The Intelligencer is off the the editor! Here's a look at Ch. 1

Intelligencer: a person who gathers intelligence, especially an informer, spy, or secret agent.

"Careful you don't give her a good show," said Cormac the minstrel, lanky and grinning, one shoulder resting on the wall.

"Wheesht. I'm giving no one a show," Sir Law Kintour said. He reached for a tiny jar sitting in the window, pulled out the cork releasing a sharp, musty smell. The canoness had told him swallowed it was poison, but when the cream was rubbed on his scars it eased them a bit.

When there was a tap on the door, Cormac opened it. Anny Cullen stood there with a steaming bowl in her hands. At twelve, she had started to look much like her mother, sturdy and muscular. She smiled at him shyly.

He watched as she put the bowl on the wobbly little table in the middle of the room and pulled a long rag out. She twisted it hard to wring out the excess water.  He held out his hand. "Give it. You'd best run along to help your mam." He took the rag gingerly away from her since it was still steaming in the chill morning air.

"Careful and don't let it cool off."

"You could have brought us up some bread and cheese when you came," Cormac grumbled. He gave her his best attempt at a piteous look, but it worked poorly with the wry twist to his mouth.  

"If you want bread and cheese, you go down and tell my mam." She frowned at him, but then her round, freckled face lit up with a smile for Law. "Go ahead, Sir Law. You dinnae want to wait. It will only help while it's still hot."

Law smiled but he thrust his chin toward the door. "Not until you're gone, now shoo."

"You will use it?" she asked.

"I shall." He forced a smile over his gritted teeth, just anxious for her to leave. "Thank you, lass."

"You're welcome." With a glance over her shoulder, Anny left and the door closed behind her.

Law unfastened the laces of his tights and pushed down the one on his left leg. He rubbed a bit of the thick, numbing ointment on, and gave Cormac a look. Cormac had seen the ropy, red scars before, mangled by a lance during the Battle of Verneuil in France, but Law still didn't like showing them. But Cormac had taken out the deadly sharp sgian-achlais  he had taken to carrying in an armpit sheath and was cleaning his fingernails.

Law breathed out a soft snort. You could take off a finger with that knife but shook his head and quickly wrapped the steaming cloth around his thigh and sucked in his breath at the heat on the sensitive scars. He trained the day before with wardens of the burgh to keep himself in fighting fit, and now his bad leg felt like it was being ripped with a lance all over again. Even after these months, he missed his life before. It had been good, but in the end the battle lost him his lord, his rank, and his dearest friend. Now he had nothing but his armor in a bag, some worn clothes, and a limp. He still had a fading bruise that covered his forehead from when he was attacked a few weeks before by a mad friar. 

Cormac held out his hand, examining his nails closely. They were longer than most men's because the clàrsach that he favored was plucked with the fingernails.  "She's sweet on you, you ken." He seemed satisfied with the state of his nails and slid the blade away.

Law lived in a small room above a shabby tavern run by the girl's mother and father, although she was now old enough to do some of the serving. "She's still a wean," Law said. "What is she? Twelve?" Law grimaced at the heat from the cloth wrapped tightly around his leg. It hurt so that he could barely keep still, but it was beginning to ease the deep pain in his leg. He could feel the muscles unknotting as the heat seeped in. Though still a bit tight lipped, he said, "She'll soon find someone else to make doe eyes at. You, mayhap."

Cormac threw up his hands. "Not if I can help it. Her mam would have my hide and hers if she looked at a Hielander. Any road, soon enough they'll look for a sturdy burgher for her. Neither of us are such a prize."

He grunted. Cormac was right that he was no prize. A landless knight was never a sought after, and he even less than most. He might have been born into the small nobility from a family with ties to the great Douglas clan, but he had fallen as low as a knight could. He still had his gold spurs and his arms, but what good did that do him with a lame leg? He wasn't so bad looking, or so he'd some had told him even if it was at night in a hot embrace. He was taller than most men and lean and muscular with a full head of light brown hair, but a lord didn't take a knight into his service for his looks, but on how well they could fight. He might hold his own in a street brawl, but he would never be fit for battle again.

Cormac smoothed his red and white striped doublet and re-tied one of the green ribbons on his sleeve while Law unwrapped the cooled cloth from his leg and pulled his stocking up. He turned to look for his boots to find Cormac holding one and shaking his head over its worn state. "That's pathetic. Dinnae you ever buy new ones?"

"Give it here," Law said.

Cormac tossed the boot to him and turned to open the door. "I'd better find someone to pay for my songs," he called back. "Bidh mi 'gad fhaicinn." He ran down the rickety stairs.

"Aye, see you later, Cormac."

Law drew on the boot, found the other and followed Cormac down the stairs. The minstrel had disappeared although he'd be back later to play for the inn's customers. For now, the only people there were Anny sweeping the bare wood floor, Mall stirring a big pot that had a scent of thyme that must be for dinner, and Wulle talking to the only customer, a tall red-haired man named Andrew Bouquhen, a candle maker with a shop not far away.

There was barley bread and a big round of cheese on the long table that separated the room from the barrel of ale, so Law helped himself. Mall nodded, and he knew she'd add a chit to his tab for his room did not include meals. The he carried them to seat at the back of the inn. He put a sliver of cheese on a bit of the barley bread and chewed them. Simple but hearty and he was not going to complain. Besides, he was glad not to have any reason to go out. Here inside, the rich cheese and the soft crackle of the peat fire in the open hearth were as warm as a grandmother’s embrace. He chuckled at the thought. He must be getting soft.

Mall brought over a cup of ale. He was about  to take a swallow when he noticed a small, bow-legged man standing in the doorwas, picking bits of straw off his blue knitted cap.

"You're letting in the damp," Mall scolded.

The man closed the door, raised his blue knit cap to Law, and clapped it back on his head. “You’re Sir Law Kintour, are you?”

Law contemplated his half-finished piece of cheese, the fire and the cup of malty ale. He sighed. “Aye. What is it you need?”

“Mistress Elspeth Buchan said to fetch you, sir,” he said. “The maister has gone missing and she wants you to come right away. She’s that upset about it.”

A Nice Surprise for Me

It was just announced at the 2016 eFestival of Words, a well-established virtual book fair, that The Templar's Cross is the winner of Best Historical Novel of 2016.

Yay!

Whatever your preferred genre, I strongly suggest checking out the list of winners. There are some great books on it.

Here is the complete list of winners. These are novels nominated by industry professionals and voted on by readers.

2016 eFestival of Words Winners

Winter Kill - Chapter One

This is still in rough draft form but gives you an idea of what is happening to Sir Law since the end of The Templar's Cross. The first draft is completed and it's now being edited. It will be published in January.

Winter Kill

One day after it was ended and over, Sir Law realized that he and Jannet Neyn Patrik Ross had trudged through the snow on the same day and perhaps at the same hour so many miles apart.  Wind had whipped both of them raw on that harsh Scottish November. But on that day, he had never heard of her or of the modest tower near which she died.

By the time he contemplated this quirk of fate, in his mind he could see it happen. Like an unseen watcher on a nearby mountain, he saw her grasping her fur-lined cloak as she rushed out the narrow doorway. There was a dark shape behind her as she ran down the path. Her hair was honey gold and whipped in the wind, entangling snowflakes in its strands. Her fair, narrow face and long neck gave her a look of vulnerability. She bent forward as she ran into swirling gusts of white, her expression that of a woman escaping headlong from hell. 

From his vantage point, he saw her look over her shoulder and saw her mouth open to scream. She ran until she struggled through the deep snow. He saw how it was done to her. She had no chance at all. He watched her go still, unmarked , sprawled on her back, snow covering her face like a shroud. Then there was only the howl of the wind.

The job was a stringy young man from Lothian named Richerd Ancraft. He had found a good position with at the house of the bishop of Dunkeld, running errands for the stewart, Nicholl of Annand. Now Nicholl believed that the young man was stealing small items, gloves and items of that ilk, to sell. They’d even searched him for contraband but found nothing. The stewart wanted the matter resolved quietly with no embarrassment to himself in front of the bishop, Robert de Cardeny. The beefy stewart had paled at the thought, muttering that the bishop was distant cousin to the king. Hiring a thief would make him look like a fool, but Richerd had been cunning enough not to get caught.

The bishop’s man had hired him for this because, he realized with bitterness, he looked enough like the rough workers that he would not be noticed amongst them. His natural skin tone was light but tanned from years in the sun.  His light hair was a bit ragged. His limp might make him look helpless but a closer look at his deep chest and wide shoulders might disabuse of the notion. He’d left his sword in his room at the inn since no workman would carry such a weapon, but the long dirk at his belt would serve as well. He’d try not to be seen, but if he was the quarry would not take him for one of the bishop’s well-liveried servants. That was a certainty.

Law had been detailed to catch the man red-handed so the stewart could pry himself loose with the minimum of awkwardness with his employer. So Law slipped out of his own room above the inn well before dawn. He wrapped his feet in an extra layer of cloth before stomping on his boots for winter had well set in. With luck the buildings would cut off the worst of the weather. With his heavy wool doublet and thick, dark cloak, even the chill should not keep him from his task. Sunrise was turning louring clouds to waves of pewter and slate. In the pewter of early day, a light fall of snowflakes blew in the wind. The narrow Cutlog Vennel through the middle of Perth had a smell of the wood carried through it to be milled covering a stench of piss as he slogged through the murk of pre-dawn. Law reached South Street and followed it almost to Watergate, a block down from the bishop’s house. He pressed his back to the wall, clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Already his fingertips felt number, but he pulled his cloak close, his hood up, and hoped the quarry left soon on his errand to the market as he did every week in the bishop’s all-male household. Law had to detect how the man sneaked goods out of the house without being caught.

The man was so intent on watching over his shoulder as he slipped from the bishop’s house that he didn’t even notice Law watching. When the man snuck out of sight around the corner of the house into the tiny alleyway, Law straightened and strolled in that direction. He slumped a bit and dragged his feet, a workman on his reluctant way to a day’s labor. In the alley, Richerd pushed an empty barrel against the wall, hopped onto it and reached over head to untie a bag hanging from a window by a rope. He jumped down, staggered, fumbling to keep it from dropping the loot onto the wet ground.

Law ran towards the culprit, sliding his dirk sliding out of his belt. He rammed his shoulder into the man’s side and slammed him into the wall. 

The youth gave a yelp. “Let me go!”

Law leaned into him, holding him against the wall with his shoulder and put the dirk to his neck. “I’ll have that bag. Now.”

“I… I… I’m the bishop’s man.” He gulped. “He’ll have your head”

Law snorted as he loosened his weight against Richerd enough to grab the bag from his grip.

The youth whimpered. “Let me go. I’ll pay you… everything that I have. Just let me go.”

He trapped the young thief against the wall again with his weight in order to sheath his dirk.  Then he jerked the trembling youth around, twisting his arm up behind his back. “Back in you go. The steward can deal with you.”

Law shoved the scrawny lad before him to the bishop’s door and gave it a kick since his hands were occupied. A man-at-arms opened the door where the steward waited, and Law shoved the young miscreant at them. He tossed the little bag of booty to the beaming steward. “Hanging out the window from a cord high enough overhead that no one would notice, especially in the half-dark.”

The steward opened the bag and shook his head. “This is what I needed to take him before the lord sheriff."

By this time Richerd was sniveling, tears dripping down his face and his nose running with snot. “You dinnae pay me enough to take care of my mam and four my sisters. And if I’m in a dungeon they’ll starve.”

“You should have thought of their starving before you stole from your master,” the steward snapped.

He counted out coins from his purse, five merks, as though each came out of his hide and dropped them into Law’s outstretched hand. 

At the door, Law glanced once over his shoulder at the pathetic scene. To think he’d once thought himself a feared knight. Now he defeated bawling youths.

He walked through whirling gusts of snow to the inn and slammed the door closed. When Cormac looked up from where he sat plucking his harp, Law gave him a glower and sat, back against the wall, to give Wulle, the innkeeper from whom he rented a room above, a motion to bring him a cup of ale.

Wulle looked at him thoughtfully. “What is chewing your arse? Did they nae pay you?”

“I’ve had too much of this kind of thing, as much as I can stand. The lad was sleekit thief, but…” He shook his head. “He was a sniveling lad, nothing more. I dinnae ken if his story of a starving mam was true, but I’m fed up to my neck with it. Is this the only way for me to keep from starving? There must be something that is worth doing.” He wondered what it would take to wash away the stink of six months of living hand to mouth, bullying petty thieves for merchants.

“A man does what he must to keep food in his belly.”

“That cannae be right, Wulle. There is many a thing I’d starve before I did. Bad leg or no, I’m a good hand with a sword and still have a mind that works. I’d put them to good use, but this kind of work sickens me.”

Wulle sat the horn cup of ale down in front of Law. “Drink that down. It’ll cure what ails you. And go down the vennel to Mother Dickson’s--” He winked. “—for a bit of bobbing before the snow is too deep to open the doors.”

Law looked up from staring into the dark ale to see Cormac give a wry tilt to his mouth. He shrugged and upended up cup, slurping it down. “I have to find something that makes me feel like my life isn’t a waste.”

He leaned his elbows on the rough wood table and tasted the malty brew, caught in a torment he could not define. He knew from a burning in his gut that he would not survive much longer as the same man if he didn’t find some meaning in his life again.  He needed prideful work that used his skills and his abilities. Once he had that and people who meant something to him to go with it. It was a bitter draught that he had had the life most men dreamed of, the gold spurs of a knight, a friend to hold his back who was company for long, lonely nights in camp, and a strong lord to follow into battle against their enemies. But all that had drained into the dirt with their life’s blood.

Law sighed. Thinking Wulle’s advice might do some good, he ignored Cormac’s smirk and banged out into the windy night. Two doors down in Mother Dickson’s whorehouse, he pointed to one of the three girls waiting for a customer. She was tall and lithe, her red hair slicked back into a braid. Mother Dickson brought him a drink. She held out her hand for the price of both so he dropped coins into her hand.

“I’m Jonet, you bonnie lad,” the woman he’d chosen said as she wrapped an arm through his.

Law forced a smile. He had long since outgrown being a lad but would enjoy himself if it killed him. “I’m Law.” He shared his cup with her and kept telling himself he was having a good time as she giggled close to his ear. He followed her up the rickety stairs to her cubby of a room and as soon as they were inside, she turned hard into his arms. Canting her body into him, she dug her nails into his back. For a moment it was fine, until in the darkness he smelled the blood of the battlefield and his comrade bleeding out at his feet. Bile surged up into his throat. He pushed her away and clumped down the stairs. The cure for his ails was not here.

“I’m nae good enough for you?” she shouted after him.

He stomped home, sharp snow-laden wind scouring his face. When the door banged closed behind him, Cormac gave a wry twist of his mouth over his harp, but the tune he wove turned melancholy. Wulle opened his mouth to comment and then backed off at Law’s glare. Law lost count of the cups of ale he poured down his throat before he stumbled up the rickety stairs to his rented chamber.

Cover Reveal: The Templar's Cross

First I need to apologize to any followers. Because of a problem with depression, I took a lengthy break from blogging which I rather desperately needed. My writing schedule was also down. I am happy to say that I am now much better and have novels on the way.

The Templar's Cross will be out on August 6.

Sir Law Kintour has returned from the war in France crippled, broke, and in need of a patron. In desperation, he reluctantly accepts a commission to find a nobleman's runaway wife. He enlists the help of a fellow Scot with whom he escaped after their defeat at the Battle of Verneuil. But his friend is murdered, and Law discovers he has been lied to. As the murders continue to mount, powerful interests come into play. When the Sheriff of Perth considers him a convenient scapegoat, it gives Law no choice but to untangle the lies and find the killer or hang for the murders. 

And the cover reveal:

A King Ensnared Price Reduced for One Week

99 Cents for one week only on Amazon! 

My apologies to those in the UK or elsewhere. I am looking into extending this to other countries but at the moment it is US only.

A King Ensnared Now Available

On the dangerous stage of medieval Scotland, one man--in an English dungeon--stands between the Scots and anarchy.

Robert III, King of the Scots, is dead, and Scotland in 1406 is balanced on a knife’s edge. As he eyes the throne, King Robert’s ruthless half-brother, the Duke of Albany, has already murdered one prince and readies to kill young James Stewart, prince and heir to the crown. 

James flees Scotland and his murderous uncle. Captured and imprisoned by the English, he grows to be a man of contradictions, a poet yet a knight, a dreamer yet fiercely driven. Hardened by his years in the Tower of London and haunted by his brother’s brutal murder, James is determined to recover his crown and end his uncle's misrule. But the only way may be to betray Scotland and everything he believes in. 

$2.99 on Amazon

Through Nov. 30
Also Available in Paperback

Not for Glory Available in Paperback

I've had a number of requests for this and always intended for it to happen. The formatting was delayed by the pressure of other projects though. I apologize to anyone who was waiting for it in this format. Hope you enjoy it!

Not for Glory in Paperback from Amazon

Cover: Not for Glory

My new historical novel, Not for Glory, the last in my Black Douglas trilogy, is now being edited and soon will be released. Here is the cover:

The cover art is by artist Mark Churms. The cover design was done by J. T. Lindroos.

I have to say that I love the cover even if it is of my own novel.

Free on Amazon: FREEDOM'S SWORD

I am thrilled to say that Freedom's Sword, a Historical Novel of Scotland has excellent reviews on Amazon with twelve 5-star and fourteen 4-star reviews. Because it is the opening novel in my Scottish historical series, I am offering it to readers free on Amazon US, Nook Books, and iTunes.

The other books in the series now available are:

A Kingdom's Cost
and
Countenance of War

Not for Glory is planned for released in January.

Three Day 99 Cent Sale on Freedom's Sword

Freedom's Sword is now only 99 Cents. Normally priced at $2.99, the sale price is for three days only, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.

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.

Freedom's Sword is the first of my series of novels about Scotland's war for independence, followed by A Kingdom's Cost and Countenance of War.

The sale price in the UK is £0.77, and it is available on Amazon UK here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Freedoms-Sword-Historical-Scotland-ebook/dp/B004RUZPPY

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

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.

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Kathy Cecala

Kathy would you mind introducing yourself?

I’m Kathy Cecala and I write historical novels for teens and young adults. I‘ve published two books in a loose-knit series called The Foreigners Isle Saga, which spans some 1500 years on a small remote isle in western Ireland. The Raven Girl takes place during the Age of Exploration and Discovery, specifically in the year 1488; while The Hounds of Nemhain is set in 4^th century pagan-Celtic Eire.

When did you start writing?

In eighth grade, I began keeping a diary. Not one of those precious little pink things with a lock and key, but a spiral-bound lined notebook, which I scribbled in obsessively. Sadly, it no longer exists, because I kept destroying it whenever anyone threatened to read it. I wrote about school, friends, family and yes, cute boys. I also 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!

What period do you write about?

In my current series, The Foreigners Isle Saga, I’m not restricting myself to any particular era, only setting. Each book takes place on the mythical Irish west-coast island of Inis Ghall, but each book has its own era. It makes for a lot of research, but I was fascinated by the idea of how time and the influx of various peoples can affect a small corner of the earth. And of course there’s the whole idea that people don’t really change much through the centuries…but actually, they do.

How importance is historical accuracy?

It’s very important to me personally, although I will forgive another writer for lapses in accuracy if her/his storyline is strong and engaging, and the characters are beautifully drawn. Story really is the thing, after all, or else you might as well write straight academic history. But since I’m writing for students, younger readers in the 12-18 years group, I try to make sure my fiction is as accurate and ‘real’ as possible, so that it can dovetail with the history they’re learning in school. The biggest dilemma I face is that most Irish history is extraordinarily violent. It has to be acknowledged, but I try not to glorify the violence, but focus on the people and their lives instead, how they’re affected and even traumatized 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.

Is your main character real or fictional?

I have different main characters for each book…all are fictional, though they are sometimes inspired by real personages; for example, much of my current book, The Hounds of Nemhain, is inspired by the real Saint Patrick’s journey from Roman-British slave 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!

What is the most surprising thing about the periods you write about--common misconceptions?

I’m always amazed at how much people traveled and got around in times past. Sometimes we have this notion that people just stayed in one spot back in the olden days. But people are restless, and have been moving about, sometimes great distances, for centuries. One of the reasons 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 different cultures from elsewhere in Europe, plus shreds of DNA from the most unlikely places. But it is not difficult to understand, when you consider the number of invaders, visitors, refugees and strangers who have landed on Eire’s shores over the years.

Why does historical fiction matter?

Historical fiction may be fun and diverting for adults, but I feel it is crucial for children and young students, in helping them understand how history unfolds and relates to their lives today. I think too often we think of history as a set of dusty facts and dates in a book, but it really is the massive story of humankind--basically, it’s what people have been doing for years and years and years, as well as what people have been feeling, thinking and experiencing. And I do believe that history holds lessons for all of us. Okay, off my soapbox now. My regards go out to all my fellow historical fiction writers, in what must be one of the most difficult, challenging--and most rewarding--genre of all to write in!

Kathy, thank you so much.

You will find The Raven Girl and The Hounds of Nemhaim on Amazon. Or visit Kathy at her website. 

Teaser Tuesday: Isabeau by N. Gemini Sasson

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.

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.

Review - Daughter of Time by Sarah Woodbury

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

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?"

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#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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