What I have in the works!

I am very busy with two new novels.

I'm aiming for a December 20, 2016 release for the third novel in the Stewart Chronicles, A King Imperiled. That day I also plan to release the third novel in the Sir Law Kintour mystery series, and I'm still deciding on the title for that one. 

Yes, two on the same day!

Editing On

Hurrah! 

I just received the edit for The Winter Kill from my editor. I'm very pleased with how this novel is working out - finally. It was a tough one. Mysteries are harder than they look. I'll work on the edit for the next week and then it goes for a final proofread. So it looks on schedule for the July 25th release date!

It is now available on preorder on Amazon for only $2.99!

The Winter Kill Now Available For Preorder

Thieves and the unsavory of Perth: All in a day’s work for lordless Sir Law Kentour… until a mysterious death in the midst of a Highland blizzard. When the sheriff of Perth demands that Sir Law show that the death was not an inconvenient murder, Law thinks this looks like an easy job. But circumstances conspire against him, and more murders follow. Soon the king's chancellor becomes involved, and Sir Law is forced to seek help from an unsavoury source. Not only does the murder investigation keep running into brick walls, his friend Cormac to plunges into danger; and Sir Law is forced to work with the thief who has already been a thorn in his side. When answers start to emerge, Sir Law gets more than he bargained for…

The Winter Kill

Snippet of my work in progress: a historical mystery!

Sadly it doesn't yet have a title. It is my first historical mystery, and here are the first few pages (unedited). Hope you find it at least somewhat interesting

Here goes:

Through a gray curtain of drizzle, Law looked down from his window at the muck of the High Street. Narrow shops where the shutters were closed against the damp chill, under the shadow of out-thrusting overhangs, moldering plaster walls interspersed with graying timber uprights. All of the outlying suburbs of Perth were like this; narrow vendels that lead to a street of drear houses crammed with the leavings of their betters. After spreading his gaze across the rooftops of Perth to the murky ghost-spire of Kirk of St. John the Baptist and the River Tay, he snapped the shutters closed.

A tiny peat fire in a brazier threw fingers of red across Law Kintour’s wobbly table. The room was small, smaller even than his tent in the days when he’d followed the Douglas to war. His narrow pallet bed was against the opposite wall to that he shared with his landlord Wulle Cullen and his wife. The meager bits of furniture were rented with the room. A wooden kist near the door held the few belongings he had salvaged from disaster in France.

Loud voices that nearly drowned out the sound of a minstrel playing a vielle filtered up to Law through the cracks in the wooden floor above Cullen’s tavern. The tavern was jammed between a brewster and a bakster, the daub thin and flaking. The ground floor boasted a barrel of ale on a trestle, stools, a couple of benches and a long trestle table for eating. Bette Cullen could usually be found stirring a pot of broth that hung from a crane over a peat fire on the hearth whilst gray-haired Wulle bustled about tending to the customers.

Law sat and hunched over the mutton broth he’d ordered from downstairs, though it had more of barley, onions and kale with only a hint of meat to it. He quickly ate it since he’d let it get cold, but he sopped the bowl clean with a hunk of oat bannock. When there was a tap on the door, he looked up with a belch.

Frowning, he called out, “Aye?”

Cormac MacEda opened the door. He was a lanky young man whose striped red and cream doublet with crumpled red ribbons at the seams Law always thought regrettable even for a minstrel. But his eyes were blue and playful in a boyish face. He closed the door behind him, lounged against it, and said, “There is a man in the tavern looking for you. Says his name is Erskyn.”

“Looking to hire a man-at-arms?”

“Mayhap. You’ll want to talk to him. He has siller enow to judge by his dress.”

“Send him up, lad,” Law said. “Send him up.”

Cormac opened the door again and took the rickety stairs down to the the inn. Law stood, smoothed his shabby doublet and tugged it down to try to hide the small hole mid-thigh in his hose. He’d dumped out the night-soil bucket this morning. After years in military camps, he didn’t leave his belongings flung about, not that he had many. Poor though he was, he kept his meager room as neat as he could. Hopefully, someone desiring to add a lordless knight to his tail would look for no more.

A harsh, rasping voice on the stairway said, “Aye, I see the way. Leave us the now.”

The door was flung open and a man strode in. He half-turned, scowling down the stairs until Cormac was out of sight. He was a tanned, erect man in his mid-thirties, wiry and medium height, fine looking in spite of the deep lines that scored from his nostrils past his thin mouth. Dark hair curled around his forehead and over the back of his neck. His nose was high-bridged and his eyes oddly bright.

Law had no doubt that the man was accustomed to barking commands and having them obeyed. He looked the man over, trying to assess what lay beneath the confident gaze. His black velvet houppenlande trimmed with marten hung in organ pleats to his knees. It would have been fashionable even in the court of France. A sword with a gem-encrusted hilt and engraved scabbard hung at this belt.

He swept his gaze warily around the room before he locked his eyes upon Law. “Sir Law Cullen?”

“At your service...” Law raised his eyebrows.

“I am Lord Erskyn.”

Law bowed and with a sword-calloused hand indicated the stool he had vacated, the only seating in the room other than his pallet.

The man nodded briskly before scanning the stairway once more and pulling the door firmly shut. He ignored the stool to take a slow turn around the room. The plaintive notes of Cormac’s vielle came through the floor and the sound of a strident, drunken laugh. A ragged spatter of rain clattered against the shutters. The ashes of the dying peat fire in the brazier twitched and flickered. The caller watched them with uneasy eyes.

“What might I do for you, my lord?”

“I have heard you served the Earl of Douglas in France,” the man said at last. “And were in his confidence.”

James swallowed a protest that his master had been Duke of Touraine when Law followed him into that final battle. “Aye, that is true at least in some degree.”

“Good.” The man nodded sharply, his thin mouth in a tight line. He frowned at the closed door.

Law nodded again. Erskyn was not a lord’s name he had heard before, but he had been away from Scotland more than in it until his lord’s death. Yet he was certain he would have heard if the man was from Perth even in the two months since his return. The thought of his lord’s death and his own reception at the hands of the new earl on his return curdled his belly so he pushed the thought away. For now, he needed a new patron and from the look of it, this man had the siller to afford knights to follow him. “And you heard I was seeking a new patron,” Law prodded.

“Tell me about yourself, Sir Law. If I am to employ you, I believe I have the right to ask.”

“There is little to tell, my lord. I am thirty years old. I was a squire in the Earl Archibald’s household and knighted by his hand. Was with in him France when he was made a Duke.” Law crossed to the window and opened a shutter to peer through the murk. “I was at his side when he fell in battle.”

“Yet lived yourself to tell the tale,” Erskyn said in an acid tone.

“Aye. Some might call it luck that I took a blow to the head. A...fellow knight pulled me out of a pile of bodies, or I might have died there after all.” The new earl had demanded why he hadn’t died defending his lord before he tossed Law a purse with a few gold for the news of his father’s death before he informed Law that he had no use for him in his own tail. Law strode from castle rather than be expelled out by the glaring men-at-arms. “The two of us managed to make our way back home, but…” He shrugged and turned back to find the man studying him with narrowed eyes..

“I am concerned with a secret matter.”

“You have no one in your service, no servant, you would trust?” This seemed odd.

“It would be a tempting piece of tittle-tattle. But you are not kent in Edinburgh to spread it about.”

Law stiffened. “If I give my word to keep silent, that is what I do, my lord.”

“My lady wife has disappeared--” He threw himself down on the stool and leaned his arms on his legs, hands dangling between his knees. “If it were kent, I would be a laughingstock. In the court. Even in the servant’s quarters. They’d snicker behind my back and sneer to my face. Call me a cuckold. She must be found before this scandal is noised about.”

Now on Amazon: A King Uncaged, A Historical Novel of Scotland

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Book 2 in The Stewart Chronicles

99 Cents through July 10th!

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Captive Prince

More of my current Work-in-Progress: 

A week later:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A King Uncaged

That is the working title of my next historical novel. Which would be my next was a TOUGH decision to make.

There are a number of novels I want to write. I want to write about Second War of Independence and the part that Archibald the Grim, the third earl of Douglas, and William Douglas, the Knight of Liddesdale, played through deeds both brave and horrific. But the research was taking much longer than I expected and some of the material I needed was difficult to access.

So... the novel I plan on Thomas Muir, one of the Martyrs of Scotland, is a multi-year project involving as it does research on the events of 18th century Scotland, Australia, California, Cuba, Spain and France. And I am not ready to even consider tackling the Great Montrose. So that left (drum roll)

James I of Scotland who had at the very least a fascinating life. After his older brother, the heir to the throne of Scotland, was murdered by their uncle, the extraordinarily weak Scottish King Robert III sent his remaining son, then twelve years old, to France to join the French court for safety and to receive an education suitable to a king. Unfortunately, word had been slipped to the English who captured his ship on the way. He was taken to imprisonment in the Tower of London. His father died of grief when he heard the horrible news.

James's uncle, now in possession of James's kingdom, was in no hurry to act to free him from English captivity, if the English would have freed him which is doubtful. So imprisoned in England James remained. Of course, he was treated like a royal captive, educated to become a poet and athlete, and at times even a part of the English court (with guards at his back). How he survived eighteen years of captivity to return to his homeland along with the English noblewoman he had grown to love, to rule Scotland, to take his vengeance upon those who had despoiled his kingdom while he was gone, and unite a severely divided land while fighting the traitors who threatened his rule...

Not a bad story or so it seems to me. So that's what I'm writing. About a king first caged and then uncaged.

Hopefully, it will be out before Christmas.

Out soon: Not for Glory - an Excerpt

Not for Glory will be out in about three weeks. Here is one essential scene:

James heard a high, clear voice singing.

As I was walking all alone,
I heard twa corbies makin a moan;
The one unto the other say,
"Where shall we go and dine the-day?”

The voice stopped as well it should. James laughed under his breath. Was she truly teaching that song to the court’s children? He’d wager a gold merk the queen would not be pleased. A child’s squeal followed and a piping demand, “Sing more.”

 James snapped his fingers at his shaggy-coated deerhound that had stopped to nose a scent on the wall. “Mac Ailpín, come.” He rounded the corner of the thorny hedge into the pleasure garden.  The air was redolent with summer roses and violets and a bushy rue gave up a spicy scent. William again demanded, “Sing more,” hanging from hanging on Ysabella of Ramsey’s arm as little Princess Maud knelt pulling the blossoms from a wallflower and dropping them into the grass.

Ysabella. A perfect rose in the midst of the garden, and he had never before seen it. Fair Ysabella. Golden-haired Ysabella. Wide-eyed Ysabella. She was slender, straight as a blade, with a radiant face and hair like a pour of honey. No longer a child, she wore a wife’s vein of blue that matched her eyes bound by a golden circlet and a silken gown that shimmered in the sun. He stared at her as she laughed down at his son. There was joy in her face.

“Lad, you mustn’t pull so on a lady,” James said.

The lad turned loose and looked up. “Father!” And then his eyes widened. “A dog…” he said in a rapt voice.

Ysabella sent James a look that barely hid a grin. “Greet your lord father properly.”

William gave a good try at a bow. He slid a look at Yabella from the corner of his eye and frowned fiercely. “My lord father,” he said.

James squatted and held our his arms. “Come. Let me see if you’ve grown whilst I was gone.”

William ran to fling himself onto his father’s chest, wrapping his arms around his neck. “I’m very big now. Did you bring me something? I want to play with the dog. Is it yours? May I have one?”

“It depends on what I hear of you.” But a clear-eyed examination from his son showed the lad had every confidence in gifts from his lord father. Ruffling the lad’s hair, James couldn’t help beaming. How did a child grow so fast? Had that much time truly passed? In two years, he’d be of an age to take a place as a page. And James had to wonder how he himself had gotten so old. He hoisted the boy up as he stood. “Has he been learning his manners, Lady Ysabella?”

She wrinkled her brow as she pretended to frown. “He talks a great deal, my lord. Even sometimes when he should be silent.” James looked into her wide, blue eyes and it was as though she could see right through his eyes into him. But her frown dissolved into a smile.

William’s lower lip was trembling and he looked at Ysabella.

“But he behaves not too ill,” she gave in. 
James sank onto the stone bench beside her and sat the lad on his feet. He patted William’s bottom. “Play with Mac Ailpín and mayhap I have something for you before I go.”

The hound settled with a resigned sigh at James’s feet as William eagerly tugged on its ears. “Come look,” he commanded the Princess who’d apparently tired of destroying flowers and wandered over to crow at the dog's feathered tail.

“Where is Prince Robert…” He shrugged. The health of Marjorie’s son was a delicate subject. “Is he unwell?”

“He…” She lowered her voice. “He tries so hard to keep up with the others. But he still limps from the way of his birth, and yesterday he fell. He hurt his leg, so he’s abed.” Ysabella twined her long fingers together. She looked away and swallowed.

James rested his hand on hers to stop the twisting. “It can’t be anything serious. His grace would have said something.”

“No, but it’s hard to see him try and fail. And the other children aren’t always kind.”

William had straddled the big deerhound like a horse. The dog rose with a surge that sent the lad tumbling into the grass. He looked up, blinking at the indignity. James reached into his purse and brought out a top painted in stripes of bright blue and red. “I don’t suppose anyone might want this?” he asked.

“Mine!” William exclaimed. When Ysabella shook her head at him, he said, “Thank you.”

Ysabella rose and held out a hand to the Princess and William. “I married this year you know, my lord."

“I know.” He was still staring at her. 

She led the children to the entrance through the hedge, but she paused to give James a last look. "Welcome back." Then she was gone.