Comments Off on The Whispering Bell

The Whispering Bell

Posted April 9th, 2012 in books by admin
The Whispering Bell

Available for Kindle and Ipad

Set in 7th century Anglo-Saxon England, The Whispering Bell, is the story of a woman’s love, and of her fight for justice in a male dominated, heroic age. Wynflaed, orphaned by famine, is rescued and raised in a hall of plenty. She becomes a gifted needlewoman whose artistry is much prized, but the calm and security of her life is soon shattered… (Adult historical fiction).

Synopsis

Set in 7th century Anglo-Saxon England, The Whispering Bell is the story of a woman’s love, and of her fight for justice in a male dominated, heroic age. Wyrd weaves lives between extremes of chaos and calm, exalting some, inundating others. WYNFLAED, orphaned by famine, is rescued and raised in a hall of plenty. She becomes a gifted needle-women whose work is much prized, but the calm and security of her life is shattered when, on the orders of a vindictive king, Mercian raiders destroy her home. WULFRIC, the Mercian’s young commander is deeply struck by Wynflaed’s spirit and beauty. He falls in love with her, and risking all disobeys his vengeful king by sparing her and her adoptive family, but to conceal his disobedience he must destroy their homestead. Wynflaed fails to comprehend the risk he has taken by sparing them. All she sees is the destruction of her home and village. So when she finds herself inexplicably attracted to him, her feelings revolt her. A mysterious shaman’s predictions about her life and Wulfric also find no welcome in her heart. And when foretold of her chains being, “Broken by sunlight in a place without sky,” she scorns his words. Wulfric has loved Wynflaed from the moment he saw her, and despite everything intends to win her over. When he finally succeeds he takes her to his wild and beautiful homeland in the Peak District of northern England. For her morgengifu he gives her a mine, originally worked by the Romans for its lead and silver. Wynflaed works hard to build a home her warrior husband can be proud of, and to make her lead-mine into a thriving business. Unfortunately her success attracts the envy of RENDIL, her resentful, interfering brother-in-law. Tragedy strikes when Wulfric is lost in Mercia’s war with Northumbria, Rendil moves to take control of her mine and farm. Not satisfied with stealing her wealth, he accuses her of a catalogue of crimes supported by the lies of corrupt witnesses, so that he can steal her property. She appeals to the courts, but Rendil has bought and paid for the magistrate and the law fails her. Wynflaed loses everything, her property, her children and even her freedom. She is locked into the slave collar and must endure the suffering and humiliations of a convict slave. Her strength and courage are her only resources. Abandoned by the law she realizes that only amongst other outlaws will she find support. And so, aided by EMMA, a slave girl with whom Wyrd has linked her more than once, she escapes into the great Shire-wood forest seeking the protection of RABBIAN, a fearsome robber king. Wynflaed and Rabbian become lovers. With his help and through the artistry of her needle Wynflaed is able to win back all that she lost, though for Rabbian the price he must pay will be enormous. buy online. as a paperback or as an ebook The Whispering Bell is an adventure story for adults.

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Comments Off on Poppy

Poppy

Posted April 12th, 2011 in Audio, Blogs, Poetry by briansellars

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Poppy

A mardy arse is Poppy,
She’s all-ass roorin and playin up.
She can’t run nor climb nor kick a ball,
She just pretends and meks stuff up.

I wish she were like me moor,
And not so soft and girly.
I wish she’d av her hair cut,
And not all long and curly.

Me mam’s asked her to me birthday,
It’s because this time I’m ten.
I’m hopin’ that she waint come,
Cos lads are best bi us sen.

Ayup, she’s coming nah,
Wearing shorts and a frilly vest.
She looks or-reight in that,
When she scrubbed up in her best.

I hope she’s glad to see me,
She’ll see I’m gerring bigger.
Her hair is looking nicer,
And by eck she’s gorra figure.

I’m glad she’s not like me moor,
She’s quite nice all soft and girly.
I just hope that she still likes me,
And dunt go home too early.

It dunt matter if she cant feight,
And who needs to kick a ball.
Thiz moor to life than feighting,
And Poppy’s gorrit all.

 

 


Comments Off on Laikin Abaht Dahn Rivelin

Laikin Abaht Dahn Rivelin

Posted April 12th, 2011 in Audio, Blogs, Poetry by briansellars

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Laikin Abaht Dahn Rivelin [Playing in Rivelin Valley]
When thart laikin abaht near watter dahn rivs,
A reight joyful jump is what thee ‘eart gives.
Tha can paddle and scroam, even swim an all,
Some’ll swing on a roo-ap or feight for a ball.

Turn stoo-ans for bullies, catch frogs, mice and shrews,
Smoke aaht a wasp-nest, float frogs in thee shoes.
Thez them az catch rabbits and search forra fox,
Thiv orlass got sommat caged up in a box.

Thez them az lays dahn and snoozes in t’sun,
Tha can splash ’em wi’ watter – if tha can run.
Thez t’owd ‘ens wi’ dogs, and young women wi’ prams,
Blokes wi’ lasses on blankets wi’ wandering ‘ands.

It’s for us all is Rivelin, rich, poor, bad-n-good,
It were once t’secret playground of owd Robin Hood.
He still feights sheriff at Den Bank, Roscoe an’ t’Glen,
And  scroams dahn near  Mouse-oyl wi’ ‘is merry men.

Keep Rivs for all-ass, no more buildings or roo-ads.
Lerrit be natural fot fish, frogs and too-ads.
Gi’ thee eyes and thee heart a magical treat,
Stroll from t’post office to Malin weer waters-meet.

Comments Off on Rusty Wren

Rusty Wren

Posted April 11th, 2011 in Audio, Blogs, Poetry by briansellars

wrens

 

 

 

 

Thi reight tichy are wrens, Robins are bigger.
But thiv moor ‘eart and pluck in their diminutive figure.
Thi sing reight loud, a beautiful song.
It’s all trills n wobbles and just bubbles along.
Thi flit past thee eyes, like rusty red fairies,
As thi ‘unt in the bushes for insects and berries.

Thi build nests all o’er, like downy soft purses.
And lay eggs six or seven, which the little hen nurses.
The cock’s a bit naughty he’s a bit of a lad.
He has nests all o’er, with hens that he’s had.
He does it to mek sure that his genes live on.
He int faithful to his missus, like the regal white swan.

Winter kills lots on ’em, thi so tichy tha sees.
Thi fall dee-ad and frozen, from frost covered trees.
Thi reight tichy are wrens, but with hearts like giants.
I’d mek ’em British bird not eagles nor robins reliant.
Thi worra wren on a farthing when I were a lad.
Wren farthings still seem like the most cash I ever had.

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