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Historical Fiction:

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• Not For Glory

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New Cover for A Kingdom's Cost

This isn't up on Amazon or B&N yet, but will be within the next day or two. I'm very pleased with the illustration from artist Mark Churms and the cover design from J. T. Lindroos.

When I had the original cover done, I used black and white royalty-free art to keep the cost down, but I came to feel the original cover didn't do the novel justice. So I hope other people like this cover as well as I do.

Excerpt: Not for Glory (coming soon)

Now this is still in edit, but I thought I would share.

October 1316

Douglasdale, Scotland

Icy rain ripped at James's face. The air smelt of oak and moss and rain but beneath it still the tang of long dead fire and ash. Whatever the weather, he welcomed a respite from the grief-stricken court. Marioun was a pale-faced ghost whilst the king grim-faced  had sailed for Ireland. Silent and grieving, Walter Stewart had ridden for his own lands.

Master Gautier sloshed through the ankle deep puddles and mud to stand beside James under a bare, dripping oak. "I'm sorry, my lord. In this weather, there is no hurrying the work though the stones will give us a good start on building." One of the workmen prying a stone from the rubble of a fallen wall slipped, splattering mud and cursing. The workman heaved himself to his feet out of the muck. The wagon was still only half full of the stones they'd take to Lintalee to use for the manor.

Those were the walls where James had once sat and watched his father's men marching guard, servants carrying water for the kitchen, girls from Douglas village out of sight beyond the trees gathered giggling to talk under an oak, a man tilling a nearby field. He'd never thought to see be forced to destroy it by his own hand. How hard it was to rebuild what was lost. The pieces that were missing left gaps never again whole.

Frigid water dribbled down the back of his neck, and James craned to look up at the slate gray clouds. The midmorning was dark as dusk. The year before the crops had been poor. This year he doubted they would be planted at all. If they were and the rain did not stop, they'd drown in the fields. It was as bad in England, but he'd have to consider raiding. Better the English starved when he took what they had for his own people.

A gust of wind sent leaves flapping around him. I chose a fine year to build a manor, James thought ruefully. Rivulets edged with ice flowed downhill toward the Douglas Water out of sight beyond the trees.

"I don't fault you. Even a master mason cannot control the weather." He shook water from the folds of his cloak. The wet made his side ache from the red scar of the wound he'd taken at Carlisle and the neck of his sodden wool cloak itched. "Do the best that you can. I'd like to be in the manor by snowfall.”

The man shook his head. "I fear you will not, my lord. Unless this weather breaks… And I pray that it does."

A horn sounded in the distance, half drowned by the drumming rain. "The signal for riders," James said. He took a few steps toward the road. He didn't expect the English in this weather; it was too early for the fighting to start. "Wat!" James called. "Send men out to see who comes."

Wat ran through the slush, shouting for Dauid and Johne to bring horses. "I'll see to it, my lord."

James shook the water out of his eyes. Wat had been with him most of his life since the day James returned to reclaim his father's lands. The man was tough as old leather, but James thought his gray hair said it was time for younger men to do the fighting. Moments later, water sprayed as the three men left at a fast canter. Wat gave James a wave as he passed.

"I could send for more men," Master Gautier said as he scowled at one of the men hefting a stone into the wagon. "But it won't speed the building a great deal. In this rain, even once we move the stones, mortar won't set well no matter how many men I have."

"Send for them then. I won't expect more than you tell me that you can do, but speed it as much as you can."

Lightning sizzled across the sky followed by booming thunder. The mason excused himself and slogged through the muck to have his men stop until the weather eased. They trooped grumbling toward the line of tents. James shook the water out of his cloak again and then turned to watch the road wondering who would be mad enough to ride out in this weather. It didn't bode well for being good news.

When riders came into sight, Wat, in the lead with several men not their own following. Wat waved an arm over his head and called, “Raiders in Teviotdale, my lord.” They splashed at a canter through the mucky road, water spraying.

Thin, sharp-faced Sir Adam de Gordon climbed from the saddle, his mouth drawn up like he'd tasted something bitter. “Lord Warden, English raiders. They must be from Berwick. They seized twenty cattle and captured two men to drive them.” He thrust his head at the two men-at-arms with him. “Too many for the three of us to take on, ten of them.”

James gave a sharp nod. “We should be able to catch them up before they reach Berwick. They'll make for the Merse.” He only had forty men in his tail, but that should be enough for a few raiders. With the king supporting his brother in Ireland, Walter Stewart and he had been left as Scotland's co-regents. He couldn't―no, he would not fail the king by allowing such a raid.

Wat still sat astride his sturdy mount. “We'll need to move fast then. I'll order the men armed and mounted.” He turned his horse toward where the men had already begun to stand from lounging beside campfires. “Wake up, you lot! We've work to do.”

“Archibald,” James shouted and called for his armor. Archibald buckled on his brother's hauberk and coif, his greaves and knelt to put on his boots while James buckled on his sword belt. By then a groom was leading up his black courser. It wasn't armored. James scratched his chin. Mayhap he should start traveling with armor for his horse, but it wouldn't matter for taking down a few raiders. “Get yourself armed, Archie.” He swung into the saddle. “Quickly now.”

Archie ran as James wheeled his mount. His men were throwing saddles on their mounts, buckling girths, checking their swords and yelling jokes about what they'd do to the enemy. Wat shouted at them to hurry. Archie buckled his sword belt with one hand whilst he led his horse with the other. A watery beam of sunlight broke through the rain as James led them off and they fell in behind him.

Sir Adam rode beside him. “We cannot lose those cattle. Can't afford to.” James grunted. Why talk about it? Losing cattle would mean even more empty bellies. No, they couldn't afford any lose as bad as harvest the year before had been.

“Wat, send out four scouts, well spread. A small group could be easy to miss.”

As they rode through the scattered woodlands at a canter, James frowned. In the distance, the hills of the Lammermuirs hunched, dappled by snow beneath smoky gray clouds. “Ten is few to take back enough cattle to feed Berwick if they're as low on food as reports say. You saw the raiders yourself, Gordon? You're sure of the numbers?”

“Aye, from a distance. It might have been twelve. Of a certainty, no more.”

“They've grown bold―or desperate,” James said, still frowning. It was a small raid though if only a score. James was going over in his mind the area of Berwickshire around Coldsteam as they rode along the bank of the gray-blue waters of River Tweed, visualizing the rolling hills and farmland where the raiders might make their escape. It was open country, good country for fighting on horseback. Ill if you wanted to hide. He jerked his head around at a sound above the steady rustle of the water. Hoof beats coming at a gallop. He held up his hand for a halt as one of his scouts dashed through the hawthorns and scrub.

“Nor far behind me,” the man panted. “A good four score and in armor all of them.”

“Holy Rood!” Sir Adam Gordon gasped. “You're sure so many?”

“Aye. They spotted us. Rode down Ranald. They're on my trail.”

“They must have been spread out to raid when you spotted them, Gordon.” James wrapped and unwrapped his reins from his hand. There was a stream near Skaithmuir a little way north, one that might serve as a small defense.

“Sir James!” Sir Adam pointed.

James heard shouts. Horsemen in gleaming mail came through the trees. First there were six knights. Then twelve more. Then twelve more. A double column of knights and men-at-arms streamed through the dripping, bare trees.

Sir Adam opened his mouth and made a sound, but James cut him off. He turned his horse's head and sped for Skaithmuir. “Ride,” he shouted, and he clapped his spurs to his horse's flanks.

He clearly saw in his mind the little stream and its bank that formed a hillock. It would be little enough defense but as a good place to make a stand as you'd find in this country. Fleeing from the English in his own country―as he had for so many years in the past. The thought of it made the blood pound in his ears. Mud flew from the hooves. He led them in a race for their lives. They splashed through the stream, icy water splattering.

A horn made a wavering call in the distance as James's mount slipped and struggled to the top of the rise, splattering mud from their hooves. Outnumbered. “Plant my banner,” he ordered Archibald.

Archibald unfurled it and thrust the pike's head deep into the soft ground. The white banner with its broad blue band and three stars stood steady in the midst of his men. Wat hurried them into a defensive circle, ordering them close together, for mutual protection. They were fixing their shields on their arms and flexing their sword hands on their hilts. “Do nothing but guard my back, Archie,” James said. “No need to make a name for yourself this day.”

He turned his horse in a circle to look over the field. The edge of the stream that half-circled the hillock was hard rimed with ice. Beyond the ground was rolling, spotted with a few trees, but most of the land was cleared for planting in the spring. He watched as a line of men rode into view, shouting and gesticulating. A horn blew again. Harooo.

More men rode into view, armor catching the glimmers of sunlight, joined the mass that was forming. Their leader, tall and massive on a huge courser, rode with his standard bearer at his side, blue with a gold bend, the armorial of Sir Raymond Caillou. Drawing his sword, James watched the man ride up and down the line, shouting. He'd heard of Caillou and tried to remember what. It didn't matter. When the leader died, most often it broke his followers. Caillou must die.

The horn blew again, and the English broke into a gallop, screaming war cries and curses as they came. Caillou waved his sword over his head and bellowed a command.

“Steady,” James said. “Make them come to us up the slope.” He fastened his gaze on the tall knight with the blue shield. The hooves of charging horses threw muck and icy water, the charge slowing as they labored up the rise. Then the English were upon them.

“A Douglas!” James roared. The hillock rang with the sound of steel on steel.

 

Not for Glory, third novel in The Black Douglas Trilogy, will be released in February.

"A Kingdom's Cost" Award Finalist

I'm pleased to tell you that A Kingdom's Cost is one of the finalists for the 2012 eFestival of Words Best of the Independent eBook Awards in the Historical Fiction Category!

You can find a complete list of the finalists here: http://www.efestivalofwords.com/master-list-of-finalists-t146.html

This a peer nominated award that I am very pleased to be nominated for! Voting is open so I hope you'll decide to put in a vote.

Sample of A Kingdom's Cost

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.

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

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.

Battle of Stirling Bridge Day Giveaway

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

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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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.

#SampleSunday - A Kingdom's Cost -- Chapter Three

March 1306

Below the hill, every sort and color of flag and banner and pennant flew over a city of tents. From it streamed smiling and laughing men and women, gaily dressed, up the hill and into the Abbey. James found a place at the back where the warm March sun poured through. He wouldn't put himself forward. That was a right he would win, he knew it. But there might be days--not often, but a few--when being young and dispossessed was an advantage. He'd see them all as they passed. He rested his back against the wall near the door to watch.

Bruce's brothers, dressed in flamboyant velvets, came in, laughing loudly and talking. Nigel Bruce was the oldest of the four, big and broad-shouldered, looking every bit the jouster that James had heard he was. Alexander, the slender one, was said to be a scholar. Edward Bruce was tall and golden with flashing blue eyes, and the other, Thomas, was a leaner, dark-haired version of the king.

James recognized Sir Neil Campbell from when the muscular, red-haired highlander had called upon the bishop, and with him was the blond Englishman, Sir Alexander Seton. Today, the Campbell was fine in a gray silk tunic and on one arm a lady who James supposed was his wife, Mary Bruce, the king's sister. She was bonny, all dressed in blue and laughing up at her husband. Behind them strolled the gray-haired Earl of Atholl.

"Enjoying the minstrel show?" a voice said, close at hand. James turned and faced a man of middling height, sharp-faced with long brown hair going gray and a scar angled across his cheek. "If there weren't a show, someone would say he wasn't the king.”

"But a king must be crowned.” James blinked, confused at why the man would call the coronation such.

"You don't remember me, do you? Robbie Boyd." He held out a hand.

James' eyes widened as he clasped the man’s forearm. He hadn't recognized Boyd at all from those days when this man and his father had been close companions of Wallace's. "You were a friend of my father's. I remember you well.” He grinned. "I was but a lad, and I thought you were eight feet tall."

Boyd laughed. "Then you must have thought Wallace was a true Goliath.” He poked James with an elbow and nodded to a scowling man with Sir Philip de Mowbray at the front of the Abbey. "Look. The Earl of Strathearn with a face like someone threatened to cut off his head."

The man's face was furrowed in a scowl.

"Why would he look like that?" James asked.

"Because I told him I would if he didn't pay homage to the king. Lennox said killing him was a bad idea, but I'm not so sure. Puling weakling. We had to kidnap him to get him here, but we needed to make a good show. Not that it isn’t war. But they won’t say earls weren’t at our king's crowning." Boyd's eyes narrowed. "Even if it's only four."

The thought of the Earl of Lennox and Sir Robert Boyd kidnapping the Earl of Strathearn had him speechless. He stared at Boyd. "You kidnapped him?"

Boyd's teeth flashed in a grin, stretching the narrow scar on his cheek.

James scratched his new beard that was itching like a wolfhound pup full of fleas. True, most of those who should be here weren’t, but the idea of kidnapping an earl was more than he could fathom. Then it hit him that the MacDuff wasn't here. Of course, he was still a lad and in English hands. But who would place the crown on the king's head? It had always been the right and duty of the MacDuffs.

He started to mention it to Boyd just as trumpets, two lines of them, blared a fanfare that made James' ears ring. They resounded again.

Robert de Bruce strode between them into the Abbey and past the spectators up to the high altar. There he took his place on a massive throne. A low murmur went through the crowd. James glanced at Boyd, and the man met his eye, shrugging.

"No piece of rock makes a king," Boyd muttered.

No Scottish king had ever been crowned before without being seated upon the Stone of Destiny that King Edward Longshanks had stolen. It didn't matter, surely, but it left a queer feeling in James's belly anyway.

The new queen, Lady Elizabeth, entered through a side door to take her seat on a smaller throne to the side. Then Bishop Lamberton came out followed by the stooped, gray-haired Bishop Wishart and burly Bishop of Moray, all in richly embroidered, scarlet ecclesiastical robes. The chant of a choir floated through the abbey as the bishops clothed the king in the gorgeous purple and gold royal vestments. The Abbot of Scone swung a censor. The sweet scent of incense filled the air.

Lamberton's sonorous Latin Mass rolled over them, full of swelling anthems and dramatic pauses. Halfway through, James smothered a laugh at Boyd's sigh. As dramatic as the coronation was--it was long. But James caught his breath when the choir broke into a swelling Gloria in Excelsis.

The bishop brought the sacred oil and anointed the king.

James jumped when the trumpets sounded. And again.

Bishop Wishart strode to the altar and took the crown. It was a simple substitute for the one stolen by the English king, nothing more than a golden circlet. Again the trumpets sounded. The bishop placed the crown on the head of Robert de Bruce.

All around him, people jumped and cheered.

"God save the King," James roared with everyone in the Abbey. Boyd was grinning again as he joined in the shouts. "God save the King!"

Someone pushed past James and a line began to form. Soon it stretched out the door. James craned to see what was happening. The Earl of Strathearn stood first in place and Philip de Mowbray behind him. Bruce took Strathearn's hands in his, but the mumble that followed was indecipherable from where James stood. From the look of it, the rest of the day would be homage taking. James elbowed his way to the door with a wave to Boyd. James' homage and his loyalty, the king already had of him.

Below the buildings of the Abbey of Scone where it thrust into the sapphire sky, James wandered through the tent city that sprawled on the flats of the river. Near the slope of the hill, colorful silken pavilions of the lords and ladies sat under flapping banners, Bruce, Mar, Atholl, Lennox, Stewart, Hay, Lindsay, Strathearn and Campbell and the bishops and abbots. He passed tent booths where merchants cried, hawking their wares. Meat sizzling over braziers, sending up a scent that made his mouth water. Boys wander through the growing crowd crying pies for sale. James stopped under a merchant's sharp-eyed gaze to look at a brooch with a fine blue stone, but he had no lady to give it to or money to buy it. He strolled on.

Anyway, what was important lay ahead beyond more flying banners. The tourney grounds stretched out to beyond his sight.

The silver that the bishop had given him along with a gift from the king had bought a charger after he had returned the bishop's palfrey to the horse-master. James chuckled at the memory of the man's glare. Earlier in the day, he'd paid for a new shield with the blue chief and three white stars of Douglas. Tomorrow would be the tourneys, and he would have his first chance to show what he could do.

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A Kingdom's Cost is now available at Amazon and Smashwords for only $2.99.

Writing Large Battles Scenes

This is a tough thing to do for most writers. There is so much going on all at once. The writer often feels as battered as the character fighting the battle. How do you manage to get it all in? How do you describe it all?

I am going to give my beliefs on how to do it. Will everyone agree with me? Of course not, but one of the parts of my writing that at times gets the most praise is my battles, so I suspect I may do something right at least part of the time.

I start with something I try to keep firmly in mind in all my writing. Do NOT violate point-of-view. Ever.

In a battle, this means several things. Most of all, it means that your protagonist can't see everything that is going on. They will see what is going on around them, but they are unlikely to know what is going on across the battlefield. The protagonist may not even know if the battle is won or lost.

Also, always keep in mind that battles involve the sensory, not only seeing, but hearing, tasting, feeling. Probably, not a lot of thinking though. When someone is trying to stick sharp implements in your guts or pierce them with bullets, the chances of philosophizing are slim.

However, think about times when you have been under extreme stress. I have never been in a medieval battle, but I have been in car accidents and had loved ones suddenly die. I have been around people who had these kinds of experiences, so I have a good idea how people react in emergencies and under stress.

Strange things happen to you. Time can do strange things, seem to collapse, hours seeming like minutes and seconds seeming like hours.

You may be so focused on the immediate, that you only see what is right in front of you. Or you may by divorcing yourself emotionally from the stress, even deny that the situation is stressful. Or you may appear very calm although piss runs down your leg. Some may freeze, unable to move. The same person may react in different ways at different times.

While occasionally someone may be very conscious of how they are moving their hands and feet, for the most part this isn't what one thinks about under any circumstances. One is much more likely to think of the whole. Think of physical activities we do under more ordinary circumstances, such as dancing, playing golf or playing tennis. Unless we are taking lessons, most of the coordination of our body is automatic. If we spend much time telling the reader that the protagonist's hand went here while their foot went here, it soon begins to be not only boring but also very artificial and (worse) an authorial intrusion.

I'll include a battle scene that is in Chapter Two of Freedom's Sword. I wonder if you think I followed my own rules? Did they work? I'd love to discuss it in comments.

Here newly knighted Sir Andrew de Moray is in his first battle. Part of the Scottish army, they are charging an apparently fleeing English host:

The trap snapped shut.

Cursing, his father jerked his horse into a rearing turn. "To me! To me!"

The English were upon them from both sides. They were in a chaos of crashing lances, of horns, of trumpeting horses. Everywhere steel screamed on steel.

Andrew raised his shield and caught a sword slash on it. His father rammed his lance into a knight's shield. The lance shattered. The knight crashed onto his back under plunging hooves. Lord Avoch tossed aside the butt and scraped his sword free. A knight in a red tabard bore down, lance level towards his father's chest. Andrew threw himself forward, shield high. The lance skirled, screaming, along his shield. Ducking low, Andrew swung, shearing through mail, muscle, and gut. The man was dead as he slumped, bouncing from the saddle as his steed plunged forward.

Andrew's world shrank to his father's back and his sword. An unhorsed knight thrust at his chest. His sword lashed out, knocking the axe aside. The knight darted aside for another try. Andrew rode over him, bursting his head open. One of their men rode by, slumped over his horse's neck.

A lance had gone through his belly and stuck out his back.

Sir Waltir de Berkely, unhorsed, slashed at an English knight but the mount reared. Sir Waltir ducked under slashing hooves. His father slammed his sword into a foe's side as another rode at him, swinging. The blade flashed. His father toppled. Andrew jerked his horse into a rear and shattered the man's chest with a kick. His horse made a small leap over Brian's body, blood trickling from his mouth and head in a crimson pool. He jumped from the saddle. All around rang sword upon sword and men wailed, screaming in pain.

His father rolled over. Alive. Andrew straddled him, shield up. Caught a blow. Swung hard at a mailed arm. Blood gushed over his hand.

A sickening crunch and pain exploded in his back. His vision shattered into broken shards. He was falling. He couldn't yell... Couldn't move... His father's body lay under him on the ground. A jolt jerked his head.

"England!" a voice cried out. "For England and King Edward!"

Andrew drifted into a wave of gray mist.

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My new novel, A Kingdom's Cost, is now available on Amazon and Smashwords for $2.99.

Freedom's Sword is price reduced to 99 Cents through May 14 at Amazon and Smashwords.

Things Scottish -- Food to be Precise

I'm sure some of you have noticed that in the course of my life, I've spent some time in Scotland. In the course of that, I've eaten a fair amount of Scottish food--and no haggis is not made out of sheep's intestines. Like sausage, intestines serve as a casing.

However, it was other dishes that were daily fair on my granny's table, so I'm going to share a few recipes that I learned from her. They mostly were not eaten in medieval Scotland in the days of James, Lord of Douglas, the hero of A Kingdom's Cost, but they're pretty tasty and very authentically Scottish, except that I changed the measurements and temperatures to US.

Forfar Bridies

1 package of puff pastry (or make your own)

1 pound finely chopped lamb (ground beef may be substituted if you don't like lamb)
1 large onion, finely diced
1/4 cup beef broth (or enough to moisten meat)
1 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp ground black pepper
1 egg white, lightly beaten

In a heavy skillet brown meat and onion. Drain fat. Add broth, Worcestershire sauce, salt and pepper. Cool thoroughly! (Don't fail to cool)

Preheat oven to 450 degrees F.

Roll pastry to about 1/4 inch thickness and cut into about 6 inch rounds. This should make 6 to 8 rounds of pastry. Divide the cooled meat evenly in the center of the rounds. Leave an edge of pastry showing all round. Brush edges with water and fold over. Crimp the edges, make two slits in the top (traditionally bridies with onion have 2) and brush the top with egg white.

Oil a baking sheet and place bridies on it being sure they don't touch. Bake for 15 minutes, lower temperature to 350 degrees F. and continue baking for another 55 minutes or until golden brown.

Yummy! Just like my granny made me.

My granny knew I couldn't get enough of her shortbread and since I was a skinny kid she always had a good stock on hand. (If I weren't off gluten, I'd still eat it by the truckload)

Burrebrede (Scottish Shortbread)

1 pound unsalted butter
5 cups flour (pastry is best but all-purpose works also)
1 1/2 cup confectioners sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
(You can add a teaspoon of vanilla but I prefer it without which emphasizes the butter flavor)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (180 degrees C).

Cream butter. Add sugar and salt and beat until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Add flour and mix with a wooden spoon. Use hands to thoroughly mix. Chill for 15 minutes and then press into a jelly roll pan. Prick closely all the way through.

Bake for 15 minutes, reduce heat to 300 degrees and continue baking for 30 minutes. Let cool in pan for about 10 minutes and cut into bars. Finish cooling in pan before removing although the delicious aroma may make that difficult. Smack hands as needed.

Even thinking about them makes me nostalgic for my granny's kitchen.

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