conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Fans, Dawkins, County with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Bloodstone'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Bloodstone about Pennsylvania, Deputy, Commissioner with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author is a retired Deputy Commissioner for the Pennsylvania State Police, living in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He splits his time between creating pragmatic police novels and other fact-based fiction and providing law enforcement consulting services around the globe. Visit author the author at http://www.jondkurtz.com/.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: com/. He splits his time between creating pragmatic police novels and other fact-based fiction and providing law enforcement consulting services around the globe. Visit author the author at http://www.jondkurtz.the author is a retired Deputy Commissioner for the Pennsylvania State Police, living in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bloodstone
  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
  Sir Robert Kilverby was about to be murdered. Of course he did not know that, ensconced so comfortably in his warm, snug chancery chamber, its costly linen panelling gleaming in the dancing light of the candle spigots. True, the fiery glow of the pine logs crackling in the mantled hearth sent the shadows swiftly fluttering. The gargoyle faces carved on either side of the hearth assumed a more sinister look whilst the grisly scenes of Archbishop Alphege's martyrdom on the painted cloths above the panelling took on an eerie life of their own. Nevertheless, Kilverby felt safe and secure in this fortified chamber, its heavy oaken door bolted and locked. The oriel windows high in the pink plaster walls glowed with the dying light of the December day though they were too small for any footpad to break through. Kilverby hitched his fur-lined cloak closer about his bony shoulders. He stopped gnawing on the plume of the elegant quill pen and placed it down on the pewter writing palette. Distracted, he gazed around at the sprigs of evergreen pinned to some of the gaily coloured cloths by his beloved daughter Alesia. She had gone out into the frosted garden and plucked holly, ivy and mistletoe, reminders of the evergreen Christ and the imminent arrival of Christmas. Soon Advent would be over. The fasting and the chanting of the Dirige psalms finished. The great 'O Antiphons' would be sung to the 'Key of David', 'Lion of Judah' and 'Ever Mighty Counsellor'. Christmas would soon be celebrated but not as it had been before – that's what Alesia was quietly hinting at – in those glorious days when Kilverby's first wife, Alesia's mother Margaret, was alive.
  Kilverby heard the footsteps fade and returned to his reflections. He was certain of what he had to do. In the meantime he would ask for God's help as he always did every Friday. When the Angelus bell tolled, he'd leave his counting house near the Standard in Cheapside and crawl on hands and knees to prostrate himself before the great rood screen in St Mary's. He had done the same at St Fulcher's, aware of the curse pressing close. He had much to say about 'Helen of hell', much to judge and much to condemn but what was the use? Kilverby picked up the quill pen, nibbling at its end again, as he always did. Helen would brook no opposition. She wanted this and she wanted that and, if he refused, she'd glare at him and turn for comfort and counsel to her so-called kinsman Adam Lestral. Kinsman! Were they really lovers? Was Alesia correct in her suspicions? Kilverby stopped nibbling at the rich plumage on the quill pen and put it down for the second time. He truly must leave here! His merchant days were over, his gold and silver salted away with goldsmiths in Cheapside and Poultry. Everything was ready. His will was drawn up, witnessed by no less a person than Sir John Cranston, Coroner of London – that portly, red-faced, gloriously bewhiskered old soldier would keep an eye on Alesia and her beloved husband Edmund. A good man, Kilverby mused about his son-in-law, as long as Edmund stayed away from the hawk lords at Westminster. Kilverby sipped at his claret. Times were certainly changing. Old King Edward had died in his dotage, alone, except for his mistress, Alice Perrers, who'd stayed long enough to strip the old King's corpse of anything which glittered. The King's son, the illustrious Black Prince, had already died of some loathsome, lingering pestilence contracted in Spain. Now a child ruled the kingdom.
  Richard was a boy king; real power lay with his cunning uncle, the Regent, John of Gaunt. Nevertheless, even Gaunt, chief amongst men, was beset daily by the Commons, whilst behind them in the shadows clustered the hawk lords, greedy for any rich pickings.
  The merchant rose and moved across the chamber. He stared down at the wooden polished coffer with its three locks singularly crafted to hold the sacred ruby. He also glimpsed the silver chased dish of sweetmeats the Benedictines had brought him as a gift. Kilverby pulled back the linen cloth. He picked one up and bit half of it, relishing the rich cream and marzipan. He put the other half down and returned to his desk, his mind teeming like a box of ants. He grasped the quill pen and gnawed at its end again before weighing this in his right hand. He peered at the ink stains on his fingers, rose, crossed to the lavarium and dipped his hands in the still-warm rose water. Kilverby groaned again at the pain in his belly. The icy constriction in his legs intensified. Something was wrong! Kilverby glanced swiftly at the locked and bolted door and staggered back to his stout chancery chair, clutching his stomach as he lowered himself into it. The pain was now intense. He forgot about everything, even his beloved Alesia. He was ill, tormented by the assault in his belly, that creeping coldness seeping through his legs. Kilverby's head snapped back, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes popping as his death engulfed him.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bloodstone
  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
  Sir Robert Kilverby was about to be murdered. Of course he did not know that, ensconced so comfortably in his warm, snug chancery chamber, its costly linen panelling gleaming in the dancing light of the candle spigots. True, the fiery glow of the pine logs crackling in the mantled hearth sent the shadows swiftly fluttering. The gargoyle faces carved on either side of the hearth assumed a more sinister look whilst the grisly scenes of Archbishop Alphege's martyrdom on the painted cloths above the panelling took on an eerie life of their own. Nevertheless, Kilverby felt safe and secure in this fortified chamber, its heavy oaken door bolted and locked. The oriel windows high in the pink plaster walls glowed with the dying light of the December day though they were too small for any footpad to break through. Kilverby hitched his fur-lined cloak closer about his bony shoulders. He stopped gnawing on the plume of the elegant quill pen and placed it down on the pewter writing palette. Distracted, he gazed around at the sprigs of evergreen pinned to some of the gaily coloured cloths by his beloved daughter Alesia. She had gone out into the frosted garden and plucked holly, ivy and mistletoe, reminders of the evergreen Christ and the imminent arrival of Christmas. Soon Advent would be over. The fasting and the chanting of the Dirige psalms finished. The great 'O Antiphons' would be sung to the 'Key of David', 'Lion of Judah' and 'Ever Mighty Counsellor'. Christmas would soon be celebrated but not as it had been before – that's what Alesia was quietly hinting at – in those glorious days when Kilverby's first wife, Alesia's mother Margaret, was alive.
  Kilverby heard the footsteps fade and returned to his reflections. He was certain of what he had to do. In the meantime he would ask for God's help as he always did every Friday. When the Angelus bell tolled, he'd leave his counting house near the Standard in Cheapside and crawl on hands and knees to prostrate himself before the great rood screen in St Mary's. He had done the same at St Fulcher's, aware of the curse pressing close. He had much to say about 'Helen of hell', much to judge and much to condemn but what was the use? Kilverby picked up the quill pen, nibbling at its end again, as he always did. Helen would brook no opposition. She wanted this and she wanted that and, if he refused, she'd glare at him and turn for comfort and counsel to her so-called kinsman Adam Lestral. Kinsman! Were they really lovers? Was Alesia correct in her suspicions? Kilverby stopped nibbling at the rich plumage on the quill pen and put it down for the second time. He truly must leave here! His merchant days were over, his gold and silver salted away with goldsmiths in Cheapside and Poultry. Everything was ready. His will was drawn up, witnessed by no less a person than Sir John Cranston, Coroner of London – that portly, red-faced, gloriously bewhiskered old soldier would keep an eye on Alesia and her beloved husband Edmund. A good man, Kilverby mused about his son-in-law, as long as Edmund stayed away from the hawk lords at Westminster. Kilverby sipped at his claret. Times were certainly changing. Old King Edward had died in his dotage, alone, except for his mistress, Alice Perrers, who'd stayed long enough to strip the old King's corpse of anything which glittered. The King's son, the illustrious Black Prince, had already died of some loathsome, lingering pestilence contracted in Spain. Now a child ruled the kingdom.
  Richard was a boy king; real power lay with his cunning uncle, the Regent, John of Gaunt. Nevertheless, even Gaunt, chief amongst men, was beset daily by the Commons, whilst behind them in the shadows clustered the hawk lords, greedy for any rich pickings.
  The merchant rose and moved across the chamber. He stared down at the wooden polished coffer with its three locks singularly crafted to hold the sacred ruby. He also glimpsed the silver chased dish of sweetmeats the Benedictines had brought him as a gift. Kilverby pulled back the linen cloth. He picked one up and bit half of it, relishing the rich cream and marzipan. He put the other half down and returned to his desk, his mind teeming like a box of ants. He grasped the quill pen and gnawed at its end again before weighing this in his right hand. He peered at the ink stains on his fingers, rose, crossed to the lavarium and dipped his hands in the still-warm rose water. Kilverby groaned again at the pain in his belly. The icy constriction in his legs intensified. Something was wrong! Kilverby glanced swiftly at the locked and bolted door and staggered back to his stout chancery chair, clutching his stomach as he lowered himself into it. The pain was now intense. He forgot about everything, even his beloved Alesia. He was ill, tormented by the assault in his belly, that creeping coldness seeping through his legs.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He walked up to the mouth of the alleyway then swiftly turned. Shapes further down just as abruptly stepped back into the creeping shadows.
  Cranston pushed himself through these and the horde of nighthawks, dark-walkers, gibbet lawyers and mountebanks; all assembled before the great iron prison gates hoping to visit friends within, coins at the ready to bribe janitors and turnkeys. Cranston recognized many familiar faces amongst these Pages of the Pit and Squires of the Sewer, who swiftly drew away as he marched up to the postern door and vigorously pulled at the bell. The door flew open. The bullnecked, grey-faced turnkey took one look and hurriedly stepped aside. Cranston entered that antechamber of hell. He met the keeper in the great yard, showed him his seal and demanded to see the Vox Populi. The keeper, dressed in black like a parson with the sanctimonious face to match, swiftly agreed. Cranston had little time for him. The keeper was a born rogue who, Cranston had often confided to Athelstan, was twice as fit for hell as those he guarded. They entered the murky, main gallery of the gloomy prison. Cranston took the proferred rags soaked in vinegar to cover his nose. The air was fetid, damp and reeking of putrefaction. The walls seemed to sweat slime which gathered like sludge over the flagstone floor. The light was poor. Torches flared, giving off trails of pitch and tar. Tallow candles, cheap and nasty smelling, flickered in niches and crevices. A thriving place for rats, cockroaches and other vermin, Cranston tried to ignore the lice crackling under his boots. They passed chambers and cells where prisoners laden with irons stood with hands outstretched, their pleading for alms almost drowned by the horrid howling and screaming which rang out constantly. They reached the condemned cell – nothing more than a filthy box guarded by a heavy oaken door. Inside it reeked like a midden heap, black as pitch with no light or vent for air. The prisoner was crouched in the corner on a palliasse of rotting straw. Cranston breathed in deeply on the rag as he shouted for lights, two stools and a jug of claret.
  The keeper hurried to obey. Once he'd brought everything, Cranston ordered him out, leaving the door open. He sat on one stool, the prisoner on the other, drinking greedily from the goblet of claret. He raised his head, pushing back his filth-strewn hair to reveal the brand mark on his cheek close to where his left ear had been. Cranston studied the dirty face, the tangled moustache and beard; the eyes, however, were bright, not yet bereft of hope or courage.
  Vox Populi mockingly raised the goblet but his eyes brightened. 'Gaunt will not let me skip away from this.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: '. Shapes further down just as abruptly stepped back into the creeping shadows.
  Cranston pushed himself through these and the horde of nighthawks, dark-walkers, gibbet lawyers and mountebanks; all assembled before the great iron prison gates hoping to visit friends within, coins at the ready to bribe janitors and turnkeys. Cranston recognized many familiar faces amongst these Pages of the Pit and Squires of the Sewer, who swiftly drew away as he marched up to the postern door and vigorously pulled at the bell. The door flew open. The bullnecked, grey-faced turnkey took one look and hurriedly stepped aside. Cranston entered that antechamber of hell. He met the keeper in the great yard, showed him his seal and demanded to see the Vox Populi. The keeper, dressed in black like a parson with the sanctimonious face to match, swiftly agreed. Cranston had little time for him. The keeper was a born rogue who, Cranston had often confided to Athelstan, was twice as fit for hell as those he guarded. They entered the murky, main gallery of the gloomy prison. Cranston took the proferred rags soaked in vinegar to cover his nose. The air was fetid, damp and reeking of putrefaction. The walls seemed to sweat slime which gathered like sludge over the flagstone floor. The light was poor. Torches flared, giving off trails of pitch and tar. Tallow candles, cheap and nasty smelling, flickered in niches and crevices. A thriving place for rats, cockroaches and other vermin, Cranston tried to ignore the lice crackling under his boots. They passed chambers and cells where prisoners laden with irons stood with hands outstretched, their pleading for alms almost drowned by the horrid howling and screaming which rang out constantly. They reached the condemned cell – nothing more than a filthy box guarded by a heavy oaken door. Inside it reeked like a midden heap, black as pitch with no light or vent for air. The prisoner was crouched in the corner on a palliasse of rotting straw. Cranston breathed in deeply on the rag as he shouted for lights, two stools and a jug of claret.
  The keeper hurried to obey. Once he'd brought everything, Cranston ordered him out, leaving the door open. He sat on one stool, the prisoner on the other, drinking greedily from the goblet of claret. He raised his head, pushing back his filth-strewn hair to reveal the brand mark on his cheek close to where his left ear had been. Cranston studied the dirty face, the tangled moustache and beard; the eyes, however, were bright, not yet bereft of hope or courage.
  Vox Populi mockingly raised the goblet but his eyes brightened. 'Gaunt will not let me skip away from this.He walked up to the mouth of the alleyway then swiftly turned.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: French privateers became a real threat both in the Channel and along the south coast. However, the real menace emerged in London and the surrounding shires. The Great Community of the Realm and the Upright Men reflect the radical movement which later exploded into the Peasant's Revolt of 1381; this nearly brought Gaunt, and indeed the Crown, to its knees. For a few days the whole kingdom teetered on the edge.
  The strange doings at St Fulcher's should not be regarded as exceptional. St Fulcher's, of course, is a fictitious abbey but, for example, the attempted theft of the Crown Jewels from Westminster in 1303 revealed a seemingly rich underbelly of corruption at that famous Benedictine house which included theft, blackmail, midnight orgies and violence. It ended with the abbot and a hundred of his monks being shut up in the Tower!
  The underworld of medieval London and its strange and eccentric characters are all based on original documents. The 'scam' involving tallow candles was common enough and led to some fairly fierce conflagrations.
  The trade and constant squabbles over the possession of relics was extremely vigorous; these included both the weird and the wonderful, be it a napkin which once belonged to Our Lady or the Crown of Thorns placed on Christ's head. The bloodstone is an accurate example of this trade in relics which religious houses held and venerated to attract pilgrims as well as their cash.
  The Free Companies who fought in France were greatly feared and English bowmen were renowned for their skill and speed. At least two Popes excommunicated all members of such marauding companies. The French did, according to some sources, maim the hands of captive English archers – which may have been the origin of the famous 'V' sign. The use of a 'sniper' archer was common enough, for example in the death of John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, at the battle of Bosworth in 1485. In all other matters I have striven to be faithful to Athelstan and the strange world through which he moved.