Jeanne Roland Presents First in Trilogy, Journeys: The Archers of Saint Sebastian - Declared Personal Favorites for 2025

A Murder

A Vow

A Deception!

It was May in the year 1347...

“Mark my words, God is already sweeping the east with terrible plagues, and we’ll be next. How much more famine can we take? We’ll be reduced to eating one another!”

I've been reading some wonderful books recently, but I lucked out by finding a trilogy (and maybe more) by Jeanne Roland which I can already say will be my top personal favorites for 2025! The books are historical, which is not my normal place to find such gems... but these books fit everything that I care about... Books wonderfully written, perfectly prepared and presented with artwork throughout which is outstanding! And Glorious Covers! Features a female main character...in a most spectacular situation(s) and who left me sobbing at the end of the first book...

And best of all! The author uses an arrow to separate scenes! You would not believe how the separation of scenes has been ignored by independent writers... That's when I miss, most, a book created by a publisher. Thing is, it's not a hard task, does not require additional work! Just need to know the basic editorial skills for writing a book!

I cannot remember any books that have brought forth such a steady stream of pure emotion from this reader! Watch for upcoming reviews for all!

 

By the way, my background did not include becoming involved with Saint Sebastian... Maybe this is true for some of you as well... So, I, of course, wanted to know more about how this man became a Saint...

Still, I can’t stop myself from taking a quick glance into the cavernous depths of the great hall, which the thin panes of colored glass placed high along on its walls do little to light even on the brightest day. Now with only the early morning gloom pressing in, it’s as black as pitch in there and a good ten degrees colder even than it was back in our dormitory. The wan streaks of blue and greenish light reaching in through the windows only add to the unpleasant atmosphere, mingling with the darkness like swirls of murky water. Above, the high ceiling of blackened wood greedily swallows what little light struggles upward, trapping it within the maze of its intricately carved coffers. The odor of musty wood and candle wax gives the air a thick quality that’s slightly nauseating, as though something palpable is forming within the shadows. It would only be a matter of seconds to cross the hall, and from where I’m standing I can clearly make out the outline of the door to the portico on its opposite side, but still I hesitate. I’m not afraid of the dark, and I know there’s nothing really waiting there for me. Nothing alive, anyway. It’s not the darkness that stops me, it’s the painting. The massive canvas hangs at the far end of the room, covering the wall virtually from floor to rafters. Even in the full light of day, it’s a commanding presence. Now in the stark emptiness of the hall it seems to have grown to fill the space completely. Its rich background hues of sumptuous blue-blacks and deep reds bleed into the surrounding darkness, so that the huge, lone human figure bristling with arrows at its center seems suspended in agony in the middle of the room, its vast expanse of naked, rent flesh as pale and as luminous as a moon in a midnight sky. For a moment I’m as mesmerized by that tortured figure again as I was the first time I saw it, not so many weeks ago. I remember every detail of that day, but my first sight of the painting stands out most vividly. Its image has become jumbled in my mind with other images, ones I don’t allow myself to see even in my mind’s eye, and confused with memories of the terrible events that were quickly to follow. So much has changed since then that I can’t trust the accuracy of my memories anymore, but I remember my reaction to the painting very clearly. I couldn’t forget it if I tried, because I thought it was the most exquisitely beautiful thing I had ever seen. Now I can’t bear to look at it. The morbid painted figure staring past me, eyes glazed with pain, is more than a gruesome reminder. It’s an accusation, a riddle I can’t solve. I fight down a wave of revulsion and give myself a mental shake. I have to be sharp today; this is no time to get caught up in memories or lost in grim fancies, and Tristan’s strange mood these past few days already has me on edge. Besides, perhaps it isn’t the painting, after all, that keeps me now from crossing the room. Perhaps it’s the plaque next to the arched doorway, which reads: Great Hall, Archers’ Guild of St. Sebastian. Members only beyond this point. No women allowed. I hesitate for a moment longer, then turn and proceed down the passageway along the Journeymen’s quarters, as I always do. Today isn’t going to be the day I try the shortcut after all. I’m lucky, though, and I make it out through the stables without meeting a single soul, except for a few stable boys still huddled asleep in one of the empty stalls. It’s probably not really luck at this hour, but I feel as though I’ve run a gauntlet unscathed anyway. I cross out onto the corner of the field where barrels filled with water for washing are lined up under the stable’s overhanging eaves. Although it’s still early, I content myself with splashing some water on my face and washing my hands thoroughly. Today is the first day of the trials, and I’m understandably nervous. If everything goes as expected, we should breeze through these preliminaries, but I can’t take any chances. I haven’t come this far to fail now. I run my wet hands through my hair and give my distorted reflection a quick check in the rippled glass of the empty archive window. Staring back at me is a young boy of indeterminate age. He could be anywhere from ten to thirteen, depending on what criteria you use to judge him: a little taller than you’d expect for a ten-year-old, but with a face and limbs that are still childishly soft and rounded. The facial features are small and delicate, except for the nose. That’s been spectacularly broken, leaving it crooked and misshapen. Short, lank hair frames the face, either hanging down in hanks of irregular length or sticking straight up at awkward angles, as though it’s been hacked off by a drunken pair of dueling barbers. It’s a singularly wretched cut, but it lends an air of vulnerability at odds with the brutality of scars, old and new, that snake across the nose to adorn the left brow. In all, I see just a rather average, ugly twelve-year-old boy, nothing extraordinary. No, nothing extraordinary — except for the fact that up until ten weeks ago, I was a fifteen-year-old girl.

~~~

This book is divided into III Parts

Various portraits from the medieval period presented

This lovely picture is used for this book

upcoming books provide multiple fantastic illustrations!

She was there when they came; loud voices caused her to hide. They never knew she was there while they put 1-2-3 arrows into her father's body. He had known she was watching but she knew not to be seen. She heard multiple voices... She would forever remember the voice of the man who had killed her father! Now she wanted to find that man... She wanted to know why her father had been murdered... What could she do?

Marieke was just 15, but she had been daily working with her father to produce the arrows that were needed, both by the local archers as well as Saint Sebastian Archer's Guild where boys were trained in service to their country... She had learned much about archery and how to create the arrows, the various kinds of bows... But, now she was alone. She could not hope to continue the shop on her own... Where could she go? The Archer's Guild came to mind. Her father had just taken her with him to deliver the latest order for arrows... But, her father had once been a student there, so he was welcomed by his friends and went in to talk to them...

Marieke was a very intelligent girl, curious and interested in learning. So while her father left her alone--women were forbidden no further than the entranceway--she, nevertheless, wondered what was behind the door where he had gone... Yes, her curiosity won and she slowly opened the door and she saw the painting...of Saint Sebastian... She could not constrain herself and walked in to go closer and closer to the beautiful painting of the boy, Sebastian... And while there, she had heard men arguing... About what? She was not close enough... But she hurriedly left... Still confused as she was when her brother and housekeeper had shared with her about her father at the Guild... Both of them were now gone... She was to be totally alone soon...

...“No — that’s just it. It’s the one position in this country that money and birth alone can’t buy, and that’s the glamour of it,” he replied warmly. Jules always loved the Guards. “You have to get in on sheer skill, and the perks are enormous: fame, glory, and popularity with the ladies,” he nodded toward the crowd still pressing after de Gilford, “not to mention the lands and titles granted to some of the prince’s favorites. That means real power. De Gilford’s not the only senior Guardsman who has used his position on the inner circle to bend the prince’s ear. But you have to be the very best. And you have to prove it, through competition. That’s why de Gilford is here. All the trials are held here in Louvain, since ‘Guardsman’ is technically the highest rank in the order of St. Sebastian.” I nodded, though I’m not sure I understood what Jules meant, then. I was still trying to figure out why anyone would want to bend someone else’s ear. “It’s not just a trade guild, like the others,” Jules continued. “Sure, it has a business side to it, but full membership is only for the most elite archers, and it’s competitive. Every two years, only twelve of the best young archers are chosen for temporary service as Journeymen at St. Sebastian’s. Even that initial contest is a huge event, since it’s an open trial for boys from all across Ardennes. But there’s a catch: you have to be sponsored by a full guild member. Needless to say, since most of the members are aristocrats, most of the boys they sponsor are, too.” After a short pause, he added softly, “although there have been some notable exceptions.” Of course, now I know he was thinking about our father. “The lucky winners live at the guild, training intensively and facing elimination in more public trials, each in a different style of archery. You’ve heard of the Journeymen at least, haven’t you? You must have seen them around town.” I nodded again, and this time, I was sincere. Even at nine, I knew something about the Journeyman archers of St. Sebastian’s, or the Journeys, as they’re called around here. Since then, I’ve made it my business to know all about them. Young, handsome, skilled — they’re our local celebrities, and for the two years they’re here, they rule the town. To us in Louvain, they are the guild. “That’s why everybody’s here, Marieke. The final Journeyman competition of the year is happening this afternoon, and nobody wants to miss it. Only the six best will pass, to win veteran status. That means permanent guild membership and a cut in the guild profits, so it’s a big deal. And it’s only the beginning. The victors advance to a second year of trials, for a shot at the ultimate victory.” “A place on Guards,” I said, finally beginning to understand. “That’s right, and only one can win. It’s two years of constant training and public humiliation. I can’t imagine going through it, but spectators can’t get enough of it, and the prize is enormous.” Jules’s voice was starting to sound quite bitter, and I noticed he was looking down, drawing in the dust with the end of a stick. “Jules,” I asked quietly, “why doesn’t Papa want to see the trials? What did Berthal mean? For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he sighed and looked up at me. “You know the medal that Papa always wears around his neck, don’t you?” he asked. “It’s a religious medal. St. Sebastian. Lots of people in town wear them.” “Yes, but Papa’s isn’t like all the others. It isn’t just any medal. You can’t buy it in a shop. It’s an official medal from the guild, a member’s medal.” “I know,” I said. “It’s his proof of certification, as a fletcher.” “No, Marieke. Papa was never certified by the guild. You can’t get a medal like that by paying a fee or undergoing certification. You can only get a medal like that by winning it. Papa earned that medal, when he was a journeyman archer at the guild.” At the time, I was stunned. The Journeys! I couldn’t imagine why Jules was sounding so glum about something so thrilling. Our father, a celebrity! Why hadn’t anyone told me before? But it didn’t make any sense. “But — Papa, he doesn’t even shoot,” I said. “He’s got a bad shoulder.” “He does now. You don’t think he was born that way, do you? Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to him?” The thing was, I hadn’t ever thought about it. I suppose I’d known in some vague way that he must have had an accident in the past, but it was just so much a part of him that I’d never questioned it. “It happened right here, in Louvain, during the trials at the end of his first year, just like the ones taking place now. He fell from his horse during a mounted exercise. Right in the middle of the competition.” Unfortunately, it was just at this moment that Berthal returned, carrying the cakes. “Accident!” she snorted, lowering herself down beside me with some difficulty. “Not just any accident. Trampled by his own horse, of all things! Lucky he wasn’t killed. Here, Marieke — take your cake, before the honey runs all over my hand.” I took the cake dumbly, picturing the awful scene she was describing. “Of all the stupid, arrogant stunts,” she continued, licking her fingers clean, “and when he was ahead! Last competition before veterans’, too. He could have made it! All he had to do was stay on his horse. Aren’t you going to eat that?” I took a bite, just to get Berthal to continue. “Everyone thought so. Why, we all thought he had a shot at making Guards! We’d have been set then, I can tell you. And he just threw it away! Cocky, that’s what he was. There’s no other word for it. Why …” At this, Jules stood up abruptly and cast such an angry look at Berthal that she stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth still open. “Whatever happened, he’s paid the price,” he cut in icily. “He was eliminated, Marieke,” he said more gently, looking down at me. “Just before winning veteran status. His shoulder on his drawing arm was virtually destroyed. You know how it is. He never bent another bow.” Jules stalked off, leaving Berthal and me nothing to do but scramble to get up and follow him. It was clear that he was done talking...

~~~

Now she remembered visiting the nearby Abbey where Father Abelard had earlier offered to help, perhaps to get her some menial work nearby. In fact, during her visit with him he had been painting a picture of a beautiful woman, but during their conversation, the painting had been destroyed by an ink spill... Thankfully she was given that ruined picture where the woman's face was still visible... It was later to be the first clue in her investigation of her father's death!

And Marieke made the difficult choice. She would use her brother's clothes, in which she had often borrowed to work in their shop, and she would become a boy and enter St. Sebastian's Guild.  She had no ability to hide her ugliness--she had been kicked in the face by a donkey and had lived with the result for years. Chopping off her hair, only one more thing needed to be addressed... She tightly bound her breasts and would use her scars on her face, to claim that she never took off her clothes due to what actually did not appear on her body...

There was only one way to get into the Guild... She had the skills, even to the point of being able to create her own arrows... There really was no question, she soon was taken in as a squire. And, before long, she had met Tristan who had accepted her as his "little brother" who would be the personal support to this Journey... It was to be a match made in heaven, surely, since Tristan had already gone through two other squires who he had dismissed...

The daily activities were soon moving normally. Marieke who had quickly decided her name--when she had not thought to do in her early transition of sex--to Marek... Journeys daily worked to improve their use of bows. Marek and other squires were responsible for pulling out all needed equipment. Setting it up at specific distances. And then, to save arrows, running to the targets, removing the arrows and running back for the Journey to proceed to shoot... Yes, Marek was required to get in shape far earlier than she had realized. Slowly her strength would improve, but it really was never enough as time would reveal...

The operation of the Guild was to train, but also to host competition events which were open to the public, and which worked to help cover the costs of this training. Readers will be privy to all that happens including the inner view of Marek as she watches, learns, and becomes acclimated to actually being a different person--a boy! 

The book is long, the detail is sufficient for readers to be learning more about archery than maybe you might ever wanted to know, like me... But, the first person presentation of a girl-boy's observations is so intriguing that I just couldn't stop... Until I found myself sobbing as the book closes...Tristan found Marek shot--dead...

Review of next in series next...Watch for it...

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