Stephen J Vaughan
Writer, watercolourist, and lover of all things creative. Please enter my website and explore the details of my new novel "The Scarlet Cope".
Find out more
Writer, watercolourist, and lover of all things creative. Please enter my website and explore the details of my new novel "The Scarlet Cope".
Find out more
For the Mother-of-Light called to her in a vision – she had been chosen, to help rid the world of greed, selfishness and collusion. To weave a magical priests’ cope of scarlet and gold: the pattern within to hold symbols of love and hope. This Scarlet Cope will not wear, tear or exhibit age, for it was lovingly made by this chosen sage. But in this matrix of good and bad – the chosen ones will have their say: worn the correct way or inside-out – which is it to be? Their true nature will be their epiphany. For now the chosen ones cannot work alone, but must find the help of an old crone. With a witch’s guidance, together with their minds, can manipulate parallel worlds through space and time.
A circle of faces beamed down at me, silhouetted by the dazzling light of the sun above. The distant sound of neighing horses and cowbells, muffled murmurings, and voices I could not comprehend gradually became coherent. The fog within my mind cleared and a realisation that I was not ahorse hit me like a cannon ball. My head pained me as if it were being constantly pounded by a blacksmith’s hammer, and my senses swirled like a whirlpool. But gradually clarity ensued and I remembered.
I stared fixedly at the noose tied to the cross beam. The rough woven hemp rope temptingly invited me to the afterlife. With rough shovel like hands they shoved closer. The noose passed over my head and around my neck, the medieval style executioner fitting it snugly. I said a final prayer. The floor disappeared from under me. A sudden jolt and instantly an excruciating pain ensued; stifling heat surged through me like a rod of hot iron and an all encompassing blackness shrouding my vision: my eyes screwed, my face contorted, and I choked – choked until my lungs burnt. The dancing had began – Please God, take me now!
The distant tip-tap of a typewriter resounded through the glass partition of the small office within the York Tourist Information Centre in the heart of the city. Izabela Cydreth was personal secretary to Edward Bowls, the office manager, and was typing out the agenda for this years forthcoming York festival activities known as the July Celebration, to be held like it is every year on the twelfth of July at Clifford’s Tower.
Elizabeth didn't normally spend much time at the castle – too cold and draughty, she would usually say, but this was different. She wanted to be there when Robert Aske arrived. When she received his letter at Temple Newsham, she expressed a huge sigh of relief, confirming her utter trust in her lover, and hastily wrote one back, destined for the next post rider. It was at times like this she was so grateful that her tutor had taught her to read and write from an early age.
The luminosity of the lava lamp glowed orange like the setting sun, as yolk-like globules scrambled upon one another in a slow race to the top, only to sink gently back to the bottom with a squelch, prior to rising again in a continued determined ascent. Soft meditative music played in the background in a bid to block out noise from the surrounding York council estate.