Let’s all give a great big welcome to Deborah Valentine! I am so happy she could be here with us today for Hunk Alpha Wednesday to do an interview with her Hero Conor!
The Knightmare
Sometimes a man has to go back in time to find his future…
When Formula 1 racing driver Conor Westfield is involved in a horrific racing accident, he is determined to devote himself to getting back behind the wheel and resuming the career that has been his obsession. But as he is recovering from his injuries Conor’s childhood nightmare recurs, a jumble of terrifying images that feel more like memories than dreams. Can it be mere coincidence that the very next morning he is informed a mysterious woman with whom he had very brief affair has died and left him as her heir? But this was no ordinary woman, no ordinary affair. Dogged by a feeling of déjà vu at every turn, Conor travels to Amsterdam to identify the body. At her home he finds an illuminated book that transports him to the year 1209 and a past life as a Knight Templar embroiled in two missions—one secret, both dangerous. There he finds the woman he left behind and a life lived in the shadow of a tragedy that cries out across 800 years for resolution.
Q&A with Conor
What is your favorite drink?
In medieval times, it was a drink Mercedes (who, as it turned out, is the love of my life—both lives, in fact) introduced to me, Benedictine. To persuade me to drink it she told me it was a healing tonic made by monks. I realise now that, not for the first time, she was being economical with the truth because when we met the monks hadn’t invented it yet (although, as I understand it, she had a hand in helping them develop it later). In modern times, it’s red wine, preferably Chateauneuf du Pape, although I still like a wee drop of Benedictine after a meal.
Favorite Food?
I hope I don’t disgust you but, again, this was Mercedes’ influence. It’s a medieval dish of pig’s trotters cooked with foie gras. There’s a modern equivalent now at Alchemie, my restaurant in Amsterdam. Delicious.
Best Date?
In medieval times, I was a Knight Templar so I didn’t date—I’d taken a vow of celibacy. In modern times, I went to British public school so we’re men that still don’t date. We just turn up at the pub with a gang of friends and hope the woman will be there with her friends so we can sidle our way into her good graces.
Worst Date?
See above. It side-steps the whole best/worst thing. We can always claim it wasn’t a date.
What do you notice first in a woman?
In Mercedes’ case, it was her hair. Running a close second, her repartee. She’s very quick-witted and I like that in a woman.
What is your biggest pet peeve with women?
To be honest, I don’t think I have a pet peeve that is gender-specific. I wouldn’t like a woman to be illogical—I’ve a got a thing about logic—but I don’t like that in men, either. It’s annoying.
Use three words to describe yourself.
Disciplined, focused, logical. (The women in my life have called my focus pigheadedness, but I don’t think that’s fair, or logical).
If you could meet anyone who would it be?
The medieval monk, Gerald of Wales. He was chatting with my mum and that’s how I got my medieval name, Rhyswr. It means ‘hero’ in archaic Welsh. I’d tell him I wish they’d been chatting about something else—anything else—because that’s a helluva name to try to live up to.
What is one secret that you don’t want people to know about you?
That I’ve taken a new vow of… ha, ha. If you think I’m going to tell you that, you’re dreaming.
Deborah tells me in the next book, Mercedes and I will have a much easier time of it. Knowing Deborah, not only is she fudging the truth, she’s telling an outright lie. Anyway, here’s a bit from our first non-date in The Knightmare, because as I said, British males don’t date.
Excerpt
“Dreams have their own language. Think of them as… slang, Conor. Figures of speech. The symbols of dreams are there to express, not hide. That is why, strange as it may seem, it feels like a memory.” She shrugged, sipped and let her gaze drift away from him. “It is a memory.”
Suddenly, Conor was afraid. It was as if the roots plaguing his dream world had migrated into this one, were twisting themselves ever higher into a reality that might pull him down and drown him. He took the glass in front of him and drank it in one short angry shot. He put it down so hard the base chipped. “How did you know about this?” he asked, the fear translating into hostility. He might have been facing a mad stalker, or an especially powerful witch consulting her crystal ball.
She looked bewildered.
“The Benedictine.”
Other than the opening and clenching of her hand in a careful measured flow she took his anger calmly, saying, “They always bring it to me. They do it as a matter of courtesy. They know I like it after a meal.” An expression crossed her face slowly, like the spread of a stain on a tablecloth: pure amused unashamed naughtiness. “And so do you.”
He threw his napkin on the table. It crossed his mind to get up and leave. It was all too weird. Uncanny. Horrible. And wonderful! He could no more get up and walk out than he could abandon the dream that tortured his slumber. “Why did you look at my hand like that? When we met?”
She didn’t miss a beat. She said, “Because it felt familiar.” She traced the rim of her glass with her finger. “If you weren’t looking for an analyst why did you tell me about your dream?”
He spoke the truth. “Because you already knew.” These confessions brought an excruciating sense of exposure even as it winched them tighter together. He scratched the side of his head then pushed his hair back. “I’ve been wanting to see you since we first met.”
“You certainly took your time.”
“I was trying—”
Dry but with humour, she finished the sentence for him, “To use your head.”
“If you don’t,” he replied shortly, “you lose it.”
He saw her shiver, not a delicious sway of an unexpected cool breeze, but a rattle of muscle, the reflex of shock. Like a blow to the back of his head came the sense of time wound backwards, an elusive echo of a feeling tied to an actual event, long-forgotten but hovering beneath the surface of his psyche. “I’m sorry,” he said and wondered, for what? Because he was, truly and horribly, sorry. He reached over and covered her hand with his. “Sorry.”
Thank you so much Deborah and Connor for being with us today! To learn a but more about Deborah and see how you can find her and Conor, just look below!
Bio
Deborah Valentine is a British author, editor and screenwriter who once lived in California but far preferred the British weather and fled to London, where she has lived for many years. Her crime novels, with ‘a touch of Margaret Millar’ (Sunday Telegraph), feature former California sheriff Kevin Bryce and his artist girlfriend, Katharine Craig, charting their turbulent romance amidst murder and mayhem. Unorthodox Methods is the first in the series, followed by A Collector of Photographs, and the Ireland-based Fine Distinctions. A Collector of Photographs was shortlisted for several awards, including an Edgar and a Macavity. Fine Distinctions was also shortlisted for an Edgar. They have been digitally reissued on Orion’s The Murder Room imprint. In addition to the Kevin Bryce series Deborah Valentine has been the editor of a number of niche-market journals and is a prolific writer of articles, screenplays and a new series of novels with supernatural themes beginning with The Knightmare. She is a Goodreads author.
Links:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Knightmare-Deborah-Valentine-ebook/dp/B00BI1CWOC
http://www.amazon.com/The-Knightmare-Deborah-Valentine-ebook/dp/B00BI1CWOC
http://www.themurderroom.com/authors/v/valentine-deborah/#sthash.cMeubl2V.dpuf
Twitter @knighthuggermug
https://www.facebook.com/TheKnightmarebook
https://www.deborahvalentine.co.uk