J. R. Tomlin on Writing and More

Free this Weekend: Freedom's Sword, A Historical Novel of Scotland

2012-01-21T08:35:00.000-08:00

This weekend only Freedom's Sword with 19 straight rave reviews is free on Amazon in the US and the UK.

Before William Wallace, before Robert the Bruce, there was another Scottish hero...

In 1296, newly knighted by the King of the Scots, Andrew de Moray fights to defend his country against the forces of the ruthless invader, King Edward Longshanks of England. After a bloody defeat in battle, he is dragged in chains to an English dungeon.

Soon the young knight escapes. He returns to find Scotland under the heel of a conqueror and his betrothed sheltering in the hills of the Black Isle. Seizing his own castle from the English, he raises the banner of Scottish freedom. Now he must lead the north of Scotland to rebellion in hope of defeating the English army sent to crush them.

CENSORED Thanks to SOPA

2012-01-17T14:35:00.001-08:00

Interview with Cora Buhlert, Historical Short Story Writer

2012-01-02T13:26:00.000-08:00

Today I'm talking to Cora Buhlert, author of numerous pieces of historical fiction. I'm thrilled to have her visit.

Cora, when did you start writing? What was it you first wrote?

I wrote my first stories as a child, mostly Enid Blyton pastiches and talking animal stories. As a teenager, I started my first novel, a science fiction tale about which I remember nothing except that it involved a flying red car kidnapping two girls with a tractor beam. I didn't get really serious about writing until I took a creative writing class at university and was hooked for life. That's also when I started writinghistorical fiction.

What period do you write about and why?

I write about multiple periods. I have a short story set in 16^th century France, a two-part novelette set during the war between Spain and England during the Elizabethan era, another novelette set in Spain during the Peninsular war, a short story set in the Old West, the Silencer series about a pulp writer turned masked vigilante set in the 1930s and a spy novelette set in East Germany in the 1960s. Okay, so the last two would probably be classified as period rather than historical fiction.

As for why I chose those particular periods, sometimes the story I wanted to tell required a particular period. For example, Hostage to Passion came about, because I wanted to write about Elizabethan pirates. The Other Side of the Curtain, my 1960s spy story, came about because there was an opening in a magazine issue devoted to classic spy fiction, so the 1960s suggested themselves. In the case of Outlaw Love, the period was the result of a challenge, because I wanted to see if I could write a western.

In other cases, an interest in the period came first and then I found the stories to match. For example, I have long been fascinated by the 1930s, particularly by the fashion, design and popular culture of the time, and I had an interested in pulp fiction. So it was a no-brainer to combine the two and create the Silencer.

What is your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be? How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: how did you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real” history?

I always try to be as historically accurate as possible, because I believe that the period details should ring true, even if the story itself and the characters are completely fictional. Besides, historical inaccuracies annoy me, whenever I catch them. I'm the sort of person who screamed at the screen during some of the more dramatic moments of Titanic, because of the inaccuracies (though those are as much technical as historical). Research errors in my own work bug me a lot. For example, in the original magazine edition of The Other Side of the Curtain there was an error, a song playing in the background two years before it came out. It's just a minor error and most readers probably never noticed, but nonetheless it kept bugging me and I was very glad when I was finally able to correct it for the e-book edition.

Sometimes, you can draw on your own experiences. Most of the descriptions of 1960s East Germany in The Other Side of the Curtain are based on my own visits to East Germany as a kid. Indeed, my characters drive the same route that my parents always took to visit my great-aunt. Of course, my own trips to East Germany took place twenty years after the events in The Other Side of the Curtain, but then the country was very much frozen in time towards the end of the Communist regime.

I do take some creative licence, of course. I have invented people and places that never existed. The amount of research I do varies depending upon the story. For example, I didn't do more than check some names and dates for The Kiss of the Executioner's Blade, because the story was originally written for a magazine that prized titillation over historical accuracy. I think the most research I ever did was forColfrith, a Regency steampunk novel that never found a publisher and thus ended up in the proverbial drawer. However, the research fallout from Colfrith fuelled El Carnicero, the Peninsular war novelette, and also helped me a lot in the history part of my oral MA examination. And even Colfrith will eventually emerge from the drawer, now that I've gone indie.

But even if you make stuff up, actual history sometimes comes to your aid. For example, Flying Bombs, the second Silencer story, features a Zeppelin. Now the history of airships in general and Zeppelins in particular is very well documented. Besides the Zeppelin company had a continuous serial number system for its airships, so I couldn't just make one up. However, while researching the story, it turned out that there was a gap in the ongoing numbering between LZ-127 Graf Zeppelin and LZ-129 Hindenburg (the fates of both of which are well known) due to a proposed sister ship of the Graf Zeppelin that was abandoned during the planning stage. So the LZ-128 designation was free to use for my fictional Zeppelin.

Tell me about your main character, real or fictional and why?

This is a bit difficult to answer, because so far all of my published historical fiction are short stories and novelettes, so I have several main characters.

So far, all of my protagonists have been fictional. Most of them are in the tradition of Sir Walter Scott's "middle hero" – characters who are caught up in historical events without being major movers and shakers. There is a reason that this type of protagonist is so enduringly popular in historical fiction two hundred after Scott and that is because the so-called "middle hero" is the ideal protagonist for historicalfiction.

If your protagonist is a major player in historical events, you either risk historicalanachronisms or slip into alternate history territory. There are some writers who can pull it off, e.g. George Fraser or Tim Powers. But it is very difficult to do well and requires a whole lot of research. On the other hand, protagonists who never interact with history at all can easily become boring. You sometimes find such protagonists in the historical romance genre, because the focus is on the relationship of the individual couple rather than on the larger historical background. But even manyhistorical romances feature characters interacting with the actual historical events of the period. And besides, if you're going to write historical fiction, there should be some actual history involved. It shouldn't just be a story about people in pretty costumes.

As for using real historical figures as secondary or even main characters, I find that incredibly difficult. A few real life historical figures appear as background characters in Colfrith. I read everything I could find about those people in order to portray them as accurately as possible and I was still terrified that I had accidentally slandered some British politicians who have been dead for almost 200 years now. Indeed, misrepresentations of real life historical figures also bother me as a reader. After all, those are real people who really lived and might still have living descendants. You can't just turn them into vampires or demon worshippers or write that they raped and murdered little children anymore than you would with a living person. If you're going to write real historical figures, the key is to be respectful and stay as true to thehistorical record as possible.

However, I sometimes borrow life details of historical figures for my fictional characters. Lola Laverne, the protagonist of Outlaw Love, is loosely based on Lola Montez, the infamous Irish actress and dancer who took Europe by storm in the 1840s and eventually fled to the United States following an amorous entanglement with the King of Bavaria. Teresa, the heroine of El Carnicero, is loosely based on several female freedom fighters during the Peninsular war.

What is the most surprising thing in the period you write about? Do you run into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in your fiction?

Again, this is rather difficult to answer, because I write about multiple periods.

One thing that always amazes me is if I read a historical novel set during a period I have written about as well and immediately recognize where the author did his research. For example, the garrotting scene in El Carnicero is based on a 19^thcentury eyewitness account by English writer Richard Ford. A bit later, I read Goyaa.k.a. This is the Hour, a 1951 novel by German-American historical novelist Lion Feuchtwanger and came across an execution scene that seemed strikingly familiar. It turned out that Feuchtwanger had based his garrotting scene on the same eyewitness account that I had used. This bit of information mightily impressed one of my professors at university who was a historical fiction specialist.

As for common misperceptions, so far I haven't run into any. However, I did have to deal with the issue of hindsight and of things that are viewed very differently today than they would have been during the time the story is set. For example, Flying Bombs, the Zeppelin story is set in February 1935, at a time when every German Zeppelin was emblazoned with a swastika. I couldn't just ignore the swastika – it is a matter of historical record after all. Nor could I let it go unremarked, even though at that point in history, barely two years into the Third Reich, very few people could accurately gauge the danger posed by Hitler and the Nazis. In the end I decided that my protagonist Richard Blakemore was the sort of person who would have had contact to German émigrés and added a few lines about him feeling uneasy at the sight of the swastika.

Who would you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us about them.

Again, that's a difficult question. I guess I'd say Richard Blakemore a.k.a. the Silencer. He has lots of exciting adventures in his secret identity as the Silencer. And while he does kill people on occasion, he only hunts criminals and is therefore safe to have around. Finally, he's a writer as well, so we could talk shop. And if Richard would like to bring along his fiancé Constance Allen, that's fine by me, since she's a very remarkable woman.

What is your next project?

I hope to get the third Silencer story, The Spiked Death, online before Christmas. And of course I have to finish Prisoner of the Inquisition, the sequel to Hostage to Passion, because I promised it to my readers.

In the longer run, I also want to publish The Dark Lily, which is the prequel to The Other Side of the Curtain and tells the story of how Zane Smith and Shoushan Kariyan first met. Finally, there is also Colfrith, my Regency steampunk novel, which will hopefully see the light of day sometime in 2012.

And here is a link to her Cora's US Amazon Page showing all her fiction and those of you in the UK will find her here. Please do check it out.

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Laura Vosika

2011-12-24T08:53:00.000-08:00

Today Laura Vosika, Author of Blue Bells of Scotland, is dropping by to chat about her historical fiction.

Laura, would you tell us when you started writing? What was it you first wrote?

Istarted writing when I was eight. I used to write story booksthat went on the book shelf in my 3rd grade classroom. I alsostarted a novel at age 10, but found out O. Henry had already writtena similar story (The Ransom of Red Chief) and stopped.

Whatperiod do you write about and why?

Currently,I write in the years 1314 to 1318 in Scotland. Ironically, itwas a piece of trombone music and a children's novel that led methere. I was drawn to the streaming banners and noble deeds inthe lyrics of the piece well-known to trombonists, Blue Bells ofScotland, and I loved In the Keep of Time, a story about foursiblings who go into a Scottish keep and come out in a differentcentury. Coincidentally, both involved Scotland. Istarted researching what time period a modern man might arrive in, inwhich he might take part in noble deeds. It's not hard to findbattles and wars and opportunity for noble deeds, but I settled onthe Battle of Bannockburn, in June of 1314.

Whatis your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be?How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: howdid you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real”history?

Ithink there are readers and writers for every level of accuracy. I personally prefer the highest possible level I can achieve. Of course, with researching events seven hundred years ago, with somany sources lost and destroyed in that time, and with conflictingsources, it's not possible to be 100% accurate. Butstriving for that accuracy means I sometimes edit things as I findnew information; it means it takes me longer to write a book than itotherwise would. I hope my research impacts my writing bymaking it believable and very real, by bringing the people(I can hardly stand to dismiss them as characters!) to life.

Ina twist on alternate history, Blue Bells of Scotland actuallybegins with alternate history--a world where the Scots lost atBannockburn. However, Niall, the medieval warrior, makes it hisjob to get back to save his people, and with his efforts, theworld is set back on track to the history we know--a miraculous,astounding victory over a much greater and better-equipped force.

Tellme about your main character, real or fictional and why?

Mymain characters are Niall Campbell, devout medieval warrior, andShawn Kleiner, arrogant, self-centered, womanizing modern musician. They are fictional, two men with identical looks but very differentpersonalities. They're fictional for several reasons, butprimarily because they are the people who sprang to my mind, who werejust 'there,' so to speak. Another time, I may write aboutsomeone like James Douglas, or other historical figures, becausetheir lives are fascinating, great stories, and well worth writingand reading about.

Whatis the most surprising thing in the period you write about? Do yourun into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in yourfiction?

I'vebeen so deep in medieval Scotland for so long, that I can hardlythink what surprised me when I first learned it! One of thethings that has intrigued me, though, is how human nature can be somuch the same throughout the centuries, and yet so very different.

AsI research, I do run into arguments about the way things really were:Did they really love their children the way we do today? Didthey bathe once a year or more routinely? Were their teeth allbad? I doubt we can ever know for sure, and probably the truthis somewhere in between the two extremes. In The Minstrel Boy(book 2 of the trilogy), I do show the white teeth of people smilingand laughing at a party, and the comment is made, "We werealways told you all have bad teeth in this time." This isnot to say their smiles were all perfect, only that I doubt they wereall terrible, either.

Ido get frustrated with the notion that women were powerless inmedieval times. It was a very different world. Many ofthem may not have been what we, today, think of as independentand powerful, but they also were not weak and helpless. Therewere women like IsabelMacDuff, who defied her husband and the king of England tocrown Bruce King of Scots, as was her family's hereditary right. There was the remarkable Christina MacRuari, and Robert Bruce'ssister, Christina,who, in her 60's, commanded Kildrummy Castle against the English. There were great abbesses, queens, poets, writers, musicians, andmore, women who influenced popes and kings.

Butgiven the world they lived in, I think even the ordinary women,whose names are not remembered by history, were remarkable, strong,independent, and resilient. Were there downtrodden women? Of course. But there were also downtrodden men, and there aredowntrodden women today, too. It's an unfortunate aspect ofliving in our fallen world. The lesson, to me, is that thereare remarkable people in every day and age, and our circumstances donot prevent us from living remarkable lives.

Whowould you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us aboutthem.

Realor fictional? I'd love to spend a day with Shawn, becausedespite all his failings, he loves life, is a musical genius, andmakes people laugh. Among the historical populace of the BlueBells Trilogy, I'd love to meet James Douglas, Angus Og, or RobertBruce, or of course any of the women I mentioned in the lastquestion. They were courageous, strong, and driven. Theystood up for what they believed in. James Douglas was Bruce'sright-hand man. By all accounts, he was a rather peaceful andgentle man until he reached the battlefield, where he became a demon,routinely fighting and winning over forces much larger than hisown. Angus Og was the Lord of the Isles, another of Bruce'smost loyal supporters, yet who insisted on his ownindependence. He appears to be a man who commanded Bruce'srespect, which says a lot about him. Robert Bruce was the Kingof Scots who stood against the might of England and won theincredible Battle of Bannockburn over the far superior forces ofEdward II.

Whatis your next project?

I'mcurrently in the final stages of editing The Minstrel Boy, along withediting Book 3 of the Blue Bells Trilogy. After that, I'llfinish editing a novel about an American widow with a housefulof boys who purchases a Scottish castle, only to discover it isalready occupied: by a ghostly lady in green who insists she dealwith the castle's dark secrets. I have a completed manuscriptfrom years ago that I am re-entering into the computer. (Thisone is set in Boston in the '90's, so a big detour from medievalScotland.) I also have a book in progress about large familieswhich I very much look forward to having time to work on. WhenI finish all of that, I have several other novels started, and wouldalso like to put out book of short stories from medieval Scottishhistory.

Laura, thank you. You will find Laura's novels Blue Bells of Scotland on Amazon and you can learn more about her at visit her website.

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Kathy Cecala

2011-12-17T23:08:00.000-08:00

Kathywould you mind introducing yourself?

I’mKathy Cecala and I write historical novels for teens and youngadults. I‘ve published two books in a loose-knit series called TheForeigners Isle Saga, which spans some 1500 years on a small remoteisle in western Ireland. TheRaven Girl takesplace during the Age of Exploration and Discovery, specifically inthe year 1488; while TheHounds of Nemhain isset in 4^thcentury pagan-Celtic Eire.

Whendid you start writing?

Ineighth grade, I began keeping a diary. Not one of those preciouslittle pink things with a lock and key, but a spiral-bound linednotebook, which I scribbled in obsessively. Sadly, it no longerexists, because I kept destroying it whenever anyone threatened toread it. I wrote about school, friends, family and yes, cute boys. Ialso described and reviewed all the books I was reading at the time,as I was also an obsessive reader. My favorite genre then and now:Historical fiction!

Whatperiod do you write about?

Inmy current series, The Foreigners Isle Saga, I’m not restrictingmyself to any particular era, only setting. Each book takes place onthe mythical Irish west-coast island of Inis Ghall, but each book hasits own era. It makes for a lot of research, but I was fascinated bythe idea of how time and the influx of various peoples can affect asmall corner of the earth. And of course there’s the whole ideathat people don’t really change much through the centuries…butactually, they do.

Howimportance is historical accuracy?

It’svery important to me personally, although I will forgive anotherwriter for lapses in accuracy if her/his storyline is strong andengaging, and the characters are beautifully drawn. Story really isthe thing, after all, or else you might as well write straightacademic history. But since I’m writing for students, youngerreaders in the 12-18 years group, I try to make sure my fiction is asaccurate and ‘real’ as possible, so that it can dovetail with thehistory they’re learning in school. The biggest dilemma I face isthat most Irish history is extraordinarily violent. It has to beacknowledged, but I try not to glorify the violence, but focus on thepeople and their lives instead, how they’re affected and eventraumatized by this violence. Relationships are really more my thing,and each of my books also has at least a hint of a romance in them.

Isyour main character real or fictional?

Ihave different main characters for each book…all are fictional,though they are sometimes inspired by real personages; for example,much of my current book, TheHounds of Nemhain, isinspired by the real Saint Patrick’s journey from Roman-Britishslave to Irish bishop, As for which character I might like to meet,all of them, I suppose. I’d also like to meet Saint Patrick!

Whatis the most surprising thing about the periods you writeabout--common misconceptions?

I’malways amazed at how much people traveled and got around in timespast. Sometimes we have this notion that people just stayed in onespot back in the olden days. But people are restless, and have beenmoving about, sometimes great distances, for centuries. One of thereasons I embarked on this series, and chose Ireland as the setting,is that we often have this idea that Ireland has a very singular,exclusive, homogenous culture, freckles and red hair and shamrocks,but it is actually quite complex, composed of several differentcultures from elsewhere in Europe, plus shreds of DNA from the mostunlikely places. But it is not difficult to understand, when youconsider the number of invaders, visitors, refugees and strangers whohave landed on Eire’s shores over the years.

Whydoes historical fiction matter?

Historicalfiction may be fun and diverting for adults, but I feel it is crucialfor children and young students, in helping them understand howhistory unfolds and relates to their lives today. I think too oftenwe think of history as a set of dusty facts and dates in a book, butit really is the massive story of humankind--basically, it’s whatpeople have been doingfor years and years and years, as well as what people have beenfeeling, thinking and experiencing. And I do believe that historyholds lessons for all of us. Okay, off my soapbox now. My regards goout to all my fellow historical fiction writers, in what must be oneof the most difficult, challenging--and most rewarding--genre of allto write in!

Kathy,thank you so much.

Youwill find The Raven Girl and The Hounds of Nemhaim on Amazon. Orvisit Kathy at her website.

Interview with Historical Fiction Author William Peter Grasso

2011-12-13T05:00:00.000-08:00

I want to welcome William PeterGrasso, author of East Wind Returns and Unpunished, totalk about his historical novels and his writing career.

William, when did you startwriting? What was it you first wrote?

Despitehaving been a prolific writer of industry-related articles throughoutmy aviation career, my few attempts at fiction over the years fellapart after the first few chapters. In 2005, however, I began a storythat refused to die. It became my first novel, East Wind Returns.

What period do you write aboutand why?

For kidslike me who grew up in the 1950s, World War II dominated ourchildhood mythology. Most of our fathers—and a few of ourmothers—had served in that war, and its shadow seemed ever-presentin our lives. That shadow seems to have never left me. WWII remainsthe period of history that fascinates me most.

What is the most surprisingthing in the period you write about? Do you run into commonmisperceptions? How do you deal with them in your fiction?

The mostsurprising thing about the WWII era—and contrary to the rosyperceptions offered by some writing on the subject—was despite theunprecedented communal effort required to wage global war, divisivesocial issues were not put on hold for the duration in any of thecombatant nations. Labor conflicts, racial strife, politicalcorruption and economic injustice continued unabated and weredistorted or simply ignored by the governments and media for the goodof the war effort.

Anothermisperception I encounter when talking of military campaigns is theidea of “juggernauts.” For example, WWII is often seen as just aseries of juggernaut-like military actions: the Japanese and Germanswere seen as unstoppable in the early years of the war, but saw theirfortunes reversed by an Allied juggernaut in the later years. A truejuggernaut is only possible when facing a defenseless or sorelyunprepared opponent; the military campaigns of that era were actuallyvery close-run contests whose outcomes were usually in doubt untiltheir very closing moments and could hinge on quirks of weather,personality, or sheer luck. Examples of this abound in East WindReturns, where the American forces are still unsure of final victorydespite having marched to Japan’s doorstep. In my recently releasedsecond novel, Unpunished, Joe Gelardi, an American airmaninterned in Sweden in September 1944, tells Pola Nilsson-MacLeish, aSwedish government official and his soon-to-be lover, that the warwill be over by Christmas. Pola replies Really? And who will be thevictor?

Who would you most like to meetfrom one of your novels? Tell us about them.

Returningto the previous question, the answer to this question would be PolaNilsson-MacLeish. She is a Swedish economist, educated in England andmarried to a Scottish army officer (who she has not seen in threeyears), who finds herself in charge of interned airmen—Allied andGerman—in the Swedish city of Malmö. Despite her bookishappearance, she is something of a libertine and engages in a torridlove affair with American airman Joe Gelardi. This affair willinitially devastate their lives, but years later, through herconsiderable courage, it brings them a redemption that alters anAmerican presidential election.

Pola is anoriginal; she is the first of my characters who is solely aconstruction of my imagination. All the others are based on people Ihave known personally or public figures (in some cases, the actualpublic figure, like Truman, Marshall, Nimitz, etc.).

What is your next project?

WithUnpunished finally published, I’ve begun work on a newalternate history novel set in northern Australia in the bleak daysof 1942. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor has proved much moredevastating to US military power in the Pacific than occurred inactuality, giving Japan uncontested domination of the southwestPacific and Asia. The US can do little more than help defendAustralia against inevitable Japanese invasion as it rebuilds itsnaval resources. The story unfolds through the eyes of a young USArmy officer—a veteran of Pearl Harbor—who is tasked with adangerous reconnaissance mission on the wild Cape York peninsula ofAustralia. He finds himself dealing not only with the elusiveJapanese but an indifferent high command, a hostile naturalenvironment, enigmatic Aborigines, and a headstrong white woman whohas refused to evacuate. I hope to have it completed by the spring of2012.

William, thanks for talking with me. I share your fascination with WWII and many of my favorite novelsare set during that period.

You will find East Wind Returnsand Unpunished on Amazon for only 99 Cents!

Interview with Historical Romance Author Grace Elliot

2011-12-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

For something of a change in pace, today I have an interview with Historical Romance author Grace Elliott author of A Dead Man's Debt and Eulogy's Secret.

Grace, leasetell our readers a little about yourself?

My name is GraceElliot and I lead a double life as a veterinarian by day and authorof historical romance by night. I work in companion animal practisejust outside London, in a village with a duckpond in front of theNorman church - history is all around me!

I also act ashousekeeping staff to five cats, two teenage sons and a guinea pig(not necessarily in order of significance!) I’m an avid reader andwill give any genre a go, but my favourite is historical romance. Mydebut novel, “A Dead Man’s Debt” was published last year, andthe first in The Huntley Trilogy, “Eulogy’s Secret” wasreleased this October!

When did you start writing? What was it youfirst wrote?

I started writing after a“Eureka” moment.

That moment came when at pa school reunion.Friends I hadn’t seen for twenty years were eager to know if Istill wrote. My puzzled expression betrayed the fact that I’dcompletely forgotten how the stories I wrote for English homework,were often read to a hushed class. At that reunion, it all cameflooding back - the satisfaction of crafting a story, of writinguntil your fingers ached, of losing yourself in the characters…so Iwent home and after a twenty year gap, started writing again.

My first full length novel (unpublished ) iscalled “The Woman Who Paints Horses” and was inspired by a nearbycottage where a famous Victorian artist used to live. I looked intoher life story and was hooked in the way that you are when the truthis stranger than fiction. I have a special place in my heart for thatstory, and who knows, one day I may re-write it and see what happens.

What period do you write about and why?

“A Dead Man’s Debt” and my latest book,“Eulogy’s Secret” are both set in the Regency period. Igravitated to this era because of its natural romance, a time whenwomen’s fashion favoured flimsy empire line gowns and men caredabout the cut of their jacket. It was a time when men were suchdangerous creatures that for a lady to be alone in a room with onecould ruin her reputation. And then there’s the horses andcarriages, moonlight drives and candlelit balls…and that’s partof why I write, for the escapism, so what more fertile ground for theimagination of the romance author than the regency.

What is your theory or belief on howhistorically accurate you need to be? How does that affect yourstory? For alternative history writers: how did you decide to changehistory? How do you reconcile it with “real” history?

Historical accuracy is tantamount, and yet forme as a romance writer, it shouldn’t be so ‘in your face’ as totrip the reader up. Take the example of dialogue. If I were to writeauthentic contemporary speech appropriate for the Georgina period, itwould be almost impenetrable for today’s reader. So a compromise isin order. It would be a huge mistake to use words or phrases that areblatantly out of keeping with the era, but to update the way Englishwas spoken then to help the flow of dialogue, is in my view,acceptable.

Havingsaid that, the importance of historical accuracy can invoke a lot ofstrong feelings as I recently found out. Whilst watching an episodeof “The Tudors” I spotted Anne Boleyn riding astride and queriedin a blog post of mine, whether this would have been acceptable inTudor times. The deluge of responses to that post proved to me thataccuracy is something people get very heated about and woe betideanyone that laughs in the face of accuracy. (For those that areinterested here is the link to that post:http://graceelliot-author.blogspot.com/2011/09/did-anne-boleyn-ride-astride.html )

Tell me about your main character, real orfictional and why?

The heroine in my recent release, “Eulogy’sSecret” is Eulogy Foster. Her character, and indeed the novelitself, arose out of seeing a poster on the London Underground!Whilst taking my son’s to the theatre, through the scratched glassof a Jubilee line train, I saw a poster with the word “Eulogy” incapital letters across it. This stuck in my mind and it occurred tome what an enigmatic name “Eulogy” would make. Something trulyterrible must have happened for a parent to name their child that -perhaps the mother dying in childbirth, or even something darker andmore sinister…And so the idea behind Eulogy’s Secret was born.(That poster, by the way, was advertising a memorial concert at theRoyal Albert Hall.)

Who would you most like to meet from one ofyour novels? Tell us about them.

What a good question! I’dlove to meet Tristan Farrell from “Eulogy’s Secret”. Farrell isthe Irish artist who with Eulogy as his model is inspired to painttruly great works of art that set the Ton buzzing. He’s quite acharacter and has an artist’s way of seeing the truth behind thefaçade. He’d be excellent company and since Eulogy has alreadybagged the hero, Jack Huntley, I’d happily spend time in thecompany of the Irish charmer, Tristan Farrell.

What is your next project?

I’mhard at work at book two in The Huntley Trilogy (working title“Hope’s Betrayal”.) Each book features one of the three Huntleybrothers and the hero in Hope’s Betrayal is the dashing navalCaptain, George Huntley. I know when the writing is going well when Idream about the characters - and even if I say so myself, CaptainGeorge Huntley is a humdinger of a man, whom I’m totally in lovewith. I can’t wait to finish the book so that I can unleash him onthe world and spread the infatuation. Hope’s Betrayal is going tobe an action packed historical romance with smuggling skulduggery,treachery and of course….a love that brings Huntley to his knees.

Grace, thank you so much for dropping by and answering our questions.

You can buy Eulogy's Secret (and meet Tristan Farrell) at Amazon US, Amazon UK, or Smashwords.

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Kelby Ouchley

2011-12-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

Today I have an interview with Kelby Ouchley, author of the historical novel Iron Branch. Thanks for dropping by my blog to answer some question, Kelby.

First, whendid you start writing? What was it you first wrote?

Lookingback, it may have started when I won a creative writing contest inthe 7th grade. It was a sci-fi short story. I have alwaysenjoyed creative writing, although I did not have many opportunitiesin that arena while working for the federal government for 30 years.Since 1995 I have been writing and narrating a weekly natural historyprogram for the public radio station that serves the Ark-La-Missarea. Some of these essays were published in literary journals andother outlets. In October 2011, LSU Press released them in book formas Bayou-Diversity: Nature and People in the Louisiana Bayou Country.LSU Press also published my first non-fiction book, Flora and Faunaof the Civil War: An Environmental Reference Guide, in 2010. The main topic of this interview, my historical novel Iron Branch: ACivil War Tale of a Woman In-Between, came out a couple of monthsago.

Whatperiod do you write about and why?

I liketo write about the American Civil War era. It was such an epicturning point in our country’s history and virtually everyone wascaught up in it to some degree, from drafted soldiers to destitutehousewives. Significantly (at least for those of us writingabout the era) and because of an increasing rate of literacy in thecountry, large numbers of people from all walks of life wrote abouttheir lives during the Civil War. The countless letters,diaries, and journals of the times provide a treasure trove ofmaterial that can be mined by authors of historical fiction.

Whatis your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be?How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: howdid you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real”history?

Majorhistorical events provide the general background of my story. My story line tends to flow in and around those events that madeheadlines at the time. There is one aspect of my writing that Iinsist be as accurate as possible. My education and vocationfor many years involved ecology and natural history. It is veryimportant to me to get them right. I would like to think thatmy settings and story lines are rich and textured with detailedenvironmental nuances that involve flora, fauna, and phenology of theecosystems at hand. Nothing distracts me more than a story withimplausible natural settings.

Tellme about your main character, real or fictional and why?

Themain character of Iron Branch is fictional. She is a young woman ofmixed blood (half Choctaw, half white). The story is told inthe first person. I wanted to portray the cultural conflicts ofthe Civil War from the perspective of those not often elevated tolead roles. She tells the story of her life and that of a youngsoldier in north Louisiana during the war. They become involvedwith a cast of characters the likes of which are also usuallyrelegated to minor parts in most Civil War fiction.

Whatis the most surprising thing in the period you write about? Do yourun into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in yourfiction?

TheCivil War was much larger than marching soldiers, scheming generals,and dreadful battles. Most drama occurred far from thebattlefield in the lives of millions who were not in the front linesof glorious charges into the mouths of cannon. Misperceptionsabout the Civil War abound. For example, many southernersabhorred slavery and many northerners detested African Americanswhether free or slave. I try to overcome these misperceptionsin my fiction by portraying the situations accurately as I understandthem.

Whowould you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us aboutthem.

Iwould like to meet Atlas from IronBranch and spend some time on the frontporch of his cabin that sits tight to the bayou bank. He is awise, old slave who has experienced unimaginable atrocitiesthroughout his life. His experiences have gelled into apersonal philosophy that includes compassion beyond reason. Istill have a lot to learn from him.

Whatis your next project?

I havebeen approached by a university press about writing a trade book onalligators. If I decide to tackle it, the research should yieldan abundance of fodder for my next historical novel!

I lovethat this takes a very different look at the period than the usualCivil War novel. You'll find Iron Branch: A Civil War Tale of a WomanIn-Between at Amazon for only $2.99 for Kindle and it is alsoavailable in paperback.

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Sarah Woodbury

2011-12-01T05:00:00.000-08:00

I would like to introduce you to historical fiction writer Sarah Woodbury, the author of several fascinating novel with medieval settings, my favorite setting for novels. Thanks for dropping in, Sarah.

First, I'd like to ask whendid you start writing? What was it you first wrote?

Readingand writing are a part of my earliest memories of something that Iliked to do. What I wrote most when I was younger was poetry (I’msure very bad). Then, when I was about twelve, I began to focus moreon schoolwork and almost forgot that I loved to write fiction andthat I even had a creative side. Having children (and homeschoolingthem) encouraged my creativity again in my late twenties andthirties. A little over five years ago, at the age of thirty seven,I took the plunge and started my first novel. It was astraight-forward fantasy which will never see the light of day,though I’ve raided it since for characters and scenes.

I know you write medieval fiction. Would you explain why?

Mybooks are all set in dark age and medieval Wales. It’s a crazytime period, in a way, because we know so little about that era. This gives more scope for fiction, which is an aspect I particularlyenjoy. I fell in love with Wales when I lived in the UK during mycollege years. Plus, my family is historically Welsh, and I foundlearning about my own history fascinating.

Whatis your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be?How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: howdid you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real”history?

Iwrite historical fantasy, alternative history, and medievalmysteries, so I cover the whole gamut of types of novels wherehistory needs to be more or less real. With my After Cilmeriseries, which is time travel/alternative history, I very rigorouslyadhere to the culture of the day and the historical events that Idon’t change. At the same time, my books take off on a trajectorythat never happened, which eases some of these concerns.

Formy historical fantasy books, I apply the same standard, in that theevents are as historically accurate as I can make them, except when Iadd the fantastical element (in The Last Pendragon Saga, thiswould be the interplay between the Celtic gods and our world, and inCold My Heart, it’s the use of the sight and that thebook is about King Arthur, who may not have existed at all).

ForThe Good Knight, the first of my Gareth and Gwen medievalmysteries, the events related in the book really happened. I includeno ‘fantasy’ elements, except for the existence of Gareth andGwen, my two detectives. That and the specifics of the crimes theysolve are the fiction part in my historical fiction.

Whatis the most surprising thing in the period you write about?

Oneof the continually surprising things to me about medieval Wales ishow little we know about it. We don’t know birthdays. We don’tknow the names of mothers. We don’t know the exact location ofGarth Celyn (Aber), the seat in North Wales of the Welsh princes. Ignorance about the history of Wales is so rampant that there’s astory that one of the twentieth century owners of what might be GarthCelyn found ancient documents stuffed into a wall and burned thembecause they were in Latin and she couldn’t read them!

Doyou run into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in yourfiction?

Ithink there is very few common understandings about Wales in theUnited States, because so few people know anything about it. At thesame time, the country has been sidelined and the people ridiculed bythe ruling power (England) for 700 years. I spoke with one Welshperson, living in the United States, who talks about his grandmotherbeing ‘put out in the yard’ as a schoolgirl for speaking Welsh. The prejudice and misunderstandings between the English and Welsh aretoo numerous to mention.

Whowould you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us aboutthem.

Iwant to meet Prince Hywel. He is the second bastard son of OwainGwynedd, a king of North Wales in the 12^th century. He’snot the main character in The Good Knight, but he plays acentral role. He’s smart and resourceful and always strives tostay one step ahead of everyone else.

Whatis your next project?

Iam writing the second in the Gareth and Gwen medieval mystery series. The first draft is almost complete and I’m very excited about thebook. I can’t wait to share it … I estimate it should come outin mid-2012.

Sarah, thanks again for telling us about your fascinating work.

You can find The Good Knight on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. You will also want to check out her other novels such as The Last Pendragon and Footsteps in Time.

Interview with Historical Novel Author M. H. Sargent

2011-11-27T05:00:00.000-08:00

I'dlike to introduce M. H. Sargent, author of the historical novel, Toward Night's End, set in the US during the upheavals of World War II. M. H., thanks for dropping into answer some questions. By the way, I have to mention how much Ilike the cover of your novel. It's beautifully done.

First,when did you start writing? What was it you first wrote?

Iactually started writing short stories in high school. Just for fun.In college, I worked for the UCLA newspaper and some local weeklynewspapers too. As for novels, this book, Toward Night's End was myfirst novel.

Whatperiod do you write about and why?

Mystory takes place in America during WWII and deals with theJapanese-Americans being sent to internment camps.The story came froma real life experience during the war. My grandfather had a dairyfarm in Norwalk, California. He was also an attorney and he hadJapanese tenant farmers handle the farm for him, day to day. Likemany others in the area, when the war came along and theJapanese-Americans were forced into camps, families had to do a lotof extra work at their farms. One neighbor had a teenage son to helphim and the boy went to the barn for some hay and discoveredsomething hidden under the haystack -- it was an anti-aircraft gun.The boy's father called the Army and they carted it away. But thatstory has always stayed with me. We've been taught that all theJapanese-Americans were good citizens and putting them in the campswas a terrible wrong. However, if that is the case, why would sometenant farmers have an anti-aircraft gun, of all things? How did theyget it? Anyway, that one episode got my imagination going andeventually lead to this novel.

Whatis your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be?How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: howdid you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real”history?

Personally,I want to keep my story as historically accurate as possible. Ireally researched the Japanese internment camps, to give a validdescription of what life was like in those camps. Obviously, all mycharacters are fictitious, but I tried to show what life was likethen, how events did unfold.

Tellme about your main character, real or fictional and why?

Mymain character is a 21 year old Japanese-American man named MatthewKobata. He is completely fictitious. He lives with his family onBainbridge Island, Washington. The book starts on the day all theJapanese-Americans on that island had to leave. His mother refuses toleave their home, since he never came home the night before. Shewants to wait for him, since he is "a good boy" and knowsthey have to leave on the ferry. The Army forces the family to leaveand the hunt is on for Matthew. Complicating matters, the bodies of two Caucasian men are then found on the island and suspicions turn toMatthew.

Whatis the most surprising thing in the period you write about? Do yourun into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in yourfiction?

AsI say, the most common misconception is that all Japanese-Americansleaving on the West coast of the U.S. were loyal to America and itwas wrong to put them in camps. But then again, I come back to thatneighbor of my grandfather -- his son finding an anti-aircraft gunhidden on the property. Bottom line, I think things are not always assimple as they seem.

Whowould you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us aboutthem.

I'dprobably like to meet my main character, Matthew. A very honorableyoung man that tried to stop a horrible wrong and got caught up in aweb of deceit against this country.

Whatis your next project?

Myother books deal an elite 4-member CIA team, all set in presentday. So, I'm currently working on another book with them.

TowardNight's End is a fascinating and unusual look at the US duringWorld War II. You'll find it here on Amazon for only $3.99.

Guest Post on Reviews and Reviewers by Fantasy Author Ty Johnson

2011-11-26T00:15:00.001-08:00

Fantasy author Ty Johnston’s blog tour 2011 is running from November 1 through November 30. His novels include City of Rogues, Bayne’s Climb and More than Kin, all of which are available for the Kindle, the Nook and online at Smashwords. His latest novel, Ghosts of the Asylum, is just out and is now available for e-books as of November 21. To find out more, follow him at his blog tyjohnston.blogspot.com.

Now I'll let Ty discuss reviews and reviewers:

Once upon a time, book reviewers were thought to be mysterious figures, like ancient wizards who resided upon high in lofty towers. Most larger newspaper had a professional book reviewer or two, as did many magazines. Even smaller newspapers and publications often sported a part-time or semi-professional book reviewer.

Oh, how times have changed. Now it seems there are book reviewers all over the place, though the majority of them are not necessarily what one might consider a professional, in this case meaning these reviewers are not making a living from their reviews alone (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

The Internet has opened up opportunities for all of us to voice our opinions, and this includes book reviewers. There are review blogs, reviews on Amazon, reviews at Goodreads, links to reviews on Twitter and Facebook, reviews at HuffingtonPost, reviews, reviews, reviews.

I, for one, am thankful for all these reviews, and I’m also thankful the majority of these reviews are not coming from so-called professional reviewers.

I worked as a newspaper journalist for nearly 20 years, and I have first-hand experience watching professional book reviewers at work. Book reviewing is hard, in no small part because much of what is being reviewed simply isn’t very good, or at least isn’t worth any level of excitement.

As a fiction writer, my preference leans toward the less stuffy reviews of today, often short, to the point, and often eye opening. Writers get to see first-hand what is and is not liked in their fictional works, and good reviewers will spell out what worked and what did not.

Admittedly there are a lot of bad reviews and reviewers out there. Five minutes perusing book reviews on Amazon will prove this. Every once in a while you might also run across someone giving bad reviews out of spite or for reasons having nothing to do with the books or writers being reviewed. The opposite also happens occasionally, with writers trying to hoist fake good reviews upon the public.

However, the stilted reviews and the fake reviews are almost always obvious. The general reading public is not stupid, and the majority can spot an unfair review a mile away.

The intelligence of the reading public, and the growing numbers of solid reviewers, is one of the reasons I’ve never bought into the argument that a wave of bad e-books from unfiltered authors is a bad thing. Again, readers aren’t stupid, and they will be able to find what they want when they want it. There are billions of websites out there, but Google and other search engines make sure viewers can find they information they desire. Amazon and Smashwords and other online venues can and will accomplish much the same for writers and readers.

The problem for writers, however, is how to let readers know about your books and e-books. This is where reviewers are important. More and more readers are following book reviews, in no small part because of the massive amount of literature currently available (and it’s growing by the second). Readers are finding their favorite book blogs, and their favorite Amazon reviewers. Readers are sharing links at their favorite social networking sites.

Perhaps more than at any time in the history of the printed word, readers are depending more upon word-of-mouth than they are advertisements or bookstore placement for their reading material. It’s true Amazon and Barnes & Noble can still drive book and e-book sales through placements on their sites, but readers are finding freedom in looking elsewhere for good books, writers and reviews.

So, you writers out there, you need to pay attention to reviewers. Quality reviewers get noticed, and they can help you get noticed.

Readers, you, too, need to watch for good reviewers, because they can open your eyes to all new adventures, all new ways of thinking, new worlds, and new writers.

We need reviewers, especially good ones. They get the word out.

Interview with Mystery Writer David H. Fears

2011-11-22T07:21:00.000-08:00

I'dlike to introduce David H. Fears, author of the "Dark"series of hardboiled mysteries, set in Chicago in the early 1960s,historically accurate; lots of seduction and love triangles;sleuthing; complex plots and an interesting, likable hero.

Thanksfor answering some questions about writing a series of novels thatcombines hardboiled mystery with a historical setting, David.

So when did you startwriting? What was it you first wrote?

David: The first grade. "Girl" was my first written word.The rest is history. Seriously, I came to fiction writing late inlife, in my early 50's. I had to flush my academese style and learnthe craft one item at a time. I did haunt some online crit circles,but am mostly self-taught.

Whatperiod do you write about and why?  

David:The early 1960s. I think because it is so rich in social change,reform, corruption, and also a simpler time for many Americans, if astressful time for the nation. Also, I came of age in the late 50s,early 60s and know the time well.

Whatis your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be?How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: howdid you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real”history?

Davd:My approach (not necessarily a "theory") is to utilizereal events, places & people, then weave my fictional story& characters around historical accuracy. I don't make upevents beyond that. In the 6 novels I've done I have used eachsubsequent year, beginning in 1960. I've included thefollowing real events/people: Trenton Prison Riots of the 1950s,60s. Purple Gang of Detroit; Mayor Daley's corrupt Chicagoadministration; police reformer O.W. Wilson; French Bonnot Gang;Portland corruption of the 50s, 60s, Big Jim Elroy, StanleyTerry rackeeters, Police chief, Mayor Schrunk, etc. I don'tchange history to fit the fiction of the novel, but adapt the fictionto fit history. Some names are fictional beyond the main characters.

Tellus about your main character, real or fictional and why?

David:Mike Angel is a young man (30; fictional) who came out of Korea tojoin the police force with his father in NYC; like his father herefused to be on the take but also couldn't stand the administrativeBS and control. He quit the force after his father retired andhad just completed his first case as a PI. Mike then took up thetorch to follow in his father's footsteps, but had misgivingsall along if that was his true calling. He struggles witha conflict about commitment and fidelity throughout the novels aboutwomen and one particular woman, Molly Bennett. His weakness is womenin trouble who find him in each episode. Over 6 novels to 1965 heevolves somewhat, settling in as a fist-first but good investigatorand slowly commits to Molly.

Whatis the most surprising thing in the period you write about? Do yourun into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in yourfiction?

David:I was somewhat shocked at the level of crime, corruption, dirtycops, illegal gambling, prostitution, etc., especially in my hometownof Portland, where the last novel, Dark Moon, takes place. I dealwith these by using real exposes, names, events, etc., and byimmersing Mike into complex plots that make solving casesdifficult.

Whowould you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us aboutthem.

David:Ah, well, I suppose in some ways I've met each of my maincharacters, since I've lifted pieces here and there from folks I'veknown. Since I share Mike's sarcastic and smartass sense of humor,especially as he relates to his late father's retired NYPDdetective Rick Anthony, I'd like most to meet Mike. I've met Mollyalready!

Whatis your next project?

David:I'm continuing the last volume of a 4 vol referencework on Mark Twain, Mark TwainDay By Day.This is pure history using all available primary sources and muchsecondary work. I have 4 more trips to make to UC Berkeley andthe Mark Twain Project to read some 3,000 incoming letters to Twain.I have had small stirrings for a 7th Mike Angel novel but am lettingthat pearl choke on the irritation for a few months.

Doyou use a pen name and why?

David:David H Fears (I use Mike Angel on the KB writers cafe, myprotagonist's name. Much of the time HE comes out in my posts there--am I asplit personality? Well, with my personality some split might help. Ihave written over 100 short stories and had a couple dozen publishedin print & ezine under the name DH Henry. I used it because manyof my tales involved tail-chasing, and I suppose I wanted to see howthey'd go over first. I self-published a print collection of them in2001 from which I made a small amount after a 500 book run. I'vealso uploaded 44 of the best shorts on Amazon using the old DH Henryname. I now write only under my own name.

Thanks for vising, David. I really appreciate your time and the interesting answers.

Wanta good mystery? Want more action for the buck? Try getting into MikeAngel's "Dark" Series:

Dark Quarry is FREE until Christmasat Smashwords or available on Amazon.

That is just one of this great series along with Dark Idol, Dark Lake, Dark Blonde, Dark Poison, and, just released, Dark Moon.

Review: Deep in the Valley: A MacLachlainn Saga, Book Two: Niall

2011-11-19T16:56:00.001-08:00

This historical novel touches what is sometimes called the forgotten ethnic group of the US: Scottish Americans. There are, in fact, as many people of Scottish descent in the US as there are in Scotland. Many of them know little about their heritage or how our people came to be here.

Tommie Lyn delves deeply into this history in her historical series, The MacLachlainn Saga, that began with High on a Mountain and the story of Scotsman Ailann MacLachlainn's loss of his family and Scottish homeland as he was exiled, a slave, to the American colonies.

As Deep in the Valley begins, Ailann has regained his freedom and begun a new family in the land of the Cherokees with whom he has become a friend and ally. He has married a Cherokee woman, Mali. They have children, a farm and what Ailann is convinced should be a good life. But his second son, young Niall, is too much like his father, restless and rebellious, but so is the older brother with whom he has a long-standing rivalry for their father's affections. This is a rivalry that Niall always loses.

The characters are interesting and the setting beautifully drawn. You can easily relate to Ms. Lynn's obvious love for the heritages she writes about, both the Scottish and the Cherokee. Although much of this novel is what I would term domestic, it is none the less engaging and held my interest. However, as the American colonies rebel against British domination and begin their fight for independence, the plot changes somewhat, becoming a bit more of an adventure. The mix of domestic and adventure should give something to people who prefer either in a historical novel.

I did, however, have a problem with the very frequent changes in point of view and the large number of point of view characters. I would just get interested in one character when she would change. That kept me from becoming as interested in or connected to the main character as I wanted to be. The story is presented as Niall's but I never felt particularly attached to him. This was a shame because it was a very interesting story and he could have been a much more interesting character if he had made up more of the story itself.

However, while I thought Deep in the Valley could have been improved, it is still a very enjoyable novel about a part of US history and the history of the Scots that is all too often ignored. Scottish history and the history of the Scots in the US is much more than shortbread and tartan tat. The depth of love for their homeland, for each other, and for their new country is beautifully portrayed in this novel and I recommend it both to Scots and to historical fiction fans.

Deep in the Valley is avilable on Amazon for only $3.99, a steal, I assure you.

A Rant

2011-11-05T11:55:00.000-07:00

I am going to be franker than usual in today's post, perhaps down to the fact that I am hospitalized following an accident and on heavy medication. (Or in other words, drugged out of my mind, such as it is)

So here goes. I just read a sample of a novel supposedly set in the Scottish Highlands. It made me throw up in my mouth.

"Verra" is not a Scottish word, dammit. In the Highlands, the chances are they would have spoken either Scots Gaelic (Gàidhlig) although if they were noble, they might have spoken Scots or French as those were also languages of the Scottish court. NEVER would they have said "verra" which is not a word in Scots or Gàidhlig. It is at best an idiotic dialectical spelling of a Lowland Scot speaking English.

Scotland was part of the medieval European world in which there were royalty, nobles, the small nobility and their adherants. While the Gaelic culture was extremely important in Scotland as was the Norman culture, imported when a Scottish king gave lands to Norman followers, neither were the rather peculiar romaticised version you find in these novels. Scots were not some barbarians who painted their faces blue. A Scottish "warrior" in the middle ages does not even make sense.

The Scotland in "Highland Romances" is a made up place that never existed.

Do you have a right to write in this made up world? Yes, but PLEASE try not to make it insulting by writing a dialect on the level of "negro minstrels" or assuming that Scots were barbarians. And if you love to read it, that is your right, too, but PLEASE be aware that it has nothing to do with the real Scotland or its actual history.

The the Snowed In With Indie Authors Review and Giveaway

2011-11-02T11:29:00.000-07:00

"What Book is That?" is snowed in! Snowed in with indie authors, that is! Every day in December, a different indie book will be reviewed at whatbookisthat.com! Each review has a giveaway attached for digital books, print books, gift certificates and more! Over 30 books will be up for grabs, so stop by every day for a new chance to win!

A great giveaway and festival by one of my favorite bloggers. Please do check it out.

Review of The Academician - Southern Swallow Book I by Edward C. Patterson

2011-10-23T19:07:00.000-07:00

Edward C. Patterson's The Academician - Southern Swallow is clearly written by someone deeply steeped in the history of 12th Century China. You are left with no doubt of his knowledge and love of the period and people. It is well-written and a fascinating look at a very foreign place and time. Patterson brings interesting bits of fantasy into the very historically grounded story. I'm not generally fond of historical fantasy, but it works well in this novel.

That said, I'm going to start with a couple of things I didn't care for. The first several chapters of the novel are extremely slow, and at first he simply didn't get me to care about the characters. At first the main character, Li K'ai-men, is kept very much at arms length. There is also a very large cast of characters which was a bit confusing and hard to keep straight at times. Eventually, he allowed the reader to get close to the characters, but I nearly gave up before I reached that point.

The story is told through the eyes of K'u Ko-ling, Li's faithful but sharp-tongued servant, which adds interesting layers to the story. At the start of the novel, Li is named the superintendent of Su-chou, a seriously neglected area. The administration is corrupt, laws uninforced and the people suffering.

After several chapters, Patterson begins to do a masterful job of immersing the reader in 12th Century China and the reign of artist-emperor Hui-tsung of the Song dynasty. You begin to see what an interesting character Li K'ai-men is, as his strengths are built, in part through his own mistakes and problems. There is also a gay romance that wends though the story, but is never the focus of the novel.

Once Li's talent is recognized, he is named tutor to a royal prince. However, war quickly engulfs them all in chaos. Li is hard pressed to protect the prince in the midst of the turmoil and at the same time he must deal with the threats and the magic of the Jade Owl.

Patterson did a good job of handling the difficult technique of switching from 1st person narrative to 3rd person narrative, which allowed him to avoid heavy backstory but still convey the rich history woven into the story. While not perfect, this is a very unusual novel well worth the effort. I suggest it to any fan of historical fantasy, and even fans of historical fiction will enjoy it.

I don't suggest buying any novel because of the price, but 99 Cents is amazing for this novel which you will find on Amazon and Smashwords.

PS. I might mention that this was a novel I bought and reviewed without any request from the author.

Countenance of War: Sneak Peek

2011-10-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

I'm still working on A Countenance of War, the next book in my series of Scottish historical novels. It takes up a few months after the end of A Kingdom's Cost, and I thought it would be fun to share a sneak peek with you.

Enjoy!

***

James de Douglaspushed aside a thick branch, heavy with spring-green leaves, to peer up the longslope. Draped in wisps of mist, Douglas Castle made a hulking shapeagainst the the golden coin of the early morning sun. In the quiet, alark trilled. James watched as it soared, reached a peak andplummeted towards earth. He breathed in the moist scent of morning. Inthe dense woods behind him, another lark answered.

He stepped out ofthe trees and turned in a circle to look over the field. The groundwas broken and rolling here; soft and muddy from the spring rainstowards the castle road, stony beyond it. A few trees dotted the hillnear the castle, but most had been cleared past the forest's edge topermit a watch for approaching enemies.

Cattle lowed, deepand protesting in the distance. They cleared the rise and a man bentover his horse's withers to smack the lead cow, urging it to a fasterpace. The herd was a mass of shaggy red hides and wide swinginghorns. At the rear, two men waved their arms, shouting.

A horn blew in thecastle. Shouts drifted on the sweet morning air.

The herd thunderedpast the castle. The rumbling mass gained the rocky road. James'sheart pounded in his chest in time to the hoofbeats, and under hissteel half helm sweat dripped down his brow.

The castle gatethudded open. Horsemen trailed over the drawbridge. Squinting, Jamescounted. Twenty in all, armor glinting where it caught the rays ofthe sun.

The English hadswallowed the bait.

James grabbed hisreins and swung into the saddle. He jerked his horses into a turnfurther to edge into the dense forest. Dew-damp leaves slapped hisface as he rode. He brushed them aside. It was dark amongst thetrees, but he made out the shapes of his men. “Wat! Get set.They're moving.” He swung his small kite shield from his back, andflexed his shoulder as he set his hand into the leather straps.Thanks to St. Bride, it had been his shield arm that had been injuredat the Battle of Loudoun Hill.

A horse snorted.Metal scraped as one of his score of men on small rough-coated horsespulled his sword free.

Wat said, “Steady,men. Let the thieving English get past us.”

James bent to patone of his archer's shoulder. Beyond the man ten more in the green ofEttrick foresters stood, well screened by the heavy oaks clothed inthe light green of spring from the oncoming cattle and theirpursuers. “Nock and hold,” James said. “Easy, now.”

He heard a rumble ofcattle hooves, still distant but growing closer.

“Hoi! Move you!”a voice shouted.

The rumble grewlouder. Shouts came from further behind. James nudged his horse intothe dense leafy branches and shoved them aside. The cattle, at a deadrun urged by the shouting waving riders, surged past.

James drew hissword. “Hold,” he said softly.

The riders from thecastle had strung out in a line. A bareheaded knight, blond hairstreaming, galloped on a heavy bay in the front. James grinned.Thirwell.

“A Douglas!”James shouted and brought his sword down. He slapped his spurs to thehorse's flank. It surged forward. “A Douglas!” James burstthrough the leafy branches, his men beside him.

Arrows sighed overhis head. The morning erupted with the screams of men and horses.“Ambush!” the knight shouted.

Another flight ofarrows arched up from behind James, from where his few archers stood.The English fought their horses into a turn, shouting. Another flightof arrows fell and two more men slumped from their horses and wentdown.

“Scotland and KingRobert!” James screamed as he reached them. A man swung at him.James hacked and caught him full in the chest, shearing leather andbone and muscle. James wrenched his sword free as the man fell.

He stood in hisstirrups, looking for the knight. He glimpsed Wat's horse gutted byan unhorsed Englishman, a swarm of their men hard behind him. Watvaulted free as his horse died under him. He rose, untouched, layingabout him with his sword. He caught an Englishman full in the chestas the fool came at him in a full run. A dozen others slashed wildlyto fight their way free.

James shouted, “ADouglas! A Douglas! Don't let them get away.” Thirwell, horserearing and hooves slashing, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. It shattereda man's head in with a kick. He wheeled and raced for the castle.

James lashed hishorse and charged, cutting him off. Their horses slammed together.James's light garron went back on its hocks. His quarry met him,sword raised and swiped a blow at James's face. James slammed itaside. The knight was tall and burly, wearing a chainmail hauberk. Blond hair thrashed around his face as hedodged James's blow. “Douglas!” Thirwell screamed. “You're mine.”

James hacked at hishead and shoulders. The man grunted, swinging at him, sweatdripping down his face. “Devil take you,” he knight panted,chopping savagely at James. James barely got his shield up in timeand pain exploded in his half-healed shoulder from the jolt of theimpact. The man bellowed as he raised his sword high for a blow thatwould have split James's head like a melon. James buried his sword inthe knight's belly.

“He'll take you instead,” James told him.

As James jerked hissword free, Wat shouted, “After them, lads. They're getting away.”

A handful ofhorsemen galloped toward the castle, a good three horse's lengthahead of Wat on an English mount. The rest of his men tailed behind.“Hell mend them,” James said through gritted teeth. No oneremained here but a dozen bloody corpses. Pain shot through hisshoulder when he moved his arm, but he clapped his spurs to hishorse's flank. Bending over its neck, he galloped toward the dust of the pursuit.

Shouts drifted fromthe walls of Douglas Castle. “Ride!” The fleeing horsementhundered over the drawbridge. Metal grated, iron upon iron. Thecastle gates slammed shut.

James pulled up andstood in his stirrups, glowering at the castle gate. Two of the towers still showed black stains from when he had burned the castle once in a futile try to keep it out of the hands of the curst English. A crossbow boltthudded into the ground a yard ahead. He waved his sword over hishead and shouted, “Pull back!” His men milled around him at the foot of the walls in a dusty fog. One shouted a curse up at the men on the parapet. A crossbow twanged.

He'd have to do better. "Now. Move," he ordered and slashed his horse with his reins.

Wat's bellowed,“You heard him. Back.,” harrying the men into order. They followed James out of crossbow range.

James reined in his mount and glared back at his castle. He flexed his achingshoulder. He'd not planned the ambush aright. If they'd been a littlefaster...

Wat pulled his shaggy-coated garron up beside James. He scratched at his beard. “Too bad we didn't get it, but that wasThirwell you took down back there. I'm sure of it. Six of his men I saw go down.”

“You have theright of it. I've rid my castle of one interloper.” James twitcheda grin. “Once we're through here, lead the men back to camp. Afterdark, I'm going to make my way to Will's and see if he has gatheredmore news.”

Harness creaked andweapons clattered as James's men gathered around the two of them.James cast a glance over all of them looking for injuries. “Allhere? How many did we lose?”

“Johne,” one ofthe men said from the back of the throng. “Saw a damned Sassenachunhorse him.”

James circled hishorse as he looked them over. Dauid leaned over his horse's withers,blood dripping from a slash to his head. James motioned to young Richerd, who had a good hand with wounds. “You see to thebandaging best you can. I think they won't be in a hurry to botherus, but we'll not tarry. Strip the English of armor and weapons. Wat, yousee that any coin on them is evenly split.”

“What about yourshare?” Wat asked.

James thrust hischin towards the castle topped by a yellow banner scattered withstarlings, flapping in the morning breeze. “I missed my prize thistime. But I'll claim it the next.”

----

A Kingdom's Cost is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords. A Countenance of War will be available January 3.

Review of Isabeau by N. Gemini Sasson

2011-09-30T15:25:00.000-07:00

I finished Isabeau by N. Gemini Sasson a couple of days ago and enjoyed it very much. It is well-researched and the writing is excellent. Sasson does a very good job of plopping the reader down in England at the beginning of the 1300s. And she chose a fascinating historical story to tell, that of Queen Isabella and her loved Sir Roger Mortimer.

That Isabella, daughter of the King of France, was married at the age of 13 was only to be expected. That was the fate of a royal daughter. However, her new husband, England's King Edward II, was deeply in love with Piers Gaveston and had no interest in her except for an alliance with France and the heir she would eventually produce.

However, Gaveston was hated by the English nobility and eventually executed by them. Edward was devastated. He eventually turned to Hugh de Despenser. Isolated and lonely, Isabella began an affair with Roger Mortimer that would rock the kingdom.

I enjoyed Sasson's characterization of Isabella and Mortimer. She gave them plenty of depth, showing Isabella at different times as a vulnerable girl, a loving mother and a proud queen. She showed the many sides of Mortimer as a hardened soldier and a tender lover who, none the less, had problems dealing with the strength of the woman he loved. I liked that she did not portray Isabella, as she so often is, as the “She-Wolf of France” or Mortimer as a murderous villain as is so often the case.

It is a complex novel that keeps a fast pace as it goes from court scene to battle to family scenes. It speeds from treacherous nobles to loving loyalty, from dungeon to palace. It definitely does not allow you to lose interest.

Where I did feel that she let the reader down was in the portrayal of Edward II. He was a much more complex man than I felt Sasson portrayed him as, a man who loved music and plays, yet had to be dragged from the battlefield when the English lost at Bannockburn, who was the highest rank in the land and yet loved rowing and fishing and whose friends were often commoners. He was generous with his friends, and if overly so there are worse faults. It would have increased the depth of the work if she had rejected the historical calumny of Edward as she did of Isabella and Mortimer.

That would have made her story stronger, but it is extremely good as it is. Sasson knows the world of early 14th century England so well that she does make you feel that you're there. You come to sympathize and hope for good things for Isabella and Mortimer in spite of their mistakes, and she ends the novel on a note of hope and possibility.

I recommend Isabeau highly to any historical fiction fan. It is a marvellous read. It is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.

Teaser Tuesday: Mud and Gold By Shayne Parkinson

2011-09-27T08:56:00.001-07:00

Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly book meme that I just came across last week. It is hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! All you have to do is:

-Grab your current read
-Open to a random page (note: since I read on an e-reader I type in rather than "open")
-Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page
-BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!)
-Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teasers!

My teaser comes from the historical novel Mud and Gold by Shayne Parkinson, available on Smashwords. It is set in Australia and is part of a lengthy serious by the author:

Charlie looked at his son in amazement, and Amy knew that this time it would be hard to shelter Malcolm. ‘Hey, boy, you do as you’re told,’ he said.

Review of The Forever Queen by Helen Hollick

2011-09-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

I really enjoyed this novel by Helen Hollick but I had some big reservations about it, too. I suppose you might say I have a bit of a difficult relationship with The Forever Queen.

The title character of this is Emma, Queen of England, daughter of Richard I, Duke of Normandy. At 13, Emma was shipped off to England to marry the inept Æthelred the Unready of England. England was being heavily raided by the Vikings and life was a lot less than easy or safe. Add to that her smarmy husband, her inability to speak the language and her youth and you can see why she had quite a struggle. It was very easy to come to sympathise with the young girl as she struggled to cope with a difficult life.

However, when her unpleasant husband Æthelred, dies, she marries King Cnut the Great of Denmark, now also King of England. In my opinion, King Cnut is not nearly written about enough. He was without doubt the best king to ever rule England and a fascinating man. After a life of struggle and relative unhappiness, Queen Emma finally finds love, although not always an easy life, with her new husband.

The Forever Queen is full of family life, jealousy, Vikings raids, battles, and treacherous noblemen. All that keeps it an interesting read. However, there is a down side to the novel. It is also full of an overwhelming amount of detail, much of which is not needed for the story development. I understand what a balancing act it is to give enough detail to help a reader picture an unfamiliar time and not bog down a story, but I am sorry to say, I don't think Helen Hollick achieved that balance. A good trimming of unnecessary detail would have served this novel well. Oddly enough, with all the historical detail, I didn't feel that the characters were fleshed out as well as they could have been. Although I came to really feel for Emma (and disliked the direction the author went with her character at the end), many of the other characters seemed to be rather thin and some came and went rather without any explanation.

At the end, I do recommend this novel. There is not nearly enough written about the 11th century and King Cnut is more than worth being written about. However, don't expect either a happy ever after ending or an easy read. I can't say this is a perfect novel by any means, but it is very much worth reading. It should be on any historical fiction lovers list of novels to pick up.

You will find The Forever Queen by Helen Hollick on Amazon.

Teaser Tuesday: Isabeau by N. Gemini Sasson

2011-09-20T15:33:00.000-07:00

Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly book meme that I just today came across. It is hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! All you have to do is:

-Grab your current read
-Open to a random page
-Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page
-BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!)
-Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teasers!

My teaser comes from Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer by N. Gemini Sasson.

Isabeau is written from the point-of-view of a particularly fascinating woman, Queen Isabella, often referred to as The She-Wolf of France and from that of her lover, Roger Mortimer and of and events that had long-ranging effects in the Kingdom of England. This is from early in the novel, page 67 which happens to be where it fell open. Mortimer is about to be imprisoned in the Tower of London by an angry Edward II.

“You promised you would procure our pardons,” I said aside to Pembroke.

“He tried,” Edward said, his lips curving into a sardonic smile as he stepped before me tauntingly, “valiantly.

Sample of A Kingdom's Cost

2011-09-17T18:16:00.001-07:00

I have removed the sample due to the terms of exclusivity I now have with Amazon. However, you can read or download a sample here on Amazon. The prequel, Freedom's Sword is also available on Amazon.

Review of The Fabulous Voyage Across the Ocean Sea by Jan Prasad

2011-09-16T18:40:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading The Fabulous Voyage Across the Ocean Sea by Jan Prasad, and I am simply awestruck. Both the writing and the research in this novel is faultless. Even more, I am struck by the authors ability to bring to life the story of a people beset by cruelty and hatred in the D'Avilas, a family of conversos during the height of their persecution and expulsion from Spain in the 15th century.

Miguel D'Avila, a gem dealer, has long been estranged from his father after his father had an affair with his betroathed. However, Miguel is summoned to return to his father's side in Toledo. After his father's housekeeper, in Miguel's company, witnesses one of the horrific executions of conversos, she accuses the family of secretly practicing Judaism. Although they escape trial, which would have meant certain death, Miguel is charged by his dying father with finding his illegitimate half-brother, Luis. After locating his brother, Miguel is drawn into Christopher Columbus's plans for a voyage to the east by a western route funded by the monarchs, Isabella and Ferdinand. Instead they find a New World, but a new world with very old persecution as the native peoples are subjected to torture, forced conversion and enslavement.

When Columbus returns to Spain without Miguel, Luis is drawn to the New World to learn his fate and to escape the dangers of life in Spain in spite of his suspicions that Columbus has not discovered a route to the east. Yet he is drawn back to his homeland by his responsibilities there and discovers that Miguel had left a son in Spain, Aurelio, who has survived in an orphanage. Although his uncle was unable to rescue him from the orphanage, eventually Aurelio finds out the truth about his family and the truth about Columbus to be passed down to a dramatic end in the 20th century.

This novel leaves one pondering the falsehoods with which we grew up and the unjustices upon which our society was founded. And one must ponder whether those are truly past or lurking within us for the chance to re-emerge.

In spite of what I consider an awful cover, I really can not recommend this novel highly enough.

The Fabulous Voyage Across the Ocean Sea by Jan Prasad is available on Amazon.

In the Despair of a Dungeon: Freedom's Sword

2011-09-10T16:33:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER NINE

There would be a window slit high in the wall. If he waited, it would get light. It had to get light. It had to.

He lay huddled for hours, quiet. Thinking thoughts he could have done without. Like that, he'd heard of prisoners left to starve to death in dungeons. Like that, men were sometimes gnawed by rats as they died. Like that, he might go mad if it didn't get light.

It didn't. He counted his breaths to keep from screaming. Pressed his fists into his forehead. Nothing changed. He had to move--to know where he was. He licked blood off his lips, his tongue so dry it felt like leather. Perhaps he could get to the water dripping somewhere. Perhaps...

On his hands and knees, he crept across the clammy floor, pressing a shoulder against the rough stones of the wall. Otherwise, he might crawl in circles. He swept his hands ahead as he went. A well or hole could be in front of him, and he wouldn't know. He trembled, half from weakness and half from fear of what he would find. A few feet of crawling brought him to a corner. The next wall was rough stone set with mortar as well. Pressing against it, he explored that way. He came almost at once to another corner. Around that one. A few feet down that wall and he knew where he was. The wooden door they had thrown him through. He stroked his way up it, the greasy wood slick under his palms, fingering wide strips of iron when he came to them. Solid.

Merciful God. He clamped his teeth on a whimper.

In the fourth corner, he came upon a clay pot. A slops jar, empty but still reeking of old piss. Surely that meant he wouldn't be left here to die. Why would they give him a slops jar and let him die of hunger and thirst? He realized it must have been a day since he'd pissed. He inched his back up the wall and breathed a sigh of relief as his heavy bladder drained. He'd not known how much his belly had been aching until that moment.

He shook off the last drop of piss. The stink added to the musty smell.

Then he sank down onto the floor, arms around bent legs and head on his knees. His head was pounding again. His mouth was parched. Curse them. Trice-curse them. What had he done but follow his king? What any knight was sworn to do.

Cressingham's face seemed to float before him in the darkness. His fat lips sneered as he pointed and pronounced: ...traitors and criminals... "No," Andrew whispered.

He had fallen into a doze when footfalls echoed in the quiet. At first, it was part of his dream. It seemed years since he had heard anything but the distant, tormenting drip of water. They couldn't be real. He shivered with chills, his lips cracked and leaking blood. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glimmer. A gaoler bent, watching Andrew closely, and put a bowl and cup on the floor.

"Is it day?" Andrew croaked.

The gaoler was a barrel of a man with a pebbly face and beard down onto his chest, clad in a dark leather jack studded with metal. "No talking." He slammed the door.

Andrew blinked as the light vanished. On hands and knees, he crawled towards the precious cup. It was cool and beaded with water. Grasping it with both hands, he took a mouthful and let it dribble down his parched throat. Careful not to let a drop escape, he sipped until it was gone. He used a finger to wipe out the last drop.

A wave of despair washed through him. How could he do this? It was too much. He leaned his forehead against the wood of the door and choked down a sob. He had to get through it. That was all.

The bowl had beans in it and a lump of bread. He scooped them up with his fingers and shoveled them down. Then he wiped the bowl clean with the bread, too, and licked the juices off his fingers. He crawled back onto the straw and curled up in a ball. He was cold... so cold. After a while, he slept.

Eons seemed to come and go. He couldn't tell when he woke if it was day or night. He could feel that his eyes were open when he touched his face. Open or closed, there was no difference in the darkness. He lay huddled against the chill and sang "Turn Ye to Me" to hear something besides the drip of that water he couldn't reach. He hummed every tune he could think of. He took to cursing to make a change.

Another gaoler came to leave another bowl and cup. This one was a scarecrow of a man. Andrew begged him to say if it was day or night. A blow of a truncheon was his reply.

He lost track of how many times they had come--of how many days he had been here. He had no sun and no moon. He had nothing to make marks on the wall. His stomach ached with hunger, the bowls of beans never quite filling his belly, but his fever and chills passed. He sat up and realized that the pounding in his head was gone. His muscles were stiff and every move hurt, but no worse than from a fall in a joust.

It had to be faced. It would go on.

----------------------

Freedom's Sword, the story of Andrew de Moray's desperate struggle to defend Scotland's freedom, is only $2.99 on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Smashwords.

Wrai's Main Skill Comes into Play -- Stealing

2011-09-03T12:38:00.000-07:00

Reitz pulled his horse up beneath the drooping branches of a stand of big oaks. "Ayla and Patul can go to the inn while I show you the house. We'll be off as soon as you lift the medal," he said.

"Not so fast." Wrai turned his horse to gaze at the town in the darkening shade. "You know where the house is so that means you've been there before."

"Of course. We tried to buy the thing," Patul said. "It's an elderly widow. I hoped that she'd be glad of the gold, but she wouldn't even talk about selling. We wrote to her first and then went to her home."

"All three of you?"

Patul shook his head. "No, I was afraid all three of us showing up with frighten her so I went by myself. Maybe I should have taken Ayla with me. The woman wouldn't let me past the door."

"And you don't suppose she might connect this medal disappearing to the stranger who showed up at her door and just happened to be at the inn when it disappeared?" Wrai turned back to the three and gave them a searing look. "I intend to come out of this little venture alive and with my hands still attached. So I'll give the orders when it comes to stealing."

Reitz cleared his throat and shifted in his saddle. He had the good sense not to argue though.

Patul lifted a pacifying hand. "You're the one who knows this business."

"Good. So you went to her house. What's it like?"

"A sturdy cottage, really. Yard filled with rose bushes. Tidily kept." Patul's eyes narrowed as he thought. "Too tidy for her to do all of the work, I'd say though she seemed a sturdy body. She answered the door herself and I didn't see any sign of anyone else around."

"Any barking? No sign of a dog?"

Patul shook his head again. "Nothing like that."

"And it's a small house, you say?"

"Nothing more than a cottage."

"Most likely she has a girl come in to help occasionally then. Not likely to have a servant live in besides having to feed and clothe them. If she's not rich..." Wrai tilted his head as he considered it. Sounded likely but he'd have to see the place. "No stopping at the inn. Once it's full dark, you'll show me the place and ride through to the other side of town. Find the first stand of trees and keep out of sight until I join you."

"That makes sense." Reitz sounded reluctant, but by now the light had faded enough that Wrai couldn't make out his face. "The moon will be at half tonight."

They dismounted and let the horses crop at the sparse weeds under the trees. Wrai pulled his black jerkin, breeches, and an old worn hat out of a saddlebag to change. A cool breeze came up rustling the branches together, and the moon rose to cast its greenish light over the landscape. They rode at a steady walk up the Whorlton road and through the little town. They passed a couple of townsmen making their way into the local inn; otherwise, the street was still. It was a nice enough town with stone cottages spaced along the street, most with gardens and outhouses. Wrai had ridden through a couple of times on his way to somewhere more profitable.

In the moonlight, he could make out the jumbled lines of the slate roofs and a few trees shading the yards. About halfway through the town, Patul made a sound in his throat and nodded toward a cottage. Wrai slid from the saddle and tossed Patul his reins. By the time they had ridden a horse's length past, he was already in the dark recesses of the garden in the deep black shadows under an oak tree.

The scent of sweet damp and old roses clung to the garden air. A tiny glint of light peeked through the closed shutters. He slid around to the rear of the house and squatted within the arch of a vine-covered trellis to watch, tipping his hat to be sure no light would catch his face.

The back door opened, the glimmer of a candle showing a plump wrinkled face. "Out you go, you old rascal," a high wavering voice said. Then the house went dark. A cat nosed at him and he scratched a ragged ear. It purred, winding around his leg. All he needed was a cat following him into the house. He pushed it away, and after a while, it slunk into the night, no doubt to find a rat for its dinner. From a nearby house, the sound of a squalling baby broke the night. Wrai dropped to a knee to make himself more comfortable and flexed his shoulders as they began to cramp.

A drunken voice shouted an oath followed by the sound of wood shattering. "Stupid goat lover."

Another crash followed and the sound of running footsteps. There was a clatter of hobnail boots and a jangle of armor as the watch came running up the way. The torch they carried made wavering shapes in the night. Wrai caught his breath, ducking his head to be sure the shine of his eyes was hidden. Damn, the last thing he needed was the watch to see him lurking.

"Halt!"

A sound of blows and groans followed, then they dragged a dark shape between them back up the road. Breathing a sigh of relief, Wrai waited. The town quieted. An owl hooted. A couple of cats tangled, yowling. After a while, there was nothing but the rustle of the wind in the trees.

Wrai rose and slipped across the narrow space of the yard to the window. He studied the shutters and, as he expected, they were closed by a bar. He could raise it but there was always a chance that would make noise. He frowned. If the door bolted too, he wouldn't have any choice but to chance it. He knelt to examine the lock in the moonlight and smiled. Large and sturdy. Just the kind an old widow would think would protect her treasures. The heavy old thing gave way in a few second.

Cracking open the door, he listened. The house was still until a snorting came from another room. He slipped inside only to find the blasted cat twisted around his ankles, purring at him again. He stopped a stumble with a hand on the wall and silently chuckled. He'd certainly lost his touch in the years since he gave up the trade if a damnable cat could trip him up.

The room smelled of rising dough and herbs and under it the scent of beeswax polish. He reached up to brush his fingers over a bunch of herbs that hung from the rafters. Another snort came from the left side of the house. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he made out the shape of a doorway ahead toward the house front. He would hope that the old body didn't keep her treasures in her bedroom. With the cat determinedly rubbing at his ankles no matter how he shoved it away with a foot, he made his way into the other room.

Here the floor was polished to a glow in moonlight that peeked in through the shutters. Tables swathed in cloths sat everywhere interspersed with spindly chairs. Each table was crowded with pendants and statuettes.

He couldn't help the sigh, and he rolled his eyes. How long in the blazes of Hedrin would it take to go through all these gewgaws? The stupid cat kept rubbing up against him as he eliminated first one table of folderol and then another. On the third, centered in front of the window he saw it, gleaming in a ray of moonlight. He scooped it up and hefted it. Not as heavy as he'd expected. Lighter than the others, but the rune was similar as well as he could see.

The woman gave a snort like she'd been stuck. He froze, heart pounding, but the bed creaked and she settled back to a rhythmic snore. He shook his head at his jumpy nerves. Dumb bastard. Been out of the game too long to be doing this.

Slipping the medal into his tunic, he stood still for a moment to be sure she had settled into a deep slumber before he moved toward the door. She'd miss the thing as soon as she woke. He had no doubt of it, so he strode steadily through the dark streets until he was past the last house. The moon lit the road before him until a bulk of trees rose on the side.

Reitz called out, "Here."

Wrai vaulted into the saddle and handed the piece over to Patul with a grimace. What business did he or these mages have stealing from some old widow? Faceless Goddess help him, this wasn't a night he'd be proud of. He'd take money from someone who risked it, and he'd rolled more than a few honey-fat noblemen. But curse him if he could see a reason why rich mages should be stealing from some old biddy.

Pah. She was probably a mean old shrew who kicked puppies. He shrugged but still frowned.

"Let's get out of here." He glared at Patul and jerked the reins of his horse.

"Wait," Reitz said. Hoofbeats clattered in the distance accompanied by the clatter of harness.

Bollocks. Surely, the woman hadn't found her loss so soon. Ayla sucked in her breath, and he laid a hand on her arm. "Shhh..."

Militia cantered the road, the low light glinting off their armor and weapons. The lord's banner snapped as one held it aloft.

Wrai's breath caught in his chest. A coincidence? Normal patrol? They'd seen several on their way, but it wasn't a risk he cared to roll on.

--------------------------------------

Laying the Odds is only $2.99 at Amazon.

Andrew Discovers the Terrible Price of Defeat: Freedom's Sword

2011-08-27T18:33:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER SIX

The morning dawned with a muggy heaviness. Sweat gathered under the iron bracelets on Andrew's wrists, stinging in the open sores they'd rubbed. A length of chain no more than two feet in length ran between the irons on his ankles. His hair, dank and matted, hung in his eyes. At full daylight, with fifty other prisoners, he was herded towards the rutted dirt road by a handful of mounted men-at-arms. His hands got clammy and cold as he wondered where they were being taken through the shadowy pinewoods. He pictured the piles of bodies after the battle and someone dragging Brian by the feet leaving a crimson track in the dirt. His stomach turned and he gagged.

This was the first time he and his father had been moved since they were taken prisoner. His father... the earls of Atholl and Buchan... and two hundred or so of their men... the ones who hadn't died in the fighting.

Back bruised black and stiff from the blow he'd taken, stripped of his armor, clad in a penitent's rough brown sackcloth, Andrew awaited the will of the conquering English king. Until now, the only change had been when Sir William Douglas, taken prisoner after the slaughter of the city of Berwick-upon-Tweed, had been added to their number.

A grassy hill opened before them and in the center stood Strachthro Church. Prodded by the pikes, he tramped toward the gray stone building, exchanging puzzled glances with the other men. Manacles rattling, he climbed the steps. His father stumbled over the chains on his ankles, and Andrew grabbed his arm.

Inside, a man-at-arms used the butt of his pike to jostle Andrew against the cold stone of the wall. As his father was pushed back, he gave Andrew a dazed look. His father had not been clear-headed since the blow that had split open his scalp in the battle. Blackened blood matted his streaky blond hair. None of the prisoners made a sound as they were shoved against the walls.

From outside came the sound of clanking armor and stamping, snorting horses. The doors were thrown open and a shaft of July sun made a golden carpet across the polished floor.

A huge bay destrier tossed its head as its rider, gray-haired and heavy jowled, dressed in steel armor etched with gold, rode through the doorway. Iron-shod hooves struck sparks, scoring the granite. Bareheaded, he rode. His helm with its golden coronet hung from his saddle. Hoof falls, clanging, echoed from the narrow walls and high-beamed ceiling as King Edward of England rode up the length of the church to the very altar steps, not glancing once at the prisoners lined up on the side.

Sweet Jesu... Andrew's heart pounded.

Behind the horseman strutted a fat man with a ponderous belly in shining half-armor over velvet hose and tunic. Then strode in men in armor covered with emblazoned surcoats, three dozen at least. The crests of Warrenne, Aymer de Valence, the Bishop of Durham, Percy, and Gloucester he recognized. The rest were strange to him, lesser lords and knights of England no doubt.

At the end of the tail of armored men strolled a blond man, shining armor under a sable cloak, broad shouldered and comely--Robert the Bruce, the younger, who had only months before inherited the earldom of Carrick. Though the Bruce was three years his elder, he'd been a friend once when they'd both been squires. No more. Andrew glared, but the Bruce stared down at his feet.

The bland-faced king of England pulled the warhorse up and in a half circle. It dropped a steaming plop of shit on the floor. His fleshy companion took a place, straddle-legged, at his stirrup, and the rest ranged on either side of the steps. The Bruce hung back near the doorway, frowning.

King Edward raised a hand. "Bring him in."

A chill went through Andrew at more clanking sounds from outside. Now they'd find out why they had been hustled to the church. Nearby, Sir William Douglas gave a low growl, his dark face flushed.

The first through the door was a man-at-arms, well-turned out in iron-studded leather, a sergeant perhaps. Over his shoulder ran a rope he grasped in both hands.

The rope led to a noose about King John de Balliol's neck; his shoulders slumped. Andrew dragged in a ragged breath, too horrified to move. His king. Bareheaded, King John was in a red velvet tunic and hose, but the sun shone off his cloth-of-gold tabard with the rampant lion of Scotland worked in rubies, dazzling the eye. On each side walked another guard.

King John lurched forward as the man-at-arms jerked on the rope. The shackles that bound his feet clamored. He stumbled, grasping something to his chest. One of the guards caught a shoulder and shoved him upright.

As John de Balliol, King of the Scots, shuffled into the middle of the church, the men around King Edward watched in silence. Andrew's father gave a cry, "Your grace!" No one else spoke. The man at King Edward's stirrup spat on the floor. Well to the side, Robert de Bruce looked once towards King John, his lip lifting into a sneer before he looked down once more.

King John continued his clanking way towards the mounted Edward of England. In King John's hands were the Royal Regalia of Scotland, the crown and the scepter.

The great warhorse stamped as the regally clad man stopped a stride away. King John craned his neck to stare upwards. Edward's blue glance swept the watchers before he lowered it to the man in chains before him.

King John made a choked sound and cleared his throat. "My Lord."

Edward's teeth bared in a grin. "Past time you remembered it." He glanced at his nearest companion. "Cressingham, see you to it."

The man at King Edward's stirrup stepped forward, his silver half-armor catching the light. He bowed towards King Edward before turning to the Scots king.

"John de Balliol, traitor. Miscreant." Cressinghim's rich voice was ragged with unveiled scorn. "I charge you in the name of the dread Lord Edward, King of England, of Wales and of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Guyenne and Lord Paramount of Scotland. I charge you with refusing his commands, renouncing your allegiance to your liege lord and raising arms against him in rebellion."

The man he addressed continued to stare silently upward at the English king.

"You have dealt openly with King Edward's enemies and consorted with traitors. In all things, you have failed in the submission due him. You have led astray the realm that our king, in his generosity, granted you."

At last, John de Balliol, white-faced, turned his head to gaze at Cressingham. "Granted me? A throne that was mine by right?"

Robert de Bruce coughed. His hot eyes stared at Balliol, and Andrew sucked in a breath. How much has that hatred cost?

"Continue," King Edward barked.

Cressingham took an angry step toward Balliol and thrust out a finger, jowls trembling. "You will say these words after me. Before these witnesses who were traitors with you. At your king's command."

Wildly, Andrew shoved away from the wall. With a shoulder, he rammed into the guard, hurling him out of the way. "No!" He stumbled on the shackles he'd forgotten. "You have no right." He shook off a hand grasping his arm as he stared into John de Balliol's face. "You can't!"

A shadow moved. He sensed an upswept movement, a weapon swinging. There was barely time for a dodge to the side and a half turn. The smash came on his shoulder with shattering pain and he groaned. Saw another blow coming.

He ducked under the pike's butt, but it caught his head. He was flat on the cold floor. A kick to the side of his head knocked him dizzy. Thoughts scattered and flew. They used their boots on arms, legs, stomach, and back. He curled up, arms over his head. A warm trickle ran down his face and dripped onto the stone.

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Freedom's Sword is available for only $2.99 at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords in eBook form and in paperback for $8.99 on Amazon.

Review: High on a Mountain by Tommie Lyn

2011-08-25T09:03:00.000-07:00

High on a Mountain is a historical novel not only of Scotland but of the roots and beginnings of the Scottish American community. Millions of us in the US grew from these roots, and yet, they are too little understood and known.

First, I'll just say as someone who is incredibly picky about historicity in historical novels that Tommie Lyn did an excellent job of historical research for this novel. Set in the early 1700s just beginning just before the Jacobite uprisings, through the destruction of the Highland culture, and the flight to freedom in the US, this is an amazing story.

First in the Highlands of Scotland and in those terrible days ripped from home to be transplanted to America, she tells the story of Ailean MacLachlainn. On his father's Highland croft, he had always longed for adventure, of being a great warrior, until he got it in full measure in battle and the aftermath. Hunted by an enemy, trying to save his family, trying to survive in a hostile land, Ailean has lost everything, except his determination and his stubborn Scottish pride. Even his country is lost to him in his flight to America. There is only the ability to struggle on, for the past was gone, never to be regained. Yet, Ailean had the courage and endurance to seize his new life and claim it, even though it was a hard life, never whining.

The prose is smooth and solid and the dialogue very believable. Some might find the extensive use of Scots difficult but the author includes an extensive glossary. Anyone who wants to understand the Scottish roots of so many in the US will find this a thoroughly satisfying read. Or just read it for a good story.

I must admit I am not fond of the cover which does not well represent what a very good novel this is. Do give it a look if you enjoy historical novels either about Scotland or the early settlers in American and the real reasons so many of them came.

You can sample or buy High on a Mountain in various formats at Smashwords or for Kindle at Amazon.

Scots Wha Hae Wi Wallace Bled

2011-08-23T13:22:00.000-07:00

On this day, 23 August 1305, Sir William Wallace was tortured to death, executed for High Treason by the English for defending his homeland from invasion.

Occasionally my novel, Freedom's Sword, is compared to the movie 'Braveheart' since William Wallace makes several appearances and it covers the Battle of Stirling Bridge. I realize this was a popular movie, but I must admit I cringe, since the ONLY accurate bit of the movie is (sort of) Sir William's execution--except that it was far more horrific than represented.

What was the truth of that execution and the many similar executions carried out against Scots who defended their homeland in the following years?

After his showcase trial in which he was not allowed to defend himself, Wallace was stripped naked. He was tied by his heels to the tail of a horse to be dragged the four miles to the Elms at Smithfield while being pelted with rotted food and shit by the watching populace.

Still alive, he was then strangled by hanging, but carefully so that it did not kill him and cut down. He was then castrated. Afterwards, his belly was slit open and his intestines were drawn out and burned before his eyes.

No one knows the exact point at which the brave freedom fighter died. In the end, he was beheaded and his body cut into four parts. His head was tarred and displayed atop London Bridge, later to be joined by the heads of other patriots executed for defending Scotland, including the Earl of Atholl.

I have visited the place of William Wallace's execution which is marked by a plaque and left flowers there. While he was not by any means the only hero of that gallant fight for Scottish freedom and independence, he was one whose importance can not be over stated. Thomas Jefferson centuries later said that the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots... It was indeed fed by the blood of this Scottish patriot and martyr.

Talon of the Unnamed Goddess

2011-08-21T08:55:00.000-07:00

Chapter One

I knelt on the hardwood floor with the other five remaining members of my seventh year aerie. We waited for Master Jiang to speak. He was a thin man, average height with long gray hair and goatee, and the piercing gaze of a deadly bird of prey. I froze when his eyes settled on me for a moment.

"You six are what remain of the one hundred and four candidates we admitted seven years ago. You have demonstrated your suitability to be considered for membership into the Raptor Clan through your hard work, adherence to our rules, and by surviving your first four Ordeals," Jiang said, pausing as if considering his next words. "One more Ordeal awaits you. The three who triumph will be allowed to continue training. The other three must leave."

I detected no hint of an apology or concern as to where the others would go. Each Ordeal purged half of the remaining students, the clan's method of extracting the best. Ninety students had failed to survive them, and eight were asked to leave because of poor performance in their studies, laziness, or failure to obey the rules. I loved my life as a student, but I hated the Ordeals.

"Your Ordeal will begin tomorrow at first light." He waved his hand to dismiss us.

I bowed and rose. My aerie exited the room in a solemn line.

As the door closed behind us, Kolek grabbed my arm. "Aisha, where will you go after you lose tomorrow?" He smirked. "You survived by luck and treachery over the years. Many made the mistake of feeling sorry for you, and you took advantage of them. I hope you're my opponent tomorrow. You'll get no sympathy from me."

My stomach twisted. I had arrived at the Raptor Clan's remote fortress, the Aerie, with vengeance as my only thought. Raiders had destroyed my life when they raided my village, killed and kidnapped my people. I was off in the forest exploring when I should have been working in the village. I returned to smoking ruins and dead bodies, the only survivor not dragged into slavery. After burying the dead, I made the week long trek through the mountains to the home of the legendary Raptor Clan, hoping to be accepted as a student, to become a skilled fighter, and to find and kill the raiders who had killed my parents and kidnapped my younger brother. If I failed tomorrow's Ordeal, I had nowhere to go, no family and no village.

"I'm not lucky enough to draw an easy opponent like you, Kolek." I refused to back down, although he was one of the better fighters. He said something under his breath as I walked away.

I had been frail when I came to the Aerie. I could not have competed against any of the others in a fair fight, so I learned to outwit them. I’ve become stronger than most women because of my rigorous training and developed excellent reflexes and balance. My speed makes me a good knife fighter. Constant training keeps my figure lithe and trim. My face is typical of the mountain people of the Camori: long and narrow with high cheekbones, dark-brown almond-shaped eyes, straight nose, full lips, and pointy chin. I love my long midnight black hair worn in a horsetail with a small blade woven into it.

* * * *

I stepped out of my room onto the portico the next morning. Students in their simple brown cotton tunics and pants crowded the edges, a zealous audience. A group of clan members, clad in black were among them. I stopped for a moment to survey the courtyard where my Ordeal would soon start, a two-acre square yard, covered with white gravel. A portico led from the yard to hundreds of rooms that abutted the massive gray walls of the fortress, their roofs forming a wide parapet. Above the walls, I could see the snow covered peaks of the Camori Mountains.

The sun shown brightly in the cloudless sky. Above the foothills the mid-summer air carried a chill. I stepped onto the gravel of the courtyard where the rough surface improved our sure-footedness. I would need that today.

Normally the area would have been swarming with activity: students exercising, stretching, and practicing fighting techniques with swords, knives, bows, or with nothing at all--using only the natural weapons of the body. Today, only my seventh-year aerie was there as I walked over to join them.

We waited without looking or speaking to each other. After a few minutes, Master Jiang strode toward us, followed by three masters. He would control the Ordeal from inside the circle. The others would judge it from the outside.

"Seventh-year students," Jiang said. "The Ordeal today is with knives. The winner is the one who draws, in our judgment, significant first blood or who forces their opponent out of the circle. You will cease fighting immediately upon my command. If a contestant dies, it will be the decision of the judges whether the death was intentional or accidental. If it is determined to have been intentional, Master Dragos will decide the student's punishment. Is this clear?"

"Yes, Master Jiang," we said in unison. Ordeals are serious contests. Real blades increased the risk. My hands shook. Only the best would move from student to Talon, from nestling to bird of prey.

"We have paired the three strongest students with the weakest. This is in keeping with the Clan's intent to select the best to become a Talon." Jiang pointed to two students to enter the circle, marked off in the gravel. The student considered the best would be paired with the fourth best, the second best with the fifth, and the third best with me. I felt no surprise when Tellac, tall and lithe, entered the circle although I would have thought Olsim, his opponent, would have been rated lower than forth.
The two opponents circled each other. Olsim seemed cautious, his motions jerky. He scored first, a scratch to Tellac's arm but received two cuts to his arm in the exchange. The contest ended a few seconds later when Tellac darted in to leave a shallow slash from Olsim's neck to his belly.

Several minutes later, as I expected, I wasn't summoned into the circle for the second contest, but my stomach knotted when Kolek wasn't called either. He was a skilled knife fighter, fast, aggressive, and sadistic. My blood pounded in my chest as he looked at me and his lip curled into a contemptuous smile.

I didn't fear being hurt. I feared being forced to leave the Aerie and having my dreams smashed. Think Aisha. Keep your wits about you. I struggled to slow my breathing. I was prepared for this Ordeal even if my preparation had been with cunning. I couldn’t help but smile and felt his glare.

Time after time, Master Jiang had told us, "Emotions kill." Kolek always got excited when he fought. He enjoyed causing pain and often lost his temper. I could use both against him, but I would need time, skill, and my wits.

I must gain control of my raging emotions. But how? I could do that by not caring, but I did care. The Aerie was my life. I forced myself to think calmly about what fueled my fears, losing the Ordeal, having to leave, or not being a Talon. I needed to blur my feelings, to stop thinking about what might be. I focused on slowing the rapid beat of my heart.

"Too scared to move, Aisha?" Kolek said, jolting me back to reality. The second contest was over. Melor had won, as expected. His opponent's blood dripped in a line on the gravel as he was carried out injured but alive. "Take a good look. That's you in a few minutes."

"I'm more worried you'll cut yourself, Kolek," I said with a chuckle. I had reached a strange place. My vision had changed, expanded. I drew my knives at Master Jiang's "ready" command and could sense Kolek's confusion at my composure.

"Begin," Jiang said and moved away from us. I looked towards Kolek but not at him. I could see more than I had ever seen before. I saw Kolek's slight coiling as he prepared to lunge and sidestepped him as he thrust at me. I made a puny thrust with my left hand. I could have cut his extended arm when I sidestepped him but held back. It would only have been a shallow cut.

"Dung face," I muttered loud enough for him to hear, hoping to enrage him. It did.

Only seconds later, he lunged at me with both knives, going for my throat. I sensed this was more an attempt to scare me than to score a winning cut. He didn't move in close enough for a killing blow. He needed me to be scared. He craved it. I parried and jabbed his arm hard enough to draw blood. He answered with a slash that left a few drops of blood running down my hand.
I held back any left-handed blows I knew wouldn't end the match. The longer we fought the stranger I felt, as if I watched from above. I saw Kolek's subtle shifts in weight and muscle tension as he prepared to slash. I heard his breathing. He muttered a curse. Behind me, I heard Jiang's movement as he shuffled out of our way.

Kolek dove in, scoring another nick to my right arm. His right hand dropped. I knew his anger had overcome caution as he plunged his knife in a fierce thrust toward my stomach. I twisted sideways, using my left knife to block his blade. With an upward move, I slashed across his wrist. A gush of blood splattered over my hand and onto the gravel.

I stepped back as Master Jiang shouted, "Stop."

Snarling with fury Kolek threw his knife down and grabbed his wrist. "Damn you, Aisha!" His face twisted in anger. He turned towards Jiang. "She cheated."

"You're right, Kolek. I had a sharp knife." I had won. With one stroke of my knife, I had become clan.

Master Jiang walked over to Kolek and examined his wrist. "The gash is deep but not fatal. Aisha, you, Tellac, and Melor are declared the winners of the fifth Ordeal."

The three masters left the courtyard. Jiang motioned for me to join him. "Aisha, do you know why I placed you in the last rotation?"

"Because I was the weakest."

"No, we considered you third best, Kolek, last. You have a distinct disadvantage if I consider strength or reach. You are smaller than the average woman and much smaller than the average man. But you are two steps ahead of most students. You survive because you are always thinking, 'What if?' I believe you could have defeated Tellac had I paired you with him." He cocked his head and a smile twitched his lips. "Was your left blade ever weak or did you always fake that?"

I grinned. "I faked."

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Talon of the Unnamed Goddess is available on Amazon and Smashwords, only $2.99.

A Review: The Hadrian Enigma, a Forbidden History by George Gardiner

2011-08-15T20:14:00.000-07:00

In many ways, Hadrian Enigma is simply a historical “murder mystery” seen through the eyes of a most unusual PI, the historian Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus. This novel, by the way, is rather a lengthy tome.

In 130 AD, while accompanying the Emperor Hadrian on a tour up the Nile, the beautiful youth Antinous plunges into the Nile and drowns. Hadrian, near maddened with grief, declares Antinous a god. However, Suetonius just happens to be along on this imperial tour. Already the author of juicy books on contemporary Roman life, he is perfectly placed to investigate this mysterious death, so Emperor Hadrian commands him to investigate and find the murderer within 48 hours or suffer the consequences.

In the imperial compound on the Nile, Suetonius searches for clues. Here, semi-isolated, the bubbling cauldron of the Roman court has been transplanted to a fabulous tent city. Yet, the mystery of Egypt is an ever present backdrop to this baffling death.

Perhaps the murderer is one of the other ephebes with whom Antinous shared quarters. They have reason enough for jealousy of the emperor's beloved eromenos. But there are plenty of other possible suspects and witnesses in the royal court: the Empress Sabina, Hadrian's flamboyant heir-apparent Lucius, and a whole coterie of scheming courtiers, not to mention the creepy Egyptian high priest.

Why was Antinous clad in heavy ceremonial parade armor and weapons when he died? How did he come by a slit on his left wrist and strange marks on his throat? And how can Suetonius unravel all this when the Emperor refuses to let Suetonius even touch the body to examine it?

The characterization is vivid and the historicity meticulous in this novel. I enjoyed savoring the characters and setting as Suetonius unraveled the imperial goings on. Some might find themselves impatient with the sprinkling of Greek and Latin throughout the novel. I thought it added to the impact and feeling of being there, but I suspect not everyone would enjoy the necessity to look some of it up. There were also moments when the author slipped into modern jargon which was jarring.

All in all, it was an enjoyable read, but not necessarily a light or fast one in spite of being rather a page turner. The ending, which I won't go into, is satisfying and well worth the journey.

Definitely a four-star read. I recommend it to any historical fiction fan, especially any fan of the redoubtable Mary Renault. You will find The Hadrian Enigma on Amazon at $9.99 for Kindle.

Tamra is warned of onrushing danger - Blood Duty

2011-08-13T20:22:00.000-07:00

Tamra's pulse quickened when she glanced over her shoulder at Jessup, who was leaning back against the wall, unsmiling.

Someone who didn't know him so well might mistake that slouch for carelessness rather than a habit to disguise his coiled tension. Outside the inn, a coach had just pulled up, and the driver shouted for the stable boy. Bright afternoon sun poured through the window. She closed the polished oak shutters and the clamor sank to a murmur. She'd given the innkeeper orders they weren't to be bothered.

"A Faragund army?" She frowned. "After all these years of peace? It's hard to take in."

"It's there all right. And killing everyone they get near." He scowled and twitched his shoulders. "That torture stank of some kind of magic, too. Nasty."

She poured two mugs of ale from the pitcher and handed him one. The innkeeper brewed a fine dark one, so she took a slow sip. Anyway, it gave her time to think. Jessup looked a bit scruffy as always, sandy stubble covering his chin. He'd sent her a message at the keep as soon as he'd arrived. Well, of course he did. She felt the heat flush her cheeks. Their eyes locked, and she could almost feel the kiss they hadn't yet shared. It had always been like that with him.

Gods, she missed him when he was gone. But she hadn't expected him to talk war when he came back. Faragunds... She frowned. "You're sure they're marching toward Daggerfell Pass?"

He shrugged and pulled a chair from the table. He sat in it, tilting it back so it touched the wall. "No way to be sure unless I go into the camp and ask that king of theirs. And I saw what happened to the last scout they got hold of."

She sat on the edge of the table, taking another sip of the rich brew. "But?"

"But they were marching in this direction. Not fast. I'm weeks ahead, but they're moving. Burned three villages that I saw. No prisoners." His lips thinned in a grim look. "Just bodies."

She shook her head. "I don't understand that. I grew up on stories of the war. I heard about… oh, torture. Most people lost someone. My father's brother for one. It was bad, but they took prisoners. Traded prisoners… took ransom for them."

Jessup grunted. "That was then."

"I'll have to think about this. Tell my lady mother first." She bit her lip as she calculated how many guards she had and how many she'd need to hold the keep in a siege. Mostly the guards she led were for patrolling the roads, which her mother was charged with by the prince as levy for holding the keep.

"Telling her is your problem," Jessup said with a curl of his lip. "I don't curry favor with ladies and lordlings."

She gave a quick laugh. "You're more likely to insult them. No. I'll take care of that; you're right. But what about the prince? He needs to know."

Jessup set down his empty mug and let the front legs of the chair thump on the floor. "I came to tell you, not the prince. But all right. I'll report to the palace in Madrian. I'll be back afterwards. Shouldn't take more than two days. If they want to yap about it, they can do it without me." He uncoiled from the chair.

Enough of this. Tamra couldn't think straight when all she wanted to do was kiss the blasted man, so she set her mug down. One step, and she had her hand on his chest.

"About time," he said, voice gruff. He wrapped a hand around her blond braid, bending her head back as his mouth came down on hers.

Their mouths melded, and her blood hammered in her ears. Her body melted from internal fire. He moaned softly as his mouth went to her neck, kissing and nipping. She caressed the back of his neck and took a shuddering breath. This wasn't the place or the time, but it had been too long. As she pulled out of his arms, he rubbed his finger, callous- rough from his bow, along her chin. "Was that all I came back to, Captain?"

"Did you want more?" She grinned a little. "For a scout who never says when he'll be back, you expect a lot."

"Do I?" He grinned.

"Egotistical man." She ran her eyes over him hungrily. "Don't you ever shave?"

"I may—when I get back. And we'll talk. That fealty of yours..."

She kissed him quick and hard to shut him up. "Not now. But hurry back." She strolled out to lean against the wall of the whitewashed tavern as Jessup rode away.

His description of what he had seen on the other side of the mountains had her sufficiently distracted that she barely nodded at the stable boy as she tossed him a coin and mounted. Her horse cantered towards Wayfare Keep and its own stable with a bare twitch of the reins. Tamra looked across the valley with its mixed stands of pine and aspen, past the knot of lime-washed cottages with wood shingle roofs and the patchwork gardens and open fields where goats grazed. Above them on a stark crag rose the massive structure of gray stone keep. The trade road from the nearby mines to Madrian passed under its shadow.

A peasant in brown homespun stopped his goats beside the road. "Fine morning, Cap'n Tamra," he said as she passed.

She nodded and managed a smile. Tales of burned villages and soldiers trampled under the hooves of cavalry charges ran through her mind. She shuddered and shook off her imaginings. Reality was enough to deal with.

In the keep bailey, a bustling wagon train was delivering goods. Mule drivers shouted, and the smell of damp wool and leather mingled with that of animal dung underfoot. Tamra scanned and saw her older brother, Garris, neatly built with brown hair so dark it was almost black, across the bailey yard with his head bent as he talked to the merchant. Sharniz, the white-haired and wizened wagon-train master, was probably doing his best to diddle a few more coins for the goods out of Garris.

Tamra stepped close to one of the guards at the gate, a sturdy girl only recently recruited from one of the nearby farms, eager to escape marriage and farm drudgery. "Go find Farren for me. Tell him to attend me here straight away." As the girl dashed away, Tamra pushed her way through the jumble of workers unloading the wagons. She nodded to the merchant with a smile.

"Think you can beat him out of a few extra coins, Master Sharniz?"

The old man grunted and scowled. "That doesn't happen, Captain. He's a hard man, he is. Takes after his lady mother."

Tamra could happily disagree that her brother was hard, but that was hardly a subject for a merchant's ears.

Garris scraped a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. "I think we're through . I'll have your payment for you shortly."

Tamra grabbed Garris's elbow. "I need to talk to you—now," she said, keeping her voice low enough so that no one else could hear her over the clatter around them.

He gave her a puzzled half-smile. "Something wrong?"

She pointed with her chin towards the steps that led into the keep and led him in that direction until they were away from the crowd. "I just got some…" She frowned. "…some alarming news from Jessup. He was past the mountains. He says the Faragund army is on the move."

Garris gaped at her for a moment, speechless. "By the Light! On the move to where?" He blinked. "That's a stupid question. He couldn't know that. Did he have a guess though?"

"This direction, he says. It doesn't make much sense to me, any of it. He said they're killing prisoners—torturing them. I don't know what to think."

"But you trust his word on it."

"You know I do."

He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the stone steps where they stood as though they might tell him something. Finally, he sighed. "Mother has to know about this."

"It'll come better from you."

"But you're the one Jessup told."

Tamra met his eyes. "Since when did she listen to what I tell her?"

Garris looked as though he'd rather deny it but couldn't. He made an unhappy sound in his throat. "You're right. I'll tell her."

She put a hand on his arm. "Thanks, Garris. I knew I could count on you."

Garris shook his head. "Wish I knew what to think. Perhaps I should be glad that Lizza is gone."

She gave his arm a squeeze. He'd been like a lost puppy ever since his wife of a year had left to visit her family in the city of Rishard on the far side of the imperial capitol. "She's well away from any fighting, Garris. There's no way they'll ever get that far."

He nodded unhappily. Seeing her lieutenant wending his way through the drovers towards them, Tamra said, "I'll go over the list of our weapon stores with Farren. I want to make sure we're ready if it comes to a siege."

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Blood Duty is available on Amazon for Kindle and Smashwords in various formats for only $2.99.

Blood Duty - Chapter One

2011-08-06T10:34:00.000-07:00

A scream echoed through the valley. Jessup stood in the copse of trees, barely breathing as he watched the camp of the Faragund army below teeming with movement. He pressed back against a tree. In the dense shadows of the forest, he would be impossible to spot. The scene down showed him what a bad idea being captured would be.

The wind brought the sound of the mages chanting. One of the scouts from Ilkasar hanged, bound by his hands from a tall stake, feet dangling a hand span above the ground. The muscles of Jessup's jaw knotted, but saving the man in the middle of an army that stretched nearly to the horizon wasn't a possibility.

Jessup felt fairly sure it was the Faragund king who stood before the prisoner. Five mages, covered from head to foot in flowing black robes, stood in a semi-circle near the king. The king was of no great height, but massively muscled with a vast chest and arms. His biceps bulged from his gold brocade vest which caught the bright sunlight. He wore no armor, but a gold scimitar hung from his belt. The man's blond hair flowed below his shoulders in a mass of braids. On each side of his face, scars ran from mouth to hairline. A long blond mustache drooped from corners of his mouth.

He raised a long ceremonial dagger and plunged it into the scout's arm. The man screamed. Blood gushed, and one of the mages rushed forward to catch the liquid in a bowl that glinted golden in the sunlight. For the entire day Jessup had watched the scout being bled. The ground below him was black with it. At first they had simply let the blood drip into the dirt while the prisoner had refused to scream. Now his head drooped, and he hardly seemed alive. With each slash, they poured blood onto the nearby stone altar.

Jessup stared past the camp into the thick oak forest to the east where giant trees reached toward the sky and a gentle dark settled between the columns of their trunks. He sucked in a deep breath to slow the pounding of his heart. He had seen horrors, from the day his own people had been slaughtered, but watching this twisted his guts.

Jessup forced his eyes back to the Faragund camp. The altar he recognized as one to the God Kanandra, but he wasn't sure what magic they were powering with their magic. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Khyle would want word of their movements, though. From the number of bodies decorating the camp, Jessup doubted that any of Khyle's scouts had escaped. The emperor's spymaster would be frantic for news. He had told Jessup that he feared the Faragund had gained enough power to attack the Ilkasar Empire again.

It had been twenty years since their last attack had failed, and the Faragund army was wiped out by the Ilkasar's Sharenta mages and the Ilkasar Imperial Army. The hatred between the Faragund god, Kanandra, and his twin, the Goddess Urthus, whom the Ilkasar worshipped, mirrored the hatred between their followers. Stories still circulated about the fierceness of the fighting. There were few families who hadn't lost someone to the Faragund.

One of the mages turned to the king and seemed to speak. The sound of the chanting changed, becoming softer but more insistent. Jessup shuddered. He had no magic but even he could feel the surge of power as the chants grew demanding. He sucked in his breath as the king plunged the dagger to the hilt into the scout's chest. Jessup gritted his teeth.

The mages' chanting again changed, growing faster and faster. Smoke swirled around the altar. The king ripped into the dead scout's chest with the dagger and jerked and sawed before pulling out the dripping heart. Jessup thought he removed other parts, but the king blocked his view of what was happening. The king turned to a smoking cauldron and raised both arms over his head. Blood ran in rivulets down his arms as the mages chanted on and on, getting louder with every heartbeat.

A roar from the smoke ripped the air. The chanting stopped. Smoke from the altar drifted on the breeze.

The king stood, motionless, watching the altar. He turned and struck one of the mages across the face, knocking the man to the ground. The conjuration, whatever it was supposed to do, hadn't made the king happy.

Jessup backed up a pace and slipped through the deep shadows under the copse's tall spruce trees. Time to put some space between him and this camp. His dun was tied just inside the edge of the woods on the other side of the slope. As he jerked the reins loose from the branch where they were looped, he heard a snap behind him.

He whirled, drawing his sword to find himself looking into the face of a Faragund warrior, the tip of the man's scimitar swinging toward him. Jessup met it with his own in a clash of metal. Their blades caught fast. Jessup leaned in with all his strength. The Faragund spat in his face. Jessup smiled. The warrior twisted his blade down Jessup's, leaving a line of blood dripping down his arm. They broke apart and moved in a circle, blades low and ready. The warrior brought his scimitar up to slice downward; in less than a breath Jessup dodged to the side, bringing a sweeping backhand cut to hack through the man's neck. Blood gushed as the warrior fell.

Jessup leapt onto his horse and jabbed his heels to its flanks. Taking word of this to Khyle would repay an old debt. But the Faragund army was a long march from Ilkasar. He had plenty of time to get there and something more important to take care of first—

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Saturday 6 July through Monday 8 July, I am offering review copies of Blood Duty FREE for download from Smashwords. You will find Blood Duty here in most formats and use Coupon # PB77C at the checkout screen.

Conspiracy Begins in 'A Kingdom's Cost'

2011-07-24T08:19:00.000-07:00

Chapter Two

King Edward's face empurpled with rage. "His father was always my enemy--always. A friend of the outlaw, William Wallace. I'll not have the boy. Get out. Out! Before he takes Wallace's place on the scaffold."

Lamberton bowed deep before he turned. Blaming James for his father was harsh even for King Edward. He'd forgiven men who'd been in open rebellion, but now the only choice was to get the lad out of the king's sight. Another plan ruined, but a small one.

With a hand on James's shoulder, Lamberton urged him towards the door, the lad with a ramrod spine of indignation. No one spoke. No one else moved. Lamberton barely breathed until they reached the shattered stone rubble of the gatehouse. He took a deep breath. They'd live yet another day.

James untied Lamberton's gray palfrey. His hands shook and his lips were white, they were so tightly clenched. For a moment, Lamberton got James's full stare, black, wide-eyed, and fuming. After a moment, he removed his gaze to scatter it over the shadowy reach of the valley.

Lamberton took the reins from his hand. "Don't take it so hard, lad. I'll find a solution." He swung into the saddle.

James gave a jerky nod. "I know you mean to, my lord." James jumped into his saddle, settled his feet in the stirrups and gathered the reins. "But I fear this I must solve for myself."

Lamberton sighed and then nodded down the rutted road towards town, its watchtowers and church spires dark against the gathering dusk. Stirling town had surrendered with no fight. Now it was full of English soldiery, but there were yet places a bishop could be secret. "I have someone to meet. After dark."

The city gate was open when they reached the bottom of the hill. Lamberton raised his hand in blessing as he rode past four drays lined up, loaded with barrels and bales of hay. A driver slipped a coin to one of the king's guards and was waved through the gate.

The guard looked Lamberton over, raking him with a narrow-eyed stare.

"Bishop Lamberton returning from the king," Lamberton said.

The man waved them past and turned back to the wagons.

Lamberton kept to the edge of the street, nodding as James dropped his hand onto the hilt of his sword. Down the street, a Gray Friar was praying loudly for the health of the English king, but passersby paid him no more mind than a howling dog. The town milled with the usual crowd even in the growing murk: mostly soldiery in their mail with swords rattling, but also baker's boys hawking their hot pies and breads and whores leaning out of windows with their breasts half-bared. He passed two men dragging a dead ass out of an alley by its rear legs and an acrobat standing on his hands to the cheers of drunken English soldiers. But no one gave Lamberton and James a second look.

Next to the high spire of the Church of the Holy Rood, Lamberton turned into an alley. In the deepening dusk, the way was dark. He dismounted and looped his reins to the rail of a walkway that ran along the building. At his nod, James swung off his mount.
Lamberton motioned towards the street. "Check to be sure no one is in sight."

James gave him a puzzled look but tied his reins and walked towards the street, keeping in the dense shadow of the church's walkway. He paused and looked back over his shoulder, then went on. Near the street, James stopped, watching for a moment and then returned the way he had come.

"There's no one near, my lord."

"Come." Lamberton shoved open the side door of the Church. Their footfalls rang softly on the marble floor as he entered, James at his heels. The rich scent of incense hung in the air. He stopped and blinked, letting his eyes adjust.

A man knelt alone at a side altar. Light from a row of candles reflected in his golden hair. Deo gratia. He is here.

Robert de Bruce, Earl of Carrick, looked over his shoulder. He rose, tall with a broad forehead and strong features, dressed in black silk and a black cloak. His blue eyes caught a gleam in the faint light. He took a step and grasped Lamberton's shoulders in a hard grip for a moment, then shook his head.

Lamberton nodded towards the high altar and led the way past it and through a wooden door on the far side. He entered a square room with plain wooden walls, one wall covered with hooks where priestly vestments of white, purple and red hung. Gold censors stood on a small table in the corner next to a stack of blank parchment and a stand of lit candles. He let out a small sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure that you'd come."

"I told you I would. We must be ready..." He paused to frown at James.

Lamberton smiled slightly. "William le Hardi's lad and my squire." He nodded to James. "Keep watch outwith the door. See that we're not disturbed. Or overheard."

James bowed quickly to both men and closed the door behind him.

"He'll serve us well one day, Robert. Now..." He motioned to the table. "I didn't care to have these prepared beforehand. I'll write the agreement now. But hear you, this will be treason that the leopard would never forgive. So put your mind to it. Yea or nay. There will be no turning back."

"Wallace agreed to give me his support. In spite of everything?"

"He was wroth when you bent a knee to King Edward. But after Comyn betrayed him at Falkirk, withdrawing his chivalry from the battle, Wallace would do anything to keep that man from the throne. Yes. He gave me his oath."

Bruce stared at a fist he clenched tight, seeming to study it. "What was I to do?" His voice was low and hoarse with emotion. "How could I lead a fight for a crown while my father lived, and I knew him too weak to hold it? When Edward had harried and pillaged my own lands to a smoking ruin? I had to buy time. That meant swearing to him."

Lamberton sighed. "I told Wallace as much. Now that he's returned from France, he can see you had little choice. He's a fighter. You know strategy was never his weapon."

"So be it." Bruce raised hot eyes to Lamberton's. "Write the words of our pact, and I'll put my seal to them."

Lamberton dipped a quill in ink. ...mutual help at all times and against all persons without exception... by solemn oath before God.

Bruce took the quill and scrawled his name.

Beside it, Lamberton neatly penned his own. It was done. If ever King Edward saw this before they were ready to make their move, Lamberton knew nothing would save him from a dungeon or Robert de Bruce from a scaffold.

Bruce frowned. "There's still John Comyn's claim to be dealt with. I doubt that he will agree to our bargain. Can you convince him, think you? With the enmity between the two of us?"

Lamberton allowed himself a smile. "A prize as rich as that? Your earldom of Carrick... Annandale... To be the richest noble in Scotland for giving up a crown he would have to wrest from Edward Longshanks. That's temptation indeed."

"If you hadn't stepped between us the day the he dared to strike me..." Bruce shook his head doubtfully.

"I know the man's greed. I'll pick the right time and put it to him. He'll agree."

As Robert de Bruce used a candle to drip hot wax onto the document and pressed his into seal it, Lamberton laid his hand on the man's shoulder. "The day will come, my friend. You will be the king who leads us to freedom."

James Faces the English King's Hatred: Ch. 1 of 'A Kingdom's Cost'

2011-07-16T19:16:00.000-07:00

Stirling, Scotland: July 1304

I am removing the sample due to the terms of exclusivity I now have with Amazon. However, you can read an extensive sample of A Kingdom's Cost, the story of James Douglas's struggle to save Scotland from English conquest, can be read or downloaded at Amazon.

Review of Accomplished in Murder - Historical Mystery Novella by Dara England

2011-07-15T15:50:00.000-07:00

Accomplished in Murder is a charming and well-written historical mystery set in Victorian England. It begins with the recently wed Celeste writing to her friend Druscilla Winterbourne to say that only if Druscilla joins her in Cornwall will Celeste feel safe. However, when Druscilla arrives, her dear friend has died under mysterious circumstances. Druscilla is determined, of course, to unravel the mystery.

I was very taken with Ms. England's writing. It had the right period feel without frills and flourishes so many authors use to try to achieve that.

The author also does very well with giving a period feel without extensive descriptions. You never have that uncomfortable feeling of having to hew your way through the period descriptions with a scythe. Instead, it is well combined with the action and dialogue. Clearly, you are in Victorian England but the author doesn't try to smother the landscape with her research, which I have no doubt at all that she did. I am as picky as you can get on historical accuracy, and this novel passes the historical accuracy test.

The mystery itself is exactly what one would want in a cozy mystery, although I must admit that is not one of my favorite sub-genres. However, for anyone who enjoys the sub-genre, this supplies the mysterious death of a friend, the oddly-behaving characters, and determined non-detective requisite for a cozy. However, that doesn't mean that her plotting is predictable. She had several plot twists I didn't see coming. As a short mystery, it is very satisfying.

However, I must admit there was one important area I did not think was as well done. I am afraid that the characterizations, even of Druscilla, the main character, seemed thin. I admit that in a novella, which this is, might give less scope for extensive characterization, but since it is only 17,000 words, the author could have included substantially more characterization without exceeding novella length. There are a number of other characters who would have been very enjoyable to see more extensively developed. Don't get me wrong. The characters were diverse and interesting, but I never felt I got to know them with any depth.

Now some people don't mind slight character development in cozy mysteries. Christie's strength, for example, was never her character development, so this may or may not be a problem for many of Ms. England's readers. However, for me, it is a pretty large fault. I still enjoyed this novella and would recommend it for a short, light summer read, but not as enthusiastically as I would otherwise.

For me, on the Librarything scale, this is Four stars.

You can buy Accomplished in Murder on Amazon.

Cartier's Ring - Historical Novel by Pearson Moore

2011-07-08T12:23:00.000-07:00

In Moore's Cartier's Ring, twelve-year old Myeerah has been raised since birth in a tribe not her own. When members of her birth tribe arrive to re-claim her, dangerous negotiations between the tribes threaten to separate her from everyone she loves. However, the arrival of French explorers brings about events which change Myeerah's fate and the future of the Indian Nations.

Myeerah is a believable and well-drawn character, and the novel follows her life in the Wendat (Huron) Confederacy. The story begins amidst a carefully portrayed lifestyle, politics, and philosophy of the native American people. They are shown in all their complexity for both good and bad. By showing the native society in its complexity, Moore is able to explore the conflict between native and European cultures suddenly brought into contact.

Neither culture is idealized nor demonized. Neither understood the other. Each has its own goals and values which each considers right. Conflict is inevitable once they meet.

The story does lead through conflict and war which is neither glorified nor dwelt upon. I would have preferred a somewhat more detailed description of the tactics and weapons, but that is a personal preference.

One thing that I questioned was the changes in PoV. I think some readers may be put off by the switches from first person when the PoV is Myeerah to third-person in other multiple characters' points-of-view. I felt Moore handled this technique quite well, but would have done better to limit the number of point-of-view characters. Having so many lessened the emotional connection with Myeerah. One thing the author did that I liked very much was the extensive use of native words which helped increase the feeling of being part of the culture. A little more use of sensory detail would have increased this though. I didn't feel that I knew the taste, touch and smell of the Indian culture as much as I would have liked.

I must admit this is a bit nit-picking though. This is a fascinating story with very beautifully integrated historical research. I recommend it to any fan of historical fiction. Using the Librarything scale, I would give this four and a half stars.

Cartier's Ring is a wonderful read for only $2.99 at Amazon.

Liz Murray, Despair, and Not Giving Up

2011-06-28T15:13:00.000-07:00

I usually stick with reviewing indie novels because I know they are the ones in need of attention. However, I'm reviewing a traditional memoir which needs to be read, not because it doesn't already have readers. It does. But Breaking Night has something important to say to every possible reader.

Liz Murray is the child of baby-boomers, drug users who never seemed to have found a drug they didn't like and never had a cocaine high they didn't love. Liz Murray and her sister were also-rans.

Liz and her sister were left alone night after night while their parents scored. Hungry, ragged, taunted at school, yet Liz loved her parents and defended them. When her mother, dying of AIDS, left her father, Liz stayed with him to care for him. Eventually she was placed in a group home so horrific, she preferred the dangers of life on the street in the Bronx.

Amazingly, Liz came to see that an education was her way out of her life of abject misery. At seventeen with one high-school credit, this dropout went back to school and turned her life around to be admitted to Harvard two years later.

Now a book about a life like this could easily be maudlin, nothing more than a sob story. It isn't. It is leanly written and a great read, but that isn't quite why I say everyone should read it.

Liz Murray never gave up. Life was a struggle. Sinking into despair was an obvious route. It was a route she didn't take. I was thinking about her when someone posted on the Writers' Cafe a few days ago asking if other authors ever considered giving up. It's such a struggle. People don't always love us, they often don't. We don't always make much money. We're not valued unless we're on that best seller list.

It's so darn easy in life to give up our dreams. Achieving an education. Climbing out of poverty. Defeating prejudice. Making a living as a writer. Or giving our kids decent lives and values in spite of a society that devalues human beings. But the struggle is worth it.

I said a simple, "No. I will never give up. There is hope--but to reach it there is also struggle."

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My novels are also about a struggle against tremendous odds, Scotland's fight against English conquest. Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. My novel about Robert the Bruce's most trusted lieutenant, Sir James, the Black Douglas, is A Kingdom's Cost is also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

I'm an Author Not a Politician

2011-06-26T16:11:00.000-07:00

A question: Do my readers care what my politics are?

Here is why I ask:

Best-selling Kindle author John Locke came out with a new book, affectionately known as Howie, on how to build book sales in which he said that novelists should post meaningful articles on their blog, ones that would touch readers and reach across the blogosphere to draw people in. He said they should relate to the theme of one's writing.

Today someone took that advice to mean that he should post a highly political blog and did one that in effect attacks anyone and everyone not a member of the "Tea Party Movement". Now I need to go back and read Mr. Locks Howie book because I really don't think that was what the gentleman had in mind. I could be mistaken.

Although normally make it a rule not to post on politics on this blog, on Twitter my tweets make it pretty clear where I stand on a couple of political and social issues. I am a pretty fervent supporter of gay rights. Because of my strong connection to Scotland, I tweet links to Scottish nationalist articles which support Scottish independence. Both of these (depending on what country you're from) are fairly divisive.

Perhaps as an author, I shouldn't tweet on them. My belief has always been that my readers don't give a damn what my politics are as long as I tell a good story, but there is another movement of thought that readers are attracted to writers who the know something about. Well, you can't know about me without knowing I support those things. I tweet about them to make it clear who and what I am as well as to share information.

As I said, I could be wrong. That's going to take some thought.

Look at the subject of Scottish independence. One can enjoy a story about the heroism of Scottish heroes while believing that Scotland is better off as part of the United Kingdom. Sure, I'll point out other arguments if we discuss it, but it has nothing to do with enjoying my novels. I hope not anyway.

In only one of my novels are there openly gay people, but I think treating everyone with respect is such a part of my ethos that this comes across in my writing. Still those who oppose gay marriage, as an example, could enjoy my novels even the one with openly gay characters. Nor does it matter that some of the characters in other novels are gay but that the issue is simply never raised or they choose to hide it.

I suspect that many readers do avoid writers whose writing is driven by an agenda. I do. Heck, I avoid ones whose agenda I agree with.

No doubt, I was wrong to get a bit angry at the writer with a political agenda. He isn't the first. He won't be the last. Although I think it tends to get in the way of story telling, there are even exceptions to that. So he has a right to his agenda which he's admitting to up front.

My agenda as a writer is different. I look at myself as the minstrel in the market square spinning a tale for a few coins tossed in my hat.

My writing is not done--it is NEVER done--to convince anyone of my beliefs. I hope my reader enjoys my story. I hope it touches their emotions. I hope it increases their connection to humanity. It will not and is not intended to change their politics.

So let me tell you a story...

Freedom's Sword Sample - Chapter Nine

2011-06-18T23:23:00.000-07:00

The drip of water... Not another sound. It must be night. Andrew prayed so. He pushed himself up on his elbows with a groan. Every movement grated. His face felt like a bag filled with pebbles. He ran his tongue over splits in his lips and the rough edge of a broken tooth.

He scooted sideways off the pile of straw. The floor was the same--cold, damp, flat and smooth, stones laid close. He felt his way to the wall and ran his palms up it--rougher, grittier stones joined with lines of mortar, part of the wall of the keep. Shivering, he crawled back onto the straw.

There would be a window slit high in the wall. If he waited, it would get light. It had to get light. It had to.

He lay huddled for hours, quiet. Thinking thoughts he could have done without. Like that, he'd heard of prisoners left to starve to death in dungeons. Like that, men were sometimes gnawed by rats as they died. Like that, he might go mad if it didn't get light.

It didn't. He counted his breaths to keep from screaming. Pressed his fists into his forehead. Nothing changed. He had to move--to know where he was. He licked blood off his lips, his tongue so dry it felt like leather. Perhaps he could get to the water dripping somewhere.

Perhaps...

On his hands and knees, he crept across the clammy floor, pressing a shoulder against the rough stones of the wall. Otherwise, he might crawl in circles. He swept his hands ahead as he went. A well or hole could be in front of him, and he wouldn't know. He trembled, half from weakness and half from fear of what he would find. A few feet of crawling brought him to a corner. The next wall was rough stone set with mortar as well. Pressing against it, he explored that way. He came almost at once to another corner. Around that one. A few feet down that wall and he knew where he was. The wooden door they had thrown him through. He stroked his way up it, the greasy wood slick under his palms, fingering wide strips of iron when he came to them.

Solid. Merciful God. He clamped his teeth on a whimper.

In the fourth corner, he came upon a clay pot. A slops jar, empty but still reeking of old piss. Surely that meant he wouldn't be left here to die. Why would they give him a slops jar and let him die of hunger and thirst? He realized it must have been a day since he'd pissed. He inched his back up the wall and breathed a sigh of relief as his heavy bladder drained. He'd not known
how much his belly had been aching until that moment.

He shook off the last drop of piss. The stink added to the musty smell.

Then he sank down onto the floor, arms around bent legs and head on his knees. His head was pounding again. His mouth was parched. Curse them. Trice-curse them. What had he done but follow his king? What any knight was sworn to do.

Cressingham's face seemed to float before him in the darkness. His fat lips sneered as he pointed and pronounced: ...traitors and criminals... "No," Andrew whispered.

He had fallen into a doze when footfalls echoed in the quiet. At first, it was part of his dream. It seemed years since he had heard anything but the distant, tormenting drip of water.

They couldn't be real. He shivered with chills, his lips cracked and leaking blood. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glimmer. A gaoler bent, watching Andrew closely, and put a bowl and cup on the floor.

"Is it day?" Andrew croaked.

The gaoler was a barrel of a man with a pebbly face and beard down onto his chest, clad in a dark leather jack studded with metal. "No talking." He slammed the door.

Andrew blinked as the light vanished. On hands and knees, he crawled towards the precious cup. It was cool and beaded with water. Grasping it with both hands, he took a mouthful and let it dribble down his parched throat. Careful not to let a drop escape, he sipped until it was gone. He used a finger to wipe out the last drop.

A wave of despair washed through him. How could he do this? It was too much. He leaned his forehead against the wood of the door and choked down a sob. He had to get through it. That was all.

The bowl had beans in it and a lump of bread. He scooped them up with his fingers and shoveled them down. Then he wiped the bowl clean with the bread, too, and licked the juices off his fingers. He crawled back onto the straw and curled up in a ball. He was cold... so cold. After a while, he slept.

Eons seemed to come and go. He couldn't tell when he woke if it was day or night. He could feel that his eyes were open when he touched his face. Open or closed, there was no difference in the darkness. He lay huddled against the chill and sang "Turn Ye to Me" to hear something besides the drip of that water he couldn't reach. He hummed every tune he could think of. He took to cursing to make a change.

Another gaoler came to leave another bowl and cup. This one was a scarecrow of a man. Andrew begged him to say if it was day or night. A blow of a truncheon was his reply.

He lost track of how many times they had come--of how many days he had been here. He had no sun and no moon. He had nothing to make marks on the wall. His stomach ached with hunger, the bowls of beans never quite filling his belly, but his fever and chills passed. He sat up and realized that the pounding in his head was gone. His muscles were stiff and every move hurt,
but no worse than from a fall in a joust.

It had to be faced. It would go on. It was no good sitting in a miserable huddle. He might as well explore what world he had left to him. If they were feeding him, they meant him to live.

Perhaps execution was in their plans for later, but Cressingham had said not. So one day, somehow, he would get out.

With a steadying breath, sliding his back up the gritty stones of the wall, he got to his feet. He inched his way around the dungeon again. The walls were built of stones about four hands wide and a hand high. The front was broken by the shape of the door. He touched every inch of the greasy wood and the iron bands that crossed it. There was no handle on the inside. He
smiled at himself as he felt for one.

He came to the slops jar. It was brimming by now. Would they empty it? He shuddered at what it would be like if they didn't.
After that, he sat down again. He was still cold, but not with the bone-shaking chills of injury and fever, even if every move still brought a twinge to remind him of the blows he had taken and the sores that were crusted over.

One day Scarecrow held open the door after he sat down the bowl and cup, motioning his chin toward the reeking jar in the corner, and said, "Shove that into the hall." He lifted his truncheon and he stepped back.

Andrew half-smiled as he moved the slops jar into the hall. Did Scarecrow fear him?

When the man motioned him back, he went. The few seconds' view of the hall had been worth it though. He sat shoveling up the beans and examined the pictures still in his eyes. Even in the dim light, with his eyes adjusted to the greater darkness he'd been able to see that his was the only door in the narrow hall. The other prisoners must be somewhere else. And there was no other guard, only one. There might be one outwith the shining light of the doorway up the steps. He hadn't been able to see.

He listened for sounds, quieting his breathing. No matter how quiet he was, all he could hear was that dripping. No horses. No talking. No pace of a guard. Nothing.

The first guard returned and Andrew decided that one must come in the morning and one at night. But which?

"Just tell me if it's day or night," he said.

The gaoler slammed the door, shutting him back into the dark. He knelt holding the cup of water, fighting down a hot tide of fury. How dare they treat him like this? Imprison him like a traitor. Starve him. Leave him in the squalor of unwashed, stinking sackcloth like a murderer. He would go mad and smash his head into the wall until he died... or get hold of himself and eat and
drink and find a way out.

Damn them. Damn and curse them to hell. Bugger them all. They'd not drive him mad. He'd not let it happen.

He shook so hard a little water slopped onto his fingers. He forced himself to lick the water off and drink what was in the cup. He ate most of the beans. When he came to the last few, he stopped--shoved them around the bottom of the bowl with his finger. At Dunbar, how had the Comyn moved the lines of chivalry? Had he planned the battle at all? He stared at the far wall he couldn't see and set the bowl aside. Could they have won? When the beans had dried out, he arranged them on the floor by feel, strung out in lines and moved them about. How could the Comyn have given such orders? What would he have done if the command had been his? He rearranged the line of withered-feeling beans on the floor.

He moved the beans about again, trying to remember everything Sir Waltir had told him.

It helped keep his mind off the drip of water, the itch of lice in his hair, and the reek of piss and crap and sweat and his own filth.

The next time Scarecrow opened the door, Andrew looked up. "Is it morning?"

Scarecrow looked surprised. "Yes." He sat down the food and stepped back.

After that excitement, he sat down with his morning rations and remembered Sir Waltir's lessons about war. Sir Waltir had talked while training him, time out of mind. Told him things the Comyn either hadn't known or had ignored. Never believe war is based on courtesy. It is based upon trickery and deception. Hold out your bait, so your enemy grabs it. Then crush him. Just as the English had crushed the Scots.

Sir Waltir had said other things he hadn't thought much about at the time, but now he heard them over and over, his only company in the dark chill. If your opponent is stronger than you are, flee him. If he has more men, divide them. Never play his game. You must play your own.

That night after the second gaoler closed him back into blindness, he sat with his arms around his legs and his forehead pressed into his knees. It was all very well to tell himself to be brave and strong and prepare for the next battle, but brave and strong was not how he felt. A scream was trapped in his throat that he daren't let out. If he did, he would never stop.

At last, he forced himself to his hands and knees and once more began to feel his way around his dungeon, stone by oblong stone. He tried to move each one, trying to shove it, knowing he'd find no way out. But he had to try. One stone moved a hair's breadth under his hand. The mortar must be brittle there. Perhaps they'd used too little or the leaking water had weakened it. It wiggled so little. It was stupid to think he could work it loose. If he did, what good would it do? On the other hand, he had nothing better to do except move the beans in their lines and despair over the charge that had led to their defeat. Nothing better to think of but that he might go mad.

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Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords now only 99 cents. Please also check out A Kingdom's cost also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

Battle of Stirling Bridge Day Giveaway

2011-06-17T11:38:00.000-07:00

The culmination of my novel Freedom's Sword is at the Battle of Stirling Bridge which took place at a bridge over the River Forth in Scotland on 11 September 1297. At that battle the Scottish forces, led by Sir Andrew de Moray and Sir William Wallace, defeated an English army and freed Scotland from English conquest.

To celebrate the anniversary of that day, I am having a Giveaway. To enter, by midnight US Pacific time on 11 September, 2011:

1. Follow me on Twitter at @JRTomlinAuthor. Of course, anyone already following me already has this step completed.
2. Tweet me @JRTomlinAuthor with the words: Saor Alba (Scots Gaelic for Free Scotland) and
3. Post a comment here including your twitter handle.

On 12 September I will twitter and post here the winners of the following prizes with the winners chosen at random:

First Prize: $50 Amazon Gift Card

Five Second Prizes: A choice of any one of my eBooks. A choice of my historical fiction (Freedom's Sword or A Kingdom's Cost) or fantasy (Talon of the Unnamed Goddess, Blood Duty, or Laying the Odds).

So post, twitter, tweet and enjoy.

J. R.

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Please check out my novels on Scotland's struggle against English conquest. Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. My novel about Robert the Bruce's most trusted lieutenant, Sir James, the Black Douglas, is A Kingdom's Cost is also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

King Robert the Bruce, Bannockburn and Braveheart Part Two

2011-06-14T13:57:00.001-07:00

Blàr Allt a' Bhonnaich, The Battle of Bannockburn, on 23-24 June 1314, was one of the most important occasions in all of Scottish history. I mention the movie Braveheart, because so many people take what is in that movie as truth rather than fiction. In the movie, Robert the Bruce hasn't quite decided whether he will fight the English or not. Finally, the Scottish army simply makes a pell mell, sword-waving charge at the huge English army and (miraculously) defeat it.

Ha! They would have been SO dead.

I think in Part One of this series, I indicated pretty clearly that King Robert made a lot of preparation for that battle, but that doesn't answer what happened at the battle itself.

Many people have the idea (probably from movies where it isn't practical to have enough extras to form a real army) that medieval armies were small. This was very often not the case.

A levy called by a king could form an army with a substantial portion of the entire kingdom's adult male population who owed him service. While the English army, very likely of about 20,000 men, was unusually large, it was not at all outside the range of what was possible with a year's preparation, which is what King Edward II put into it. It was led by the King Edward, who didn't have a great reputation as a fighter, but also by hardened fighters such as Aymer de Valence, 2nd Earl of Pembroke, Henry de Beaumont and Robert de Clifford, 1st Baron de Clifford as well as the earls of Gloucester and Hereford.

The Scottish army, made up of about every fighting man in Scotland, was about one-half that size, probably in the range of 8,000 to 10,000 men total. You can vary those estimates by a few thousand, but not much more than that. I find the possibility they were larger unlikely. It is also highly unlikely they were much smaller.

The Scots knew not only that an English army was on its way but very close to when they could expect it. However, they didn't know its makeup. On 23 June, King Robert sent one of his most trusted lieutenants, Sir James Douglas, with a small force to scout the approaching army. Even this doughty fighter was horrified at the sight of the medieval host they would face. There was debate about whether to retreat--always something King Robert was willing to do rather than have an army destroyed. King Robert the Bruce decided to take the risk.

On the first day of battle occurred one of the most stirring fights in all of Scottish history -- a fight witnessed and described by chroniclers with both armies.

The English vanguard was approaching the Scottish host. King Robert himself decided to scout the ground. No one knows quite how he got so far ahead of his commanders, but, alone, not wearing armour, on a regular steed rather than a warhorse and armed only with a battleaxe, the King was spotted and was identified by Sir Henry de Bohun, slightly ahead of his own army, by his crown and gold tabard.

De Bohun couched his lance and set his massive warhorse into a charge.

It is hard to imagine the horror of the king's watching lieutenants as Robert the Bruce sat calmly, watching the oncoming knight thunder towards him. When de Bohun was no more than a few feet away, King Robert turned his horse, rose in his stirrups, and slammed his battleaxe down on de Bohun's head.

The single blow split de Bohun's helmet and his head in two.

The Scot version of the fight says that when he was reproached for so risking himself, King Robert's reply was a complaint that he had broken his favorite battleaxe. Sir Henry de Bohun, nephew of the Earl of Hereford, lay dead. Only the king's command held the Scots back from a charge.

Thus began one of the greatest battles in all medieval history.

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Chapter Four of A Kingdom's Cost

2011-06-11T19:41:00.000-07:00

I have removed the sample due to the terms of exclusivity I now have with Amazon. However, you can read or download a sample of A Kingdom's Cost at Amazon. Freedom's Sword is also available on Amazon.

Review of The Last King's Amulet by Chris North

2011-06-11T11:40:00.000-07:00

"My name is Sumto, and I am a gambling, lazy, good-for-nothing drunk who has to join the army and fight in a war I am frankly too corpulent to cope with. Still, that's got to be as bad as things get, Am I right?"

This does not appear to be the beginning of an appealing book, and initially the wastrel of a protagonist, Sumto Cerulilan, rather put me off. He is mostly interested in food, drink and women and doesn't hesitate to sell off or live off his slaves to maintain his "lifestyle". However, his engaging self-humor overcame my initial distaste.

He is a member of a society that seems to be closely modeled on ancient Rome with magic added, a change of pace in a fantasy which also has some appeal. As an heir of a "Patron" of the city of Luria, he is supposed to build a client base and take part in the martial and political society he was born into. His refusal and complete disinterest has his father about to disinherit him and his creditors honing in for what little he has.

However, what turns things around is when he discovers his sister is betrothed to a powerful man who informs Sumto he has no intention of being part of a family that has a wastrel in it. So Sumto will reform or will no longer be around to bother with. In this society, Sumto has good reason to take the threat seriously.

Given the choice between death and the military, Sumto joins a military expedition to punish the rebellious northern tribes, and thus begins Sumto's growth. The changes in Sumto's character as he faces battle and adversity is very well done. He does occasionally lose, but he never gives up, and this reader grew to sincerely cheer for him. It isn't an easy transition from rogue to responsibility. The secondary characters, particularlly Meran and Jocasta, are well-realized and not merely cardboard cutouts, which adds to the novel's depth.

I thought some of the philosophical discussion on government, servitude, and society slowed the pace down a bit at times, but it was all applicable both to the society in the book and to ours. The magic is well-integrated and also serves as an interesting parallel on how a society might try to keep power to itself. The prose itself was solid but not extraordinary.

All in all, in spite of a few slow patches, it's a fun read and I recommend it. I give it a four star rating.

The Last King's Amulet is available at Smashwords for only 99 Cents!

King Robert the Bruce, Bannockburn and Braveheart Part One

2011-06-08T17:45:00.000-07:00

Anyone who writes a about the Scottish War of Independence as I do in Freedom's Sword and A Kingdom's Cost can not ignore these topics so today I'd like to discuss them.

I'll start with the movie Braveheart to get that subject out of the way. I assume that many of you have seen it. In the last scene, Robert the Bruce. leading a ragtag army of Scots, can't quite decide whether he will fight for Scotland or not. He fiddles with a piece of cloth he somehow inherited from William Wallace. A glance from one of Wallace's men (who hasn't aged in spite of the fact that it has been nine years since Wallace's death) makes the royal Bruce realize that to retreat would be cowardice and he has this same ragtag, untrained army charge an English force of armored knights which vastly outnumbers them. They win because--well, for some mysterious reason.

Did you enjoy the movie? As movie it was probably enjoyable. As history--it was wrong in every implication and detail.

The Battle of Bannockburn was one of the most important events in all of Scottish history. It was certainly the worst defeat of the English/Normans during the middle ages. It absolutely did not happen by chance.

So what did happen?

During the years between 1306 when Robert the Bruce was crowned King of the Scots and 1314 when the English King Edward II marshalled one of the largest armies then ever raised in English history to attempt to defeat him, Robert Bruce had fought one of the most successful guerilla wars ever waged in Europe. Yet he also suffered terrible losses. Three of his four brothers were captured and executed. His wife, his only child, and two of his sisters were captured and imprisoned in England. In spite of it, he had driven the English almost entirely from Scotland.

In fact, no one would have criticized the king had he chosen to retreat because that was his usual tactic when faced with a large force on the field. His well-thought-out guerilla tactics come down to us today in a very old verse called Good King Robert's Testament:

On foot should be all Scottish war
Let hill and marsh their foes debar
And woods as walls prove such an arm
That enemies do them no harm.
In hidden spots keep every store
And burn the plainlands them before
So, when they find the land lie waste
Needs must they pass away in haste
Harried by cunning raids at night
And threatening sounds from every height
Then, as they leave, with great array
Smite with the sword and chase away.
This is the counsel and intent
Of Good King Robert's Testament

This is the tactic that had served Scotland's Good King Robert so well in defeating the English.

During those years, King Robert had captured and razed almost every major castle in Scotland. Stirling Castle with its strong walls high on a cliff overlooking the sea still held out. The governor of Stirling Castle had agreed that if relief from the English did not arrive by early July of 1314, he would surrender. This would be a humiliating blow that the English king, who was already in trouble with his nobles, could not endure.

For months King Edward II raised the English levies and prepared a huge army.

For months, King Robert the Bruce called upon the men of Scotland to rally to him. In the Torwood, a huge forest in the center of Scotland, he led his men as they worked to make the schiltron -- a pike square -- manueverable. Those same sixteen-foot pikes had brought down the English army at the Battle of Stirling Bridge under the leadership of Andrew de Mornay and William Wallce. But they had not charged. They could only stand and wait to be attacked.

Bruce was determined that a schiltron, with its multiple rows of deadly pikes, would charge the English, and King Robert trained his men until they could. Each of the four schiltron's was lead by one of his most trusted lieutenants. But they were still dreadfully outnumbered, at least three to one.

How to even the odds even more?

The land their wall, as his testament so famously says. Much of the land in the region of Stirling Castle was marshy, bad country for the huge destriers ridden by knights in their heavy armor. So the Bruce positioned his army so they would have to be attacked across bad country, but not bad enough. Then he ordered pits lined with sharpened stakes to be dug across most of the same area.

It was a horror waiting to happen for the English.

Yet even with all the training and preparation, the Bruce was willing to retreat. He would not lead his army to defeat merely for pride. Facing an army of that size and might was a terrible risk, but one that could have a great prize if they won. That night with the advisement of his faithful lieutenants, King Robert made his decision.

Before them stood an English army of unimaginable might. Against it, King Robert the Bruce was determined to stand.

King Robert was not a king who "led from the rear" and in another post I'll talk about what happened on that amazing day.
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Please check out my novels on Scotland's struggle against conquest. Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. Please also check out A Kingdom's cost also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

Interview with Brian Healey, Author of Shattered Wings

2011-06-06T08:45:00.000-07:00

Question: Can you give us a brief overview of your latest book?

"Shattered Wings" is the chronicle of a man named John, the primary breadwinner in a household consisting of his husband Charlie and their adoptive daughter Cassie. When faced with an unexpected unemployment that he is financially unprepared for, John finds himself desperate for new work before his savings is depleted, reminiscing on a past of addiction, discrimination and family struggle as he slowly descends into alcoholism.

Did you try the traditional route to publishing, i.e. querying agents/publishers, or did you jump right into self-publication?

I jumped right into self-publication. While I wish I had the distribution capacity of a major publishing house, I prefer to self-publish because of the ultimate creative control and feedback immediacy it offers. I am currently querying distribution companies to see if that is an option, but I restrict my options to groups that allow authors to retain all rights.

What factors influenced your decision to self-publish to Amazon?

I find that I enjoy having full control over the creative process, from interior and cover design to deployment and marketing. By self-publishing, I am the writer, publisher, designer and distributor, and it gives me a sense of total understanding of the project and it's scope.

Did you hire an editor to review your manuscript before publishing? And if not, what method did you use for proofing?

I did not hire an editor, although I will in the future. For now, I have relied on careful reading, feedback from close friends (who also happen to be voracious readers), and then more careful reading. I typically go through several revisions before deciding a work is complete.

What have you've learned during your self-publishing journey? Any advice you can give to burgeoning writers?

Publishing is a major challenge. Writing has a unique set of challenges and certainly has a stiff requirement for patience, but the "other" stuff (cover and interior design, proofing, editing, marketing and promotion) have their own difficulties and require just as much, if not more, patience. And unlike writing, which always has a satisfying conclusion (the end of a story written), self-publication can "end" in any number of different ways, and not all of them are universally positive.

Where have you put your work on sale? Is it available in only digital formats, or is there a physical edition available?

My books are available in paperback and hardcover in addition to eBook, and are for sale on the websites of Amazon and Barnes and Noble (and a few local booksellers). The eBook versions of my books are available on Amazon.com for the Kindle,BarnesandNoble.com for the nook, and Smashwords (which distributes to Apple, Kobo and Diesel). All of these editions are also for sale directly from me on the books website (www.shatteredwingsbook.com).

What kinds of marketing are you involved with for promoting your book? Any promotional recommendations to new writers?

By day, I am a professional web engineer, so I do a lot of digital work myself. I have designed marketing websites for each of my books and do heavy promotion on most major social networking services. I am also doing limited paid advertising. Offline, I do local book readings and signings at independent bookstores that will carry my work.

If I had any recommendations to new writers it would be: (1) Don't turn down any free offer of publicity, and (2) Be patient. Sales take time, and your first book is likely to sell only modestly. Work to build your brand and gain awareness, and eventually the sales will come.

Do you find it difficult to manage your time, shifting focus between marketing your current book and writing your next book, as well as any day-to-day responsibilities?

Very difficult! Without a schedule, I would be utterly lost. I am currently working full-time as a senior web engineer, going to school full-time for a degree in English, marketing my latest book and writing my third and forth manuscripts... I could easily lose track of myself if I don't pick specific times for each task. And inevitably sometimes one must dominate when specific activities have deadlines or become overwhelming. It's a delicate process that is easy to unbalance.

What's next for you? Any new books in the works?

My next novel is titled "Void," and will tell the story of a man trapped inside his own body, suffering from a coma for several years. Despite his condition, he can hear and he can think, and we follow his thoughts as he reminisces on his past and endures the debate between his family and his doctors over whether to end his life. I hope to have this novel released by early fall.

After that, for late winter, my fourth novel is titled "No Where." It will follow a determined man as he tries to flee from an unknown adversary that is after his biological son. With the help of his brother, he sets off across the country for solace in a secluded family residence while trying to end the pursuit. But as his brother probes into the man's son and his estranged family, he finds some troubling information that threatens their ultimate safety.

Thanks, Brian.

You can find Shattered Wings on Kindle, Smashwords, and Nook.

Bryan Healey is a featured author in this week’s “E”ndependent Publishers $2.99 ebook Club enewsletter.

#SampleSunday Laying the Odds Ch 2

2011-06-05T07:35:00.000-07:00

The by-blow.

Those words stung for a long time. The fact was he hadn’t gone hungry, not much anyway. His mother had a beautiful voice. She’d joined a new company of players and they’d traveled from city to city. When that one went under, they’d joined another. But a singer’s voice doesn’t last forever or her looks.

Five years later, she’d led him back one more time after she caught him cutting a purse to buy food, and she slapped him so hard his ears rang. This time they really had gone hungry.

He'd wandered around the study and admired the tapestries, the sheen of the polished furniture, and then the tall cabinet with beautiful silver pieces on the shelves, his eyes drawn to that medal.

His father didn’t even say a word. He stood at the door while two of his men grabbed Wrai and his mother and dragged them out the door. The two of them landed on the gravel walkway in front of the stone steps. The door slammed and the bar thudded into place.

He hadn’t meant to go back. If he’d been a little older— But a fourteen-year-old boy... He’d been riding in horse races and had already taken to gambling. He lifted what he could get his hands on. It was never enough. Not enough so his mother ever had enough to eat or an apothecary when she got sick, coughing up blood. After she died, a panicked run from an inn when someone spotted him cheating left him with a black eye, a broken rib and everything he owned left behind.

He arrived in Krelton two days later, dirty, hurting and desperate. And there was his father’s house, so he went to the door and knocked. What had he expected? Not hugs and a welcome, but maybe a meal and a place to sleep for the night in the stable. He told the doorman who he was, and the man went to get the master. Wrai combed his hair with his fingers, tried to slick it back and straightened his torn shirt. His heart hammered with nerves.

He looked up to see his father step into the doorway with a hound at his heels, running a quirt through his fingers. An ugly smile curved his lips.

"I told you and that whore mother of yours not to come back," his father said.

Anger flushed through him like fire, but he stamped on it. "She’s dead. Listen, if you’d just help me get a start. Not much and I won’t bother you again. I promise." He cursed himself when he heard the pleading in his voice.

"This is all you’ll get and worse if you ever come here again." His father lunged and the quirt flicked at Wrai’s face.

Wrai yelped as the lash cut his eyelid, and he stumbled back. The gash burned. He ducked his head and brought up his arm so the next blow slashed across his hand. His father cursed and swung again but Wrai ran.

He had run as far and fast as he could, the sound of barking coming behind. He’d never told the tale to anyone. He still woke up in a cold sweat sometimes trying to figure out why it haunted him so. He rubbed the scar at the corner of his eye.

Shrugging away the memory, he opened his eyes and eased through the hallway, one hand on a wall. His soft soles were silent on floorboards. The next door was the study. The house was near black but he’d been in the dark long enough that he could make out faint shapes.

Inside the room, he slipped along the wall, feeling his way so as not to stumble over anything. Even after these years, the layout of the room hadn’t changed. He put his hand on the cabinet.

He knew what he’d take. He’d known from the second the innkeeper read the notice. That medal etched in the shape of a rune. He’d never seen a rune like it. His mother had drummed his letters into him. This was something different. There had been times in those first days after seeing it when it had spun through his dreams.

For a second his hand trembled, tempted to grab the whole lot. He owed the piece of dung—for his mother choking on her own blood as she died, for the scar beside his eye, for the old lady he’d knocked over for her few pence in the next town. And for the years he’d woken, sweating, wondering what was wrong with him that his father hated him. He shrugged. He’d take the one piece. It might not even be noticed for a while.

He ran his hand over the cabinet, searching for the medal in the dark. Not the platter, heavy silver. Not the vase, or the spoons, or the wine flagon. Where was it? Surely, it was still here. He sighed with relief when his hand fell on the stand that held it, pushed behind a tall vase. He ran a finger over the deeply incised marking. Yes, that was it. He tucked it into a pocket.

Every muscle in his body was tense from feeling his way in the dark. He slipped back the way he came. The sky in the east was lighter by the time he refastened the latch. He smiled and pictured his father’s fury when he discovered his loss.

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Laying the Odds, co-authored with C. R. Daems, is my new fantasy adventure available at Smashwords and Amazon. It is reduced from $2.99 to 99 Cents for June only in honor of Reader Appreciation Month.

Also please check out my historical novels set in medieval Scotland. Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. A Kingdom's Cost is also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

A Song for Memorial Day

2011-05-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

In memory of the fallen.

#SampleSunday Chapter 1 of Laying the Odds

2011-05-28T20:35:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER ONE

Wrai propped his boots on the rungs of the chair opposite him and took a deep drink of his ale, mentally cursing being stuck in this cesspit of a town. Why Krelton of all town in the four dukedoms of Ardalak?

The storm seemed to have kept most of the locals at home. Two workmen in homespun slumped wearily at a table. A merchant with a sword-carrying guard at this elbow stood at the bar talking to the innkeeper. Outside, the inn’s sign banged in the wind.

The horse fair at Rystar started in two days and he wouldn’t make it in time. A storm had left ruts and potholes deep enough to swallow a horse. The post-coach he was traveling in had hit one full tilt. When the axle shattered, it threw the coach tumbling. Wrai and the driver had walked away with only a few bruises, but the smith would take days to repair the damage.

Wrai wouldn’t make the profit he’d expected. Bollocks, he’d counted on that gold. He couldn't take care of Amalie when he was traveling all the time, having to duck out when someone decided he'd won a little too often. A gambling house he’d been eyeing would be perfect, if he could find the money. His stomach coiled at the thought of something happening to his daughter while he was gone as it had to her mother.

Wrai banged his mug down on the table. The innkeeper lifted his head to stare, so Wrai nodded to the man and leaned back again. No one else paid him any mind.

He slipped his fingers under his shirt and into his money pouch to slide over the ten silver pfennigs and, reassuringly heavy, five gold marks. They would have been more than enough for a stake at the tables at the fair. He could make up the loss if he went to Crestholm for one of the high-roller games. For that, he’d need more gold marks. It wasn’t close to enough. He still had a purse of base pfennigs upstairs to cover his room. But going to Crestholm now meant breaking a promise. He'd written Amalie that that he'd be there in two week.

She'd never have reason to think her father didn't care. Not like his. He frowned and took another sip of the dark, sharp ale.

The rattle of harness, voices, and the stamp of hooves from outside made him twitch. The door banged open, the wind jerking it to thud against the wall.

Water dripped from a thickset man’s hair and drooping moustache. He pushed the door closed against the rain blowing in.

"Wet night out," the innkeeper said as he reached for a mug.

"That it is," the newcomer said. "I’ll need rooms for me and my friends." His worn leather scabbard was scarred with use and his sleeve bulged. Definitely a strong-arm of some kind.

Wrai sat unmoving. Middling height, neatly built, dark hair and eyes, thin moustache, he blended into the background. No one would notice him. He twitched with an inward smile. Well, a woman might. Amalie’s mother had.

The door opened quietly this time as a ginger-haired man dressed in leather and linen came in. Perhaps the first was this one’s guard but strange to come in first and leave his client outside. Ginger-hair held the door open for a girl. She darted in out of the wet, dripping water from her brown split-skirt gown, hair in a knot at the nape of her neck.

"Only two rooms available." The innkeeper shrugged. "Only other one’s taken."

"That’ll do. One for the lady. My friend and I’ll share the other."

"Have him send up mulled wine to both rooms," Ginger-hair said. "We’re all chilled through with the wet."

The guard-dog handed over a folded parchment and dropped a coin into the innkeeper’s hand.

"And post this. Tomorrow we’ll need a parlor for the day."

The innkeeper yelled for a boy to show the newcomers up. As they climbed the stairs, the innkeeper unfolded the parchment. The merchant strained across the bar to see what it was.

Curiosity pricked at Wrai’s nerves but he wasn’t about to call attention to himself by going over.

"What is it?" the merchant said.

The innkeeper held the paper out at arms length and squinted at it, lips moving as he read. "It’s a notice to put up. Says he’s a merchant who wants to buy jewelry from before the dukedom was formed." He frowned as he peered at it. "Says he’ll pay good prices and be buying tomorrow all day."

The merchant took a sip of his wine. "Never seen anything that old. Wonder how he’ll tell?"

The innkeeper gave a broad shrug before turning to draw two flagons of wine from a cask and set them to mulling. "Wouldn’t mind getting in on to something like that if I knew where to find it. Must be profitable if he’s paying well." The merchant scowled into his mug. "Maybe one of the nobles hereabout, but they wouldn’t likely part with family pieces."

Wrai drained his mug. He knew of a noble who of a certainty had antiquities. A smile twisted his mouth. He’d been near the man three times in his life, but he was willing to wager a good deal some of his pieces were from before the Crestholm dukedom was founded. And he didn’t wager—not without being sure he would win.

The tricky part would be laying hands on the piece. When he’d walked past the house on the way to the inn the night before, it had been dark except for a tiny slant of light from an upstairs back window. That would have been a servant’s room. If the Faceless Goddess favored Wrai, the owner was out of town. The profit might make up for missing the fair. It might even give him the gold to buy that gambling hall. Getting it at the cost of someone who owed him made it that much sweeter.

He headed for the stairs and no one so much as turned their head. In his room, he pulled back the shutters. The rain still pelted, splattering into puddles. The streets would be quiet. If he was right that the house was empty, he could have a profitable night. Should he take the risk? He flexed his hands, a chill of nerves going through him.

He’d mostly given up thieving after Amalie was born. Every city took a hand for thieving, a few took both. The worst you got for weighting the dice in a game of Hazard was a flogging. But, no one ever won at the table if they didn’t lay the stakes. This was too good a gamble to pass up. He swapped his leather and homespun for his black tunic and breeches and pulled on his black gloves.

Time to collect a debt long past due.

The rain had quieted to a drizzle by the time he jumped from the window into the dark horse yard. The air smelled of earth and wet leaves. He slogged through the muddy street. The village was dark except for once when the quarter moon found a gap in the rain clouds. Past a street lined with ramshackle wooden huts, he came to the larger brick houses near the market square. Set back from the road, most had cypress-dotted lawns. A shaft of light shown through shutters of a manse and a couple left, talking and laughing as a torch carrier lit their way. Wrai stopped under a dripping tree to wait and then strolled through the dark keeping an eye out for guards or stray merrymakers.

His heart sped up with a thrill he had missed. The risk was better than new summerwine.

The manse he was seeking stood above the market square at the top of a hill. Heavy shutters barred the tall front windows and the hickory front door had heavy a heavy bar. He slipped through the trees of the lawn toward the back. In the shadow of an oak, he studied the house with its kitchen, scullery and back garden. He’d gambled in enough fancy manses to know how they were set up. Even with the master gone, a junior maid was probably huddled in the kitchen beside the dying warmth of the hearth. In the garret, a senior servant or two might have been left to see to the house while the master was gone. He didn’t want in the garret anyway, and he’d circle around to avoid the kitchen.

The master’s study took up one side of the front of the house. He padded across the wet grass to one of the forward windows. Running a finger over the joint of the shutter, he sucked in a breath. That latch was a heavy one. But he needed money, and he liked the idea of getting it from his father. He touched the scar at the corner of his eye. Oh, yes, he liked that idea.

He needed a window he could work at for a while so he eased around the house until he found one hidden by two heavy bushes. He pulled a long metal pick out of his boot's seam. It slid through slit, and the latch didn’t take as long as he’d thought it might. Easing the window up, he strained to detect any sound. The drizzle sputtered softly.

No noise came from inside the dark house. He climbed through into a hallway and stood still letting his eyes adjust. The house smelled of wax and fine leather just the same as when he'd been here before. He closed his eyes for a minute to let them get used to the deeper darkness inside.

His mother had dragged him the first two times. He’d been past his seventh solstice. She’d scrubbed him until he stung and dressed him in his least worn clothes. That was after the players she had been performing with had turned up its toes. He’d heard her crying every night, and she cursed all the way to the manse under her breath. She’d never said anything about his father before, but on the way, she said every bad word Wrai’d ever had his mouth washed out for saying. A servant showed her into the study, him in tow, his hand firmly in hers. He gaped at the colorful pictures in the wall hangings. In a polished case, silver urns shone and a medal as large as a man's hand etched with a deep figure of the Goddess surrounded by a strange twisted mark dangled.

"You want your own son to go hungry?" his mother said, her face drawn tight.

The man shrugged and rang for a servant to show her out. "Don’t come back with the by-blow."

The by-blow.

-----------------------

Review - Daughter of Time by Sarah Woodbury

2011-05-27T10:42:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed that it's easier to review novels you don't like? I'm having a hard time deciding what to say about Sarah Woodbury's Daughter of Time simply because there's nothing much to criticize there. It's well-researched and well-written with characters you really grow to like and want good things for. Her depiction of medieval life is wonderful and accurate. I enjoyed seeing them from the eyes of a modern woman. It's too bad more writers don't write about the Middle Ages as they were instead of modernizing or apologizing for them.

At first, I had a hard time feeling a lot of sympathy for one of the main characters, Meg Lloyd. Yes, her husband just died, but he was an abusive jerk. Yet, she had stayed with him not only endangering herself but allowing her two-year-old daughter to witness the abuse. The excuse was that he was dying of cancer. I still couldn't quite sympathize--not with a small child involved, especially since it was long-standing abuse. At the same time, there was a certain disconnect. Meg didn't seem to be the kind of person who would have stayed in this kind of relationship, much less exposed her daughter to it.

However, as she showed her strength and courage as well as her determination to protect her daughter, Meg grew on me.

Anyhow... that put me off her a bit and the first chapter was really backstory establishing her fear of men and her Welsh antecedents. Then she has a car accident that propels her mysteriously into medieval Wales. This requires a suspension of disbelief since there is no immediate explanation at all of how this happens, but it's a time-travel novel, so I can do that.

The other main character is the historical Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the last true Prince of Wales, after him the title being held by English usurpers. She does a wonderful job of bringing this hero of Wales to life without modernizing him. He is strong with plenty of sides to his character to make him believable, and the reader is immediately plunged into a two-fold struggle. He must hold his land for his people against a constant threat from his rapacious English neighbor as well as internal threats and, at the same time, deal with the mysterious appearance of Meg and her daughter, Anna.

This is an exceedingly dangerous time in Wales and the threats come from all directions. I won't spoil the story by telling what they are or how they work out. I can tell you that if you give the story a chapter or two to draw you in, you'll really enjoy this novel whether you enjoy historical novels or time-travel ones.

This is a Five Star novel on my rating system. Great job by the author!

You can buy Daughter of Time on Amazon, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble for only $2.99. (I just noticed it's only $1.99 on Amazon!)

#SampleSunday - Caitrina Flees the Attacking English

2011-05-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

Freedom's Sword

Chapter Four

Caitrina shook her head. Donnchadh said they had gone north and a little east along the pine forest. He pointed to the North Star, faint in the black velvet sky. She rubbed her arms, covered with goose bumps, as they trudged. Even in April, the night air was chill. But how far east had they come? How far did they have yet to go to reach Avoch Castle?

A trumpet called somewhere behind them and she froze. It came again. She grabbed Donnchadh's arm. He pulled her, running, towards a dark mass of thick brambles down slope that extended over the next rise. She stretched her leg to keep up. They pushed their way into the scratchy branches and sank down. Panting and heart hammering, she squeezed his hand. It grew silent again except for an owl hooting in the darkness.

"They won't see us in here," Donnchadh said, "but they might hear us. It's noisy pushing our way through."

"If we tried to stay in the brambles, it would take a long time, too." She listened. The horns, whatever they had meant, had stopped. "I think we have to take the risk."

They neared the top of the next rise and crouched to listen, keeping a nervous eye out for searchers. The English could come very close before they saw them in the dark. The night was silent so they kept going, pushing their way through the dense thicket, arms and legs stinging with welts from the thorns.

Caitrina stopped. A lighter area opened ahead in the moonlight--the road. She pointed, and Donnchadh motioned for them to lie down. Caitrina pointed again at a dense clump of gorse, thick enough to hide her. "Stay here," she whispered.

He grabbed for her hand but she was already creeping forward. From flat on the ground, she could see very little, just the dark night and a ground in front of her. After a few damp, tiring yards of crawling, she glanced back to see how far she'd come. Donnchadh's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She went on.

She was sure she was near the road when she heard the beat of horses coming at a fast walk. She trembled, wanting to jump up and run. But if she did, of a certainty, they would see her. Don't move. Don't move. Donnchadh's eyes had shined in the dark, so she forced herself to stare at the layers of leaves on the ground. The horses came from her left. They were so close they almost seemed to ride right over her; the ground shook. Her whole body shuddered with terror, but they kept going. Once the pounding hoofbeats had passed, she dared a quick glance. They disappeared before she could count the dark shapes--at least ten or twelve of them. The hoofbeats died away. She took a deep breath and crept into the spicy-smelling clump of gorse. She parted the spiky leaves and even in the moonlight, the road was scarred with hoof marks. Why were they riding east? Away from Edirdovar Castle? It wasn't enough to attack Avoch, surely. Were they looking for her?

She strained through to see along the road as far as she could without getting out in the open. Nothing. She jumped at a touch on her arm and gave a faint squeak.

"They're ahead of us now," she whispered and her stomach rumbled loudly.

Donnchadh gave her a weak grin. "Glad it didn't do that before."

Together, they crept away from the road and made their way through the firs. She had gotten blisters on the bottoms of both of her feet so she took off her shoes. The dirt and damp needles made a soft cushion underfoot. She needed to piss, but didn't want to tell Donnchadh. She couldn't make water while he watched. Finally, though she couldn't hold it any more and her belly ached from it, so he turned his back while she squatted.

The horizon was hidden by the fir trees, but slowly the sky turned from gray to blue. Caitrina stumbled over a root she hadn't seen and grabbed a trunk, the bark rough under her hand. "I don't think I can walk much more."

"We'll look for a place when it gets light. No way we'll make it to Avoch today, I don't think."

Caitrina nodded and kept her eyes on her feet trying not to stumble, putting one bare foot in front of another. Her stomach ached with emptiness. It had been a long time since the berries. Once she stumbled over a rock and landed hard on her knees.

Donnchadh gave her a hand to boost her erect. "Not much longer. We'll rest during the day and go on when it gets dark." They found a tumbled cairn grown over with brambles. He made a tunnel into it and pulled the bushes close so they were hidden. Caitrina was sure she wouldn’t sleep but the last thing she remembered was cradling her head in her arms and then Donnchadh gave her shoulder a shake.

The light was already waning in the clear spring sky and the world was turning gray. The brambles ended at the edge of a fir wood. Donnchadh grumbled that it would be hard to find their way under branches that hid the stars, but there wasn't a choice so they kept to the fragrant firs and climbed up a long brae. He led them down the other side and up the next gentle rise.

Caitrina sniffed. "I smell wood smoke."

Donnchadh pointed towards flickering light off to the right. Her stomach was so empty she felt sick and Donnchadh looked longingly towards the light.

"Maybe it's a croft," he said. "I don't have no siller to buy anything. Do you?"

"No." She worried at her lip with her teeth. "They could tell us how far to Avoch though and if they've seen riders. And maybe they'd spare an oat bannock if we ask."

Donnchadh frowned and shook his head. "But what if the riders stopped there?"

"I hadn't thought of that." She twisted her fingers together. "We better be careful."

They kept going in the dimming light that turned into twilight. Where the trees thinned, they slipped from bush to bush. Every few steps they stopped to listen. The light ahead was bright when she heard a horse snort and a man's voice. The smoky smell got stronger.

Donnchadh put his mouth against her ear. "You wait here."

She wanted to protest against being left but was afraid to with the English so near, so she sat down next to some thick brambles as he crept on his belly. Her stomach ached with hunger, but it couldn't be that far to Avoch. The once she had been there, it hadn't been a long a ride by road. She clasped her arms around her bent knees, shivering a little in the cooling night air. They could get there without food, she was sure, even walking. Then Donnchadh was creeping toward her. He shook his head and his lips were pressed so tight they were pale.

"What is it?"

"The riders that passed--they're there." His voice was choked sounding. "They've--they've killed the crofter--his family. The bodies..." He heaved and bent as he coughed up a string of bile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and she waited, heart pounding. "They're just lying there in the dirt. Like--like old rags or--" His voice broke, and he stopped, choking back a sob. She had a sudden vision of Edirdovar Castle--her sister and mother and all the people she knew...

She pressed her hand to her mouth as Donnchadh sucked in gusty breaths through clinched teeth. He looked up, cheeks wet. "They didn't have a chance."

"The people at the castle," said Caitrina. "What about our people? If they'd kill crofters and a knight, what will they do to everyone at the castle and the village?"

She could feel Donnchadh shaking as he took both her hands. "Don't think about it. All we can do is get to Avoch and let them know. Can they get word to the king? To Lord de Moray and your father?"

She pulled her hands loose and pressed them hands to her mouth, rocking back and forth, afraid if she let out a noise she would scream. Finally, she managed to suck the scream down to her belly. "If the English are here, then... then I think that means our army lost." She rocked again a few times. She took a shaky breath and then another. "Can we get past them?"

---------------------------------------------------------

Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. Please also check out A Kingdom's cost also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

Review of Knight Errant by K. D. Sarge

2011-05-20T11:41:00.000-07:00

This is a sweet, though action-packed, coming-of-age/gay/space opera/romance, in which the gay part is much less important that the coming-of-age part. The love scenes are not at all explicit for anyone who would be uncomfortable with that but quite unapologetically same gender, which I consider a plus. While I am not a huge romance fan, this is well-written with plenty of space opera adventure to keep you entertained.

My one complaint was that the novel gets off to a slow start. I found myself not caring that Kintaro Hibiki (mostly called by his nickname of Taro) was kicked out of a low-life gambling club, and the author seemed to go on a bit about how Taro's adopted "sister" and savior, Eve Marcori, always saved small children and got kicked out of the space marines for doing so. However, once you get past the first couple of chapters the action starts rolling and, even more importantly, you get drawn into the characters for whom you start cheering.

Taro is devoted to Eve who now owns and captains a space freighter. He has no desire to go to college or follow in Eve's footsteps as a space captain. However, he won't disappoint her by telling her that or by telling her that he is gay. He represses almost all of his own personality to try to fit into her vision of what his dead mother would have wanted him to be. The problem is that it isn't whom he is.

Then they rescue another young man, Rafe, who was a former pleasure-slave. Eve had freed him from slavery but being a courtesan has seemed to him to be the only way to make his way in life. He really isn't good at much of anything else--or so it seems. Besides that, Rafe likes pleasing and giving pleasure to other people if it can be someone he likes or cares about. He hasn't minded his way of life as long as he could choose who he was with. The budding relationship between Taro and Rafe, with its misunderstandings, some of them deliberately fostered by Rafe, and its snarky dialogue is quite well done.

Taro decides to find a way to get rid of Rafe largely, though he doesn't admit it to himself, because he is strongly attracted to him. Unfortunately, Taro has a way of finding himself in deep trouble, and his attempt to rid them of Rafe lands the two of them kidnapped and stranded on a poisonous planet. There Taro begins, with Rafe's help, to see that he can and must stand up for whom he is and what he wants, even against Eve who only wants the best for him.

Through space explosions, gambling, bar fights, more kidnappings, and a gradually deepening relationship, Rafe comes to value himself as more than a pleasure-giver and Taro comes to realize that he must be who he really is. The novel is literately written and a pleasure to read. If you hang in there past the slow start, this is a book you will thoroughly enjoy.

This is a four-and-a-half Star novel.

Knight Errant is available on Amazon for only $2.99.

Please also check out my own novels: Freedom's Sword and A Kingdom's Cost each $2.99 on Amazon. Also available on Smashwords.

Indie Fiction Challenge

2011-05-18T13:54:00.000-07:00

Samantha Warren over at Mariyta's Musings introduced me to a fun challenge. The challenge is to read 24 indie authors this year, each with a last name that starts with a different letter of the alphabet. (The challenge allows you to skip any two letters of the alphbet) Novels read before the first of the year don't count. You can check out the complete rules at ABC Indie Fiction Challenge Sign Up.

Here is my list of books I've read since the first of the year that fit on the list.

A)
B)
C)
D) Dalglish, David - The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, Book 1)
E)
F)
G)
H) Hocking, Amanda - My Blood Approves
I)
J)
K)

L) Lieske, Victorine - Not What She Seems
M) Martinez, Victoria - An Unusual Journey Through Royal History
N)
O)
P) Patterson, Edward C. - Look Away Silence
Q)
R)
S) Snyder, J. M. - Power Play
T)
U)
V) Vosika, Laura - Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy
W) Woodbury, Sarah - Footsteps in Time: A Time Travel Fantasy (The After Cilmeri Series Book One)
X)
Y)
Z)

I notice I've read books by way too many authors whose names begin with 'S'! I'll update my list as I go along.

If anyone would like to check out my novels, you'll find them here:

Freedom's Sword is available at Amazon and Smashwords. A Kingdom's Cost is also available at Amazon and Smashwords for only $2.99.

J. R. Tomlin on Writing and More

Free this Weekend: Freedom's Sword, A Historical Novel of Scotland

*CENSORED* Thanks to SOPA

Interview with Cora Buhlert, Historical Short Story Writer

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Laura Vosika

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Kathy Cecala

Interview with Historical Fiction Author William Peter Grasso

Interview with Historical Romance Author Grace Elliot

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Kelby Ouchley

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Sarah Woodbury

Interview with Historical Novel Author M. H. Sargent

Guest Post on Reviews and Reviewers by Fantasy Author Ty Johnson

Interview with Mystery Writer David H. Fears

Review: Deep in the Valley: A MacLachlainn Saga, Book Two: Niall

A Rant

The the Snowed In With Indie Authors Review and Giveaway

Review of The Academician - Southern Swallow Book I by Edward C. Patterson

Countenance of War: Sneak Peek

Review of Isabeau by N. Gemini Sasson

Teaser Tuesday: Mud and Gold By Shayne Parkinson

Review of The Forever Queen by Helen Hollick

Teaser Tuesday: Isabeau by N. Gemini Sasson

Sample of A Kingdom's Cost

Review of The Fabulous Voyage Across the Ocean Sea by Jan Prasad

In the Despair of a Dungeon: Freedom's Sword

Wrai's Main Skill Comes into Play -- Stealing

Andrew Discovers the Terrible Price of Defeat: Freedom's Sword

Review: High on a Mountain by Tommie Lyn

Scots Wha Hae Wi Wallace Bled

Talon of the Unnamed Goddess

A Review: The Hadrian Enigma, a Forbidden History by George Gardiner

Tamra is warned of onrushing danger - Blood Duty

Blood Duty - Chapter One

Conspiracy Begins in 'A Kingdom's Cost'

James Faces the English King's Hatred: Ch. 1 of 'A Kingdom's Cost'

Review of Accomplished in Murder - Historical Mystery Novella by Dara England

Cartier's Ring - Historical Novel by Pearson Moore

Liz Murray, Despair, and Not Giving Up

I'm an Author Not a Politician

Freedom's Sword Sample - Chapter Nine

Battle of Stirling Bridge Day Giveaway

King Robert the Bruce, Bannockburn and Braveheart Part Two

Chapter Four of A Kingdom's Cost

Review of The Last King's Amulet by Chris North

King Robert the Bruce, Bannockburn and Braveheart Part One

Interview with Brian Healey, Author of Shattered Wings

#SampleSunday Laying the Odds Ch 2

A Song for Memorial Day

#SampleSunday Chapter 1 of Laying the Odds

Review - Daughter of Time by Sarah Woodbury

#SampleSunday - Caitrina Flees the Attacking English

Review of Knight Errant by K. D. Sarge

Indie Fiction Challenge

CENSORED Thanks to SOPA