In the year 1263, Lord Rory of Hambrig presides over a castle that towers above the treacherous River Hurogol. Beyond the fast-flowing waters live a Celtic tribe, who claim the right to live in Hambrig. The ancient treaty has vanished, and tensions simmer as the tribe yearns to reclaim their ancestral lands.
When the King and his son arrive unexpectedly at Castle Rory, the delicate balance of peace begins to unravel. The son bears a gift from the tribe's chief—a large, mysterious box, rumoured to contain a deadly lizard whose release spells doom.
But that is only the beginning. A strange minstrel appears at the castle, with an eerie knowledge of things yet to come and abilities that defy explanation. His warnings are cryptic and his presence unsettling. But the Box of Death cannot be ignored.
Lord Rory is torn between loyalty to the crown and whispers of inevitable death that follow the Box. With ancient grievances resurfacing and the lives of his people at stake, he must decide whether to open the Box of Death—or let the fate it holds remain sealed.
Will opening the box unleash unspeakable horrors, or is it the only way to prevent greater destruction? And who can be trusted when the line between prophecy and manipulation blurs?
THE AUTHOR
My name is Rory Marsden, and I am not the Lord of Hambrig, even though we share the same name!
Tales of Castle Rory grew from the first book, The Box of Death. How that book came about is a story in itself:
I converted part of my house to a guest room between October 2017 and March 2018. When it was done, I launched it as a great place for long or short stays in Norfolk.
But I didn’t want it to be listed as just a house number and street name; I thought that sounded boring! I wanted an unusual name, something that would stand out and that my guests would remember, and hopefully want to return to and tell their friends about.
So, I was thinking of names for my new guest room and running them past my mum. They all sounded good to me, but Mum rejected every suggestion – until I came up with “The Buttery”. She really loved that name! Of course, then I had to find out exactly what it meant, and I discovered that a “buttery” was one of three “service rooms” in a medieval castle. The other two service rooms were the kitchen and the pantry, and all three led off the Great Hall, the main feasting room in the castle.
Naturally, I have a kitchen(!), and, by strange coincidence, I had long ago decided to call my utility room “the pantry”. To get to the kitchen, the pantry and the buttery you do indeed have to go through my “Great Hall”. And so there we were! All three service rooms now in place!
The logical extension of this was that my whole home became a medieval castle.
I realise you would have to stretch your imagination somewhat to see my 1970s bungalow as a 13th century fortress, but stick with it...
The name of the castle was easy, as a house name in this format has personal and historical associations for me, so “Castle Rory” it became.
I’d created a castle and I’d set it squarely in the high Middle Ages; now it needed a story behind it. That story became The Box of Death.
This led to more writing, and there are now six books in the Tales of Castle Rory series, all set in the late 13th century in a country called Mallrovia. If anyone can work out the reason for the name “Mallrovia” (and how this led to my naming my house “Castle Rory”) there is a Big Prize waiting. Family in the know are excluded from this offer!
I never thought to publish the Tales. My mum loved them, and she not only encouraged me to keep writing but she also urged me to publish the books. I resisted that though, because I’d written them for us, and I’d never had the intention of bringing them to a wider audience.
Until last year.
Last year my wonderful mum died, unexpectedly and suddenly, and I was left bereft. It took me several months to work out what to do in her honour, but it finally came to me: I knew I must publish my Tales of Castle Rory. I went back to The Box of Death and got it ready for the big, wide world. I hope you enjoy it, and the subsequent Tales as well. The World of Hambrig has been my world for a long time now, and I often reflect how strange these connections are and how differently things might have turned out – for example, if Mum had given the thumbs up to a different name for my guest room. I’m glad she didn’t, for then there would have been no Castle Rory and no World of Hambrig.
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read an excerpt |
THE BOX OF DEATH – EXCERPT
As Amie screamed out the last word of her song, there came a thunder of applause, amplified a hundredfold by pewter goblets banging on tables, booted feet stamping, everyone shouting, yelling, fists in the air. I held my breath. The noise went on and on, as Amie stood triumphant on the hearth and took a mocking bow.
A mighty roar came from my left. Everyone turned to the high table, and an angry, edgy silence fell. The King was on his feet. With terrible strength, he lifted and overturned the mighty table itself, hurling dishes, leftover food and flagons of wine onto the floor. King Philip stood before us, our greatest warlord, his arms raised, his palms flat towards the people, while the firelight threw a huge shadow of his form onto the wall behind, making him look ten feet tall. Prince Barney had also risen, a stunned look on his handsome face. He ran furiously from the hall.
I hadn’t realised the presence of the gecko in the castle was common knowledge. I should have remembered nothing is secret in such a close-knit circle of people. The distinction between rumour and fact is never a high priority among the gossips and the tongue- waggers.
Amie had told them the Sacred Gecko was here among us, and she had mocked Prince Barney, also here among us. I was suddenly alert to the very real possibility of a riot, right here in my home.
Instinctively I looked round for my steward and found him right beside me. Sir Patrick of Myrtile. Tall, spare, old enough to have served my father before me, a wise advisor and a man of few words, all of them to the point.
‘At least nobody’s armed,’ he murmured. Which was indeed a blessing, but of course no one is allowed to bring weapons into the great hall.
‘Patrick, close the castle. Lock everything and raise the drawbridge.’
‘Already done.’ ‘Where’s the Lady Joan?’
‘Gone. But she knows something she’s not telling us – something about Sammy, I believe.’
The huge iron-studded door at the other end was slowly closing. If the company noticed, if there were a stampede to get out,
we would not be able to contain them. I looked over at Amie and found her eyes locked with mine. I beckoned to her.
‘What the hell was that all about?’
Most lords would have bundled her straight into the dungeon, her harp snapped into pieces before her eyes. The King had already accused me of being too lenient. If Amie had taken advantage of me, she would pay for it.
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