Introducing Harry Dunn, Capitol Police Officer's, Standing My Ground! WE WILL NEVER FORGET JANUARY 6TH INSURRECTION!

 

Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and redeem the soul of America. —JOHN LEWIS

We need to talk about our trauma. Yes, you and me. You may not think you are experiencing it, but you are. Ask yourself, What has this nation been arguing over for the past two years? What conversation has been dominating the media and the government, occupying our courts and our daily conversations, and even separating friends and families? What is the subject we promise ourselves to avoid with strangers? January 6, 2021. That’s what the dictionary says trauma is—“a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.” Trust me. I looked it up. The ripples from that day still threaten our democracy. The lives of election workers, the backbone of our electoral systems, are being threatened online via hundreds of messages on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram by those who would disrupt our elections. “Watch your back.” “I know where you sleep.” “Be afraid. Be very afraid.” Because I speak out about these challenges to our democracy, I get the same threatening messages. “We know where you live.” Domestic terrorists have shot out the electrical power systems for neighborhoods, and they are threatening to do the same for entire cities. Representatives in Congress continue to lie and claim our election system is rigged. Yes, we are still struggling with that day. The only difference between your January 6th trauma and mine is where we were when we experienced it. I was at the Capitol, immersed in a profane mix of sweat, screams, shrieks, anger, fear, blood, death, broken limbs, spit, hatred, horror, racism, bigotry, and heroism. Capitol and DC police officers fought hand-to-hand. Many of us thought we were going to die. Some of us did. We were cursed; doused with bear and pepper spray; and beaten with sticks, pipes, batons, shields, bike racks, and even the American flag. Donald Trump, then the nation’s commander-in-chief, did nothing to help us for three hours, even after politicians, his friends, and his own children begged him to. Instead, Capitol and Washington, DC, police officers battled alone. We fought for our lives, the lives of fellow officers, and the nation’s elected leaders. It didn’t matter if they were Republican. We didn’t care if they were Democrat or Independent. They were the men and women we sent to Washington to govern our nation. It was our duty to protect them and our democracy. We could have run away. We could have said, “We didn’t sign up for this.” But we did sign up for it—we just never imagined it like that. Hundreds of Capitol and DC police officers are still working through the physical and emotional scars of that day. All of us have changed. Some of us, physically, can no longer do the job. Others are haunted daily by what happened, including me. I still struggle with PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. But as I tell you about my struggle that day, I want you to remember this. While I’m one of the officers whose job it was to protect the Capitol, like you, I’m first an American citizen who cares about this country and wants to see it do right. I’m a voter. I’m a taxpaying citizen. This is my country, and I deserve to know the truth to make sure this doesn’t happen again. We all do. Just like I was marked by that day, you were too. You glared at your TV screen or listened to your radio in disbelief. You felt something you had never felt before, the shock and fear that somebody was trying to take over your country. You and I had seen lots of demonstrations before at the nation’s Capitol, many of them much bigger than this one—the original March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in 1963, Veterans for Peace, the Million Man March, the Women’s March on Washington, pro-choice rallies, antiabortion demonstrations, gun control, gun rights. Every issue you can think of from gay rights to immigration to climate change to the minimum wage to saving the whales. Americans with different agendas have been coming to the Capitol for more than 150 years to tell their elected leaders what’s on their minds. It is my job and the job of my fellow officers to protect them, no matter what their agenda. We are Americans, and, as Americans, we have those rights. Freedom of speech. Freedom of assembly. This is not Iran or Russia or Venezuela. This is not one of those countries where citizens are beaten, shot, killed, or disappeared for expressing their beliefs, their desires, or their dissatisfaction. But, this time, you were shocked because what you saw is not what Americans do. You looked on as thousands of Americans tried to kill or maim hundreds of other Americans. So-called American patriots brutally beat the men and women in blue they claimed to hold in such high regard. “Protect the Blue,” they preached. “Blue Lives Matter.” They did this so they could get inside to attack our elected officials. They wanted to “Hang Mike Pence,” or “Drag that motherfucker through the streets.” Another said she and her friend “were looking for [House Speaker Nancy] Pelosi to shoot her in the friggin’ brain.” They said they were there to stop the will of the people and halt our 224-year history of the peaceful transfer of power. These weren’t the international thugs and foreign terrorists of the movies trying to take over our country. Instead, these were people from our own communities—store owners, clerks, waiters, doctors, lawyers, IT specialists, real estate agents, CEOs, veterans and service members, police officers, accountants, retirees, and construction workers. Thousands of them screaming, spitting hate, and all with allegiance to one man: Donald Trump. After a while, some of you had to turn away. You couldn’t watch any longer. You couldn’t stomach what you were seeing because you just couldn’t believe this was happening. Not in America. Neither could I, even as I was battling insurrectionists and protecting our leaders. I’ve been thinking about that day a lot. In terms of raw carnage, blood, guts, and destruction, you and I have seen much worse. For decades we’ve viewed the bloodied, mauled, and maimed bodies of our American sons and daughters, chewed up by war, strewn across some faraway battlefield. Korea. Vietnam. Iran. The Persian Gulf. Somalia. Lebanon. Iraq. Afghanistan. We’ve seen the images of flag-covered coffins come home for heartbreaking ceremonies. The survivors with physical and mental injuries are daily reminders of their sacrifices. We watched as our cities burned from the 1960s to the 1990s, torn apart by racial injustice and strife, and as hundreds of mostly Black people were shot and killed by police and the National Guard. Washington. New York. Chicago. Detroit. Newark. Memphis. Atlanta. Los Angeles. Baltimore. Houston. Miami. More than 120 cities alone erupted after Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in 1968. Meanwhile, every year for the past twenty-two years, we have relived 9/11. We revisit that horrible footage of thousands of Americans who perished in the World Trade Center after our enemies crashed jetliners into the buildings. We watched people so helpless, so terrified, that they leaped from windows to certain death. We still weep for the first responders who perished trying to save them. And then we saw the murder of George Floyd. All of it was horrific, all of it unforgettable. But January 6th was different. This was a more vicious gut punch, one made even crueler because we didn’t see it coming. The insurrectionists tried to destroy the very lifeblood of this nation, our democracy. This was not an attack on one piece of what we hold most dear, not one person, not one community, not one town, not one city. It was all our communities, all of us at the same time. It was everything we believe in. And a lot of you cried. I cried too. I cried that day when I was carrying a rioter who had been trampled by the mob to our medical unit for CPR. I was crying when I ran to Senator Mitch McConnell’s side office door because we got a call that some of his staff had locked themselves in against the rioters and needed help. Almost from birth, we are told that our country is special because we have a democracy. It is where every man and woman has a right—no, a duty—to have a say in how it operates. “We, the people.” Those are the first three words of the US Constitution. We are told of its history and its founders—George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, Nathan Hale, Patrick Henry. The American Revolution. Yes, it was imperfect. Only white men who owned land could vote, and hundreds of thousands of people were excluded from the process because they were slaves. Still, we grew up proud that no kings or queens lorded over us. We have a “government of the people, by the people, for the people.” Our government has an even greater special significance for some of us. For African Americans, our belief in its promise has been almost like a religion. We needed to believe. We had to believe. We had no choice. This place wasn’t right for us from the start. They brought us over in chains and changed our names and wiped out our culture even before there actually was an America. But almost from its birth, we have been trying to get America to do what Martin Luther King said in 1963: “Rise up, live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.” Our struggle for democracy has threaded through Crispus Attucks, the first person killed in the American Revolution; the trial before the Supreme Court for the men and women of the slave ship La Amistad; the Dred Scott and Plessy v. Ferguson decisions; the Civil War; the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments; Brown v. the Board of Education; the civil rights movement; and service by African Americans in every American war, even when our country didn’t want us there. Immigrants felt a special pain that day too, whether they came to America more than one hundred years ago or just got here. America is the place on which they have pinned their hopes and dreams. Some fled tyranny and persecution in their home countries; others left grinding poverty, and many, religious or ethnic bigotry. When they searched for a better life, they were united in their belief in a place called America. They quickly learned that our streets weren’t paved with gold. Yes, there was discrimination here, but it was the government’s job to protect them, not persecute them. They could fight that government and challenge that government to do what’s right. They could vote, and their vote would matter. They could even be the government. Consequently, immigrants, the children of immigrants, and the grandchildren of immigrants are interwoven in our government and our culture. No, America didn’t always live up to its promise. We’ve had some horrible things happen here, like when the nation locked Japanese citizens in internment camps during World War II. Still, nobody is jumping on boats to flee America like they are doing all over the world. Why? Because it’s America. That’s why January 6th hurt so much. It was a frightening wake-up call that our democracy, this thing we hold so precious, can be taken from us if we don’t protect it. My fellow officers and I gave it our all on January 6th. We stood our ground, and because we did, our democracy is still standing. There are no tanks roaming our capital like in other nations after a coup. There is no martial law. There is no National Guard patrolling our streets. And I still stand, and I continue to fight. It is why I testified, along with three fellow officers, before the January 6th Committee, so we can get to the bottom of what happened that day and what led up to it. It is why I testified in two trials of Oath Keepers, to make sure their leaders were convicted and sentenced to prison. It is the same reason I have appeared on scores of news programs to talk about what happened. I don’t do it because I want to be a celebrity. I do it because I want people to know what happened to me and to my fellow officers, and what almost happened to our nation. Some people appreciate what I have to say. I have received thousands of letters thanking me and urging me to keep moving forward. I get praise daily through social media. On the other hand, I have been vilified by folks like Tucker Carlson when he was at Fox News, Newsmax, and MAGA fans, people who would sacrifice our democracy in their worship of Trump. I have been cursed and called profane names, and my life has been threatened. I’ve even been accused of doing what I do for the public attention. If there is one thing that I want you to know about me, it’s this. I would give everything back, the Congressional Gold Medal, the meeting and medal from President Biden, every media interview, every television appearance, my trial testimony, and my appearance before a congressional committee, if it would mean that January 6th never happened. I don’t give a damn about any of those things. If January 6th hadn’t happened, my fellow officers who lost their lives in the wake of that horrible day would be here to be loved by their families and friends and appreciated by other United States Capitol Police officers. If January 6th hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have gone through the mental anguish that I did and that I am still working through with counseling. If January 6th hadn’t happened, the place where I work wouldn’t be filled with regret and bad memories around every corner. If January 6th hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be the subject of lies and ridicule all over the internet. I speak out not because I want something for me but because I want accountability. I want the people responsible for that day, including Trump and anybody else who conspired to breach the Capitol and try to halt our democracy, to pay a price, just like we paid a price. And I want us to never repeat a day like that. It is a stain on our nation. And if my detractors think I can somehow be scared away with their bullshit accusations and threats, they don’t know me. They don’t know Harry Dunn. I’ll continue to use my voice to protect this country. I’ll stand up to the lies and hate and racism and bigotry. I will always be standing my ground to make sure our democracy exists. And I’ll ask that you stand with me so that nothing like this ever happens again. We will get through this trauma. We will get through this nightmare, but only if we stand together. 

PROTECTING DEMOCRACY Most people don’t really know what we do as the Capitol Police. Before January 6th, many Americans probably didn’t know we existed, and many still don’t truly understand what we do, including my new friend Michael Fanone. Mike is the former Washington, DC, police officer who was seriously injured on January 6th while fighting alongside me and other officers to protect the Capitol. He joined the Capitol Police in the wake of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, because that’s the kind of guy he is. He stayed in the role for a few years before becoming a DC police officer. At some point after January 6th, Mike erroneously said Capitol Police were “glorified security guards.” Nothing could be further from the truth. The department didn’t suit Mike because he wanted the adrenaline rush of being a street cop—undercover drug busts, dramatic takedowns, and car chases with squealing tires. We can do that too, but that’s not what we tend to do. In early 2023, for example, we were closing in on a car reported stolen not far from the Capitol and across the street from where members of Congress frequently hold television interviews. Two guys bolted from the car. We caught one right away. The other escaped into an apartment building and barricaded himself in a third-floor unit. We contained the area and brought out our negotiations team. Ultimately, we dispatched the SWAT unit. The SWAT unit was literally seconds from breaching the door of the apartment when the second suspect surrendered after a seven-hour standoff. Inside the car, we found a 9 mm handgun that had been turned into a machine-gun pistol and an M-4 rifle, like the one I carry at the Capitol. The rifle was a “ghost gun,” which means the parts were purchased online and put together without the rifle being registered. I am certified in M-4 weaponry and carry my registered rifle while I’m on duty to protect people in- and outside the Capitol. The weapons those guys had, however, are for committing crime. They can’t be connected to an individual if they are recovered by law enforcement. So, like I said, we have the capacity for that intense degree of law enforcement, and more, but that’s not our day-to-day. The Capitol Police have lots of capabilities, in part because we are a relatively large police department. No, we’re not New York or Los Angeles or Chicago or even Atlanta, but, according to the Justice Department, our two thousand officers make us a far larger force than 90 percent of the nation’s more than 12,200 local police departments and three thousand sheriff’s offices. Plus, we have all the machinery of most big-city departments—in some cases, even more. The Capitol Police have motorcycle cops, cops in cars, and a canine unit. We have a Riot Control Unit with all the special gear that big-city departments have. We have a Hazardous Devices Section, a Hazardous Material Response Team, Special Operations, and a Crime Scene Search Team. We have a Containment and Emergency Response Unit and a SWAT team. We have a Crisis Negotiation Unit, Reports Processing Team, Court Liaison Unit, and Special Events Section. I could go on, but I think you get the point. As a visitor to the Capitol, you seldom see members of those units. If you do, you’ve crossed into a bad space. The most visible element of the department is the Uniformed Services Bureau. That’s guys like me. We are a 24/7 team of officers who provide security for the Capitol and congressional office buildings. Our protection area goes from as far as H Street on the north side, P Street on the south side, Seventh Street on the east side, and Third Street on the west side. It is divided into the Capitol Division, which, obviously, is assigned to the entire Capitol, as well as a unit assigned to the House of Representatives, another to the US Senate, and another that covers the Library of Congress. We provide security and protection to the members and staff at three Senate office buildings that run along Constitution Avenue north of the Capitol: the Russell Senate Office Building, the Dirksen Senate Office Building, and the Hart Senate Office Building. We are also responsible for three buildings on Independence Avenue south of the Capitol: Cannon House Office Building, the Longworth House Office Building, and the Rayburn House Office Building. These buildings house the members of the House of Representatives and their staff. To the untrained eye, a lot of what we do could appear to be the work of security guards. We screen visitors to the Capitol Complex. We tamp down crime in and around the Capitol. We enhance relations with the community and its citizens as we help people find their way around a sprawling complex. What my friend Mike didn’t understand is that while we do all the things other police departments do, our core mission is not to fight crime. Our mission is to protect, to prevent crime, and to provide a safe space for democracy to function. Our job is not to chase a crime after it happens, which is the primary function of most police departments. Our job is to keep it from happening. Think about it for a moment. Do you think people—foreign and domestic—haven’t tried to shut down the Capitol and hold the nation hostage before January 6th? Do you think people with a grudge against a member of Congress or a senator haven’t wanted to take one of them out? No? In October 1983, an Israeli visiting the United States entered the Capitol with two plastic bottles filled with a flammable liquid, gunpowder, and improvised shrapnel. The device was rigged to a detonator with copper wire. He planned to explode it where it could do the most damage. Four plainclothes Capitol Police officers stopped him before he could. A month later, in a bathroom in the Capitol, two American members of a communist organization assembled a bomb that detonated and caused extensive damage. Fortunately, no one was killed or injured. After an investigation, they were tried and imprisoned. In 1998, a man with a history of paranoid schizophrenia, which included being committed for nearly two months in a Montana hospital, triggered the metal detector at a Capitol entrance. He was carrying a gun. When Capitol Police approached him, he shot and killed one officer and then wounded a tourist and another officer. He ran into the office of a member of Congress and fatally shot a Capitol Police detective who was assigned to protect the member of Congress. Before dying, the detective shot the man four times. The gunman survived and was subdued and arrested by two other police officers. Several lives were saved by that Capitol Police detective. There are other examples, including the anthrax letters a terrorist sent to two senators in the Capitol following the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Those, though, should be enough to help you understand that our job is to ensure that the women and men you send to Washington to do your business have a safe place to do it, regardless of their party affiliation or politics. Yes, what they do is messy, it is complicated, and it is noisy. At times, it can be exasperating and tiresome. Still, it is the government we have chosen. So, we protect them. We also make sure that when you or your church, mosque, synagogue, or other organization comes to the Capitol to have your voice heard, you are protected, whether you come individually or in the tens or the hundreds or the thousands. You see us perform our job day after day, year after year. It’s all so baked into our democracy that you hardly think about it...

~~~

You know folks, this is TRUTH... No matter what Trump and the Republicans are trying to do, they LIE

They have manipulated people like no other president ever has done. Even Nixon, another republican who was a criminal and left office in disgrace was a petty criminal in comparison...

I included the last video--it helps to consider one person's situation.

Right Reason? To me, it represents exactly how the beginning of the misinformation began and, I've learned that if you have lies repeatedly given by a president, then what can happen, it means somebody can decide they had a "right reason" to attack our CAPITOL

Now try to explain that to me...

My opinion, the rhetoric that led up to the January 6th Insurrection was going on for so long that repetition of misinformation led to how it happened for some.

I, on the other hand, had been somewhat of a fanatic keeping track of all that was done during the 2016 term

And, on January 6th, I was there watching as Trump incited people to go to the Capitol

I watched the January 6th congressional investigations

I've read follow-up books from a number of participants

I know Truth when I hear it because it supports what I had already seen by my own eyes and ears...

I feel sorry for the guy in the last video... and hope that what is going on right now to so many people, the lawlessness being initiated by the now president can be stopped by those who still have the will to fight for God's Truth...

God is Watching

I pray your actions support Him in all Ways

Gabby

Masters: The Archers of Saint Sebastian III - by Jeanne Roland - Personal Favorite 2025 - Melodrama at its Finest!

Upon finishing Masters late last night, my first and immediate thought was to begin my review of this book with some thoughts on Melodrama. I had already read, somewhere, that Roland loved melodrama, so I knew exactly what to expect--or thought I did... You know... Think Soap Operas... At least that is what they used to call them. Those daily portions of an ongoing story that are fed to, mostly women, all over the world... My mother, my cousin...you get the idea...there were always fans who would stop everything each day to watch "my story..." LOL Seriously? Truthfully, I rarely watched unless I was forced to, by being at somebody's house visiting and would have to stop all activities, at least until The Guiding Light or whatever, was over...

But the storyline wasn't necessarily the issue... As an avid reader of books on all things, I got used to a finale--a climatic completion, most of the time totally satisfactory, even if I wasn't a fan of the book itself. A writer had written a good story, which may or may not have met my personal preferences. I acknowledged that and would evaluate the book on merit as opposed to opinion... Now, as my posting to the right says, I include not only my merit review but my personal opinion... and I normally purchase all of the books I now review.

As you have seen, I read straight through this trilogy, often losing sleep to finish and move on, needing to know what was coming... Until I came to Masters... The ending did not satisfy... BUT, I started searching and learned that the author is writing a fourth book--I am sure she realized that she could not leave her fans hanging... GUARDS is the next book!!!! Not yet published, but I am thrilled and hope that my personal desires will be ultimately met before the series ends... LOL 

So, I scanned many different videos and discovered the following at last. It is created for writers in particular and I thought it might be of interest to those writers who "review my reviews..."  Because... this latest book is the most melodramatic of those now published! Roland has unbelievable timing in writing her stories... She ensures that at the end of the book, the reader both immediately wants to read more of the story, but, also, provides a great cliffhanger that excites and titillates the reader to look for answers that have been left hanging, at least in my mind... LOL Thus, I'll be looking for the next book due out in February if everything goes right!

Hey! Everybody! I'm now an honorary Guild Member! Me! A Girl! LOL I'll be getting the first chapter of Guards to read!

Now on to Masters!

 

A light snow must have fallen sometime earlier in the night, unnoticed by us all in our preoccupation with the evening’s more dire events, and before me now stands a perfect circle of white bathed in the light of a full moon. I’ve only seen a moon like the one that’s out tonight once before, on the night I led the squires on an outing to the convent of St. Genevieve to ask for a kiss. A witching moon the boys called it then, and I guess they were right; at least, with the icy foliage and the snow-strewn ground gleaming in the moonlight the place is so transformed from what it was during the day that I hardly recognize it. Now it’s an inviolate druid’s circle or the forbidding haunt of a faery queen, and I suppose it should be beautiful. But this place can never be anything but ugly to me, and if anyone had told me when I stumbled blindly away from here this morning that I’d ever come back willingly, or that it would now seem to me to be a place where things made sense, I’d have said he was crazy. I pluck up my courage and pick my way across the open ground, lifting each foot high and placing it down deliberately again as I go. A nervous tick has started pulsing away erratically against my wrists and behind my temples at being back here again, but when I pause to lean the bow in my hand against my leg and adjust the shooting bracer carefully on my arm, I’m not stalling. It’s just my usual routine, before taking any shot. When I’ve got the bracer positioned, I pick up my bow again. It’s a long clean, line, and holding its smooth wood feels good. It feels right. It’s something I understand, something that makes sense. I make sense, when it’s in my hand. I’m a boy again, Tristan’s squire Marek and an archer of St. Sebastian, the boy I want to be. It’s about the only thing that’s made any sense today, and right now I need to do something that makes sense, something I can know exactly how I’m supposed to feel about it. I slide an arrow out from the quiver slung across my shoulder, and roll it between my fingers. It’s one I made myself, and I don’t think I’m bragging when I say it’s as beautiful as any work of art. I’m good with my hands and I never do anything but my best work on Tristan’s equipment, and a squire always shoots with his master’s arrows. It’s a little thing, but it feels good, too, moving in my hand. I watch the thin red whipping swirl through the feathers of the fletching as I twirl the arrow, and the red bands around the shaft that are Tristan’s mark blur until they could be a smear of blood. With a deep breath, I slip the nock of the arrow onto the bowstring. Then I step to the place where Tristan fell, an unmarked arrow in his side. I know the exact spot where it happened, on the day of that fateful hunt here so long ago. I recognized it right away this morning, didn’t I, when Remy and I came out of the woods across it, by some extraordinary chance? A lucky chance for me, as it turns out, although I felt anything but lucky, then. Now even with it covered in snow I couldn’t miss it. Not after the wretched scene that followed our discovery, when all the boys spilled into the clearing behind us, to find me with a broken arrow clutched in my hand. A fresh wave of frustration and rage washes over me, although after all that’s happened since, I’m no longer sure who or what it is I’m so angry at. Myself, maybe. How could I have been running thoughtlessly through the woods to Tristan’s rival, bent on betraying Tristan, and myself? I was about to throw away everything I’d worked so long and hard to achieve for the both of us, and why? Because I’d let the girl in me be seduced. And how easily he did it! Just by letting a hawk land on my hand. At the thought of how I felt standing in Brecelyn’s field as that bird of his swooped down toward me, a flush of shame floods my cheeks. Who am I kidding? I know exactly who it is I’m really furious at. I give myself a shake. I didn’t come here to think about this morning. I came here to forget all about it. It’s time to take aim and focus on what it is I really want. So I force my mind further back, to the day Tristan was shot, and I lift my bow slowly. As I do I sight across the clearing, along the path the arrow that struck Tristan must have come in its flight. My eyes search out the hiding place where his shooter would have been concealed, waiting for his prey, and I find it easily: a fallen log, with the tall stump of a tree rising next to it, its arms outstretched. It’s not hard to imagine it’s the boy who must have stood beside it then — an archer in St. Sebastian’s garb, dressed all in black, without a spot of color to relieve the midnight of his costume. I bend my bow, and as I rise into my shot, I focus all my concentration on that stump, just as though it really were that treacherous boy, that day. As I do, in my mind I picture Tristan’s enemy and mine as he would have looked then: tall and strong, his head held high, the huge yew bow in his powerful hands trained on Tristan. He throws back his broad shoulders, and those incredible arms of his eagerly stretch his bow, straining it to the breaking point for the kill. There’s a murderous scowl blazing on his handsome face; his thick, black hair falls in a wave across his brow, his dark eyes flash with fire; his mouth curls into a triumphant sneer, as his breath comes out hot and fast through parted lips that … uh … his lips … warm, hungry lips, pressing mine … “Oh, damn it all!” 

With an exasperated cry I squeeze my eyes shut and let my arrow fly, sending it with shaking arms in a perfect shot, straight for his eye. The arrow strikes the stump with a loud thwack. It’s a very satisfying sound. To me, it sounds like finality. Okay, maybe it’s an empty gesture. But I do feel better. A little. “Gads, Marek! What a remarkable shot!” a languid voice suddenly exclaims behind me, and I jump about two feet straight into the air. I clutch my chest and stagger backward, more from shock than from fear. I’d know that impeccably accented voice anywhere. It’s Gilles, and I’m caught. I can’t believe it! I’ve managed to make a complete fool of myself on the exact same spot, twice in one day. My eyes fly open, and I whirl around. Sure enough, an elegant boy is lounging up against a tree a few feet behind me, dressed to the nines despite the hour and casually examining the fingernails of one hand in the moonlight. “But whatever do you have against stumps?” he drawls, amused. “Why, you’ve positively emasculated the poor thing!” I look back over my shoulder, to see with dismay that he’s right. My arrow is sticking out of the stump. But it’s much, much lower down on it than where anyone could picture a boy’s eye to be.,,

~~~

The hierarchy of the Guild is mandatory, filled with painful penalties on just about anything that the Masters disapprove... Using the term master begins at the lowest level. Squires refer to their Masters, the Journeys... Journeys refer to those who have become Masters, as such... But, there is only one Head Master at a time... We see even more of this cruel man as we start reading the latest book in this extraordinary and fascinating series!

When I don’t rise to his bait, Gilles doesn’t take it amiss. Needing no audience, he simply returns to his earlier theme and starts waxing lyrical about lovers again in a most grating fashion. When he starts to sing an old love ballad that echoes crazily around the hollow room I move away, not wanting to let Gilles suspect how much all his talk of lovers is getting under my skin. For some reason, I find myself gravitating over to one of the alcoves, to the place where I dragged Tristan to tend to his wound here after the hunt; to the place where I pulled the arrow out of Tristan’s body that Taran shot into him.

~~~

Forgive my move from totally medieval... I so enjoyed the lyre music that I wanted to also hear songs with which I was acquainted...LOL

“In a clearing in the forest there stands a willow tree,” Charles croons, and I don’t like the song already. But I tell myself with Gilles suggesting it, it could be worse. It could be about a stump. “Beneath its bending branches you used to wait for me,” Charles warbles on. “But your heart is as fickle as clouds that ride the skies, for oh my faithless lady, you believed all their lies! Why did you give ear to idle rumors, slurs that I was fancy free? Or trust in the opinions of others over your own experience of me? How often have I proved noble, more than worthy of esteem? Oh, why didn’t you remember: things aren’t always what they seem?” My head swivels around and I look sharply over at Gilles; it’s obvious now where he got this line of his. But he’s not looking at me, and I don’t think he asked for the song to tease me. And as Charles begins the next stanza, I have to wonder why he did. Despite cutting his hair (and some of his affectations), Gilles is still a wands man. So maybe it’s as simple as that. But I doubt it. I feel myself blushing in the dark, and I look furtively around the garden to see if anyone is looking at me, embarrassed by the thought that the reproachful words of the song could somehow be meant for me. Of course, no one else is thinking about me in connection with the song. It’s a love song after all, and their heads are full of thoughts of the trials, or of their own amours. So I suppose, given the way he feels about me, it’s only natural that the one boy who is staring at me intently from across the little patch of grass is Remy. I can’t tell if the moonlight is making him romantic, or if he’s thinking about what happened between us in Brecelyn’s clearing, when we found Taran’s broken arrow and he begged me not to tell. But I bet he knows I kept that promise about as well as I’ve kept my promises to his master, and with the moon casting long, distorting shadows across his face he looks older than usual, and more serious. Hard, even, and a stray thought pops into my head, that it’s odd Remy’s never held my low opinion of his master against me. In the strange light that’s making everything look so different, it suddenly strikes me as incredible. Where another boy would hate me for it, instead Remy loves me. It must be the alcohol confusing me, since soon Armand nudges Remy and the two of them start whispering about something together, to all appearances quite happily. But as Charles’s rich tones fill the garden, I can hardly bear to hear any more of the song, or to think about what Remy’s master must be making of it, and it takes all my willpower to keep myself from looking directly over at him. "St. Sebastian’s is our family, and a merry band were we, until I found you with another, with my own guild brother — Tell me, was that kiss just to punish me?" Before Charles can finish the line, Taran’s already on his feet. He’s gotten up even more swiftly than he did from table, and just like then he turns heel and without a word to anyone he disappears into the darkness of the portico, no doubt heading inside to bed. Nobody much seems to notice; abrupt departures are nothing unusual for him, and the boys are too spellbound by the magic of the evening to pay any mind to him. Even Remy doesn’t seem to mark it, since Armand is now pestering him with some nonsense about ghosts, and the two of them are quietly arguing about it. Nobody, that is, but me. As soon as Taran is on his feet, in the same instant I’ve sprung up, too, almost as though we were connected by an invisible string. And without a thought for what he or anyone else might think about it, in a flash I dash recklessly across the garden, and I run after him. I catch up with Taran behind the vines, and as Charles is belting out the last lines of the wretched song, I’m pulling Taran back frantically by his sleeve. “When all my trials are over, dig my grave beneath that tree, with a wand as my marker, inscribed for all to see: No one ever loved her more, or did more for her than me." Taran turns to peer down at me in the dark, and as the words of the song hover in the air between us, we stand there in the portico, so frozen for a moment that again I think we could be statues in a niche, hidden from the view of the others in the garden only by a thin veil of leaves. “Taran,” I stammer breathlessly, “Taran, I … oh, Taran, I don’t, I don’t … I, oh, Taran.” And then I’m in his arms, and I’m kissing him. Or he’s kissing me, most violently. I don’t know how I got there — if I grabbed him, or he grabbed me. I don’t really care, since his arms are tight around me and I’m swimming in moonlight, up through the clinging vines that are sweet with scent and trembling right along with me. The blood in my veins is liquid fire and it’s moonbeams, and as I drink Taran in as deeply as I longed to do that day in the archives, his kiss is moonlight, too, and it’s fire and I’m drowning in it. As abruptly as it started, it’s over. Out in the garden the boys’ voices raise in laughter at some joke or other, and at the sudden sound my eyes fly open...

Taran’s nowhere to be seen. I’m still sitting out in the garden, with my head on Tristan’s shoulder and my back up against the base of the tree. It was just the moon playing tricks on me, and I dreamed the whole thing. I straighten up, and I wipe away the drool that’s been puddling from the corner of my mouth onto Tristan’s shoulder self-consciously. I’m burning in the dark, as disoriented as if my feet had been suddenly pulled out from under me and all the breath knocked out of me; I’m only vaguely aware of Tristan now drawling amusedly over my head, “It’s dashed ungrammatical, too, isn’t it? It really should be ‘no one did more for her than I,” and as the boys all laugh again, I struggle back to reality: I’ve been slumped out here under a tree drunkenly slavering over Taran, while he’s surely back in his room, lying face-down on his cot with his face buried in that sea-foam green veil of my sister’s. But I don’t let it upset me unduly. I really don’t. On a night like this, anyone can slip. I am a little drunk, and no one can control what he thinks in his sleep. Besides, I’ve already admitted to myself that I’m in love with him. The full moon comes around only once a month; by morning it will be gone, and with it all its cruel fantasies. So I force myself to settle back into enjoying what’s left of the evening, and I think I manage it pretty admirably, although some of its charm has understandably palled for me. What stays with me the longest isn’t the humiliation of it, or even annoyance at myself that I haven’t really managed to forget about that almost-kiss of Taran’s, since it’s not hard to figure out what inspired the dream. It’s the chastising words of Gilles’s song. And it’s that the feeling I had in my dream that there was something I was desperate to tell Taran is still lingering — only now that I’m awake, I’m no longer sure exactly what it is. With the competitions starting up again in earnest, I know I’ll never really have a chance to thank Taran for saving me on the tower, or find a way to tell him that I no longer think quite so badly of him. But I have a niggling feeling that whatever my dream-self was about to say to Taran there under the vines was something more than either of those things. Gilles interrupts my meditations not much later, by giving me another meaningful prod with the toe of his boot. When he proceeds to drawl down at me sourly, “A lovers’ moon, indeed! What a pity, Marek, it’s turned out all along just to be Aristide’s,” all I can do is agree. And with that, I’m more than ready to go in. I cast one last baleful look up at the brilliant moon. It’s so huge and bright, it could be the eye of our Saint himself, keeping tabs on me. So I lift my arms in that motion that’s like I’m aiming to shoot down the moon, and as I follow my master inside to get some much-needed sleep, I grumble to myself, “If you had to give me a test, Sebastian, did it have to be such a hard one?”

~~~

A couple of things I need to point out for possible readers. These books in the series cannot be considered free-standing. Consider this, Marek is the main character. We are privy to all of her thoughts, her dreams, her tantrums, her planning and her love mates--whether or not she wants them... That results in Marek's thoughts going back and forth often and sometimes from book to book. One in particular is that one day she loves a boy; the next she gets so mad that she hates him, doesn't trust him...and so on... To me, this writing made my reading more compelling. I was totally lost within Marek's life from the first words in Book 1. Fortunately I have a good memory so a change of heart on her part which contradicted what was said in the last book, was just another characteristic of this main character... But, sometimes, I just wanted to slap her face and give her a chance to talk to somebody--like me--LOL But she had nobody with whom she could share ALL of her innermost thoughts... What a cruel life punishment that resulted purely from her father being murdered!

I've always been a fan of drama, mystery, romantic suspense. This book has all of that. But, in my opinion, 90% of the melodrama in these books was brought about by Marek, actually created by Marek, or bitterly responded to by Marek... That's a lot of burden to throw at a 16-year-old girl... Sometimes I loved her; other times I was frustrated with her inability to, like one Journey said, keep her mouth shut; but most of all I admired her resilience at every turn that was forced upon her by others! And, I could appreciate her often turning to Sebastian, her Patron Saint, to help her through what she was doing...To me, God's role in our lives is what keeps us...moving...forward.  Kudos, especially, for Marek, to author Jeanne Roland! 

Head Master Guillaume has left the Guild to travel to another town. There is immediate speculation as to why and what he is actually doing. But when he comes back, several of the journey and squires are excited to see that at least one past master, with a skilled background, comes with him, together with two of those journeys who were cut due to low scores during the competitions, and have been brought back to take on different roles. Charles who was our lyre player in earlier books and Jerome whose eyesight had prevented him from moving upward. Each of them will be assuming different roles as the Guild works to both finish reconstruction after the plague/riots as well as to expand the programs of the Guild. Crossbows, another idea generated by Merek will become a new skill to be taught!

Upon Master G's return, he announced one major decision. All of the rankings from the last competition would be eliminated. Journeys were stunned. Squires automatically began to think about how they could guide their Journey forward... But, for Marek, she had already accepted that she had allegiance of some sort to two different Journeys. One of who had been top winner last year. Now, she knew she had to place her Journey, Tristan, first in all ways...

Thoughts flitter across my mind as I consider what was happening back then. Was Marek (or somebody like her) the first to propose that, instead of competitions for each other, that teams could be created to work together, to challenge each other... In any event, last year she had initiated what was called Squires Club and it had been so successful that Master G decided to break into that activity... As we now know, Master G is also an authoritarian dictator. Even though Squires Club was a success and had provided an excellent exhibition at last year's event, Marek had never asked for permission to even form such a club! She Must Pay! It is doubtful to me that even Master G did not know what he had done when he had this year placed Taran as the trainer of this group--no more unsanctioned leadership of a club of squires! The Squires, especially, as well as we readers, will be privy to the ongoing arguments between Taran and Marek as he slowly took over control, often disagreeing with Marek in front of the other squires...

Still, Marek thought through what had happened and decided that Master G had not stopped the squires working as a team. So, she was now able to start thinking about what could be done as the Journeys started their do-over and beginning again to establish a new ranking for those remaining journeymen... She chose Gilles, the journey who was top at most of his competition activities, to team up with Tristan who was lower in ranking. Her proposal to them was that each could help the other train for whichever type of skill that was needed for the three different types. While they agreed to try her idea, nothing prepared Marek or the entire Guild for what these two actually did...

Gilles is an aristocrat with lots of money and chose flamboyant clothes, jewelry and type of language that reflected best of his personality. Tristan had, long ago, given reign of his illegitimate background, to adopt a somewhat insolent attitude where he chose sarcasm as his main type of communication to those with whom he was not close... Gilles and Tristan began to spend much more time together than ever before. They began to practice together and saw the potential... Then, based upon their respective personalities, they decided that the only way to really understand the other's skills, was to become that other one! Yes, Tristan soon had taken on the persona of Gilles and vice versa! Everybody thought it was hilarious...except maybe the Masters...

But, we also find just what kind of man Gilles really is, when he creates a false celebration for his squire that was absolutely revolting... I hope the next book rectifies this piece of betrayal...

Still practice for the "Firsts" competition, once the theme was announced, moved forward smoothly... Which, of course, allowed our author to slide in several new catastrophes for Marek to deal with! One of which could possibly lead to her death by revelation that she was a girl... Yes, The Guild would kill any woman who violated the sanctity of the Male Guild... 

And, second, the attack of Tristan, which prevented him from being on time for the exhibition portion of the competitions!

This book thus became much more melodramatic than, in my opinion, either of the first books... The switch of Gilles and Tristan was hilarious... The two scenes for Marek, especially, and Tristan are hair-raising... By the end of this book, readers will be thinking of Marek as a true HEROINE!

But the ending, I think, is what led Roland, to write another book. She knew that readers would not be willing to stop...and...accept... This story was NOT OVER! I--We Want More!

I've asked the author/publisher  whether I can share the first chapter here... So, keep watching for info on Guards: The Archers of Saint Sebastian IV!

GABixlerReviews

Will Marek ever Become the Woman She Must Be to Love?

Squires: The Archers of Saint Sebastian II by Jeanne Roland - Personal Favorite for 2025 - Set in 1300s!

 Please take the opportunity to first 

read the (last post) review of First Book...

No funeral was needed - Merik/Merieke is Alive!

Sample of the lovely pictures beginning each part and each chapter

I spread my hawk’s wings against the wind and I let them carry me high, until I’m soaring over the walls of St. Sebastian’s like an arrow shot from one of the boys’ bows, a fantastic shot ripping the sky. I circle around over the woods outside the walls until I can look down and see the little meadow where Tristan and I used to go, with the old broken windmill that was our place rising beyond it. I hesitate, but it’s so exhilarating to fly, I keep climbing until the windmill is just a speck below me, and my wings are so strong beneath me I know there’s nothing to keep me from reaching the vast vault of heaven. I speed upward, faster now, almost reaching my goal. Before I can, something calls me back. It’s a voice, urgent and pleading, and try as I might, I can’t resist it. The sun is brilliant overhead. It must be midday, and as I circle down it’s so hot and still in the meadow that no breeze stirs its dry weeds, not even the drone of insects disturbs the perfect silence of the scene below. I circle around again, letting myself glide lazily in the scorching light of noon. Something soft, a gentle breeze, ruffles my feathers soothingly, whispering, urging me to stay, begging me not to fly away again. But the meadow isn’t sleeping. It’s hushed, as though holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. My appearance is deceptive, too. I’m alert; nervous, eager. My keen eyes are searching, looking for someone, waiting for him to appear. As I look, something does enter the meadow, but isn’t a boy. It’s a stag, a great set of antlers held gracefully aloft on its magnificent head, taking a slow, tentative step forward out of the woods, and at first I’m surprised. Then slowly I realize it’s what I’ve been waiting for, all along. As it emerges from among the trees I swoop down and let a shrill, clear cry ring out through the empty sky, and at my call, the beast lifts its head to follow my flight, mesmerized. But as I pass over the windmill, the old structure transforms until its round form becomes the tower of a castle, and a flash of light from its heights blinds me, and I begin to fall. As I do, I see a lone archer, not on the tower as I’d imagined. He’s in the cover of the greenwood at the edge of the forest. I can’t see him clearly, his face is in shadow, but he’s wearing the distinctive garb of an archer of St. Sebastian’s. He’s a flash of black, and my cries become wild alarms of danger. He’s already nocked an arrow, and he’s aimed it straight at the stag. Without thinking, I tighten my fall into a dive. I mean to warn the stag, to drive it away to safety. It’s startled, but it can’t seem to move. It stays rooted in its spot, watching me speed toward it, distracted by my flight. Despite my sharp cries it doesn’t flee, and I see the archer rise and loose his arrow. The arrow finds its mark, but it doesn’t strike the deer. Instead I’m the one falling, faster and faster, an arrow through my heart, until I land hard in the dust, back within the walls of St. Sebastian’s. 

I wake with a start, as I jerk in bed at the illusion of falling, and a twinge of pain in my shoulder makes me twitch against the straw mattress under me. My eyes are closed and my head feels hot and hazy, as though I’m still lost in the strangely familiar dream, and somewhere deep in my mind a cry of danger is still echoing. There’s something I need to remember, something important, but I can’t think straight. I can’t seem to remember who or where I am, but that’s not what’s bothering me. It’s something about the dream. Somehow, I know I’ve seen the dream before and that it has something to tell me, something I desperately need to know. Something is whispering through my memory, urging me to stay, urging me to stay asleep until I can remember it. Maddeningly, the effort of trying to catch it back drives the dream further away. I put my hand up to my face to shield my eyes from a bright light that’s filtering through my closed eyelids. My fingers find the rough ridges of scars on my face, and I do remember something. I’m Marieke Verbeke, kicked by a mule at eleven years old, the ugly, scarred girl who dressed as a boy to become a squire named Marek at St. Sebastian’s. The dream is real, too. At least, there was an arrow. I was shot through the heart on the walls of Sir Brecelyn’s tower, when I stepped in front of an arrow speeding toward my father, and I died in his arms. No. I shake my head, trying to clear it. That’s not right. It wasn’t my father with me on the tower, it was Tristan. Tristan! The name flashes out in my memory, and the dazzling brightness surrounding me resolves itself into sharp rays of light that stab through the spaces between my fingers. Against my closed lids, I see his form again outlined by those shafts of light just as he was when I first saw him on the garden wall. It was Tristan whose arms were around me, Tristan whispering to me, begging me not to go. I see him again as clearly as if he were still holding me, as if the mattress pressing on my cheek were his cheek on mine, with that one lock of hair hanging down over his eyes, his usual mischievous grin replaced by the shock of grief. It was the perfect ending to my strange story with him: I died the hero, the boy who saved him, who’d served him well as his squire. It was the fulfillment of the vow I pledged to St. Sebastian to allow me to stay at the guild, my vow to see Tristan through his first year of trials without ever letting him know I was really a girl, or die trying. I finally outdid all the boys, I made a grand gesture that outdid even Tristan himself. It was the only good way my story could end. It was glorious. But my heart constricts painfully at the loss of him. Slowly, I open my eyes and look around me. All I can see is blinding white. I put my hand down to hover over my chest, to find the arrow gone. It’s as I thought. I’m whole again, and there’s only one place this can be. Despite my sins, my sacrifice and my vow must have brought me here. I should be grateful, and I am, really. But all I can think is, the place is empty. I’m alone, and Tristan isn’t here. At the thought, I feel another sharp jab of pain. Only this time, the pain is entirely real. It’s out of place. If this is paradise, I should be beyond earthly pain. Confused, I bring my hand down to the source of my discomfort, to find a bandage wrapped not over my heart, but tightly around my left shoulder. So the arrow didn’t pierce my heart. I’m not dead. My perfect ending wasn’t the end! I guess I don’t know how to go down in glory, after all. I should be wretched, finding that the saint didn’t actually help me find a way to leave St. Sebastian’s; I’m right back where I was before I climbed the tower, caught between wanting to stay and needing to leave, with no good options. I should be in despair, since there will never be as neat an ending with Tristan, and I now have no idea how it can end. Whatever happens from here, it’s going to be messy. I should be heartbroken. But I’m not. I’m alive, and I’ve never been gladder of anything. There’s nothing like dying to make you desperate to live, no matter what. And even if it means bringing down the walls of St. Sebastian’s around me, I know I’ll seek out Tristan again. That part of the dream was real, too. I’d rather fall from heaven in a heap in the dust back inside St. Sebastian’s than never see Tristan again. But I’m not at St. Sebastian’s now, and I still can’t seem to remember everything that’s happened. Where can I be? I blink my eyes and turn on my mattress, trying to see around me. There’s no sign of Tristan anywhere, and I feel panic rising in my chest. I’ve got to find him, I’ve got to get back to him, and to the others. It’s the only thought that makes any sense, and I can’t shake the feeling of danger that lingers from my vivid dream. I try to rise enough to figure out where I am, to figure out what’s happened. The wound on my shoulder is aching and the binding is tight, but I manage to raise my head enough to see that I’m in a small, spare room with whitewashed stone walls. There’s no decoration at all in the room and it’s furnished only with a small chair, table, and the cot on which I’m lying, but there’s an exterior window and the shutters are thrown open, and light is pouring in. Everything in the room is white, even the simple shift nightdress I’m wearing. It feels so strange to have my legs free, after so many months dressed in boys’ breeches. I could be a little girl again, asleep in my room in my father’s house. But the thought doesn’t comfort me. Instead, it brings me around sharply, and I finally feel awake. With a sense of alarm, I let my hand slide down from the bandage on my shoulder, to find exactly what I expected. Bare flesh below. The binding around my breasts is gone. Wherever I am, I’m a girl again. This is something I can’t be at all glad about. Suddenly a gaunt face leans over to peer down at me with a serious expression. It’s the face of an old man, and he seems to come out of nowhere, to materialize suddenly over my cot. For a moment, I think maybe I was wrong and I am dead after all, and I take a sharp inhalation of breath in my shock at meeting my maker so unexpectedly and when I’m so unprepared. I even have a moment’s guilt at the thought that what I’m thinking about at this supreme moment of judgment is boys. Then I recognize the face. “Abelard! Are you here, too?” I cry in relief, my senses still muddled. “Where would I be, but here at Vendon?” the old monk says, smiling down at me. Of course. I remember saying something about bringing my body to the abbey, to the monks here who are my friends. Only I thought they would bury me, not heal me. I guess I’m lucky that some of the brothers still practice medicine, though the church strictly speaking doesn’t encourage it anymore. I’m certainly not going to complain. “Did I startle you, Marieke? If so, it serves you right!” Abelard says, not unkindly. “Why, the shock you gave us! Imagine our surprise, when a rather unbelievable young man turns up on our doorstep with the body of a dead boy in his arms, and it turns out not to be a boy at all, but our very own Marieke, and alive, after all this time!” 

“An unbelievable young man?” I repeat. Leave it to me to focus on the wrong thing. “Very handsome he was, and dressed like an archer, from St. Sebastian’s! In quite a state, too. Needless to say, nothing like it had ever happened here before. The Prior was very put out.” “Oh, Abelard! That young man! You didn’t tell him who I was, did you? You didn’t tell him I was a girl?” It’s bad enough that my perfect ending with Tristan is spoiled, but if he’s found out I’m a girl, everything is ruined. If he’s found out, I can’t go back to him. Or to St. Sebastian’s. Maybe that’s even why he isn’t here now. “He seemed to know already.” This brings me up short. I’m still dizzy, and my brain isn’t functioning properly; how could Tristan have already known? When did he find out? If he knew I was a girl, why didn’t he say anything? There’s something I’m not remembering, but I can’t think what it is. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s wrong, somehow. Tristan didn’t know, I’m sure. But Abelard is continuing: “And anyway, it soon became pretty clear.” I look up at Abelard in alarm, to see him blush. To my horror, I know exactly what he means. “Oh, don’t tell me he helped undress me!” “It seemed right at the time,” Abelard concedes sheepishly, as I fall back against the mattress, defeated. There’s no question, then. “You know, Marieke,” Abelard explains, “we’re all monks, so it seemed more fitting, and after all,” he pauses and gives me what I would think was a sly look if it was from anyone else, “from the way he was acting, we did rather think you two were, well …” he breaks off inquiringly, then seeing my expression, he adds: “I guess we were wrong.” We sit in silence for a moment, as my head throbs and I try to understand what’s happened. “I’m sorry, Marieke. Seeing to your wound, that was the important thing. And it wasn’t slight. Nobody was thinking of anything else, I can assure you. Luckily, he got you here in time.” Father Abelard reaches down and takes my hand gently in his, but I try to roll over to face the wall. I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m tired. There’ll be time, later, to hear it all. All I can think of now is: it’s all over, if Tristan knows. And if he helped undress me, he must surely know. I’d promised Tristan that there would be no more lies between us, not important ones, anyway, and now he’s found out my secret when I couldn’t explain, when I couldn’t defend myself. He must think I’ve betrayed him, that I’ve made a fool of him. Why couldn’t I just have died? “Really, I’ve never seen anyone like him,” Abelard muses, but I don’t want to hear it, until he says something that changes everything. “Yes, a most remarkable young man. Built like an ox.” And suddenly I really do remember everything. Of course! It wasn’t Tristan who brought me here. It was his half-brother Taran. I remember him, all right. The thought of him brings on another sharp jab of pain. It isn’t aching, or longing. It stings, like a slap in the face. “In fact, he’s been here every day since then …” “What?!” I cry in alarm. “How long have I been here?” “Five days.” At that, I struggle to get up. Five days, lying on this cot? I have to get up, to get back. I have to find Tristan. “Marieke!” Abelard says firmly, putting out a hand to push me gently back onto the cot. “You’ve had a serious wound. You can’t go anywhere yet. You were delirious for three days!” “Delirious?” I say stupidly, my head swimming, as I fall back heavily under his hand. “Did I, uh, say anything I shouldn’t have?” “Don’t you always?” a blunt voice answers from somewhere behind Father Abelard. I’m not good at recognizing voices, but I’d know that voice anywhere. Sure enough, Taran’s standing at the threshold, looking in. When I see him, I cry out in surprise, and despite myself my voice sounds much more eager than I intend. At the sound of my voice, he also takes a quick step forward, his face lit with what I might think was an eager expression, too, if I didn’t know him better. But I’m scowling now, and when Taran sees it, the look fades and is replaced by his usual masklike countenance. Despite the throbbing in my head, the sound of Taran’s voice and that sarcastic tone of his have brought everything rushing back. I’ve suddenly remembered begging Tristan to let Taran take me down from the tower, and asking him to bring me to the Vendon Abbey. In particular, I’ve remembered just how little Taran seemed to care that I was dying. How glad he looked, in fact. “Ah, son. I see you’re back again,” Abelard says, turning to greet Taran with a smile. “Just can’t stay away, eh? And this time, you’ll be pleased to find the patient finally doing well. Didn’t I tell you we’d have her back in good shape in no time?” “So, you’re awake,” Taran says, taking another step into the room, but not approaching the cot. “Sorry to disappoint you!” I snap. “Just what is that supposed to mean?” he says, frowning, but not coming any closer. “Don’t pretend you’re not disappointed I’m still alive! I saw the look on your face, on the tower. You couldn’t wait for me to die! I should have been more thoughtful, and died quickly! I’m so sorry to have taken up so much of your precious time, since I’m sure you had other, more pressing matters you wanted to attend to!” I’m pretty pleased with myself at remembering this taunt. Yes, it’s all coming back to me now. At some point during this exchange, Father Abelard’s quietly slipped from the chair next to me, but I confess, I hardly notice him go out of the room. I’m too focused on Taran. He’s leaning up against the far wall, and after an initial angry look crosses his face, he listens to my outburst with his usual impassive demeanor. “Are you quite finished?” he says flatly. “For the love of St. Peter! I knew you weren’t dying.” When I give him a disbelieving look, he continues sarcastically, “The others all seem to believe anything you tell them. You’re a boy. You’re dying. They’d probably have believed you if you’d told them you were St. Sebastian himself! If you’d really been dying, if that arrow had really gone through your heart, you’d have been dead almost instantly. There wouldn’t have been time for all that drivel you and Tristan were spewing at each other.” I open my mouth to make a snide retort, but I can’t think of one. He’s right. I, of all people, should have known it. After all, it took my own father only minutes to die of just such a wound. But the memory of Taran’s face as he watched me die still hurts. I’m still angry about it, so I cry out indignantly, “A likely story! If you knew I wasn’t dying, why didn’t you say so?” He raises his eyebrows, and I think I see a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “And let them all take off your tunic right there, and inspect your wound? Besides,” he continues, in a voice that sounds much less amused, “it would have been a pity to cut short your touching scene with DuBois. It was all very moving. The ‘arrows won’t kill me’ bit was particularly inspired.” “And all too true, apparently.” It’s all I can manage. “So it would seem.” I turn my head to face the wall to hide my confusion. Everything he’s saying is true. If he hadn’t played along and pretended to think I was dying, I would have been discovered as a girl right then and there. But I’m still furious with him. I can picture his face when our eyes met on the tower, and I can feel again the squeeze of pain I felt when I saw how little he cared that I was slipping away. I can’t shake the feeling. It’s as though I’ve carried that image with me to the grave. “I was wounded! How could you be so sure I wouldn’t die?” “I, for one, had good reason to know just how much padding you wrap around your chest.” “Surely that binding alone couldn’t have stopped the arrow,” I say, forgetting my anger for a minute, wondering just how I did manage to survive an arrow at point-blank range. “No. Not alone. 

But it wasn’t the only thing you had strapped around your chest.” He points to the table by my bed, and when I turned to look, I see my St. Sebastian’s medal, dented and twisted, lying next to me. So the arrow hit the medal. I was right all along: St. Sebastian isn’t subtle. It’s the oldest trick in the book. St. Sebastian isn’t done with me, after all. “You had that medal pushed down between the layers of that blasted binding you wear. The arrow pushed it hard against the padding on your chest. The force of the blow seems to have knocked the senses out of you, and it certainly gave you a nasty bruise.” He falters for a moment when I drop my eyes, and I know we’re both thinking about just how he knows this. When a blush starts to creep up my neck, he continues hurriedly, “The point slid up and into your shoulder, too. You’ve got a pretty big cut just below the armpit on that side. I imagine it did feel like you were dying. With that arrow stuck tight in place by your bindings, it looked like it, too. And for some reason, you also seemed rather eager to believe it.” “What about the others? What did you tell them?” I ask, ignoring the question his last words imply. “Nothing. They all think you’re dead.” “By the Saint! It’s been five days! Why haven’t you told them I’m alive?” I cry, struggling to get into a sitting position, ready to fly out the door and find Tristan. Five days! It’s not just the thought of what Tristan must be feeling, believing me dead, that propels me. It’s also the irrational thought that maybe he’s already forgotten me, that every minute is taking me further away from him, and that he’s going on without me. But when I sit up the room spins, and I have to grip the edge of the cot to stay upright. 

“It’s all rather tricky, isn’t it?’ Taran is saying, frowning down at me. “Here, you’re a girl named Marieke. Until you’re healed, it’s better nobody knows where you are, isn’t it? It wouldn’t do to have half the guild trying to get in here.” He pauses, and then continues in a different tone. “That’s not the only reason,” he says slowly. “I thought it was up to you to decide. I rather got the impression you were planning to leave. Now you can, with no questions asked. You’re free and clear. You can be a girl again.” “Ugh! You should have just let me die!” I cry disingenuously, putting a hand to my temple. “You weren’t dying.” I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I speak again, I’m talking to myself as much as to Taran. “Why on earth would I want to be a girl again? What is there for me as a girl, anyway?” “Father Abelard could find you a position.” “What could I do?” I say bitterly. “Be a scullery maid? Work in a field? Even a brothel wouldn’t take me.” I open my eyes and glare at him. “How can I do any of that, after being at St. Sebastian’s? Would you want to go work in a kitchen?” “I’m not a girl.” “What does that matter?” I cry. “Why should I want to be a drudge, because of my sex? I’m a terrible cook, but I’m a damned good squire! I don’t want to knit. I want to shoot!” I know I must look ridiculous. Out of my squire’s clothes I’m finding it hard to play the part of the boy convincingly, but Taran also seems to be finding it hard to treat me with his usual contempt now that I’m dressed like a girl. Probably that ingrained notion of treating women with courtesy is too much even for him to overcome fully. I think he doesn’t know how to treat me now. He’s never been good with girls. Somehow, we both seem different, away from the guild. “Besides,” I add defiantly, “If what you’re saying is true, the saint saved me! That must mean he wants me to complete my vow, all of it, to see Tristan through to the very end. I’ve got to get back! Back to St. Sebastian’s!” “That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it?” Taran says, his voice flat. “It’s about DuBois.” I can’t answer. I really don’t know. I do want to get back to Tristan. I’m desperate to get back to him, in fact. But I don’t think that’s all of it, anymore. “Has it occurred to you,” he says slowly, “that if this is a message from St. Sebastian, maybe what it means is that he’s giving you a second chance? He’s giving you a chance to end things differently, a chance to try being a girl again? Don’t you owe it to the saint, owe it to yourself, to give it a try? Don’t you think it would be the best — the best for him, for you, and for the guild?”

~~~

Marek/Marieke was saved by her St. Sebastian medal, now twisted and bent, along with her bindings around her chest...She is now in the Abbey with Father Abelard in attendance as she wakes for the first time after 5 days... She was slowly remembering when Father Abelard mentioned the young man who had brought her to the Abbey. At first, she panicked, thinking it had been Tristan, her Journey for whom she was a squire. But, instead, as she remembered, she had asked Taran to bring her to the Abbey for burial, but he had gotten her there so quickly that they were able to save her. Thankfully, they were of those who had decided to continue the use of medicinal help even though the church was now against it...

And there, readers, you will meet the two individuals, Marieke and Taran, who will be with you throughout the entire series, as one of the most frustrating, extraordinary, and yet, heartbreaking lust/love plots that I personally had ever read...

What do I care if your face is ugly or beautiful? What’s it to me? What does it matter that it’s always wearing a scowl, or gaping to say something intensely irritating, or that I can’t bear to see it one more minute, looking up at him? It’s the face I see when I close my eyes, it’s the one I want to see when I open them, it’s the one I’m always looking for, the one I can’t forget. I want to slap it, kiss it, throttle it, hold it in my hands and never let it go. It’s the only one I feel anything about. It’s the one I feel everything about. What’s it to me? It’s yours.

Personally I had no problem believing what this poem which was written in a secret contest was meant to portray... But then, I've watched the plot thicken already and am quite clear in my assumption. By the last book, if I'm wrong, I will be very disappointed! LOL

~~~

 Let's step back and talk about the relationship between a squire and his Journey... They are with each other constantly and in all ways working toward the instructional development of the Journey, especially as they arrive at competition times... Tristant is an openly friend man, once he had found his new squire, Marek... Marek in turn, along with Tristan, was for the first time in her life, surrounded by beautiful boys, often in various states of dress. Marek found she was responding. Tristan was so beautiful and, frankly, sexy... But as their relationship had developed and he started calling her his little brother, Marek found her emotional relationship had become predominant--Tristant was more like a brother or, a younger replacement for her beloved father... most of the time...

Not so with Taran... Their eyes would meet and connect... There were times of friendship developing... But now, Taran was the only boy in the Guild that knew she was a girl! Mostly by the realization that Marek was not going to die, but needed medical attention--his having to remove her clothes, rather than having Father Abelard forced to do it... There is at least one other incident when Marek thought she was totally alone to bathe in a nearby pond, only to have Taran watching her... In fact, he would often be around where she would catch him... There was no doubt that her thoughts about Taran were not for a family member... And, readers will know how he feels as well...

But it got complicated... Taran was betrothed into a marriage alliance about which he had no control. Well, readers will be privy to all those private moments where the two were loving or hating... Because no way around it, Tristan and Taran were enemies... Half-Brothers... Worse, their father impregnated both his wife and a lover at the same time and bragged about it to everybody...with no shame! The shame was there, however, for both Taran and Tristan... And while Tristan received financial support for the Guild, Tristan had no real standing in the world in which his father lived--the aristocracy... And, when he met his brother's betrothed, he did not know of that arrangement...Nor did he plan to fall deeply in life with Taran's intended...

In fact, despite this being a Guild based upon a Saint of the Catholic Church, there was always two vices--drinking and sexual exploits on the minds of the boys...and...men... at that time. One minor point, though, I assumed since the Abbey made wine for sale... My guess is that water had already been discovered to be dangerous to actually drink during these times... Thus the wine... often to excess... But that didn't explain the dozens of sexual encounters (briefly described, most of the time)...

In any event, as Marek moved closer to being fully healed and able to leave the Abbey, she wound up being taken to the local convent... I could be wrong, but I don't think Marek lasted there more than a day! LOL I empathized with her... Soon she was on her way back to all of her friends at Saint Sebastian's! Returning to her routine duties, once all of the Journeys and Squires had welcomed her back "from the dead!"

Soon, however, she was to learn that a certain visitor to the Guild was a man whose voice sounded very much like the man who had killed her father... Soon, a prime reason for coming to Sebastian's was to learn more about her father--both his early life and who had killed him. Now the investigation would become a priority when this man was to host a visit of the School members to his home... and will continue on through the books. More and more was coming out that an execution of, possibly the prince was to occur... during the scheduled competition. More of the conspiracy that Marieke had heard from the men who killed her father, was being rumored and spreading...

At the same time, assumed to be a rumor as well, a plague was spreading...from Rome to France. Soon a cultish religious group, the “Flagellants,” were marching through town, blood dripping from some as they attempted to ward off the plague's coming... If you don't know about this group, check it out...I'm not going into detail...

Those at St. Sebastian's believed that they would be safe--be saved by their patron saint... It depends upon how you look at it... The Guild was within a walled area... Yet, when the plague, indeed, arrived, all of the community members were in danger and deaths started immediately... And, finally, those community members decided that if the Guild was not going to help people outside, then they would move inside those walls!

Everybody within the Guild took turns guarding the walls, but that soon was not enough... The Guild's Master contacted a friend who owned a castle and the entire residents of the Guild moved there for the duration. When they finally returned, great damage had been done. The only thing that had not been destroyed was the painting of Saint Sebastian but one arrow had been shot into one of his eyes... Everybody began to work to rebuild, but finally more men were brought in and the journeys and squires once again began to daily practice to prepare for the mandatory money-making trials which would be used to not only entertain, but select those Journeys who would be moving forward if they won...

Marek is such a treat for readers, especially for women... Even as one of the smallest "boys" in service, her knowledge and basic intuition has made her influential in many ways. She begins to help in the shop, putting forth the arrows faster than anybody else. She supports her Journey, even when he goes off on tangents and conducts himself as less than a Journeyman should... She interacts with all the squires on a personal basis, willing to help others and even starts to train them--although her initiative is frowned upon by the Head Master...

And, as the second book ends, even with all the turmoil she has gone through, Marieke admits, at least to herself, that she's in love with Taran...

Historical lovers...this series is for you. A personal note: one review I read commented that the language used was too modern... While this may be true, for me, it was perfect. I avoid fantasies, for instance, where names and language is "created" to fit their concept of what their fantasy requires... I find these books tedious and with little opportunity to fall into the story as opposed to having to be learning the language as we read... Roland uses all the technical language correctly. That, to me, is most important. And, the complexity and melodrama that she presents to us requires close attention to detail. I, for one, was glad I didn't also have to contend with some strange medieval words/phrases... Her characters are all delightful and effectively presented as individuals with a deep love for the Guild and others with whom they dwell... The only very small problem I found was that, in typing the manuscripts, two words were often transposed (these would never be found by spellcheck or grammarcheck) A Content Editor or proofreader must read the content to discover these...Small blips which do not detract from the storyline...

Look for Masters: The Archers of Saint Sebastian coming next...

The lyre player returns... I've not been able to find any songs with words from the book but there several in the book, which I will share at least one... clearly to supplement the story...

GABixlerReviews@aol.com