No I haven't had anything published, I'm moderately hopeful for the future though...you have to hope! 
I agree about the second excerpt needing more refinement, thanks for the advice about rhythms and breaking up some of the long sentences!
If nobody minds I'd like to post a bit more, just to show some of the writing which isn't intensely navel-gazing reflective stuff, as those bits are interludes in the narrative and I've posted two of them now...tell me to sod off if I'm being a solipsistic twat
Another excerpt:
“Parry, consurge! Orare, tempus praesens.”
I rose to my feet, fifty pairs of eyes on me.
“Oro, oras, orat, oramus, oratis, orant.”
The usher’s eyes narrowed, then flicked almost imperceptibly to the copy of Lily’s Latin Grammar lying closed on the desk before me. It was a source of frequent amusement to me that the usher, being of limited intellect, wrestled constantly with a suspicion that I, being but eleven and more advanced than any other boy in the company, must be a cheat. In truth, I had settled into the grammar school regime with ease, the academic demands being well within my abilities and the requirement to speak only in Latin creating a welcome distance between me and my fellow scholars which prevented the constant taunting I had endured in the petty school. Few among the boys could hope to construct a wounding insult in Latin, and fewer still were prepared to risk the scourging that would have followed such an utterance in English. The ushers patrolled the classroom with their rods in their hands and their ears primed to detect any lapses.
Ensconced once more in my seat, I watched with some small measure of pity as poor Peter Oliphant stumbled and blinked his way through his conjugation of the verb “esse” and got his knuckles smartly rapped for his pains. As he sank in relief into his seat, a shameful tear forming in his bleary blue eye, I felt a jab in my ribs and, waiting for the usher’s back to be turned as he wrote out the offending verb on the blackboard, turned to see a freckled face with an irreverent grin, and heard the whispered words:
“Lily the Latinist died of the plague, and good riddance!”
In my surprise, I let forth a snort of laughter, which I quickly disguised as a cough. The owner of the impish grin was Christopher Tye, the son of a prosperous Chester bookseller, whose talent for the Latin tongue was only marginally inferior to my own and whose sophistication in colloquial conversation had more than once caught my attention; he was one of only a handful of boys I did not consider an irredeemable dullard. If I were to have a friend - and I was not vehemently opposed to the idea, though neither had I ever regretted the lack - I could do worse.
I walked part of the way home that day with Christopher Tye, exchanging some small witticisms about the ushers and the more ill-favoured among our fellows, agreeing that poor Oliphant would be better apprenticed to some low trade - tanning, perhaps, if he could bear the stink - rather than hindering the progress of his betters in the grammar school. I found Tye more than tolerable company, and my spirit was light as we parted at the city wall, he turning into the half-timbered Rows where lay his father’s townhouse, and I continuing to the edge of town and the modest house of tawny brick that had been my home for just over a year.
My enduring impressions of those first years in Master Fisher’s household are of warmth and comfort; I was, in a sense, an only child in that house, which was no small relief to me after the noisy disorder, the piling of children like puppies in sleeping-corners and the scarcity of blankets that had been my lot in the Northop alehouse of my birth. As Master Fisher’s apprentice I slept not on the rushes of the floor but on a good flock mattress mounted on a truckle; I wore a good canvas tunic and woollen hose, and even possessed a fine lawn shirt, outgrown by Master Fisher’s son who had followed his father’s path to Gray’s Inn and now practised at the Court of Requests, for Sundays and those days on which I accompanied my master on his legal business.
I arrived home shortly after four of the afternoon, when the weak January sunshine was giving way to an evening glow that bathed the bricks of Master Fisher’s house in a thready pale gold. Leaving my Lily’s grammar and the bag that held my quills and paper on the broad white-painted windowsill by the front door, I greeted Mistress Fisher with a filial smile and was rewarded with a hunk of fresh bread, still warm from the oven, and a cup of sweet new milk. I took my place at table to enjoy the repast, glancing as I sat down at the papers spread out before Mr Healey, Master Fisher’s clerk, my immediate superior and mentor and the occupant of the bed under which my little truckle was pushed each morning. Healey was a mild-mannered, godly fellow with a gentle, open face, much given to Biblical quotation, diligent in his work and sober in his habits, generous in spirit but, sadly, limited in his intellect. He looked up as I sat down, setting down his quill.
“God’s good day to you, lad. I trust you have worked hard and learned much? And given holy reverence to your teachers?”
I smiled my agreement, dipping my head in the suggestion of a bow; I felt no more true deference towards Mr Healey than the ushers who drilled me in Latin, I being a creature of far greater potential and imagination than any one of them; but it served me better to keep my feelings to myself; pride, in Mr Healey’s oft-repeated words, going before a fall.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” I inquired, swallowing the last of my bread and nodding towards the spread of documents on the table. It was our daily habit to work together at the table after my return from school, Mistress Fisher busying herself in the kitchen or at her needlework in the rocking chair by the hearth. Mr Healey passed me a quill and the inkpot, and I felt again a pang of pleasure at the quality of the iron-gall ink with which I was now provided, remembering with a grimace the mess made of ashes of wool and water, and the smudges it left on Skeffington’s baleful face.
“Your best secretary hand, young Parry; slow and steady, for diligent hands will rule!” intoned Healey in an attempt at humour, handing me a page of scribbled addresses and a stack of fine vellum envelopes to copy them onto. I had barely begun my laborious scribing of names in my finest script when the door was flung open and Master Fisher flew in, his scholar’s gown flapping and a kind of wild triumph rendering his usually serene features unfamiliar.
“The heretic Marsh is come to Chester! They have placed him in the Northgate, pending trial at the Cathedral. Bishop Cotes himself is to examine the traitorous dog!”
Mistress Fisher’s soft brown eyes widened in something like fear.
“Mercy, John! Will he burn? Surely not? Such a thing could not happen here?”
Master Fisher shrugged off his gown and placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“Dear wife, your Christian compassion does you credit. But George Marsh is a heretic, a rabble-rousing preacher of foul Protestant filth. Who knows how many ruined souls lie upon his conscience? If he is found guilty, and the good Bishop will not shirk his duty, it is the fire for him. Unless he recants; if he does not, we will be there to see him sent to Hell in his stubbornness!”
Mistress Fisher recoiled, a frown creasing her smooth white brow.
“You would not have young William witness such a spectacle, husband? Such cruelty, such brute horror...it is not for the eyes of a child!”
Master Fisher turned and gave me an appraising stare. I met his gaze directly, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin; I was no child, but a lawyer’s apprentice and a scholar of distinction. In the corner of my vision, Mr Healey crossed himself and bowed his balding head.
“Young Parry is no infant, my dear, but a young man. If the heretic Marsh should choose to bring down the force of Queen’s justice upon his miserable head, it is right that decent men should bear witness. The boy will be there; it will be part of his education.”
It is curious to note that, until the name of George Marsh entered the Fisher household, I had not fully realised that my Master was not only of the Old Religion, but so fervently devoted a Catholic that even his natural kindness of nature did not temper his zeal for the punishment of heresy. I myself had no strong allegiance; I had grown up the grandson of a village churchman whose moderate Protestantism was the product both of Edward VI’s new orthodoxy and of Flintshire’s considerable distance from London, the church at Northop having put away censors, rich vestments and gold trappings but retained its ancient stone altar and its single stained glass window. No doubt upon the accession of Queen Mary, the year I left for Chester, the censors and other accoutrements had been retrieved from storage and pressed back into service with little practical impact on worship. It became apparent to me, however, sitting at Master Fisher’s table as he railed against the reformist filth that threatened to choke the very souls of innocent Englishmen, that I was, at least for the time being, a good Catholic. I lowered my eyes and crossed myself before taking up my quill and returning to my work.