'A King Uncaged, A Historical Novel of Scotland' is a Finalist for Best Indy Historical Fiction

If you would like to vote for my novel, here is how you can do so:

Only registered members the eFestival of Words forum can vote. Registration is quick and easy: http://www.efestivalofwords.com

Go to the Welcome Center where you'll find Awards Hall Forum and the 2015 Finalists
under that.

Open the category you want to vote in. There are a wide range of categories in addition 
to Historical Fiction, and you can vote in as many as you like. (It is also a good place to find 
novels you may not have yet heard of)

Vote for the novels you have enjoyed. Remember that A King Uncaged is in the 
Historical Fiction category. 

Thanks!

At last after long years of English imprisonment, Scotland's King James I 

negotiates the terms of his release and of his marriage to his beloved Joan 

Beaufort. But he returns to a Scotland in chaos. Surrounded by plots, 

intrigues, and rebellions, James struggles to restore order and survive attempts 

by his family to overthrow him. Above all, James fears that his life and his 

own dream—of a Scotland at peace with a strong parliament—might be lost 

to his family's greed for power.

Award Finalist: A King Ensnared

First you might ask what are the Best of the Independent eBook Awards? They are awarded by the eFestival of Words by popular vote from a short listed selection of books in various categories nominated not by the authors but by peers: editors, fellow authors, agents, and publishers. It was announced in January that A King Ensnared was on the long list and I am thrilled that it made it to the short list.

There are some great books nominated so even if you're not a Historical Fiction fan, I suggest checking it out. Of course, if you enjoyed A King Ensnared, a vote is appreciated.

Finalists for the Best of the Independent eBook Awards

A King Ensnared is available at:
Amazon US
and
Amazon UK

Snippet from my upcoming sequel to A King Ensnared

Totally unedited at this point so be kind. :)

Joan smoothed the skirt of her gown, the comeliest she had ever owned. Everything she wore was new. Her smock was of fine linen, the under-gown of the finest wool to protect against February's chill. Of a deep sapphire blue as her mother had insisted, it was snug to her hips and then flared to the ground. The outer surcoat, a paler blue, was samite with shimmering gold thread running through; its deep V-neck showed the darker gown beneath.

Queen Catherine was officially helping her to dress, but seemed to look through them as though they weren't there. She turned and wandered to the window. Joan's mother pulled a comb through her hair one last time more and smoothed it down her back to her waist. She made a little smacking sound with her lips and said, "Soon I may never see you again, daughter."

Joan turned and pressed a quick kiss to her mother's cheek, but she had no idea what to say.

"I have no right to be sad." Her mother shook her head and smiled although it looked a bit false. "How many mothers have their daughters with them so long?"

"They tried to convince me to marry enough times. Now I think my uncle may now be glad of my being such the stubborn girl he always called me."

Her mother shook out her veil, silk so fine it seemed no more than a wisp. "Henry was too fond to force you." Her marriage had been fiercely argued since she was fourteen and her betrothed died.  Then Joan swore they'd have to drag her screaming to the altar. She'd thought a few times that Henry might do so, but he'd given way to her entreaties. Joan lowered her head so the veil could be settled over her hair and a narrow gold circlet put on her brow to hold it in place. Her mother kissed her forehead. "Beautiful daughter. They'll love you, but--" her voice broke. "Sending to live with the wild Scots. It is a hard thing."

Leaving behind the civilized ways of the English was frightening enough that when she allowed herself to consider it, her heart beat like mad, but James would be with her. All would be well. She was sure of it.  She held her mother's hand and turned to look into the mirror that her little sister, Margaret, was holding up for her, eyes wide. "You look so elegant, Joan. I hope I look so when I wed."

"You will, Meg." In the mirror, her mouth curved into a smile. Meg was right that she looked elegant. She squeezed her mother's hand. "All will be well. I promise."

She hardly felt the stairs under her feet as she hurried down to the bailey yard. Her father should have been the one to lead her mount to the church but he was long dead and her two elder brothers prisoners in France, so it was her youngest brother Edmund, a rangy boy of eighteen still with a few spots on his sullen face, who lifted her by the waist and seated her in the saddle. The cream-colored mare was a wedding gift from her uncle. It was a beauty and she touched its mane that was braided with sprigs of lily, bishop's lace, and roses

"Ready?" Edmund scowled up at her.

She touched his shoulder. "Don't be so angry." She couldn't help that it had been the Scots who had captured their brothers in France. It seemed unfair for him to blame James, and they had little time left to make peace. "Can't you be happy for me?"

"Are you? Happy?" he said as he took the bridle and led the way through the gate and onto the street.

"I am." She smiled up at the watery February sunlight. The throng that lined the London Bridge was cheering as the mare pranced daintily across. Banners flapped overhead, held up by the men-at-arms, marching in a line on each side of the party; the Queen, her mother and other guests followed. The veil gave made the world look hazy and dream-like.

Beneath the massive square bell tower, the grounds of the Church of St. Mary Overie was bustling with the people of London, happy to cheer for a royal wedding, even that of a Scot.  James stood before the arched doors, shining like a Roman god in his cloth-of-gold doublet beneath a cloak of crimson velvet blazoned with the Lion Rampant of Scotland. Beside him stood her uncle, Henry Beaumont, the bishop. A rushing strange sound in her ears pulsed in a strange counterpoint to the shouts.

His face solemn, James strode forward to meet her as Edmund lifted her down from the saddle. He took her hand to lead her to lead her to the doors where they would be wed, in the open as was custom so the crowd could witness their joining. Everything seemed even hazier and time heaved oddly along while her stomach fluttered as though filled with riotous butterflies. The buzz in her head confused the words of the ceremony. 

She could barely follow what James said in a response to her uncle but then it was her turn. She took a deep, calming breath. She swallowed hard and managed to keep her voice even to say, "I, Joan de Beaufort, take thee, James Stewart, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart: according to Gods holy ordinance: And thereto I pledge thee my troth."

The bishop took the ring and said a quick prayer over the gold band with its square emerald.  James retrieved it from him and lifted her left hand. Her head spun and she sucked in a breath. She would not faint at her wedding and have her new husband think her a weak goose.

"With this ring I thee wed: This gold and silver I thee give: with my body I thee worship: and withal my worldly goods I thee endow." He slipped the ring in turn a little way onto each finger saying in turn, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." With the last phrase, he slid it onto her ring finger.

Cheers and whistles nearly drowned out her uncles closing blessing.  People surged forward and a fresh-faced acolyte held up an alms bowl. James slipped his arm around her waist and she welcomed the support as she scooped up a handful of silver pennies. She suddenly felt giddy and a laugh bubbled up. She flung the coins to scatter them into the crowd. They shouted her name and scrambled for the coins. James flung a handful high over the heads of the mob. She grabbed more and tossed them until the bowl was empty. She smiled up at James and through the mist of her veil she saw him look down at her, his large, piercing blue eyes shining.

She couldn't help softly laughing when James led her into the church.

As quickly as the wedding had passed, the Mass dragged as though time had slowed to a crawl. In the cool darkness of the church, she breathed in the pleasant scent of beeswax candles and frankincense as she tried not to twitch with impatience. Her uncle droned on through the service but her mind wandered to the banquet that awaited them. Was the food sufficiently elegant? Her mother had assured her it was. Had they planned enough minstrels and tumblers? Later, for the first time since France, she and James would at last be alone and the thought made her heart race like a galloping steed. The bedding revels were less to her taste. Poor Queen Catherine had been near tears at the shouts and rude instructions when Henry's companions tossed him into bed with her. Still, it must be borne for what came after.

At one point, her uncle read from the scripture of Ruth: "Do not be against me, as if I would abandon you and go away; for wherever you will go, I will go, and where you will stay, I will stay. Your people are my people…" It jerked Joan's mind back to the present. Ruth had gone to an alien land. Joan was no Bible scholar but that she remembered that much. Ruth had taken strangers as her people.

Suddenly, she felt cold at the thought of a life amongst people she didn't know who might hate her. James must have felt her tremble for he pressed her fingers. She took a deep breath. James's people would be hers. They wouldn't hate her because she was English. James wouldn't let them.

A Captive Prince

More of my current Work-in-Progress: 

A week later:

Through the high, narrow window of James’s Tower room, morning light spilled across the floor, bars laying dark stripes on the threadbare carpet. His straw-stuffed bed was hard and uncomfortable. James thrashed and kicked off the light coverlet. In his bare feet, he ran to the little garderobe and pissed into the hole as William, on his pallet on the floor, muttered complaints before he rose.  

On the little table next to the door, a slab of dark oak with iron bands, William filled their basin from the flagon of water. James washed his face and hands, donned clean hose, shirt and doublet from the chest that had been brought from the ship the week before and pulled on his boots. Then he climbed to stand on his bed to look out the window past its iron bars. He took a deep breath and leaned his forehead against the rough stone. Sunrise was a wash of red across cloud of smoke that never seemed to clear from above London. He absently rubbed at the strange pressure in his chest as he wondered when he would ever see a blue sky again.

“That bed will nae be fit to sleep in,” William said. “With you standing on it like that in your boots.”

In the yard below, James spotted a man-at-arms, following a dark haired man who sauntered across the patch of ground within view. It was certainly not Sir Thomas. Possibly another prisoner of this foul place?  A roar nearby made him flinch and was answered with another.  He turned to look around the bare chamber, with its narrow bed, small table and two stools, a thin carpet on the floor. But a fire burned on the hearth, they had been brought food by a gaoler every day, and the lions in the menagerie were only a sound in the distance. William said he had never heard of prisoners being given over to the beasts, but he looked nervous every time they split the air with their roars.

William looked up from pulling on his own clothes. “The English will allow you to buy more comforts when you receive moneys from Scotland. Your lands will…” William’s comment died off at an echo of voices from down the corridor. He kicked at the edge of the carpet with a sneer. “We will use it to send for thick carpet and hangings to stop the draft and decent plate for your table.” Even in the summer’s heat, behind thick stone walls the air was chill.

James propped up the wall with his back. “I don’t care about that. I just want out of this room. I want to see the earl and to know if there is news.”

“The king said you were to have tutors. I’m sure they don’t mean to keep us locked up forever.”

James flopped down onto his bed. There was nothing to do here. He threw his arm over his eyes and bethought of sitting high on the tower of Rothesay Castle whilst his mother still lived, the land green all around until it slanted down to the rolling sea. Masts bobbed on the horizon, men in the fields scythed oats, a little goosegirl poured out grain for her flock. He tasted capercaillie stuffed with apple and pine nuts and thyme with sweetened caudle to wash it down. He could still hear the sound of the chapel bell, his brother’s laughter as he rode out the gate, his mother’s lilting voice. She wore the green that she loved, and it set off the red gleam of her hair and the gold of her coronet. He saw his sire’s drawn, pallid face when they put her in her tomb. And he felt gooseflesh as the cold sea splashed over his feet as he waited that dark night for the ship Maryenknyght. The memories made his throat ache so he sat up with a sigh.

“It’s near time to break our fast,” William said.

James didn’t answer but he supposed William was right and the clatter of feet in the corridor made him slide to the edge of the bed. His belly rumbled, ready for the bread that would stave off their hunger until dinner. There was a noise of the bar being lifted and the locks rattled and the door creaked open.

James stood up in surprise when Sir Thomas Rempston stepped through the door. “Lord James,” he said with a neutral sort of nod. “I have found a tutor for you, a monk from Eastminster Abbey well recommended by the abbot. He has both French and Latin I am told. And the king has provided some coins for your upkeep so if there is aught that you require for your wellbeing…”

“My freedom!” James exclaimed. At Sir Thomas’s raised eyebrows, James lowered his voice. “Surely, Sir Thomas, I need not be constantly confined so.”

“It is not my intent. Once I am assured that you understand your position here, I will give you the freedom of the keep. But if you abuse that in any way, I shall confine you as is my duty.” He crossed his arms and held James’s gaze. “Do you understand?”

James knew his eyes widened but he tried to keep his face blank. “Aye, sir, I do. I mean no abuse. I shan’t challenge your authority.”

“Good. There are others in the Tower who will be company for you.” He snorted. “I have no doubt you’ll soon make the acquaintance of Gruffydd Glendwr. He’s the nearest in the Tower to your age.”

“Then I may leave this room? Go outside?” James couldn’t help the eagerness of the questions. Why should he be grateful for being let out of a cage he should never have been locked in?

“Except for the walls, the deeper dungeon and chambers that are barred, I grant you and your squire freedom of the keep.” Sir Thomas scowled at him. “In time long past, one of the Glendwrs tried to escape by jumping from the wall and fell to his death. Stupid! Since then prisoners are forbidden there. You’ll be escorted by a guard, but he’ll not impede you unless you try to escape. But do not doubt --if you cause any problems I shall be told.”

James fiddled for a moment with a loose thread on his doublet, looked at the floor, and then nodded. “I understand you, Sir Thomas. I have no desire for durance more than I must suffer.”

“Good.”

“The earl of Orkney? Will I be able to see him? I must need speak wi’ him.”

Sir Thomas let out a breath. “He displeased the king with his impudence, but. . . I suppose there is no harm whilst he awaits his ransom.” He gave James a somewhat kinder look than before. “The menagerie will entertain you, I believe. We have five lions and a leopard for the nonce. Your confinement need not be so terrible.”

James knew very well how terrible a confinement could be. He still dreamt of Robert in an oubliette, desperately gnawing his fingers as he starved to death in the dark. But this was better and James tightened his mouth into a line to hold back a smile of relief to be outside if only for a few hours. “I ken it could be worse, Sir Thomas.”

“Sensible boy.” Sir Thomas nodded and turned on this heel to leave.

Behind him, a gaoler carried in a tray with a loaf of hot bread and a flagon of fresh water.  James muttered a word of thanks as it suddenly occurred to him that it was a good idea to keep the gaolers sweet. He decided to mend his manners though the gaolers were rough men and his inferiors. The man grunted and tromped out.

Grinning, James broke off half the loaf and tilted his head to William who grabbed up the rest. 

“Let’s go!” He strode fast, not allowing himself to run, out the door and down the corridor.   Flickering torchlight touched the granite slabs underfoot and shifting shadows danced across the rough walls. The winding steps down were narrow and slick with wear and damp, but James barely slowed his tumultuous rush.

He pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the most precious sunlight he had ever seen. That it was dimmed by the ever-present London smoke mattered not. He was in the light and the air. He gaped at the high gray walls and the bailey yard. A guard in glittering steel paced atop whilst another with halberd in hand stood at a corner.  

The door crashed closed and he looked over his shoulder to see that they were indeed shadowed by one of the gaolers in the livery of the Tower rather than armor, but he had a sword at his waist. His heavy shoulders and thick neck below a blunt face made James assume he could use the weapon. James decided that he should give him no reason.

A laugh came from around the bend of the tower and a lithe figure wearing a battered helm and armor sauntered into view. When the man saw James, he pulled his helm off and held an arm wide in welcome. He examined James through large, dark eyes under arched brows.  

“Well met, my lord,” the man said in a strong singsong accent. “I heard we had new companions in this charming abode.” His black curling hair was dripping with sweat.

James blinked at him and after a moment nodded in greeting. Obviously not a guard, the man was mayhap twenty with a sarcastic twist to his narrow lips.

“Forgive me. I am Gruffydd ab Owen Glendwr, eldest son of Prince Owen Glendwr.” He snorted a wry laugh. “And fellow ‘guest’ in this fine English Tower.”

James was reminded a bit of Robert Lauder. At least there might be fine company in this dour place. “I’m James.” He shrugged. “Earl of Carrick and son of King Robert of Scotland, if any of that matters here.”

Gruffydd threw a casual arm around James’s shoulder. “Aye, it does, lad. You’d not want to be a villain in this place, stuck in the lower dungeons. Though my lack of coin makes my stay less pleasant than some.” He looked past James to William and nodded a greeting.

“William Giffart, my lord,” Will said. “Lord James’s squire.”

But James was moving back from Gruffyd. He reached for the blunted practice blade in his new friend’s hand. Bouncing on his toes and turning the blade in his hand, he said, “They let us practice in the yard?”

“With blunted blades, certes, but we may practice at sword and even tilt at the quatrain when Sir Thomas feels kindly.”

James’s face split in a grin, but then his face fell a little. “My sword work isn’t as good as I would like, Gruffydd.”

“Then the three of us shall practice together.” The Welshman winked. “They call me a fair hand with a blade, so I’ll teach you what I know. It will keep us from dying of boredom.”