themselves around his mouth and between the eyebrows. I felt the beginning of hesitation but remained tall.

“I was just wondering if you have sold anything today?”

He eyed me suspiciously. I could tell that he’s had experience with false transactions by his reaction. He’d proceed with caution; something I could appreciate. “Not much, no. These days, no one wants to buy things that aren’t of use. Not with the war brewing.” 

Pierre grunted with agreement. What he said was true. No one wanted to spend money on things that were completely unnecessary. The drought we had ruined many crop fields and people were beginning to panic. His sparkling stand covered in jewelry remained almost untouched. Not a dent had been made for the week that he had been present for. 

I took a step closer as Pierre stayed where he was, watching me with a secretive smile. He always knew what I was up to. Inspecting the wares, I quickly saw that everything was artfully crafted with great skill. If it were another time, he would have had nothing left. 

“Did you make these yourself?” I inquired, taking one of the rings. It was a thick band of silver with intricate details inlaid on the sides. A bright ruby nestled in the center of it. It was beautiful. I was always partial to the color red. I look up at him, ripping my eyes from the depths of the jewel.

“I did,” he responded a little proudly. 

“Everything is beautiful,” I praised. “How much?” I asked, looking at him, slipping the ring on my right ring finger. The weight is perfect.  

“The ring-?”

“Everything. How much?” I repeated, tearing my gaze from it again. 

The merchant blanched at me before regaining his composure, his suspicion back. “What’s y’er name, boy?” 

“Is that really important?” I asked him with a raised eyebrow.

“It is if I am to know that I will get paid for everything,” he answered, folding his arms across his broad chest. That’s a fair question. 

“What’s yours?” I shoot back. 

It earned me a perplexed expression but he responded anyway. “Hubert de Fer.” 

“Clarke de Ashencourt.” I incline my head in acknowledgement. “Nice to meet your acquaintance.” 

“De Ashencourt…” his words fail him. I heard Pierre snicker behind me at the reaction, knowing how much I hate it. I shot him a glare which only made him smile harder and lift his wrist to his mouth to hide it and turn away. His shoulders still shook with contained laughter and I want to shove him from behind. He’s drunk enough that he’d fall on his face.

“How much?” I repeated for the third time, looking at Hubert. I had begun to lose my patience and I have a lot of it. The alcohol didn’t help with it but I kept my composure. 

Hubert regained his senses finally and said, “Absolutely nothing. It’s all yours.” To my distaste, he gave a small, nervous bow.

“That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?” I ask him, “and please don’t do that. It puts a sour taste in my mouth.” My voice turned sharp, “I’m not royalty and I am glad of it.” 

He scrambles back to a stand and nods a little too quickly, his face red with embarrassment. “I would have to do the calculations…”

I cut him off, placing my satchel of coins on the wooden stand. The impact rattles everything on the platform and he stares at the leather. Hubert stared at it in shock.

“If this doesn’t cover everything, let me know and I will get you more. I also have a request.”

Hubert tears his eyes from the satchel and looks at me instead, curiosity taking hold of him now. He gestures for me to explain and I smile politely. 

“I want to see your sword making skills. I’m in search of a new one but the blacksmiths around here don’t have the particular taste I am searching for.” 

“Of course, Monsieur de Ashencourt. I live in Évreux, a 6 hour ride from here to the south west.” 

Nodding, I said, “Yes. I know the place. Magnificent cathedral.” 

He beamed and I smiled in return. “Oh yes! She’s a beauty isn’t she?” 

My grin widens. “Indeed. I’ll have people collect everything before you leave on the sun’s rise. Again, if what I gave doesn’t cover everything, let me know.” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

Taking leave of the stand, Pierre trotted up and walked backwards in front of me. He pointed his finger at me with the hand that holds his open bottle with a devilish grin. “Despite the reactions you get, it still doesn’t deter you from overpaying for things just to do it does it?” 

I gave him a wink. “Nope.” 

He placed his hands over his heart, “Ever the gentleman.” 

I swung at him with a half hearted punch that he easily avoids. “You’re a prick, you know that?” 

He laughs; the sound was music to my ears. “I do.” 

Reviews

[JayG]

You open your story with history. How many people wante to study history in order to reach the actual story?

When you enter a story, do you hope to meet the people in it or read about a house?

I mention this because every word in a story must meaningfully set the scene, develop character, or, move the plot. Any that don’t serve only to slow the pace of the story and kill reader interest. And because this doesn’t do any of that, here is where the rejection would probably take place.

• You have told me once before that I stood with my hands clasped behind my back and held them in front of me when I was unsure of myself.

I've told you that? Naaa.

So...someone unknown is talking to someone not introduced about a habit that was pointed out in the past? If so, where are the quotation marks? Where are the words that provide context to make the words meaningful to the reader? Without them, this makes no sense.

What you’re trying to do is transcribe yourself telling the reader a story, as if in person. But that’s impossible. Storytelling is a performance art, where HOW you tell the story matters as much as the words you use, because your performance replaces that of the actors in the film version. But...to work, the reader, who can neither see nor hear you, would have to perform the storyteller’s role in your place, without performance notes or rehearsal time. As I said, impossible.

My point? To write fiction you need the skills of the fiction writer. No way around that because in school we learn only the nonfiction report-writing skills needed on the job. Fiction Writing is a profession, and like all others, its skills are acquired in addition to the general skills we learned in school.

Nonfiction informs the reader dispassionately. But readers aren’t seeking to learn what happens. They want you to make them live the story in real-time, as-the-protgonist. They want to become emotionally involved, and make the decisions in parallel with the protagonist. No way can nonfiction skills do that.

And, it’s a lot more fun to write fiction when using those skills. So...try a few chapters of a good book on the basics of adding wings to your words, like Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict.

https://dokumen.pub/qdownload/gmc-goal-motivation-and-conflict-9781611943184.html

She’ll have you wondering how you could have not noticed the things she points out, yourself.

And for an overview of the traps, gotchas, and misunderstandings of the field, you might try a few of my articles and YouTube videos.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

. . . . . . . . . .

“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”
~ E. L. Doctorow

“In sum, if you want to improve your chances of publication, keep your story visible on stage and yourself mum.”
~ Sol Stein

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain

[Hosimone]

The story is prologued with the fact that the character (a vampire) is writing his life story in a letter...hence the title of the story.

[Hosimone]

Anne Rice used history and many others used history to start their pieces and sometimes it's required. It makes sense if you read the prologue.

[JayG]

Like this chapter, the prologue makes perfect sense...to you. But you cheat. You begin reading with full context, backstory, knowledge of what WILL happen, and, intent for the meaning of every line.

The reader? They have what your words suggest to them, based on their life-experience.

The prologue is addressed to someone named Temperance. Who is she to the speaker? No way to know. What’s the age and gender of the one speaking? Unknown. What year is it? Unstated. What planet are we on? No way for the reader to know ANY of it, because you don’t provide context. To you, though, because you already know, it’s too obvious to mention...so you don't.

For example, when you say, “Despite the perfect rendition of this particular room...” that makes perfect sense...to you. But to the reader? THIS room could be a bedroom, the study, or ANYWHERE. So, for you, the words call up an image that’s there and waiting, in your mind. For the reader? The words call up an image that’s there and waiting, in *YOUR* mind, not theirs.

I know your intent is to write like Anne Rice. But Anne Rice attended San Francisco State to study creative writing, and graduated with a M.A. in creative writing. Do you really believe that the nonfiction writing skills of school will allow you to be like her?

Are you making use of the short-term scene-goal? no. Are you addressing the three issues that provide context when entering a scene? No again.

Do you understand what’s meant when I say a scene on the page is a unit of tension? Do you know why a scene on the page is vastly different from one on the screen? I ask because if you don’t know those things, or something as basic as why a scene ends in disaster on the page, you’re guessing.

I mean no insult, and it’s not a matter of talent. And I fully support the idea of you writing fiction. But if you want to write it you NEED the skills of the fiction writer because nothing-else-works. And I say that as someone who has signed 7 literary contracts before I went the self-release route, who has taught writing at workshops, and who owned a manuscript critiquing service before retiring.

Certainly, you can hold any view you care to, and write any way you care to. And no one says you need to listen to anyone’s advice. But bear in mind that your competition, in the publisher’s office and as a self release, are those who’ve taken the time to learn the skills of the profession. And my view is that if a hopeful writer isn’t willing to devote a week or so to learning the skills the pros feel necessary, plus the time needed to make those skills as intuitive to use as the nonfiction skills we’re given in school, they’re writing for themselves.

But, my goal was to help, not lecture or argue, so I’ll just wish you luck, suggest you try a chapter of two of the book I linked to, and bow out.

[Hosimone]

It makes sense to me because i'm the author. Everything comes to a head and things tie in at the end. That's the whole point of the story. Of any story, really.