The Tower Of London
The Tower Of London

This Tower is a citadel to defend or command the city, a royal palace for assemblies or treaties, a prison of state for the most dangerous offenders, the only place of coinage for all England at this time, the armoury for warlike provision, the treasury of the ornaments and jewels of the crown, and general conserver of the most records of the king’s courts of justice at Westminster.

A Survey of London

John Stow


That false faced piece of shit.

Michael fucking Moody.

It’s a true sign of what a colossal cock-up this all is, that I’m coming cap in hand to such a treacherous bastard.

The sour stench of the moat mirrored the sourness of his thoughts as Poley approached the walled mass of buildings that was the London Tower. The Tower itself was an ancient fort, the foundations of which had been laid down by various kings many centuries past. The walls surrounding the fort were reinforced by several towers built at various times. The Liberty of the Tower comprised not only the fort but the land and buildings surrounding it. The Liberty was its own demesne, the writ of the city of London ran there not at all. He made his way across the bridge over the wet sludge from the Lion Tower through the Bayward Gate of the London Tower. He glanced to his right, towards the Thames and the Queen’s Stairs and saw that there was no flag indicating that Her Majesty was visiting the Tower on business. Even so, the way along the Outer Ward was crowded with a variety of people coming and going on. Lawyers, wives and children, Tower guards, messengers, a wagon of wood, another loaded high with beer barrels; Poley moved around them all, heading towards the Bloody Tower Gate. He stood aside and doffed his hat as the Gentleman Porter moved past, talking intently to the two lawyers flanking him. Affairs must be tense between the Liberty of the Tower and the City. Light flashed from the Porter’s rings as he gestured emphatically to accompany the point he was making. The two black gowned lawyers nodded like Tower ravens. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 4: POLEY: MOODY IN THE TOWER”


The light of the rising sun shines through a window and illuminates a US Army Colonel seated behind his desk. With its cheap fake antique furniture and faded print of a Parisian street scene, the office shows signs of having been requisitioned from the French colonial administration. His coffee steams and he tries to tighten his jacket around his paunch against the winter cold that inhabits the room. He takes a sip of coffee, winces, sighs, puts on a pair of glasses, and starts going through a pile of reports.  He looks up as the door opens and an Army Intelligence officer, tall, WASPy, enters. He’s carrying a handful of flimsies.

“Colonel Morehouse, I’ve just received reports of another attack by those Nazi monsters on one of our fuel convoys.” The intelligence officer has the American aristocratic accent that guarantees his attendance at one of the Ivy League schools.

“Dammit! Casualties?”

“Not as bad as it could have been. That special detachment from Camp Cuckoo,-” His voice becomes tinged with a combination of disbelief and distaste. “-the Fightin’ Rabbi and his walking statues, showed up and drove the monsters off before the convoy was completely destroyed.”

“That’s a bit of good news at least.” Morehouse takes his glasses off, sips coffee. “But, Duvall… these special detachments from Camp Cuckoo… They make my skin crawl.” Continue reading “(Fangs of the SS) CHAPTER 3: Not One Of Us”

Map Of Brussels
Map Of Brussels

On the whole, the States-General met every three years, mainly to discuss tax demands and there might be several meetings before the necessary unanimity was achieved. In the course of the haggling and debate a certain degree of unity and cooperation grew up among the delegates from the main provinces who habitually attended…

The Dutch Revolt

Geoffrey Parker


“Hoy, Nicholas! Where are you off to on this fine day?”

Fuck. Nick wearily closed his eyes.  I have even less time than I thought. He pasted a faint smile on his face and turned to face his questioner.

It was Braathuis and Edgewine, two of them that were always hanging around Owen looking to cadge coin or some small deed to raise them in his favor. Nick had always thought of them as the fleas that infest a particularly fast and dangerous hunting dog. Edgewine was dressed in his usual failed attempt to look better than he was; stained doublet and sagging hose and a codpiece that owed more to padding and Edgewine’s dreams than reality. Braathuis had found a large Italian hat somewhere; it sat on his head like some particularly despondent and diseased mushroom. The two of them stood in the doorway of the stable where Nick had just returned the nag.   Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 3: NICK: A GUTTING MAN”


Old Crusader Castle, the hills of northern Tunisia


“The demon sun, that hateful eye, is about to rise. And this was a good day’s work. ” She stands for a moment longer in the castle’s window, enjoying the view. With pupils so dilated that they appear black, she sees the surrounding landscape clear as day; or what she remembers as day. The castle, an old Crusader fort from the Middle Ages, perches on a hill overlooking a valley. A narrow road winds up from the valley to the castle. The only approach to the castle is by the road.

Jackals bark, out in the hills, and she smiles in remembrance, revealing her fangs. She’s a beautiful woman, dark skin, thick black hair, and a vampire, gorgeous in a tight fitting SS uniform. Her insignia give her the rank of Gruppenfuhrer. For the last few centuries, she has been known as Countess Elizabet Bathory. She turns away from the view and joins the rest of the people in the room. “Sturmbannführer von Regensberg, give me the status of our units in the field.”

She enjoys von Regensberg’s animal beauty, a blonde animal in human form, bred for killing, made into apotheosis by her kiss. There was a sword she had the same feelings for in the distant past somewhere. Continue reading “(Fangs of the SS) CHAPTER 2: Castle Of Blood”


He will build a career out of cheating, though all in the name of ‘loyalty and behoveful service’ to the State.

The Reckoning

Charles Nicholl


       “All I can say is what he told me.”

        Robert Poley, short man, hard expression on his face, look in his eyes that forecast an explosion to come soon, dressed in brown and grey, made his way at a quick walk up the street. At his side was Ralph. “So tell me.”

        He’d used Ralph before, as muscle, at first. The bastard was big and broad, with hands like a smith’s hammer, and he had no hesitation in dealing out the necessary violence. But men like that were three a penny in London. What made him so very useful to Poley was the bright intelligence that lurked in the eyes hidden behind the stringy black hair. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 2: POLEY: MAM UPSHAW”


November 1942

Somewhere along the road between Souk el Khemis and Beja, Tunisia

“Fucking sand gets in everything!” Simco’s staring into his C-ration can with disgust.

“At least when the chow tastes like sand, it doesn’t taste like shit.” Mirsky’s older and more philosophical than young GI sitting next to him on the rocky ground. He forks the unidentifiable food, gray and slimy and tasting of nothing in particular. He’s eaten worse, a lot worse. Abruptly, he’s back in the hold of the ship, taking him and a thousand other refugees to the fabled land of America. The rat writhes in his grip, trying to bite, but he bashes its head against the bulkhead. He’d never been a particularly observant Jew, but that voyage had broken him of any urge at all to keep kosher.  

Noise brings him back to preferable present. Thunder and lightening on the horizon. Or is it artillery? The soldiers huddled around the trucks and in the foxholes can’t tell. They’d been moving all day, escorting a convoy of gasoline tanker trucks up to the front, around Medjez-el-Bab.

“Are those our only choices: sand or shit?” Simco’s still poking glumly at his food, doesn’t even look up at the noise on the horizon.

He’s a good enough kid, Mirsky thinks to himself, but he pays attention to all the wrong things. Americans. What can you do? “Ain’t nothin’ else out here in this fuckin’ hellhole. I’ve seen Baku and I’ve seen Newark and lemme tell ya, this place is the pits.”

“Sand, shit… and them… those god-damned creatures…” Continue reading “(Fangs of the SS) CHAPTER 1: Night Attack”

When Golems fight Nazi vampires in WW2, a war weary Rabbi must use all his Kabbalistic skills to defeat an ancient evil.

This is a tale of WW2.

Weird War 2.

1942: The US Army is fighting the Wehrmacht through the hills of Tunisia, enduring its baptism by fire and blood. During the day, the Army is doing well, slowly pushing Rommel back to the coast. But the vampires own the night. The SS vampires of Sturmfuhrer Countess Erizbet Bathory come out of the dark to kill and destroy. And the only ones that have been successful against them are Captain Joe Maccabbee, the Fightin’ Rabbi, a combat Kabbalist, and his Golems: Malkuth, Hesod, Binah, Tipareth, and Geburah.

Honest to God, this one came to me in a dream. I dreamed the poster, a 60s painted poster. And when I woke up, I thought about it and came to the conclusion that, yeah, it might make a viable story.

This is a work in progress. I’ve written 3 drafts of it as a screenplay but after getting an encouraging critique that ended with the words “It’ll never get made, too expensive.” I decided to rewrite it as a novel.

I hope that you like it.



The Chase


The mutinies of the Army of Flanders spelt military and financial disaster for Spain.

The Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road 1567 – 1659

Geoffrey Parker


Nick rode towards the smoke.

And a pillar of smoke shall guide them during the day. The blasphemous thought brought forth wry humor. Not quite 40 years the Spanish have been wandering and warring through the Netherlands, but near enough. Though they are more akin to the plague of locusts than the Chosen People. 

There were peasants working in the fields, but not many. They all knew that the smoke meant Spanish nearby and that those Spanish tercios were well pissed off.

Corpses swinging from gibbets, object lessons to the rest of the mutineers, stood sentry outside the village. Captain Velasco had put down the mutiny with his usual enthusiasm and bloodthirstiness. I hope he hasn’t sent the Irish to the dancing master. Long ride for nothing. Crows rose from the bodies as Nick rode past, then settled back to their meal. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 1: NICK: PACKET AND CHANGE”


May, 1590: Francis Walsingham, Elizabeth’s feared spymaster, is dead. And someone is unraveling his networks. A perfect instrument of intelligence has become broken.

Three men are plunged into the morass of Elizabethan intelligence operations.

Robert Poley: He ran some of those networks in Flanders. He has to catch the traitor.

Nick Crossby: Deep cover in Flanders for several years. Running for home wounded with his cover blown, he might know who burned him.

Richard Helmsley: English Catholic agent in exile. Chasing after Nick at the orders of his master, Hugh Owen, Catholic spymaster in Flanders.

They all come together in London. Secrets will be revealed and blood will be spilled. Because in London is also Mad Meg, crime queen, and her silver cleaver.


I was trying for Jason Bourne in Elizabethan England, if Jason Bourne was played by Ray Winstone.