Labour Day Special Offer

Labour Day Weekend Only

A King Ensnared

Normally $3.99

Labour Day Weekend Price 

99 Cents US

£0.99 UK

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

Cover Art for my upcoming novel: A King Uncaged

By artist Mark Churms

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 King Ensnared Nominated for Best of the Independent eBook Awards

I am thrilled to be able to announce that A King Ensnared has been nominated for Best Historical Fiction for 2014 in the eFestival of Words Best of the Independent eBook Awards. These are peer nominations made by fellow authors as well as publishers, editors, and book reviewers. I am thrilled to have one of my novels on the 'long list' of seven novels. The nominations will be trimmed to a 'short list' and winners announced at the eFestival of Words later this year.

Here are a number other novels nominated in various categories. If you'd like to check out some of the these excellent novels nominated here is a link to the list: eFestival of Words Nominations

Sample: A King Unchanged, coming next month

For those who have been waiting for it, here is the opening, still unedited, of the sequel to A King Ensnared:

On each side of the path to the high peaked doors of Westminster Abbey, a line of priests stood, swinging censors. They intoned the Venite as the solemn train approached. Wisps of smoky incense were whipped away by the sharp November wind.

The voices of the choir seemed to surge through the open west doors. James clasped his hands behind his back as he paced behind knot of nobles who surrounded the queen as they followed the chariot baring the coffin. King Henry’s long funeral cortege, from Vincennes to Rouen, by sea to Dover and at last to Westminster Abbey in London was finally, after months, coming to an end. He allowed a silent breath of relief to escape his lips. Behind him, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, was muttering that this could finally be over, and at James's side, his vigilant keeper, Sir William Meryng,  gave a sudden shiver when the wind whipped their cloaks.

Harness rattled and hooves clanked on the stone as massive horses heaved, pulling the heavy cortege bearing the coffin to the high peaked doors of the abbey. Wheels grated with a nerve shivering sound beneath the swell of solemn music. Even in November’s watery sunlight, the silver-gilt effigy atop the coffin shimmered. James craned to glance above. Brilliant ruby and sapphire glass filled the huge windows. The statues of saints set in their niches frowned down upon the long train of nobles who followed the coffin.

Queen Catherine moved rigidly amidst the English royalty, draped in white mourning. The tension between her and the men who would now rule her and the infant king flowed as strongly as the hymns. For a moment, her step faltered and she sagged as she reached the high arched doorway. Joan de Beaufort at her side, also in solemn white mourning garb as well, reached a hand to her elbow. The Duke of Gloucester murmured something to the Queen that James could not make out. A tremble seemed to shake her, but she nodded to her good-brother, and they followed the chariot through the towering doors into the cool darkness of the nave.

The scent of beeswax and incense wrapped him as James followed them in. At least they would be out of the wind though the funeral mass would be long and weary.  When someone barked a complaint when his foot trod on, James turned his head to see Drummond squeezing his way through the press. James raised an eyebrow at his secretary, who he'd not known had returned from his task in Scotland.

Drummond bowed respectfully when he was close, but his eyes darted toward Meryng. "Your Grace," he said in a low voice so as not to disturb the solemnity of the rising chords of the choir. Surrounded by all the bishops of the realm of England, thin and frail Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry Chichele, began to intone the requiem mass. 

"How went your journey?" James asked in an undertone.

"Sire. I knew you would want your letters as soon as I returned." He drew in a breath. "Especially one from one of your close kin, so I decide not to await your return to your chambers--"

James stilled at the surprise of the words. After a long pause, thinking which of his kin might finally decide he was worth their correspondence, he nodded. "You have it on your person?"

At Drummond's quick nod, James moved toward one of the huge columns. In the press of a thousand nobles, it was impossible to have privacy but at least he was out of sight of the alter. "You saw Bishop Wardlaw and the Bishop of Glasgow? Delivered the letters?"

"Aye, Thomas Myrton returned with me for your service at their command, especially to keep in close contact with him and with Bishop Wardlaw."

James held out his hand and Drummond slipped a parchment to him. After glancing quickly around to see that no one was taking note of their quiet conversation, James raised his eyebrows at the seal of the earl of Atholl. Close kin indeed, his half-uncle and full brother to that other murderous uncle, the Duke of Albany, who now moldered in a grave.

Holding it close, James slid his thumb under the seal and turned to the column to discretely read it and jerked in a sharp breath at the words. His uncle would throw his influence behind forcing Murdoch Stewart, now regent of Scotland, into agreeing to negotiations for James's release from captivity. He folded the letter and slipped it into his sleeve. Leaning a shoulder against the thick marble column, he narrowed his eyes and stared through at a through the wall as though to see that faraway uncle. Atholl… the youngest of the brothers. Atholl had sat by while his older brother committed foul murder and then his nephew allowed Scotland to descend into lawless chaos. But he still was not an ally to be scorned.

Meryng cleared his throat. "Is all well, Lord James?"

James gave the knight a bland smile. "Nae, Sir William. Merely greeting my good secretary after his long journey to and frae Scotland."

When Meryng again turned his face to the high altar, Drummond leaned close. "Myrton carries letters to the English asking safe-conduct for Bishop Lauder as well as John Forrester and the Earl of March to come to Pontefract to negotiate terms of your release."

James peered around the column toward the high altar where Joan stood next to the Queen. As the Archbishop began another prayer, Joan looked toward James and their gazes locked. James allowed a smile to touch his lips. He gave a quick nod. She lowered her eyes but she had seen it.

Oh, James would have a word to say about the negotiations. Beaufort could be won to his cause, and his freedom guaranteed. For James had not yet played his best card.

Always, Always back up your work!

I preach this constantly and then fall down on it myself.

I decided to switch from the online backup service I had previously used to another one but (surprise, surprise, Ms. Procrastination) hadn't gotten around to actually starting the new service. A few days ago I had also backed up to a thumb drive but hadn't done it for the end of the novel I was working on.

So guess whose work computer is having a major failure today, actually found it yesterday. I suspect I sound calmer than I am but I *think* it is a power supply failure not a hard drive failure. I won't know for sure until the repair guy gets here. If I'm right, then my work should still be there. At worst, I only lose a few days work BUT my novel was finished and was supposed to go to the editor today. Because of this, she has to schedule other work and it will have to be pushed back. If there is a large delay I may have to consider finding another editor and having the scheduled editor do my next novel.

OMG! I am so screwed! And this is MY OWN FAULT! *runs around the room screaming*

So it looks like there will be at least a week or two delay in publishing A King Unchained, the sequel to A King Ensnared, but it will not be a lengthy one. I still have all except the last couple of chapters safely on a drive and I am right this second backing THAT up! Double!

A Son Mourns

The room was blessedly silent. James leaned his head against the cool, damp stone and hammered his fist into it as hard as he could. It hurt when the skin split and blood dripped down his wrist—a welcome pain. It made the pain in his chest seem less.

How could he? To give up.  Their father had let Robbie die. Now he had abandoned James—alone—imprisoned.

James turned and propped his back against the wall, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest and blinking back the burning in his eyes. He wouldn’t weep. He wouldn’t! Not for a father and king who cared so little for him.

The door creaked half-open and Gruffudd stood in the opening, a flagon in his hand. “Sir Thomas sent this for you. He’s not so bad once you’re in his good graces, and I think you need it.” He closed the door behind him and poured some wine into a cup.

James nodded but he looked away, swallowing. He felt as though there was a stone in his throat. Perhaps the wine would help, so he took it with his left hand, his right still dribbling blood.

“Have anything to wrap that?” Gruffudd asked.

James took a deep drink of the wine—sweet and not much watered. With a sigh he hooked a stool with his foot and sank down on it. He turned his hand to examine the split. “It’s nae so bad. It will stop soon.”

When Gruffudd had helped himself to a cup of wine, he flung himself on James’s bed, propping up a knee with an arm flung over it. “Your bed is softer than mine.” He gave a wry twitch of his mouth.

“Is it?” James poked at the shallow split on the side of his palm for a minute, but the bleeding had already almost stopped. He looked up at Gruffudd and the words tumbled out. “Your father. Do you—honor him?”

He gave James a rather apologetic look. “My father is a strong man, you see.” He shrugged and took a sip of the wine. “Too strong mayhap. He could not abide the English ruling over us. Grey de Ruthyn seized out lands and because we are Welsh the English shrugged at it.” He swirled the wine in his cup and looked pensive. “That doesn’t matter. But… Aye, I honor him--failed him though I did.”

“I—I did not—honor mine.” James looked sadly at his cup of wine and swallowed down the rest in a gulp. “He was a poor king. I kent that when I was still but a lad.”

“I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t stand the hot anger burning through him, and he jumped to his feet. The stool toppled. He hurled the cup against the wall. “Damn him!” It clattered onto the floor, a smear of wine marring the wall.

Gruffudd shook his head. “It may be that he could not help it. He was as he was.”

James’s shoulders slumped. He righted the stool, eyes burning with tears he would not let fall. He walked slowly back and forth across the room before he sat back down. Propping his elbows on his knees, he sank his hands into his hair and gripped. “He let them kill Robbie. Did nothing. He never did anything. If he was so grieved at my capture, why did he nae do something? Only my mother did—when she lived. Wha’ kind of king is that?”

“You will be different.”  

“Why do I feel so—so lost though?” His voice choked. “I should nae care.”

“He was your father. He would not have grieved so if he hadn’t cared for you, lad.”

James rocked where he sat and tears began to run down his face. “That makes it worse. Don’t you see?”

A King: Caged

More of my current work-in-progress:

The courtyard rang with steel upon steel. Under his mail and helm, sweat trickled down James’s face and his back as Gruffudd pressed his attack. Their blades met in a harsh clash and slid down until the guards locked. He looked up into Gruffudd’s narrowed eyes. James heaved as hard as he could, throwing his opponent back.

His sword up, ready for the next swing, the tip of James’s sword hovered a hand’s breadth from Gruffudd’s. Stronger and older, if James didn’t defeat him quickly, he wouldn’t, so in a sudden fury of movement he slammed an overhand blow that would have rung Gruffydd’s helm like a bell—if it had landed. But it didn’t. Gruffudd slipped to the left, out of danger, and brought his own sword across and into James’s face. James yelped as jumped back, spun to the side and slashed up and around to hack at his opponent. But supple as a snake, Gruffudd dodged. Another hack almost slashed across James’s stomach but he made a fierce downward blow to knock it away.

Their blades locked again. James’s breath was coming in great heaves. He gulped desperately for air.  Leaning with all the strength he had left into the blades, his muscles strained. Gruffudd smiled and threw him back. James circled him, panting but sword low and ready. Looking into Gruffudd’s eyes he saw a flicker of amusement. James brought his sword up. Gruffudd moved in, twisted behind him, and brought a wide cut from behind to slap his blade on James’s neck hard. A bead of sweat dripped from his chin onto the sword.

“Yield you?”

“Aye.” Gruffudd pushed him away with a slap to the shoulder, and James rubbed a stinging welt across his neck. “That hurt.”

Gruffudd ripped his helm from his head and tossed his head to get his dripping hair from his face. “Better, Lord James. You lack strength yet, but for your years,”—Gruffudd nodded—“you do not fight badly. You might stay alive against me when you are fully a man.”

James took off his helm and leaned his head back. The May breeze felt good on his sweaty face. He leaned on his sword, caught his breath with a shudder, and took a moment to enjoy even faint praise from Gruffudd. Cheerful companion he was but a skilled fighter, and the challenge was exciting.

“Let me see your neck,” Will said, glaring at Gruffudd. “You shouldn’t hit him so hard.”

“Princes die in battle like any man.” Gruffudd looked with an unfocused stare toward the top of the castle gate where his uncle’s head rotted and then jerked his gaze back. “He’ll only learn if he knows what hurt truly means.”

The earl of Orkney, his face flushed red, came out the Tower door and hurried across the yard. “Lord James!” he called. A gray-haired priest in a soiled black robe and a gaoler in livery trailed after him.

James tried to sheath his blunted blade but his hands were bruised and clumsy. He got it in the battered sheath on the second try. “My lord?”  

Orkney paused a few steps away to tug at his doublet. He shook his head, not quite looking at James.  James had never seen Orkney look so—odd. James’s guard nearby shifted, his armor creaking, and a raven croaked whilst Orkney looked everywhere except at James. He finally sank onto one knee and looked into James’s face. “Your Grace…” he said in a voice that shook and James froze at the title. “Your Grace, I am…” James could hear him swallow. “Dire news, sire. I must tell you… Your father--the king is dead.”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.  William dropped to a knee.

“Your Grace,” Orkney said. “You understand…”

James nodded wordlessly as the priest stepped forward. The man bowed deeply and said, “At Bute Castle, sire. When—when word was brought to him of your capture, he turned his face to the wall. Would nae speak nor eat nor drink. And he died the third day.”

“Dead…” Cold rushed through James and there was a sound in his ears like a rushing tide. “He… He did not even try then. To save me.” James’s voice was a whisper. He swallowed down a burn behind his eyes and looked up at the sky where a muddy coin of the sun shone through the drifting layer of smoke.

His father. The king. Who had been no true king--not in his deeds. His chest caught and he could not breathe. He struggled—jerked in a gulp of air. The world spun. Closing his eyes, he just breathed until his head cleared. Then he opened them and looked at the men around him who watched him, waiting.

He was the king now. He must act as a king should. That is what they were waiting for, but he didn’t know how. Again his mouth worked. “My lords…,” he choked out. He unbuckled his sword belt and shoved it into William’s hands. Slowly he walked toward the White Tower. “Let me be. I—I must think.”

Proposed blurb for A King Ensnared:

What do you think? Would it tempt you to read it?

Robert III, King of the Scots, is dead, and Scotland in 1406 is balanced on a knife's edge of anarchy. The king's ruthless half-brother, the duke of Albany, has murdered one prince and readies to kill another as he eyes the throne. Young James Stewart, heir to the throne, flees his murderous uncle only to be captured by the English. A man of contradictions, lover, tyrant, dreamer and dynamo, he is haunted by his brother's brutal murder and hardened by his own years of English imprisonment. He is determined to return to free Scotland from his murderous uncle, but that mean might betraying his nation and everything he believes in.