Category: Guest

Fiona Glass is here today with a post about archaeology and her new release Trench Warfare. It’s a subject particularly close to my heart because in a previous incarnation I was an archaeologist. And I also remember doing work-experience with a County Archaeologist called Steve; and Mick Aston from the Time-Team was very kind to me when I was writing my dissertation. Take it away, Fiona!

Thanks so much to Ally for letting me waffle on about my latest book. I’ll start by saying that one of my favourite TV shows of all time has to be the Channel 4 archaeology series Time Team, which ran for the best part of 20 years from 1994 to 2014. Each episode featured a new site for the team to investigate, and they were always given “just three days” to answer a series of questions, typically ‛how old is it?’, ‛how big was it?’ and ‛is there anything unusual about it?’. The sites ranged from Prehistoric caves to Victorian industrial sites, and pretty much everything in between, and almost all the programmes were both informative and absolutely fascinating.

One episode stood out amongst all the rest for being unique, and even a little odd. I can’t remember every detail now, but I do remember that there was a magnificent discovery (which may well have been the sword referred to in this post’s title). The only trouble was, the team’s experts were thoroughly unconvinced the discovery was genuine: it was the wrong artefact in the wrong stratigraphy at the wrong time. They couldn’t openly say so, though, without accusing the land owners of fraud, so it was left very open-ended – and very intriguing.

Straight away this suggested all sorts of plot bunnies, and I used one of them to write a short story called ‛Trench Warfare’- but substituting a gold cross for the sword. The story also featured a sweet m/m romance between an archaeologist and his assistant, and was published in the gay romance magazine Forbidden Fruit. And then I sort of forgot about it.

Recently I re-discovered it lurking in a file, dug it out, dusted it off, and realised it would work just as well as a book. I’ve added a lot of extra material, including a whole sub-plot about a ghost and lots more back-story about the characters, including County Archaeologist Steve, right-hand-man Jon, and devious businessman Paul. It fought back every inch of the way (I swear I’m never using the word ‛warfare’ in a book title again!) but I finally finished it to my own satisfaction, and published it at the end of May.

The result is an ultra-sweet, no-sex, plot-heavy romance involving a rescue dig to find a town’s missing priory before the local developers build a swanky apartment block. There’s also a set of mysterious stairs, something nasty lurking in the undercroft, and of course, that out-of-place gold cross. You’ll have to read the book to see just how that contributes to the overall story – but I’m hoping you’ll have a riotous time finding out!

Buy Trench Warfare, £2.99 / KU

An Excerpt from Trench Warfare

‛This one?’ Jon tapped it with his trowel.
Before I could reply the stone tapped back. Or at least, that’s what it sounded like. Three more taps, fainter and more muffled, coming from underground. I looked at Jon and Jon looked at me; a kind of unspoken question-and-answer passed between us and with a lift of his eyebrow he tapped again.
One-two-three.
A pause.
Then fainter, more muffled, one-two-three.
‛An echo?’ Jon’s voice was rough; what I could see of his face under all the hair was pale.
‛Must be. It could be a well-shaft. They’d have needed water, and we haven’t found one yet.’
‛True, although there’s the stream…’ He didn’t even finish the sentence. The tapping had sounded again. This time Jon hadn’t tapped first. And there were more than three.
Tap-tap-tap; tap-tap-tap. Tap.
It sounded, weirdly, like Morse code. But that was ridiculous. There could hardly be a transmitter down there, let alone anyone to operate it. It must be the well. We’d probably disturbed some smaller stones, and they were falling down the shaft and echoing. That was all. Except that it wasn’t all. Not by a long way. The tapping started again, and this time it wasn’t Morse, or any kind of code, but a frenzied jag of sound like someone beating, pounding, to be let out. And then the stone began to move.
‛What the fuck?’ Jon leaped back as though someone had poured scalding water on his legs.
I wasn’t far behind. We stared at each other; my heart was pounding and I could feel sweat prickling on my brow. Fight or flight, they call it, and I’d have given a lot to fly right out of that trench. Or to grab Jon and hang on. But my feet seemed locked to the ground. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t get out, and the stone was working itself loose. And whatever was underneath it would overwhelm me and drag me back down to—
‛Steve? Steve! Come quickly!’
Concrete feet or not, I jumped at that. But this was no ghostly presence; it was coming from the other side of site. And it sounded hoarse.
Jon took my elbow and hoisted me out of the trench, and then I reached a hand down and hauled him out. We stood for a moment, eyeing each other. I still wanted that hug, but couldn’t ask. It wouldn’t be fair on him when he wasn’t that way inclined. I laughed nervously instead, trying to work out if what I’d seen was a normal, natural force or something else.
‛Steve!’ Ben, the shorter of the Flowerpots, appeared round the corner of the site hut, panting as though he’d been running and waving his arms around. ‛Are you there? You have to come.’
Whatever was under that moving stone would have to wait. My first thought was that there’d been yet another disaster. We’d had burglary, fire, stones that moved by themselves and threats; what was next? And was this what Paul had meant by accidents? I dropped my trowel and ran, aware of Jon at my heels.
Ben had already turned back. By the time I caught up he was standing near the garderobe trench, staring at a heap of soil. Next to him stood Bill, a spade still in one hand. He too was looking down. My heart rate hitched up a notch again. Please God, don’t be a dead body. That would be the worst. The delays, the police involved, the paperwork, even for something that was hundreds of years old. But then I saw Ben’s face. His eyes gleamed with excitement, but it was happy excitement, not dread. I breathed again. ‛What’s with all the shouting? What’s going on?’
‛Oh, you know, just your average chance discovery.’ Bill indicated with one corner of his spade. ‛And it’s only fucking gold.’

You can find ‛Trench Warfare’ on Kindle for only £2.99 (or whatever your local equivalent is) or free on Kindle Unlimited, and I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. And if you fancy catching up with Time Team, there are various classic episodes available on YouTube, and some new, online-only programmes on the same platform.