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Dark Cornwall
Dark Cornwall
Dark Cornwall
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Dark Cornwall

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Dark Cornwall, where the Ancient Gods are Reborn ...

Earl Warleggan, of ancient and noble lineage, vows; to right the wrongs of men; defeat their false prophets; restore the ancient gods and rule this ancient land once more. His arena Earth, the outcome death or glory.

Set upon Bodmin Moor where Peter and Bridget Smith believe they must choose between their eternal love and their souls. Can they save their supposedly perfect marriage? Are the problems in their relationship of their own making? Are events being driven by the Warleggan family, who Peter and Bridget believe are the guardians of the ancient and Goddesses of Bodmin and in league with Devil?

Peter believes he sold his soul to the Devil, to win the heart of his beloved wife for eternity. Must she now pay the price to save his soul? Are his sexual fantasies and pride the true driving force behind his decisions?

For ten years Bridget refuses to indulge her husband’s sexual fantasies, but she may relent in order to appease the Devil and save her husband’s soul. Are her love, faith, or anger the the real reason for her decisions?

Who or what controls, their destiny? Will the light of their love be extinguished by the Devil in the land of Dark Cornwall?

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 3, 2015
ISBN9781311299109
Dark Cornwall
Author

Russell Chapman

Brief HistoryBorn in Erith Kent at the end of 1957, I moved to the Cathedral City of Canterbury at the age of five, where I attended the local grammar school.I studied mathematics at Bristol University followed by successful careers in accounting, sales and marketing.Married in 1989 to Dianne, we and our cat live in a small village in West Cornwall.My extensive travel experiences include flying on concord, cruising on the QE2, and riding on the Orient Express.AuthorI achieved a lifelong ambition, when I published my first book ‘Roads of Destiny – First Chronicle of Gaia’, in October 2014. Started writing early in 2014; sadly, it was not finished prior to myfather’s death in April that year. Although a fantasy novel, parts of story reflect my personal experiences and those of others I have known.Emotionally writing this first book proved a difficult experience, as I trawled through life’s experiences both distant and recent. Some memories were good and some amusing. Other memories were dark and depressing probably best forgotten.There are two more books in the pipeline ‘Dark Cornwall’ and ‘The Demon’s Assassin – Second Chronicle of Gaia’.Favourite BooksCoral Island by R. M. Ballantyne was the first serious book I read. During my early teenage years, encouraged by my grandfather, I read the entire works of Charles Dicken’s. I enjoy a variety of book genres, my preferences being fantasy, sci-fi and historical novels. My favourite series of fantasy books are the ‘The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant by Stephen R. Donaldson’. Others include the works of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. Sci-fi novels there are too many great books to mention. Sharon Penman’s Plantagenet series are among my favourite historical novels.Favourite MusicMy musical interest are broad including country, heavy rock and soul. My favourite singer / songwriters include Johnny Cash, with his many dark lyrics, and Bruce Springsteen.

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    Dark Cornwall - Russell Chapman

    At the turn of the Millennium, the World knew him as the 20th Earl Warleggan. In times gone by the Greeks worshipped him as Zeus and the Romans as Jupiter. The earl’s grip on the lives of mere mortals crept unseen through the corridors of power.

    Surrounded by the early morning mist, the earl climbed the stone steps to the roof of his ancient castle. Deep breaths sucked in the freezing air followed by a sharp pain and exhilaration as the oxygen overdose hit his brain. Eyes closed, he welcomed the warmth of the sun’s rays filtering though the dense fog. Memories seeped from his subconscious recalling the aeon of his existence and glorious victories. He contemplated his own defeat at the hands of the so-called Son of God. The bitter taste of rejection filled his heart.

    As the fog cleared, the dizziness of exhaustion overcame the earl and he grabbed the handrail to steady himself. Sunlight restored his energy, sapped by so many centuries and the weight of duty upon him. He vowed; to right the wrongs of men; defeat their false prophets; restore the ancient gods and rule this ancient land once more.

    The sirens from the nearby, fog bound, trunk road shattered the silence. More souls travelled to the Underworld, the earl laughed, he did not care; his brother’s minions welcomed the dead to Hades. His tranquillity disturbed, he returned to the great hall to join his family for morning tea.

    In the great hall sat the earl’s devoted wife Lady Hera, his mother the Dowager Lady Rhea and twin daughters Lady Mercy and Lady Victoria. He noted his siblings’ absence and expected nothing more of the cowards who feared their mother. Lady Rhea was a powerful goddess who none dared cross or fail. Seated on his throne, eyes downcast, he sensed the threat of his mother’s glare. The crosshair of her crossbow sight focussed upon his heart, its hair trigger poised to launch a bolt of fiery anger. As he prepared to face the impending onslaught, a web of gloom descended upon him and outwitted his defences. Paralysis gripped him as Lady Rhea’s calm but threatening words hit home. She whispered his grandmother’s message, Fail me again and I will resurrect my Titan children to annihilate you and your pathetic family of man loving gods.

    Shaken, the earl glanced at his grandmother’s statue, a reminder of her power and raving lunacy. The python of despondency threatened to crush him from existence. She never forgave him for overthrowing her children and consigning them to hell. The enormity of her words seared into the core of his being, his arena Earth, the outcome death or glory.

    Bridget

    Christmas 1999

    The 18 years old, Bridget Taylor finished talking to her godfather, Earl Warleggan, who phoned to wish her a merry Christmas. She knew nothing of her biological father; her birth mother, a young girl from Warleggan, died in childbirth. Bridget often visited her grave, to lay flowers and give thanks for her life. Earl Warleggan persuaded the then Captain and Mrs Taylor to adopt her. They could not have children and she was the answer to their prayers. Four years later Mrs Taylor gave birth to, Bridget’s younger brother, Hercule. Bridget was a Taylor part of a loving close-knit Christian family.

    Bridget was a dichotomy as were many girls of her age; brilliant academic; self confident woman ready to face the world; debutant able to grace the grandest ball; teenager curled up on the sofa; girl cuddled up to her loving grandmother; nervous child who sucked her thumb and wondered what Santa might bring. Before next Christmas, she would go to university. Gripped by a sudden irrational fear of losing her family and home, she shivered. Her grandmother sensed her unease, hugged her closer and the tension drained from her body.

    Grandfather, the indomitable retired Brigadier Taylor Senior, stoked the open fire and the room filled with comforting warmth. Bridget loved Christmas at her grandparents’ Cape Cornwall house. The fairy atop of the tall Christmas tree, reached to the high ceiling, in their enormous living room. There were presents galore and beautiful decorations. At one end of the room, her younger brother played with grandpa’s train set. The fire stoked, two large Alsatians returned to their traditional position in front of it. The family cat stretched out on top of the two dogs.

    As the afternoon turned to early evening, the children’s excitement grew; they waited for the traditional Christmas to start with the carol singing. Tomorrow, the most important event their parents’ arrival followed by Christmas Lunch and the Queen’s speech.

    With obvious pride, Grandfather showed Hercule his latest project. A replica of the First World War football match played in 1914. He recounted the story of enemies who climbed from the trenches, sang carols together, exchanged presents and played the historic match that the Germans won. The sound of the doorbell surprised him. He asked his grandson to answer the door and invite the caller in for traditional mulled wine.

    Hercule returned followed by a police inspector, known to the family, accompanied by a young female sergeant. The inspector’s facial expression suggested he was not there to wish them a merry Christmas. The two men and sergeant retired to the kitchen. Mrs Taylor imagined the chill of the damp winter air or something worse. She stayed in the living room and gathered the children to her. Inspector Creed waited for the brigadier to sit before informing him of the fatal car crash involving his son and daughter-in-law. The brigadier asked if there was any chance of misidentification. With tears in his eyes, Inspector Creed shook his head. The deceased were close friends; he identified their bodies at the scene of the collision. The stoical brigadier stood, I must inform the family. Everyone, even fictional characters, deserves privacy at such times.

    On Christmas Day, Inspector Creed closed the road at scene of the accident. He and the sergeant drove the family there so they could lay flowers and pray. He should not have done this but believed the old man deserved no less after a lifetime of service to his local community and country.

    Earl and Lady Warleggan, the children’s guardians, joined the Taylor family. The earl grieved at the loss of two loyal friends. He yearned to tell young Bridget of her parents’ sacrifice and their exulted status in Hades, but could not. Earl Warleggan and Bridget’s grief resonated and his heart neared breaking point. In her heart, it planted the seed of her great destiny.

    Bridget’s world shattered, her Christian upbringing and devout faith pulled her through the trauma. Overtime her grief faded, replaced by a germinating sense of destiny. In her heart, nothing else justified her parents’ senseless deaths.

    Peter

    September 2000:

    Peter arrived at his destination, Bristol, the end of a four-hour drive. Throughout the journey, the attitude of Earl Warleggan niggled. The Warleggan Art Foundation had paid his private school fees for the past seven years and bent their rules to support his mother’s finances. He should be grateful as the scholarship now paid for his tuition fees, living expenses, car and mobile phone. Most students would be cock-a hoop at such good fortune, he was not. The foundation threatened to cancel the scholarship if he did not start university at once. His direct appeal to Earl Warleggan failed. The blunt refusal, a jackhammer, smashed his dream as practicality and money won out. Try as he may, Peter could not understand the earl’s decision.

    The melodic tones from the car CD player battled to sooth Peter’s mood. His head fell back against the headrest, his eyes closed and sleep threatened to overcome him. His dream, of a gap year, to explore the Amazon and study native art, culture and language returned. A dream trampled to mush by Earl Warleggan. The price of Peter’s lost dream fuelled his anger and resentment. The earl completed a step on his pathway to victory, Peter’s perpetual anger simmering below the surface.

    Something startled Peter back to consciousness. A dutiful son, he phoned his mother before getting out of the car as she always worried about him. She raised him by herself, no sacrifice too great, his drunken abusive father killed in a brawl during her pregnancy.

    Amid the noisy chaos, Peter queued to register at Churchill Hall of Residence. A shy boy, full of self-doubt, the simmering anger exacerbated his anti-social attitude. He found it difficult to instigate conversations with strangers and make new friends. An accomplished chess player, the game provided a bridge between reality and his fantasy existence. Often, he retreated into his imaginary world. A world of heroes and glory, where he was a god leading his father’s army to victory. A world filled with goddesses of unimaginable beauty who adored him.

    Behind him Chris, self-confident and full of bonhomie, appeared to know everyone and chatted to anyone. A hand tapped Peter on the shoulder. Snatched from his fantasy he turned and came to face to face with, the larger than life, Chris who introduced himself. They shook hands and Chris struck up a genial conversation. It transpired they were in adjoining rooms and on the same ancient languages course. Their common interests included canoeing and chess; later that day each joined the relevant student clubs.

    During the first few weeks, they spent most of their time together and became good mates. Chris’ easygoing approach to life attracted new friends. He received many party invites and always took Peter with him. Had you been in a room full of freshers you might have missed Peter, the quiet brooding boy, always overshadowed by the charismatic Chris.

    The Student Chess Club was the one place Peter stood out from the crowd. His talent and style of play became legendary. Observers placed bets not on his victory but on the style of his victory. Ruthless, he pinned down his opponents a few moves away from checkmate. Sometimes he delivered a swift killing blow, other times he destroyed his opponent’s army one piece at a time. Those who watched sensed Peter’s joy as he savoured the delectable pleasure of each opponent’s mental demolition and ultimate destruction.

    A short distance away in Hiatt Baker Hall, three young friends, Bridget and the Warleggan twins stood in a similar queue, surrounded by similar chaos. All were studying classical art.

    Beauty beyond Athena

    October 2000:

    Chris sat in the driver’s seat of the Canoe Club’s mini-bus, ready to take the first shift. Bridget, boarded five minutes late, smiled at the rugged driver and apologised. With good grace, he smiled back and accepted the apology. Peter could not help staring, opened mouthed, as Bridget

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