Caryn Pinkston and I got together on zoom this morning to talk about our writing. We used a prompt and wrote for fifteen minutes. It was fun! Mine is a sketch, not a complete scene. It could be a hook on the first page of a novel, and it’s historical fiction, a genre I don’t usually write.
The prompt: He insisted on taking us on a tour of the establishment.
I hesitated before descending the stone stairway. It was dark, lit only by the guard’s torch. The air became rank with the smell of death and feces. At the bottom of the stairs, I lifted my tunic to cover my nose. The odor was stifling.
The guard smirked. “You get used to the stench down here.”
“I doubt it.” I’d already forgotten the man’s name. Was it Geoff or Hal? He was a heavy-set man with a braided, gray beard.“Take me to the prince,” I said.
“He’s at a lower level. The princesses are here.”
“The girls? You have them kept here? Show me.”
The guard walked ahead, lifting his torch high. The passageway seemed to close in. The ceiling had been carved from solid rock and dripped water. I lowered my tunic from my face, resigned to the odor. We passed several solid oak doors before we came to the one Hal was looking for. “They’re in here.” He pounded on the door. “You have a visitor.”
Sounds of cries came from inside the cell. “Eleanor,” I called. “Isabelle. Are you in there?” More muted cries. “Open the door,” I demanded.
Hal laughed. “Not so fast. I charge a fee.”
“Name it, cur.”
“Ten gold pieces.”
“You expect me to carry that much coin on me?”
“They’re royal princesses. The price is high.”
“I can promise the coins after we return to the castle.”
Hal inserted a large key in the iron lock and pulled open the door. I peered inside.
“Uncle Rodrick!” Isabelle cried. The little girl's hair was a tangled mess. She ran into my arms, crying hysterically.
By the light of a single candle, I saw her older sister laying on a straw mat. She looked ill. “Where’s Momma?” Eleanor asked in a weak voice.
