28 December 2011

Rites of Winter: Origins of Hogmanay

By Anita Davison


A lifelong resident of England, I have never celebrated Hogmanay, though the importance of this annual festival always made itself evident, by the fact every Scot I have ever known heads north straight after Christmas, determined not to miss such an important celebration.

Hogmanay evolved from several pagan celebrations, namely:  the Norse winter solstice, the Gaelic Samhain, and the Roman Saturnalia, the Vikings Yule, which later contributed to the Twelve Days of Christmas, or as the Scots referred to them, the "Daft Days". There was also the Norman French "hoguinané" which survives on Guernsey as "hoginono",  "aguillanneuf, meaning the "eve of the new year", or "homme est né" meaning "Man is born".

Immigrant weavers from the Low Countries had the Flemish "hoog min dag", "great love day", and Anglo-Saxons, "haleg monath", "holy Month", or  Gaelic, "oge maidne", "new morning".

During the Roman celebration of Saturnalia, slaves would switch roles with their masters for the feast, a practice that continued in the Medieval Catholic Church where young monks were waited on by priests during the 12 days of Christmas. This tradition is also observed in Scottish army regiments, with officers waiting on the men at special dinners.

During the Middle Ages, the pagan winter festivals were overshadowed by the feasts surrounding Christmas, and the New Year was moved to coincide with Christian holy days. Following the reformation in Scotland, after 1638, the General Assembly set Christmas aside, so the gift-giving and took place at New Year and gave rise to the uniquely Scottish celebration of Hogmanay. In 1693 the church recorded:

"It is ordinary among some Plebians in the South of Scotland, to go about from door to door upon New Year`s Eve, crying Hagmane."

Christmas was also banned in England and Wales during the interregnum under Oliver Cromwell, but in Scotland, Christmas was not celebrated for almost 400 years, only developing with returning prosperity after WWII.

The best known tradition is the linking of arms for the last verse of "For Auld Lang Syne"

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

The second famous Scottish New Year custom is, ‘first footing, where the first person to cross the threshold of a friend or neighbour after midnight with the giving of symbolic gifts such as salt, coal, shortbread, whisky, and black bun (a rich fruit cake) intended to bring certain kinds of luck to the recipient. Food and drink are offered to the guests, and this ritual continues into the early hours of January 1st. Traditionally, tall dark men are preferred as the first-foot which, it is said, echoes a time when a blonde-haired stranger on one's doorstep meant a visit from Viking raiders, and spelt bad luck.
Many Scottish towns have their own traditions, for instance, in Stonehaven, just south of Aberdeen, the locals make up giant  'balls' of chicken wire filled with old newspaper, sticks, rags, and flammable material.  Spectators are entertained by a ‘fire poi’, a pipe band, and street drumming, and as the Old Town House bell rings in the new year, the balls are set alight and the ‘swingers’ set off up the High Street from the Mercat Cross to the Cannon and back, swinging 20 pound burning balls on five foot poles around their heads. 


This custom stemmed from a pre-Christian custom of the Winter Solstice where fireballs signified the power of the sun, to purify the world and consume evil spirits.  Any fireballs still burning at the end of the ceremony are cast into the harbour, followed by a firework display.

In Burghead in Moray, there is the ‘burning the clavie’; a cask or basket filled with tar, lit and carried flaming round the village and up to a headland upon which stands the ruins of an altar, the Douro. When the burning tar-barrel falls apart, spectators scramble for a lighted piece with which to kindle the New Year's fire on their cottage hearth. The charcoal of the ‘clavie’ is collected and pieces put up chimneys to keep spirits and witches from coming down.

In the Highlands, celebrations include the saining (Scots for 'protecting, blessing') of the household and livestock. Early on New Year's morning, householders firstly drink, then sprinkle 'magic water' from 'a dead and living ford' around the house (a river ford routinely crossed by both the living and the dead). The house is sealed up and lit branches of juniper carried through the house and byre. When everyone is coughing and sneezing, the doors and windows are flung open to let in the fresh air of the new year. The woman of the house then administers 'a restorative' from the whisky bottle, and the household sits down to its New Year breakfast.

Hogmanay and Ne'erday [New Years Day] are regarded as more important than Christmas, and although Edinburgh has no historical connection with Norse invaders, a Viking longship is burned during the Ne’erday celebrations.

On the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, young boys form themselves into opposing bands, the leader of each wears a sheep skin, while a member carries a sack. The bands move through the village from house to house reciting a Gaelic rhyme. On being invited inside, the leader walks clockwise around the fire, while everyone hits the skin with sticks. The boys would be given some bannocks - fruit buns - for their sack before moving on to the next house.

The first Monday of the New Year in Scotland was called Handsel Day, celebrated by an employer giving presents to his staff, parents to their children and teachers to their students, and a roast dinner eaten.  Handsel was the word for gift box, although this tradition has died out in modern day Scotland.

In Shetland, ‘Up Helly A’ began in the 1880’s in Lerwick, on the last Tuesday in January. A series of marches and visitations, it culminates in a torch-lit procession and a party where a Viking galley is set alight.

Cited from www.scotland.org


Anita Davison is an historical fiction author with a love of 17th century England. DUKING DAYS: REBELLION was released in 2007 and the sequel, DUKING DAYS: REVOLUTION in 2008. TRENCARROW SECRET, a Victorian Gothic romance, is available from MuseItUp Publishing.

25 December 2011

Guest Blog: Heather Domin

This week, we're welcoming historical author and new contributor Heather Domin, whose novel, THE SOLDIER OF RAETIA, is set during the Roman period. It offers a unique perspective on the life of Roman soldiers on the barbarian frontier.  Heather is here to talk about the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:


The Soldier of Raetia is an historical novel set in Ancient Rome and the Germanian frontier, a coming-of-age military adventure combined with an unorthodox love story. Rome, 10BC – Manilus Dardanus, a new soldier from the provinces, applies for sponsorship with the respected general Cassius Valerian. Dardanus has a lot to learn about the life he has chosen, and at first Valerian seems the least willing candidate to teach him. But a bond forms between this unlikely pair that neither could have imagined; and as the legion moves out to the northern frontier, battles and betrayals will prove just how profoundly Dardanus and Valerian have changed each other's lives — and hearts — forever.

**Q&A with Heather Domin**


Can you tell us a little about The Soldier of Raetia?
The Soldier of Raetia is set within a Roman legion during the Augustan period (10BC to be precise), beginning with spring training in Rome then shifting to a fortress on the Danube in what is now Bavaria. It tells the story of two men: Valerian, the legion’s general, restive after ten years of emotional isolation; and Dardanus, his potential protégé, anxious to prove himself after a lonely adolescence. At first they seem woefully mismatched, but slowly a bond forms between them that no one, especially they, could have expected – until the legion is threatened, and personal desires must be set aside. A Roman soldier vows to surrender everything to his legion: unswerving loyalty, unreserved dedication, unconditional sacrifice. Can there be anything left to surrender to someone else?

How would you label the story? Romance? Military fiction? Gay fiction?
I suppose it’s “romantic adventure”, but I’m not a fan of labels. I don’t believe in rigid genre division that says you can either write A or B but never the twain shall meet. Genre-mixing turns some readers off, it’s true – some romance fans don’t like my graphic battles, and some battle fans don’t like my graphic romance. You can’t please everyone, as every historical fiction writer knows all too well. So why limit yourself? I write stories I would want to read, and the response has been absolutely wonderful. (Also, as a woman, I have no desire to appropriate the experience of gay men, so I don’t call my stories Gay Fiction any more than I would call them African-American Fiction if they contained a character of color.  I’m not about to co-opt the queer struggle just because I write about dudes getting it on.)

What made you choose Rome for your setting, and the Roman Army in particular?
I’ve loved Ancient Rome since I was a little girl – I was introduced to Greek mythology at an early age, which led me to Greece, which led me to Rome, and Rome stuck. In college I majored in History and minored in Classics and German; I love many historical periods, but Ancient Rome is one of my favorites. Also, being a fan of military history, I’m fascinated by the Roman Army – its evolution and eventual degradation, its virtues and evils, successes and mistakes. (Actually that’s what I love about Rome herself, too.) One of the fundamental principles of the legion was dedication to others at the cost of self – that deep-seated commitment to duty over desire makes a great backdrop for personal drama.

Are any of the characters in The Soldier of Raetia based on actual historical figures?
The only “real” person in my novel is Augustus, and he never appears on screen. (I did make all mentions of him as historically correct as possible, though.) Most of my characters share names with various kings, emperors, priests, etc, but it’s kind of impossible not to – there were just too few Roman names. Having said that, the next book in the series will feature real historical figures as some of the major players.

What’s next for you?
I’m working on two novels at the moment: one is the sequel to Soldier of Raetia, entitled Heirs of Fortune; and the other is a contemporary urban paranormal with a female protagonist. (How’s that for a label?) I have a third novel that’s stuck in the research stage, which I’ll focus on after completing the other two; it has a medieval setting and a female protagonist. In the meantime I’m polishing up one of my older novellas, an M/M set in 1922 Dublin, for release as a free e-book to thank my readers for their patience. I’m a very slow writer, but I think that’s one of my strengths. I won’t let a story go until I’ve served it as best as I can.

Thank you, Heather, and best of luck with THE SOLDIER OF RAETIA. 

Please leave your comment to win a  copy of this exciting coming-of-age novel. 





22 December 2011

Excerpt Thursday: The Soldier of Raetia by Heather Domin

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming historical author and new contributor Heather Domin, whose novel THE SOLDIER OF RAETIA is set during the Roman period. It offers a unique perspective on the life of Roman soldiers on the barbarian frontier.  Join us Sunday, when Heather will be here to talk about the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:


The Soldier of Raetia is an historical novel set in Ancient Rome and the Germanian frontier, a coming-of-age military adventure combined with an unorthodox love story. Rome, 10BC – Manilus Dardanus, a new soldier from the provinces, applies for sponsorship with the respected general Cassius Valerian. Dardanus has a lot to learn about the life he has chosen, and at first Valerian seems the least willing candidate to teach him. But a bond forms between this unlikely pair that neither could have imagined; and as the legion moves out to the northern frontier, battles and betrayals will prove just how profoundly Dardanus and Valerian have changed each other's lives — and hearts — forever.

**An Excerpt from Heather Domin's THE SOLDIER OF RAETIA**

The garden of Villa Cassia stood open to the sun, a long rectangle of green edged by the main colonnade on one side and a line of hedge and trees on the others. The end closest to the house thrived with manicured fruit trees and plants in containers bordering the pool leading up to the general's office; but the other end sprawled open, an expanse of space broken only by walking paths and hedge. The rising sun striped the grass gold as it rose, a brilliant disc sending streaks of pink and white across the sky.
Dew clung to the grass beneath Dardanus' sandals as he placed his cloak on a stone bench. Above the seat, keeping silent guard, a red marble statue of Mars loomed over the square. Dardanus watched the sunlight glint off the god's opaque eyes. Make me strong, he thought, and picked up his sword.
The general was inspecting his own practice gladius; he scratched at an imperfection, squinting, then tested the wood's heft in his hand and whipped a few swings through the air.
"You've had sword training, yes? Hand to hand, from a proper swordsman?"
Dardanus thought of old Bergeron, the best fighter in southern Germania's armies until a barbarian blade had taken one of his eyes. He should have died from the wound, and it had seemed to Dardanus that an air of magic hung about the gnarled old warrior, as if he could pass on that charmed life to his pupil by hard instruction. How he had drilled young Dardanus, endless hours of bruises and sweat, constant shouts of "Faster, boy!" and "Stop daydreaming!" and whacks on the shoulders or backside to drive the point home. How proud he had been the day Dardanus bid him farewell. You'll do us all credit, boy, as long as you keep your head out of the clouds and don't get yourself killed.
"Yes, sir," Dardanus said. "The best I could have asked for."
The general sliced the air a few more times. "They'll tell you sword work is for show-offs, but a real soldier knows that ranks break and shields shatter, and a sword can wound in ways a spear can't. The enemy does not fight like a civilized Roman, and if you don't take that seriously, you won't last long on the frontier."
"Yes, sir."
"Shall we begin?" He took a few steps back into the open grass. Dardanus followed, his sandals slick with dew. He could hear Bergeron's gravelly voice in his head: He's a man, Dar, not a god. Fight him like you would fight me. He drew in a breath and released it slowly. His fingers tingled and flexed.
"Defend yourself," the general said, and lunged for him.
Dardanus sprang aside and deflected the blow, protecting his ribs from a rebound stroke, his sword held at the pit of his belly. The general came again from above, swinging down to Dardanus' shoulder and then, when deflected, jabbing forward toward his ribs. Dardanus batted the blade away and moved back, and twirled his sword once before returning to guard pose.
"Hm."
Dardanus tried to interpret that tone; when he did so, the general attacked. The blow was much harder and drove Dardanus backward; he spread his feet for balance and parried, then moved to push the sword away. The general took advantage of his imbalance and drove forward, swinging around and down to collide his sword into Dardanus' with terrific force. Dardanus grunted, the wind knocked from him, and leaped back to dislodge the blow. Retreat—he had lost ground. He tried to catch his breath.
"Someone has taught you a little," the general said.
"Thank you, sir."
"You're hesitating. Are you nervous?"
It would be better not to lie. "A little."
"Why?"
"I—I'm being tested by my master to see—"
"No!" The word was forceful, a harsh sound. "I am not your master. I am no free man's master."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." The general exhaled, frowning. He looked at Dardanus again for a moment, and the frown hardened into something more grim. Slowly, he raised his sword until its wooden point hovered over Dardanus' breast bone. Dardanus stood motionless. The point scratched his tunic with every breath.
"Are you afraid of me?"
"Yes."
"Then defend yourself."
He was spinning before he saw the stroke coming—he whirled and raised his sword with both hands. Their blades met with a whack of wood against wood, crossed in a shadow above Dardanus' face.
"Better." The general held their position, swords crossed and elbows locked, not pushing, not withdrawing. "A man can only fight in one direction at a time. Never fight your fear, boy—use it to drive you. Deny it, and you will fall."
"Yes, sir."
The general stepped back and lowered his sword. "Good." He turned away and walked over to the bench where their cloaks lay, wiping his sweaty neck.
"Your military training is your centurion's responsibility. Your duty to me is to excel in it—my duty to you is to see you get a full education. I'll work with you like this when I can."
He pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it on the bench, then untied his under-tunic and let it fall to his hips. Dardanus could see the crosshatch of tiny welts marring his armpits and shoulders. He thought again of Bergeron, with his mottled back and ruined eye—the marks of lives spent in duty and service. But the general, he knew, carried an even more important mark—and when he turned to wipe off his sword, Dardanus finally saw it. Across his back stretched the scrawl of long-healed scar; it crawled down his right shoulder, a thick line of tissue, pale against the tanned skin. That a man like Cassius Valerian should suffer the indignity of a wound in the back, all for the safety of his Princeps—Dardanus knew the story, but seeing it displayed in the flesh filled him with a strange kind of intimidation. On its heels came a sliver of fear; he could not imagine the force of the blow that could create such a wound.
The general turned to face him; Dardanus flinched and averted his eyes. It appeared his gawking had gone unnoticed. The general shrugged his shoulders, stretching his neck until it made little popping sounds. He sliced the warm air with his sword.
"Again," he said. "And this time fight me like a soldier, not a student. Can you do that?"
The risen sun had leached the pink dawn to a hot white morning. A bead of sweat rolled down Dardanus' spine; he forced his shoulders to relax and braced his feet apart on the grass. His sword loosened in his hand.
"Yes, sir," he said.
"Good." The general lifted his blade. Then defend yourself."




21 December 2011

Rites of Winter: Stille Nacht - The Humble History of a Carol

 By Jennifer Linforth

As a child my older brother would glare at me each time I sang “Silent Night” at church in German. I spoke the language and being the teen I was, I thought it hip to sing it in its original language and to annoy my brother.

Christmas creates many creative stories about how this timeless carol came into being, from mice eating the bellows of an organ forcing the need for the hymn to be accompanied by a guitar to Joseph Mohr having to write the words in haste due to a broken organ. The story has been sensationalized through the years in film and books, but the reality of this hymn is humble in its origins.

"Silent Night" was written by Joseph Mohr in 1816, a young priest assigned to a pilgrimage church in Mariapfarr, Austria. Christmas eve of 1818, Mohr visited the home of Franz Gruber. He showed his friend the poem he wrote and asked him to write a melody for it for the Midnight Mass. Later that night the first stanzas of “Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!” were heard.

An organ does tie into the tale as master organ builder, Karl Mauracher, did work at Mohr’s church several times over the years. While doing his work Mohr’s church, he obtained a copy of the composition and took it home with him. Thus, the simple carol began its journey around the world in the hands of an organ builder.

Naturally the melody of so long ago changed over the years, but how? In December of 1832 two traveling families of folk singers, similar to the Trapp Family Singers, did a concert in Leipzig. Several musical notes were changed at this concert and the carol evolved into the melody we now know. According to historical documentation the song was performed before an audience Emperor Franz I and Tsar Alexander I. By 1839 “Stille Nacht" was performed for the first time in America at the Alexander Hamilton Monument outside Trinity Church in New York City.

Without doubt it will be performed this holiday season in churches across the globe.

Ein frohes Weihnachtsfest und alles Gute zum neuen Jahr!
Jennifer Linforth expands the classics by continuing The Phantom of the Operaand her books are available now. Look for future books based on the classics, in addition to her unique historical romances. "Ms. Linforth's prose is phenomenally beautiful and hauntingly breathtaking." ~ Coffee Time Romance 

19 December 2011

PAGAN'S PRIZE Winner!

We have a winner of Miriam Minger's PAGAN'S PRIZE. The lucky winner of this trilogy is:


Maureen!


Contact Lisa with your information. The book must be claimed by next Sunday or another winner will be drawn. Please stop back later to let us know what you thought! Congratulations!

14 December 2011

Rites of Winter: Medieval Christmas Revels

By Lindsay Townsend
Make we mery, both more and lasse,
For now ys the tyme of Chrystymas
(From a 15th century carol)

When Christianity developed in the ancient Roman world, the winter solstice was already marked at 25th December. Followers of Mithras believed in the ‘unconquered sun’ and also held a feast-day for the sun on December 25th.

Pieter Breugel the Elder - 'The Visit of the Magi at Christmas'
The gospels did not give a date for the birth of Jesus, but ancient beliefs in the Roman Saturnalia, the solstice and sun-worship led to the church choosing December 25th as the time of his nativity.

‘Christmas’ means ‘Christ’s Mass.’ In England in the Middle Ages three masses were celebrated on December 25th - the Angel’s Mass at Midnight, the Shepherds’ Mass at dawn and the Mass of the Divine Word during the day.

Before the three masses of Christmas there was the forty days of Advent. Advent was similar to lent, a time of spiritual reflection and preparation for the coming of Christ. Feasting and certain foods such as meat and wine were meant for be abstained from during advent (something the evil Denzils ignore in my forthcoming Yuletide novel, The Snow Bride).

The feasting and revelling time of medieval Christmas began on Christmas Eve and lasted 12 days, ending on Twelfth Night. There was no work done during this time and everyone celebrated. Holly, ivy, mistletoe and other midwinter greens were cut and brought into cottages and castles, to decorate and to add cheer.

The most important element of the revels was the feast. Christmas feasts could be massive – Edward IV hosted one at Christmas in 1482 when he fed and entertained over two thousand people. For rich medieval people there was venison or the Yule boar, a real one, and for poorer folk a pie shaped like a boar, or a pie made from the kidney, liver, and other portions of the deer (the umbles) that the nobles did not want – to make a portion of ‘umble pie'. Carefully hoarded items were also brought out and eaten and other special Christmas foods made and devoured. Mince pies were made with shredded meat and many spices. ‘Frumenty,’ a kind of porridge with added eggs, spices and dried fruit, was served. A special strong Christmas beer was usually brewed to wash all this down, traditionally accompanied with a greeting of 'wes heil' ('be healthy'), to which the proper reply was 'drinc heil'.

There were also other entertainments apart from eating and drinking – singing, playing the lute or harp, playing chess, cards or backgammon and carol dancing.

Presents and gift giving was originally not part of Christmas but of New Year. Romans gave gifts to each other at Kalends (New Year) as well as a week earlier at Saturnalia, and by the twelfth century it seems that children were already receiving gifts to celebrate the day of their protecting saint, St. Nicholas, and the practice soon began to extend to adults as well, initially as charity for the poor. As the Middle Ages wore on, the custom grew of workers on medieval estates giving gifts of produce to the estate owner during the twelve days of Christmas - and in return their lord would put on all those festivities.

Wes heil!

Lindsay Townsend
http://www.lindsaytownsend.net/

11 December 2011

Guest Blog: Miriam Minger


This week, we're welcoming historical romance author Miriam Minger, whose medieval novel, PAGAN'S PRIZE, is now available in digital format at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. This exciting novel is set in tenth century Russia.  Miriam is here to talk about the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:


The bold Viking warrior Rurik traveled alone on a mission of conquest. But along the way a golden-haired captive inflamed him with longing. He took up his sword to defend her…then swore to claim her for his own.

A beautiful Russian princess betrayed by treachery, Zora spurned the powerful man who held her prisoner—and vowed never to yield. He had been sent as a spy to pave the way for her people’s surrender. But his furious hunger for her heated touch—and her aching need for his burning caress—led to a fiery passion that was a greater prize than any kingdom.


Q&A with Miriam Minger


What inspired you to write The Pagan’s Prize?
I love Viking stories!  My first historical romance Twin Passions was a Viking novel in honor of my Norwegian heritage.  Ever since I visited Norway with my Norwegian grandmother Bodvild when I was 17 years old, I had dreamed of writing a novel set in that amazingly beautiful country with its deep fjords, thundering waterfalls, and towering mountains.  Along every fjord I envisioned dragon-prowed Viking ships and ruggedly handsome Vikings manning the oars, and I even fell in love with a Norwegian sailor.   What more evocative setting could I find for my very first romance novel--and when I made a big jump to a new publisher I decided it was the perfect time to write my second Viking historical romance, The Pagan’s Prize.   But instead of revisiting Norway I set the story in Russia, which has a history rich in Viking lore.


What challenges did you face in researching The Pagan’s Prize?
The Vikings traveled far and wide in search of plunder and wealth and to establish trading settlements, and I became intrigued by their forays into Russia and beyond.   I had never seen such a setting done before in a Viking historical romance so I dove into researching the book at the New York Public Library.  The only problem:  Most of the historical texts were in Russian!  Keep in mind this was some time before the Internet as The Pagan’s Prize was originally published in 1993.  I continued researching and digging and discovered such a rich and unusual history of the Vikings in Russia that I found myself amazed by it all.  It was truly a thrill to write that novel and bring such a fascinating era in history alive for my readers.

What’s up ahead for you?
The ebook revolution is such an exciting time for authors, and I’m doubly thrilled to have made my entire backlist of ten award-winning historical romances available to a global audience.  I have also recently published my first straight-to-ebook romantic thriller Ripped Apart to rave five-star reviews!  I’m also very excited about e-publishing my Little Mike and Maddie series of three children’s picture books about a lovable pair of dogs and their motorcycle escapades, written under my pen name Miriam Aronson. 
My plan for 2012 is to write short stories, novellas, and a full-length novel in several different genres just for the fun of it and to surprise my readers.   So come along for a wonderful adventure with my Miriam Minger books! 

Thank you, Miriam, and best of luck with Pagan's Prize, now on digital format!

Reviews for The Pagan’s Prize 

"Another fine example of Ms. Minger's amazing talent. I thoroughly enjoyed it!" - New York Times bestselling author Johanna Lindsey

"Brilliantly imaginative! The Pagan's Prize will totally engross the reader." - I'll Take Romance

"Five stars...It is filled with rich detail that takes the reader on a rare trip to Russia in the eleventh century and is told so skillfully that the reader feels as if they have been there. The Pagan's Prize should be at the top of your shopping list!" - Affaire de Coeur

"Outstanding! This is a well-written, moving story that shows the tremendous skill of the author. Marvelous barely describes my feelings." - Rendezvous




08 December 2011

Excerpt Thursday: Pagan's Prize by Miriam Minger

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming historical romance author Miriam Minger, whose medieval novel, PAGAN'S PRIZE, is now available in digital format at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. This exciting novel is set in tenth century Russia.  Join us Sunday, when Miriam will be here to talk about the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:


The bold Viking warrior Rurik traveled alone on a mission of conquest. But along the way a golden-haired captive inflamed him with longing. He took up his sword to defend her…then swore to claim her for his own.

A beautiful Russian princess betrayed by treachery, Zora spurned the powerful man who held her prisoner—and vowed never to yield. He had been sent as a spy to pave the way for her people’s surrender. But his furious hunger for her heated touch—and her aching need for his burning caress—led to a fiery passion that was a greater prize than any kingdom.

**An Excerpt from Miriam Minger’s THE PAGAN’S PRIZE**

“You’re a spy, aren’t you?” Zora accused, not surprised when Rurik briefly met her eyes. “For Yaroslav, my uncle.”

He did not answer, but she knew from the way he clenched his jaw that she had guessed the truth.

“And I?” she demanded. “What have I become, Lord Rurik?”

“A pawn.”

His blunt reply was horribly final, and Zora was seized by sudden desperation. “Please…” she begged, though it galled her that she even found it within herself to do so. “Please let me go. What use can I be to Grand Prince Yaroslav? He must know that I am a—”

“Enough!” Rurik cut in harshly. “It is not my authority to release you. The grand prince alone can decide your fate. I only escort you to him.”

Zora held her reckless tongue then. She must keep calm; use her head. It was a good thing that he had interrupted her before she had given away her baseborn status. A very good thing.

If she had revealed to him that she was a bastard daughter, Rurik might think her less valuable and decide that he could still take liberties with her. It was possible. He had assaulted her when he thought her a mere concubine, hadn’t he? Usually, bastards counted as no more than slaves in Rus, and even though her father had offered an incredible reward for her, Rurik might hold the more common view.

Suddenly an idea came to her, filling her with nervous excitement and almost bringing a smile to her lips.

Why not make this journey as difficult for him as possible? Since he must protect her until they reached Novgorod, he would be loathe to touch her or punish her no matter what she did to frustrate him. And frustrate him she would! This pagan would wish a thousand times that he had left her in Chernigov!

Now Zora did smile. If she escaped somewhere along the route to Novgorod, so much the better. How humiliating it would be for him to return to her uncle’s kreml with the news that he had captured her, but she had eluded him! If Rurik was a lord indeed, as his title suggested, her escape would discredit him. A proud Varangian warrior bested by a mere woman! He would be dishonored forever.

Zora glanced furtively at Rurik to find that he was paying her no heed, his expression grim and his gaze narrowed as if searching the forest for signs of danger.

Why not begin? It would make a fine test and maybe, if she was lucky, she would bring some of her father’s troops down upon them. They might still be close enough to Chernigov that someone might hear her.

Inhaling deeply, Zora let out such a piercing scream that a flock of blackbirds perched high in the branches above them took to the sky, screeching and cawing in protest. Rurik was so startled that she managed to scream once more, this time right in his ear, before he could clap his hand over her mouth.

“By Odin, woman, what are you trying to do?” he shouted, his face flushed dark with anger. 

Yanking the gag back into her mouth, he called to his warriors. “The wench might have given away our position. Ride hard, men, as if the black hounds of Hel were upon us! They might be now!”

Zora gasped as Rurik jerked her hard against his chest and kicked his mount into a faster canter, his tone menacing as he added, “And if they find us, wench, I swear—”

“I hope they do find us!” she retorted in spite of her gag, and to enrage him further, she started to laugh.

“Minx! Do you think this a game? Thor’s blood, royal princess or no, you’ll soon discover that you’ve more than met your match!”

“So will you, you cloddish pagan,” Zora replied under her breath, grinning just for his benefit. “So will you.”


06 December 2011

DIARIES OF THE FAMILY DRACUL Winner!

We have a winner of Jeanne Kalogridis' Diaries of the Family Dracul on Kindle! A free copy goes to:


Na!


Contact Lisa with your information. The e-books must be claimed by next Sunday or another winner will be drawn. Please stop back later to let us know what you thought! Congratulations!

05 December 2011

Rites of Winter: How to Make Saturnalia Cookies!



By Stephanie Dray


In my debut novel, Lily of the Nile: A Novel of Cleopatra’s Daughter, my heroine’s first Saturnalia is a thing of wonder. Though her father was Mark Antony, the famed Roman general, Selene had been raised a Princess of Egypt, which meant that many ancient Roman traditions would have been as unusual to her as they are to us. In the book, Saturnalia is the first time since being taken as an orphaned prisoner of war that Selene starts to find her place with her new Roman family.

It’s the scents and the sounds of the Saturnalia festival that allow Selene to bond with the emperor’s daughter, Julia, and of course the food. We can’t forget the food. The holiday feasts we all enjoy today are but a pale mimicry of ancient Roman banquets.

Part of the enjoyment I get out of researching ancient times is discovering the way they ate and celebrated. One Saturnalia tradition that figures into the novel is when all the guests take a Saturnalia pastry and the guest whose pastry has a bean hidden inside of it is named the King of the Saturnalia or the Lord of Misrule. I thought it might be fun to reproduce this tradition for the holiday season.

The Romans did have pastries and they enjoyed sweet deserts, but they were different from those we enjoy now because the Romans didn’t use butter or sugar, and they didn’t have baking soda or baking powder. They did, however, have other substitutes. For butter, they often substituted a sweet creamy cheese. For sugar, they used honey. For leavening they sometimes used eggs. This led them to create hearty and rustic pastries with flours, seeds, fruit, oil.

To make a Saturnalia cookie, one might take any sort of modern oatmeal cookie and hide a raisin inside one of them. That’s the easy way, and given the Roman penchant for practicality, they would approve wholeheartedly.

However, if you want to go the old fashioned route, try this recipe:

Roman Globuli Pastries

½ Cup Flour
½ Cup Ricotta Cheese (Whole Milk)
¼ Cup Honey
⅓ Cup Olive Oil
1 Raisin

Mix the Flour and Ricotta Cheese in a bowl with a fork until it forms a stiff dough. With wet fingers, roll dough into 1 inch balls. Inside one of those balls, hide a raisin. Heat oil in a pan on high, then lightly fry the dough balls until golden brown. When the dough balls are cooked through, roll them in honey. Chill and Serve.

I made these tonight and they result in a light doughy pastry, perfect with marsala wine! Perfect to enjoy while reading my latest novel, Song of the Nile!


Stephanie Dray's SONG OF THE NILE, sequel to her debut historical fiction novel, LILY OF THE NILE, is available now from Berkeley Books. Both novels are set in the Augustan Age and feature Cleopatra's daughter.


02 December 2011

THE HONOR DUE A KING Winner!

We have a winner of N. Gemini Sasson's Robert the Bruce trilogy, which includes THE HONOR DUE A KING, WORTH DYING FOR, THE CROWN IN THE HEATHER. The lucky winner of this trilogy is:


Dawn!


Contact Lisa with your information. The book must be claimed by next Sunday or another winner will be drawn. Please stop back later to let us know what you thought! Congratulations!

01 December 2011

Excerpt Thursday: Freedom's Sword by J.R. Tomlin

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming historical author J.R. Tomlin and the medieval historical, FREEDOM'S SWORD, which is set in thirteenth-century Scotland. The novel is available now.  Today, J.R. is pleased to offer an excerpt from the book. Here's the blurb:



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.


**An Excerpt from FREEDOM'S SWORD**



Caitrina de Berkely snapped off her thread and examined the seam she had finished sewing. There was no doubt. The seam was crooked.

She frowned in disgust at the gray underskirt and glanced across the sunlit bower at her sister. Isobail's needlework was always perfect. Everyone told their mother so. Even their father who had no use for such things had said, "Her embroidery is as dainty as she is."

Caitrina peeked at her mother, afraid that she might have noticed that she had stopped working, but her mother was paying Caitrina no attention at all. Her mother was counting a stack of white linen coifs and veils they had readied for Caitrina's departure for the convent, a crease between her fair eyebrows as she refolded them. She said Caitrina should be grateful they were giving her to the church and that she must be properly clothed for the novitiate. Her dower had already been paid.

Caitrina bent over the garment she held and chewed her lip. She could pick out the seam and salvage the skirt. It would take time, and her mother would notice. Sighing, she laid down her needle and watched her sister take a careful stitch in her embroidery.

Perhaps if she was careful she could slip out of the room. At least, she could have a last afternoon of freedom. Tears filled Caitrina's eyes, but she blinked them back. It wasn't fair that she was being sent to be a nun. She would never run along the beach, launch an arrow at a rabbit, or gallop a horse across the hills again. Never gather berries with her friends from the castleton and never have her own home where no one would judge her lacking.

She stood up and started quietly for the door.

"Where are you going, sister?" Isobail said in a voice as soft as one of the rose petals that scented the bower.

"I want to have one last glance of the firth before I go. Would deny me that? I'll never see it again."

Isobail colored, but even that she did daintily just as she did everything. She had even gotten their mother's golden coloring instead of red hair like their father. Her skin was soft and white as freshly skimmed cream instead of dotted with freckles.

Their mother raised her eyes. "You have no need to see the firth today. You will see it on your way."

Caitrina wanted to scream. It was just like Isobail speak up and let their mother know she was escaping.

"Let me see. Your clothes must be prepared for the morrow." Her mother stood and picked up the underskirt. "Caitrina, this must be unpicked and re-sewn. It will not do at all."

The corners of Isobail's mouth turned up in the tiniest smirk. It was all too much. Caitrina spun and bolted for the door.

Her mother said in a grimly soft voice, "Caitrina, come back here. Don't you dare take another step."

She stopped in the doorway and turned back. "What will you do to me? Lock me up?" She took brief satisfaction from the shock on their faces. "You're sending me away, remember?" With that, she whirled and made her escape, running down the stairs.

What had she done that was so bad? How could her father have agreed to send her away before he left to lead their men to fight the English? Isobail was fifteen, a year older. Perhaps by the time Caitrina was born there was no love left over for her. Or perhaps it was that she wasn't the heir they wanted. It wasn't fair. Isobail could dance, and sing, and play the harp. Even worse, she was beautiful like their mother. Their nurse had called Caitrina carrot-top while she doted on Isobail. Caitrina could ride a horse better and the sight of blood never made her cry. But who cared about such things in a lass?

She dashed past the guardroom at the postern gate before her mother could have them stop her, but there were few guards about now. Their father had taken most with him when he went to fight the invaders. Now she'd not see them return, not greet her lord father or feel his strong arms in a hug. She'd thought that he loved her. Tears were running down her face as she dashed down the hill, plunging her way through the prickly gorse.

One spiky leaf snagged her skirt so she stopped to loosen it, watching up the castle to see if they sent anyone after her. No one was in sight except a single guard walking atop the red sandstone wall. She took a deep breath and angrily wiped the tears away with the heel of her hand. She wouldn't waste her last day of freedom weeping.

They weren't pursuing her, but her mother would probably have them look in the village. There were better things to do than to stay there anyway. First, she had to find Donnchadh. He would be as eager to escape his father's mill, as she was to escape the castle.

She arrived, hot and breathless, at the round stone millhouse that jutted above the edge of the firth. Inside, below the floor, the wheel screeched as the tide turned it, blending with the swish of the frothy waves below.

Donnchadh propped up the wall, a faded plaid of green and yellow checks pleated over one shoulder and his saffron tunic hanging to his knees. He gave her a curious look. "I thought they had you locked up in the castle until you leave."

Caitrina wrinkled her nose. "I escaped. For a last day of freedom."

He grinned, showing the homey gap between his front teeth. "Come on, then. Let's go." He looked up the hill before he turned his gaze back to her. "What do you want to do?"

"It's been so warm, I'll wager some of the blackberries are ripe already. Let's go picking. We can eat our fill and then go climbing for eggs." She bent and pulled the back of her skirt through her legs to kilt it in front. She spun in circles, head back. The sun was warm on her face and the air mingled the scent of salt sea with the spice of gorse and heather. She stopped, a little dizzy, and grinned. "Come on. I'll race you."

She dashed along the beach and up a stony path to the top of the rise. Donnchadh let her have a head start. He always did, but she soon she heard the thud of his footsteps.

In a few minutes, they were deep in the blackberry brambles that grew eight feet high. They were covered with ripening berries and the two shooed away squawking birds. Donnchadh yelped when a thorn scraped a bloody line on his arm. She made a face at him. Her leg already bore a long scratch. She stuffed her mouth with a handful of juicy berries and grinned, so he did the same. A drop of purple juice dripped onto his chin.

When she heard a signal horn bugle, she stopped to listen.

"What is that?" Donnchadh asked, frowning.

"I'm not going back, whatever it is, but it's not from the castle." She took her lip between her teeth. "We're not expecting my father to return with his men for weeks yet. It might be news. They were going to fight."

"It could be." He parted the dense blackberry leaves to peer through the brambles. They were west of the castle, a good way beyond the southwest corner of the outer wall. They could see only a short stretch of the road leading out of the gate.

"I think it's too soon for news," Caitrina said. "What do you see?"

"Not much. But... Do you hear that?"

She didn't so much hear it as feel it, a rumble in the ground up through her feet from the road to the west. When she parted the brambles beside him, she could see nothing, because of the pinewoods that bordered the road, but as she stepped into the open, she could see sentries dashing into place on the castle wall.

The sound was horses, large horses. A trumpet winded from somewhere on the road.

"That's not my father's horn. Nor Lord Avoch's. I know the sound from when they marched away." A deep-toned horn called from the castle. A horseman came in sight around the angle of wall, riding fast out from the gate. His armor glittered. He wore the green cloak of their master-at-arms. "It's Sir Ailean," she said.

"Maybe you should go back."

Out of the trees came a column of men-at-arms behind a hundred or so horsemen. She gasped. "Look!"

"Whose banner is that? Do you know it?"
She jumped back into the brambles and peeked through the dense branches. "Just a second. White field—-something on it in red. The horsemen are all knights. But there are a lot of infantry." Row after row of single-edged blades on the end of tall polearms waved like a field of corn in the wind.

"None of our men were carrying those when they left," said Donnchadh.

"It is pikes. I can see the blades flashing in the sun." She swallowed. A huge rock had grown in the middle of her chest. "Holy Mary... I think that's the banner of England. The cross of St. George."
The master-at-arms rode to meet a fat man in shining half-armor who spurred his huge black destrier ahead of the column.

"Let's see..." For a few moments, Caitrina fell silent as she watched. Nothing moved. The only sound was a faint clatter of armor. The fat man gestured. Sir Ailean shook his head emphatically and turned to ride back the way he came. "I wonder what..."
The master-at-arms slumped over in his saddle. Slowly, he slid sideways and crashed to the ground, a crossbow bolt thrusting up from his back.

"No!"

"Quiet," Donnchadh said grimly, grabbing her arm.

The trumpet blew again and the column marched on the castle, riding over the body that lay on the ground.