Unusual Historicals

HAREM Winner!

2012-01-31T11:51:00.000-06:00

We have a winner of Colin Falconer's HAREM. The lucky winner is:

Shawn Robertson!

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!

History's Mysteries: The Mystery of the 'Black Box'

2012-01-27T08:08:00.000-06:00

By Anita Davison

Lucy Walter, a dark-haired, blue-eyed Celtic beauty referred to as 'a browne, beautiful, bold, but insipid creature,' by John Evelyn, was one of the earliest loves of King Charles II while the eighteen-year-old Prince of Wales lived in exile on the Continent after his father King Charles I was beheaded in 1649.

Already the mistress of Colonel Robert Sidney at The Hague, she met Charles in September 1648, they soon became lovers and bore Charles a son in April 1649. Despite being short on funds, Charles provided money which enabled Lucy to live in “great splendor.” The child was named James "Crofts" (after his guardian Lord Crofts).

In June 1649, Lucy accompanied Charles to Paris where he resided for three months, leaving Lucy behind when he returned to The Hague. During the summer of 1650, Lucy is said to have become the mistress of either Colonel Bennet, or Theobald, second Viscount Taafe and in May of 1651, Lucy’s daughter, Mary was born, though speculation was rife as to which man was the child’s father. Both men were living at the Louvre, much to Queen Henrietta Marie’s indignation but she could not afford to pay Lucy to leave when Taafe was keeping her and her children. Charles’ behavior was characteristic, in that he had done with Lucy, but was willing for her and Taafe to remain under the same roof as himself, as long as he didn’t have to support her and could keep in touch with his son.

In the summer of 1651, Lucy went to London with her brother, Justus, to recover an inheritance from their mother. Taken for a Royalist spy, she was arrested on Cromwell’s orders and sent to the Tower of London, where she called herself the wife of King Charles II. She was deported to Flanders, from where she proceeded to Paris to find that she had “lost all favor with Charles II.” While publicly denouncing her, he still sent her messages promising her money and support, ostensibly to prevent her from publishing “certain papers which Charles was anxious to obtain, possibly the contents of the mysterious ‘black box’.”

By 1655, Lucy came under the protection of the married Colonel Thomas Howard, brother of Earl of Suffolk and master of the house to Mary of Orange. Lucy neglected James’ education, and threatened Charles with creating public scandals while he was still dependent upon the goodwill of foreign royalty. Lucy lived with Henrietta Maria, the queen mother, and Princess Mary, Charles's sister, on and off for five years. These Royal ladies’ affectionate letters to Lucy Walter show a close relationship and deep family feeling which many believe would have not existed toward a mistress.

However by this time, Charles’ sister Mary regarded Lucy as an obstacle to the hoped-for restoration of the monarchy, which looked increasingly possible. Oliver Cromwell was dead and the Commonwealth became increasingly unpopular.

Unfortunately for Charles, Lucy had in her hands both his beloved son and a number of letters and papers apparently of critical importance to him, papers she threatened to make public. When Lucy went to live in Brussels, the King, arranged for her to be lodged with his agent and Lord Bristol’s secretary, Sir Arthur Slingsby.

Slingby tried to have Lucy arrested, at which she ran into the street weeping and crying, clutching her son, James. When passersby came to her aid, Slingsby made matters worse by declaring that he was acting on behalf of the English King. This provoked such an uproar, the Governor of Brussels was forced to intervene. Charles could do nothing but find Lucy alternative housing, and explain to the Governor that Lucy’s “wild and disgraceful course” had exasperated all those concerned.

Charles sent his agent Edward Prodgers to Brussels to remove young James from his mother’s care, during which Lucy made another public scene. However, this proved too much for her and, exhausted and ill, she surrendered James to his father.

In December 1657, James was delivered to the Queen Mother, Henrietta Maria, who put him in school at Port-Royal near Paris. Lucy’s objections were finally subdued by the threat that Charles would disown the boy if she tried to get him back and she was then driven from Brussels and moved to Paris, presumably to be close to her son in his nearby school.

Lucy died in late1658 in abject poverty according to John Evelyn, while others claim she became a penitent of Dean Cosin, later Bishop of Durham, who, while pretending to be converted from her loose manner in life, Lucy continued her vicious ways. James II unkindly said that she died of a “disease incident to her profession.”

Charles II brought the young James Crofts to London, and at fourteen, married him to Anna Scott, Duchess of Buccleuch one of the richest heiresses in the country. James took her name, and was made the Duke of Monmouth.

By the late 1670s, it was clear that Charles’ Portuguese queen, Catherine of Braganza, was unable to provide a legitimate heir, and with the prospect of the Catholic James, Duke of York as the next king, panic set in among certain Whig courtiers, such as Anthony Ashley Cooper, 1st Earl Shaftesbury.

The Parliamentarians were pushing hard to legitimize Monmouth by supporting Lucy's claim that she and Charles had been married, the Duke of Monmouth declared legitimate, and the Duke of York excluded from the line of succession due to his Catholic proclivities. James, Duke of York and his supporters were equally eager to prove Monmouth’s illegitimacy, so the long-dead Lucy’s name had to be blackened, and she was labelled unjustly a ‘whore’.

During the ‘Black Box Inquiry’ in 1680, where witnesses claimed Lucy kept her marriage records. She was reputed to have given the box to the late Anglican Bishop John Cosin, who was by then unable to testify that a contract of marriage existed and was signed at a ceremony performed by Dr. Fuller, Bishop of Lincoln.

Sir Gilbert Gerard, Bishop Cosin’s son-in-law, denied any knowledge of the Black Box despite his earlier allegations that his father-in-law had left the object to him and that he had found the marriage contract inside.
Bishop Paterson allegedly knew the names of the witnesses at the marriage ceremony, and that Oliver Cromwell’s officers had confiscated the certificate from Lucy while she was under arrest. Coincidence or not, but all records of births and weddings filed in Lucy’s home county of Pembrokeshire in the year of Monmouth’s birth had been destroyed at the Restoration.

During this inquiry, Charles was reportedly ill at ease, possibly due to a guilty conscience? In January 1678, he published a declaration made the previous year that he and Lucy Walter were not married. A reply was published in the form of a pamphlet entitled, “A Letter to a Person of Honour Concerning the King’s Disavowing Having been Married to the Duke of Monmouth’s mother.” Attributed to Robert Ferguson (“the plotter” who took part in the Monmouth Rebellion) he inferred that Charles had married Lucy Walter with his mother’s permission when his life was despaired of through the combination of an attack of smallpox and his frustration at being denied marriage to Lucy.

Charles allegedly told Bishop Burnet, that he would rather see Monmouth hanged than legitimize him.

In the early 1680’s, encouraged by Shaftesbury, Monmouth travelled on a quasi-royal progress throughout the West Country, drumming up popularity for the Protestant son of Charles II. The king, in retaliation, deprived Monmouth of his general's commission and forbade him to appear at court.

When Charles II died in February 1685, Monmouth was living in exile in Holland, banished for his part in The Popish Plot. In May, Monmouth arrived in England with a small army, but his ill-fated rebellion ended in his execution by his Uncle, James II in July 1685. Prior to his execution, Monmouth signed a paper stating that the late King told him he never married Lucy Walter. However, this was probably written to spare his descendants persecution following his death.

Monmouth’s ten-year-old daughter died of illness in the Tower soon after her father’s execution. His two sons became Scottish earls, and one grandson and a great-great grandson became Dukes of Buccleugh. The title passed to him from his mother, Anna [The title Duke of Monmouth became extant after his death and has never been revived]

The conspiracy of the ‘black box’ might have ended there, however a descendant of Monmouth’s, the third Duke of Buccleuch, Henry Scott, reportedly found a marriage certificate between Charles II and Lucy Walter in the muniment room at Dalkeith. Having announced that ‘No loyal Englishman should keep such a bombshell in his possession,’ and, in front of the Duke of Abercorn, burned the document. One other story, was the Duke took the document to Queen Victoria, who, after one horrified glance set it on fire herself.

The 400 year old question remains - did Prince Charles fall in love and, feeling he had no hope of regaining his destiny, marry a young girl in a secret ceremony? Did the ‘Black Box’ ever exist, and if so, did it contain the marriage certificate of Charles Prince of Wales and Lucy Walter?

Resources:

Leigh family Website

The Personal Rule of Charles II, 1681-1685 by Grant Tapsell

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.

History's Mysteries: Anneliese and Exorcism

2012-01-24T10:01:00.000-06:00

By Jennifer Linforth

Her ordeal happened all in my lifetime, though I was a child and barely aware. Still, it has always fascinated me. Medical mysteries combined with a healthy imagination can cause any number of theories to pop into someone's head regarding Anneliese Michel. You know, the exorcised girl?

She was born in 1952 in Bavaria to a devote Catholic family. Their religion would be challenged come 1968/69 when at age 16 or 17 Anneliese started having seizures attributed to epilepsy. It was managed with medication but over time she complained of seeing visions, disturbing ones, while saying her daily prayers. Eventually it escalated to evil voices giving her commands and then to an aversion to religious iconography.

Come 1975 Anneliese's parent forewent medical advice and turned to a Roman exorcism. Believing she was truly possessed, for even Anneliese herself said that Judas, Nero, Cain, Lucifer and even Hitler were inside of her, she underwent 67 exorcisms. She had to repeat genuflections that, toward the end, were difficult for her to do on her own. During all this torment she stopped eating claiming the demons forbid her to do so. It is documented that she would drink her urine, eat spiders, bite, and self-mutilate. Claims exist that she also began speaking several different languages during the rituals and there are over 40 recordings of them saved for historic detail.

Annaliese eventually died of dehydration and malnutrition and her death was labeled as neglect homicide. The medical care she needed ended up secondary to the religious path of treatment chosen for her, but medical care could have played a factor in all her symptoms. Some evidence supports that she suffered from dissociative personality disorder (DPD) and schizophrenia combined with her epilepsy. She was subjected to powerful psychotropic drugs and anticonvulsants. One drug was known to deplete the brain of sodium which could cause mental lapses and forgetfulness as well as altering the thyroid function which controls metabolism. All these drugs are known now to also have side-effects of hallucinations both visual and auditory.

I tend to side with the idea that Annaliese had DPD and the drugs contributed greatly to her condition. If not regulated properly these powerful medications can have horrifying and frightening side-effects. That being said, they can also work brilliantly for the treatment of mental disorders I speak from experience having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

What do you think? Medical mystery perhaps not treated properly or religious possession treated too aggressively?

Jennifer Linforth expands the classics by continuing The Phantom of the Opera. and 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

OLEANNA Winner!

2012-01-23T10:22:00.000-06:00

We have a winner of Julie K. Rose's OLEANNA. The lucky winner 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!

Guest Blog: Colin Falconer

2012-01-22T09:46:00.001-06:00

This week, we're welcoming renowned historical fiction author Colin Falconer. His best-selling novel, HAREM, is set in the Ottoman Empire during the reign of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, who is left spellbound by his newest slave girl, Hurrem. Colin is here to talk about this fascinating book and give away a copy. Want to win it? Please leave your comment for Colin. Here's the blurb:

He had everything a man might dream of; wealth, power and the choice of hundreds of the most beautiful women in his Empire. Why then did he forsake his harem for the love of just one woman, and marry her in defiance of the centuries-old code of the Osmanlis?

This is the astonishing story of Suleiman, the one they called the Magnificent, and the woman he loved.

Suleiman controlled an empire of thirty million people, encompassing twenty different languages. As a man, he was an enigma; he conquered all who stood against him with one of the world's first full time professional armies - yet he liked to write poetry; he ravaged half of Europe but he rebuilt Istanbul in marble; he had teams of torturers and assassins ready to unleash at a whim - yet history remembers him as a great lawmaker.

''Harem' literally means 'Forbidden': Forbidden to men. Once the Sultan was the only man - the only complete man - who could pass through its iron-studded doors. But what was that world really like?

For a woman living in the Harem the only way out was to somehow find her way into the Sultan's bed and bear him a son. But the young Sultan was often away at war and when he did return he neglected his harem for just one favourite wife. But one young Russian concubine inside his seraglio was not content to allow fate decide the course of her life. She was clever and she was ruthless. And she had a plan.

Into this world are drawn two unforgettable characters; a beautiful young Italian noblewoman, captured by corsairs and brought to the Harem as a concubine; and the eunuch who loved her once, long ago, in Venice.

Loved her? He never stopped loving her.

From medieval Venice to the slave markets of Algiers, from the mountains of Persia to the forbidden seraglio of the Ottoman's greatest sultan, this is a tale of passion and intrigue in a world where nothing is really as it seems.

Q&A with Colin Falconer

How did thestory of Harem come about?
Back in anotherincarnation, when I was working as a magazine freelancer, I got a commissionfrom Playboy magazine to write about harems. You know, the racy stuff. But as Idid my research I discovered that harems weren't anything like the male fantasymost Playboy readers would have liked. So I held back a lot of the research whenI finally came to write the piece.

In particular, Idiscovered the story of Hurrem Haseki, the slave girl that Suleiman theMagnificent married and eventually made his queen. He even resigned his entireharem for her! There were so many intriguing gaps in the story. Was it a lovestory - or was it something else?

How muchresearch was involved?

My initialresearch came from my local library. The head librarian would order in thebooks from all over the country and I would go in and collect them. But shenever mentioned this to her staff. The girl behind the desk would go pale whenI walked in and announced that I was there to pick up 'Unusual Sexual Practicesin Ottoman Turkey' in three volumes or 'The Handy Guide to Castration.'

After I had thegroundwork down, I spent a month in Turkey. My girls were only little then and Ididn't want to be away from them that long so the whole family came! The bestpart for me was seeing the tombs of Suleiman and Hurrem side by side in thegarden of the Suleimaniye mosque. Considering their history, it's very poignantand quite ironic. It felt like visiting the grave of someone I knew. The guidetried to tell me their history and it was completely wrong. Well either that orevery book in the British Library was way off the mark. I'm betting it was him.

How did youcome up with the story?
Historians knowwhat happened but they can't rationally explain it. Why did Suleiman retire hisharem? Why did he then later murder his son and his best friend? Scholars can'tsay because it would be pure conjecture: what happened in the harem stayed inthe harem. No records were kept. So it all came down to reading between thelines - and that's what novelists are born to do.

People do not actrationally, no matter how important or royal or powerful they are, they'restill human beings. The English royal family are a classic case. I had my own theoriesof why Suleiman and Hurrem did what they did, and I tested them out againstwhat we know. It fitted perfectly, without changing a single historical fact. Idon't know if I'm right - no one will ever know what really happened behindthose walls - but if I am then she was one of the most extraordinary women in Europeanhistory. Ruthless, intelligent, charming and brilliant. Love her or hate her,she was the most powerful woman you never heard of.

What was themost surprising thing to you?

I read someaccounts written by actual eunuchs from the last century. The sad thing is,they never lost their psychological desire for women. They may have the lostthe physical imperative but they said they still longed. I can't imagine how hellish that must have been. I alsoread accounts of former concubines who likened it to imprisonment - that wasless surprising. The harem, as depicted in gauzy Victorian art and imagined inmale fantasy, may seem like heaven - but it was actually hell.

Why did yourepublish?

I was so unhappyabout the way the book was traditionally published here in the US in the firstplace. It was a massive best seller in Europe, translated into over a dozenlanguages - the only place it didn't do well was in the US. I just didn't thinkI was that bad a writer. I felt the publishers let me down badly. It was a boringcover, they changed the title and they gave it no marketing support. Hey, youmust have heard this story a hundred times! So I re-jacketed and re-edited. Iguess I'm out to prove a point. I think it's a great book. I think it deservedmore. Much, much more.

Thank you, Colin, and best of luck with HAREM. Visitors, please leave your comment to win a copy of this story.

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Excerpt Thursday: Harem by Colin Falconer

2012-01-19T08:00:00.000-06:00

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming renowned historical fiction author Colin Falconer. His best-selling novel, HAREM, is set in the Ottoman Empire during the reign of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, who is left spellbound by his newest slave girl, Hurrem. Join us Sunday, when Colin will be here to talk about this fascinating book and give away a copy. Here's the blurb:

He had everything a man might dream of; wealth, power and the choice of hundreds of the most beautiful women in his Empire. Why then did he forsake his harem for the love of just one woman, and marry her in defiance of the centuries-old code of the Osmanlis?

This is the astonishing story of Suleiman, the one they called the Magnificent, and the woman he loved.

Suleiman controlled an empire of thirty million people, encompassing twentydifferent languages. As a man, he was an enigma; he conquered all who stoodagainst him with one of the world's first full time professional armies - yethe liked to write poetry; he ravaged half of Europe but he rebuilt Istanbul inmarble; he had teams of torturers and assassins ready to unleash at a whim -yet history remembers him as a great lawmaker.

''Harem' literally means 'Forbidden': Forbidden to men. Once the Sultan was theonly man - the only complete man - who could pass through its iron-studdeddoors. But what was that world really like?

For a woman living in the Harem the only way out was to somehow find her wayinto the Sultan's bed and bear him a son. But the young Sultan was often awayat war and when he did return he neglected his harem for just one favouritewife. But one young Russian concubine inside his seraglio was not content toallow fate decide the course of her life. She was clever and she was ruthless.And she had a plan.

Into this world are drawn two unforgettable characters; a beautiful youngItalian noblewoman, captured by corsairs and brought to the Harem as aconcubine; and the eunuch who loved her once, long ago, in Venice.

Loved her? He never stopped loving her.

From medieval Venice to the slave markets of Algiers, from the mountains ofPersia to the forbidden seraglio of the Ottoman's greatest sultan, this is atale of passion and intrigue in a world where nothing is really as it seems.

An Excerpt from HAREM

The courtyard was paved withalmond-shaped cobblestones and dominated by an ornate marble fountain. Windowslooked down from all sides. Hürrem felt as if the whole Harem was watching her.

This was the courtyard of the SultanValide! These were her apartments.

The guards hurried her to the centre ofthe court and there released her. 'The Kapi Aga says you are to wait. And besure to sing.'

'Sing, why? What is happening?'

But the men had done as they had beenordered and they wheeled away without another word, the sickle-bladed yataghans at their waists rattling intheir scabbards. Hürrem stared after them.

She waited there for an eternity but noone came. Water murmured in the marble fountain. Perhaps the Kapi Aga hadarranged an interview with Hafise Sultan? she thought. But then why had theyinsisted she bring her needlework? What else was it they had said? 'The KapiAga says you are to wait. And be sure to sing.'

The Kapi Aga wanted her to break thesacred silence of the Harem?

She grew tired of waiting, found a coolspot in the shade of the fountain and sat down, crossing her legs beneath her,Osmanli style. She spread the handkerchief on her lap, took out her needle andwent back to her embroidery. She chose to hum a love song her mother had taughther, about a boy whose horse had fallen in the snow, trapping him; as he diedby inches on the winter steppe he told the wind how much he loved a certaingirl and how he had never had the courage to tell her. He asked the wind tocarry his words across the plain so that she would remember him. It was astupid, sentimental song, Hürrem thought, but she had always liked the tune andafter a while the words came back to her as well.

She soon forgot her initial anxiety anddid not even notice the tall, slender figure in the white turban until hisshadow fell across her lap.

'The first law of the Harem is silence.'

She looked up, startled. The man was standingwith the sun behind his back and she had to shield her eyes against the glare.He did not speak like a eunuch and he was not black like a Nubian. There wasonly one other man who might walk freely here.

'Perhaps we should cut out the tongues ofall the nightingales then. And the bees. We should do something about themalso. All this incessant buzzing. Don't they know the rules?' There. It was outof her mouth before she could stop herself.

For a moment he just stared at her. Hürremremembered that her first action before speaking should have been to lower herforehead to the ground and make her obeisance. She put down her embroidery andwent to her knees. She touched her forehead to the hot stones, a futilegesture, it was already too late. She should beg his forgiveness for breakingthe silence. Well, there was no point now, he had spoken and she had answeredhim.

She was suddenly aware that the oldKislar Aghasi - the Chief Black Eunuch - was standing behind Suleiman, his facebeaded with perspiration, fanning himself with a silk handkerchief. He lookedas if he were about to faint.

'Do you know who I am?' Suleiman askedher.

'You are the Lord of Life.'

'What were you singing?'

'It was a song I learned from my mother,my Lord. A love song. About a stupid boy who let his horse fall on top of him.'

'He was singing to the horse?'

She giggled, then stifled it. 'I thinknot. I dare to say the horse had lost much of its charm by then.'

She heard him laugh. 'What is your name?'

'They call me Hürrem, my lord.'

'Hürrem? Laughing one. Who gave you thatname?'

'The men who brought me here. They couldnot pronounce my name. Though I suspect they were not intelligent enough topronounce their own names either.'

He laughed again. 'Where are you from, Hürrem?'

She squinted up at him. This was themoment for which she had gambled so much and all she could think about was thepain in her knees. How long would he make her squat here on these cobblestones?'I am a Tatar,' she said. 'A Krim.'

'Do all you Tatars have hair of suchamazing colour?'

'No, my Lord. I was the only one in myclan so burdened.'

'Burdened? I think not. It is quitebeautiful.' He stroked her hair and held a lock of it in his fingers, as if hewere examining a piece of material in the bazaar for quality and strength. 'Itis like burnished gold. Is it not, Ali?'

The Kislar Aghasi murmured his agreement.Liar! Hürrem thought. You have only spoken to me once, and on that occasion youcalled me an undernourished carrot.

'Stand up, Hürrem.'

At last! She did as she was told. Sheknew she should lower her eyes, as she had been trained to do, but curiositygot the better of her. So this was the Lord of Life, the Possessor of Men'sNecks, the Lord of the Seven Worlds! He was handsome, she supposed, but notespecially so. There was the shadow of a beard on his face, which lent acertain majesty to his beaked nose. He had grey eyes.

He examined her head to toe, as the spahis had done the day her father hadtraded her. He did not seem especially displeased with what he saw yet when hehad done he gave a long sigh. 'What is that you are embroidering?' he askedher.

'A handkerchief, my lord.'

'Let me see it.' She handed it to him. 'Afine piece of work. You have great skill. May I have it?'

'I have not finished …'

'Have it ready for me tonight,' he saidand placed it carefully over her left shoulder. The Kislar Aghasi's eyeswidened in shock. Placing a handkerchief on a girl's shoulder signified thatshe was now gözde, and that theSultan wished to sleep with her. No girl had been so favoured since he hadassumed the throne.

Suleiman walked away without anotherword. The Kislar Aghasi looked as if he would burst; then he remembered himselfand hurried after him.

Hürrem stood there, frozen to the spot,long after they were gone. Her body trembled with triumph and excitement.

Gözde!Iam in the eye! Now I just have to stay there.

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A STORM HIT VALPARAISO Winner!

2012-01-17T06:41:00.001-06:00

We have a winner of David Gaughran's A STORM HIT VALPARAISO. The lucky winner is:

iainmavrocoggins!

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!

Guest Blog: Julie K. Rose

2012-01-15T10:09:00.002-06:00

This week, we're welcoming historical fiction author Julie K. Rose, whose sophomore novel, OLEANNA, is set in Norway and America during the early 20th century. Julie is here to talk about the book and give away a copy. Here's the blurb:

Set during the separation of Norway from Sweden in 1905, this richly detailed novel of love and loss was inspired by the life of the author's great-great-aunts.

Oleanna and her sister Elisabeth are the last of their family working their farm deep in the western fjordland. A new century has begun, and the world outside is changing, but in the Sunnfjord their world is as small and secluded as the verdant banks of a high mountain lake. With their parents dead and their brothers all gone to America, the sisters have resigned themselves to a simple life tied to the land and to the ghosts of those who have departed.

The arrival of Anders, a cotter living just across the farm's border, unsettles Oleanna's peaceful but isolated existence. Sharing a common bond of loneliness and grief, Anders stirs within her the wildness and wanderlust she has worked so hard to tame. When she is confronted with another crippling loss, Oleanna must decide once and for all how to face her past, claim her future, and find her place in a wide new world.

Oleanna was short-listed in the 2011 Faulkner-Wisdom novel competition, and will be available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, IndieBound, and other online retailers in late January.

Q&A with Julie K. Rose

Why did you choose Norway as a settingfor your book?

Norway has always been a subject offascination to me. It is a place of incredible natural beauty: it is both wildand serene, majestic and bucolic. It has a (popular) history of wildness andadventure, and a present of social justice and peace.

As far back as I can remember, my motherinstilled in me a great pride in our Norwegian heritage. Three of my fourgrandparents were Norwegian, two of them first-generation Americans. I wasraised with syttende mai and Norwegian flags on the Christmas tree, stories ofmy mom's visit to Norway in the 1960s, Viking ships on the mantelpiece, platesdecorated with rosemaling, Elisabeth and Oleanna's weavings on my dresser, and my great-grandmother's bunad in my closet.

In 2004, I was lucky enough to visitNorway. The place, the people, and the history were incredibly inspiring, andin 2006 I began writing Oleanna, notonly as a love letter to the country, but to fill a gap. Beyond Sigrid Undset*,there haven't been very many historical authors who have tackled Norway, whichis a crying shame. It's an incredible country with a rich history.

*If you love historical fiction, get yourhands on the Kristin Lavransdattertrilogy right away. Set in 13^th century Norway, Undset received theNobel Prize in Literature for the books in 1928.

What was the significance of thistimeframe?

It was an interesting time for Norway. The glory days of Harald Fairhair and St. Olafhad been buried (but not forgotten) while they spent 500 years under the thumbof first Denmark, and then Sweden (to whom the country had been given as aspoil of war in 1814). While the country enjoyed some freedoms, by 1905 theNorwegian parliament (the Storthing) and the people decided they wanted fullfreedom. In a complicated series of laws and proclamations, Norway declareditself independent on June 7, which was confirmed by a popular referendum inAugust, in which 99.95% of voters agreed to become fully independent once again.

You mention that the story was inspiredby your great-great-aunts. Was there a specific event that inspired the book?

I'd always wondered what precipitated mygreat-grandfather's emigration to America, and what happened to the sisters heleft behind.

Elisabeth and Oleanna were mygreat-great-aunts who lived at Myklebost on the banks of lake Jølster. Theywere both weavers of some acclaim and significant skill, and the family storyis that a number of their weavings are on display in the Folk Museum in Oslo.As far as I have been able to tell, neither one married, or if they did, those taleswere lost by the time my mother visited them in the early 1960s.

I've always wondered about these women,who carried on living on the farm after everyone had died or left for America.What were their stories? What were their lives like? Who did they love? Thegenealogical record does not indicate much, but not everything is revealed by acountrywide census or a parish's records. I tried to imagine what life wouldhave been like in an isolated place like western Norway, when everyone theyloved had left, and the world outside was changing. What kinds of choices wouldthey have made?

Elisabeth and Oleanna's brother John isbased on my great-grandfather, Johann Tollefson Myklebust, who emigrated to theUnited States in 1902 and was one of the first homesteaders of Ramsay County,North Dakota. He married Ingeborg Briesnes of Aurland (Sogn, Norway) and livedin Starkweather, ND until his death at the age of 97 in 1978.

This book seems to be a departure fromyour previous novel, The Pilgrim Glass.

Yes, in a sense. The Pilgrim Glass was a contemporary novel which included large doses of 12^th century French history. Oleanna is an historical novel focusingon early 20^th century Norway. There are a lot of similarities,however. Both books explore the role of place in shaping history, and inshaping culture, and consider location an integral character in the story.

Where can I learn more about Norway andthis historical period?

Some of my favorite resources focus onthe every day life of Norwegians, including

Norwegian Folk Art:The Migration of a Tradition, Abbeville Press(1995); The Woven Coverlets of Norway,by Katherine Larson (U of Washington Press) (2001); and Remedies and Rituals: Folk Medicine in Norwayand the New Land, by Kathleen Stokker, Minnesota HistoricalSociety Press, 2007.

I'd alsorecommend AHistory of Modern Norway, 1814-1972, by TK Derry (Clarendon Press) (1973),the Sogn og Fjordane fylke (county) cultural website (http://sognogfjordane.kulturnett.no), and the Norway Heritage website (http://www.norwayheritage.com/).

Where can I learn more about Oleanna?
http://oleannanovel.com
http://oleannanovel.tumblr.com
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13254652-oleanna

Thank you, Julie, and best of luck with Oleanna.Visitors, please leave your comment for a chance to win a copy of this novel.

History's Mysteries: The Nebra Sky Disk

2012-01-13T08:00:00.000-06:00

By J.S. Dunn

THE FORGEDHEAVEN AND AN ENIGMATIC OBJECT OF CA 2000 BCE

The Nebra sky disk

Der geschmiedete Himmel, the forged heaven.

That’s thepoetic title of an exhibit that featured a bronze disk about the size of adinner plate. The exhibit took place in Mannheim, Germany in July2006, and attendance totaled over 300,000 persons over a few months. Why thebuzz?

For starters,this disk is absolutely unique. No prototypes, earlier models, or laterknockoffs exist. The Nebra sky disk, as it is called, has been the subject ofcontroversy since it was rescued from looters who dug it up around twelve yearsago by a daring archaeologist participating with police in a tense stingoperation. Instead of netting one million DM for their troubles, the thievesgot jail time. That much of the story would suffice for a good thriller film.The star might well be the disk itself, its upper surface covered in gold foilsymbols of a sun (or full moon), a crescent moon, scattered stars, and goldfoil strips at precise places on its perimeter.

The realcontroversy and the intellectual kick of this object lies in deciphering whenand where it was made, and ultimately why or its purpose. Micron-level analysisof its green patina surface revealed that it is genuine, the corrosion crystalstoo large to have been faked. The metal composition is northern European ratherthan Mediterranean, despite its having been found with Mediterranean-styledlong knives.

Other items found with the Nebra sky disk

The overall find has been dated with relative confidence to saythat the disk was made between 2100 BCE and 1700 BCE and deposited shortlyafter the latter date with the associated objects. Its perimeter has piercedholes that were added to it later and indicate a long period of use or changein its function. But physical scientists and archaeologists still debate itsfunction.

Is this theoldest astronomy object in Europe, and older than any Egyptian representationof the stars (the oldest of those from around 1400 BCE)? If so, theimplications for northern Europe at this time are sweeping. Rather than being brutish warriors ruling bythe sword, crudely clad, and digging their carrots with a short stick, is itpossible those in the northern part of what is now Europedeveloped an astronomy that rivaled that of later Babylonian, Greeks,Phoenicians?

Naysayers claimthe object to have been merely decorative, the riddle of the sun and crescentmoon appearing together on a field of “star” shapes signaling nothing inparticular. Other experts analyze old stone carvings, clay tablets, and papyrusfragments to find parallels. For those of us who enjoy astronomy, and thehistory of scientific instruments, the puzzle is delicious.

The Sky Disk haseven been said to be the famed shield of Achilles as wrought by Hephaistos thatcontained the heavens: sun, moon, and Pleiades according to Homer, Book 18, The Iliad. To read more about the SkyDisk, Google Nebra Sky Disk and find abundant articles and discussions debatingits origin and purpose.

The sky disc of Nebra was found near Europe's oldest observatory in Goseck

The decorateddisk in bronze and gold is truly a beautiful object and the fascination ofscience and laypersons is unlikely to abate. No other such object has beenfound to date in northern Europe. However, thewooden observatory-circles of Germany,the Netherlands,and Belgium;and the engineered mounds and megaliths from even earlier dates on Ireland, Wales, andOrkney, stand today in mute testimony to the power of the heavens on earlyhuman imagination.

J.S. Dunn is the award-wining author of Bending the Boyne, which took first place in the Next generation Indie Book Awards 2011

Excerpt Thursday: Oleanna by Julie K. Rose

2012-01-12T09:36:00.000-06:00

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming historical fiction author Julie K. Rose, whose sophomore novel, OLEANNA, is set in Norway and America during the early 20th century. Join us Sunday, when Julie will be here to talk about the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:

Set duringthe separation of Norway from Sweden in 1905, this richly detailed novel oflove and loss was inspired by the life of the author's great-great-aunts.

Oleannaand her sister Elisabeth are the last of their family working their farm deepin the western fjordland. A new century has begun, and the world outside ischanging, but in the Sunnfjord their world is as small and secluded as theverdant banks of a high mountain lake. With their parents dead and theirbrothers all gone to America, the sisters have resigned themselves to a simplelife tied to the land and to the ghosts of those who have departed.

Thearrival of Anders, a cotter living just across the farm's border, unsettlesOleanna's peaceful but isolated existence. Sharing a common bond of lonelinessand grief, Anders stirs within her the wildness and wanderlust she has workedso hard to tame. When she is confronted with another crippling loss, Oleannamust decide once and for all how to face her past, claim her future, and findher place in a wide new world.

Oleanna was short-listed in the 2011Faulkner-Wisdom novel competition, and will be available from Amazon, Barnes& Noble, IndieBound, and other online retailers in late January.

An Excerpt from Oleanna

Elisabeth led them deeper into the forest andthey settled with their backs against a fallen log. After a few moments, Oleannatook a long drink; the beer wasn't theirs—sharp with too much new grass—but sheswallowed nearly half the bottle at one go, and then quickly dispatched thesecond.

Elisabeth finished off her own bottles and setthem on the ground. They sat together quietly, feeling the beer work its magic,listening to the chatter of the crowds just beyond the curtain of trees.

Stretching, content as a cat, Elisabeth leanedinto Oleanna. "What did Jakob want?" she whispered.

"What he always wants," she whispered.

"I can't."

"I know."

After a moment, Elisabeth looked up at Oleannaand grinned. "He is beautiful, though, isn't he?"

Oleanna stretched and smiled. "Yes, heis."

"I'll go find him," Elisabeth said,standing up a bit unsteadily, smoothing down the front of her skirt.

"And do what?" Oleanna asked.

"Just say hello," Elisabeth shrugged.

"Don't be cruel. He worships you."

Elisabeth scowled and stumbled down the gentlehillside, then regained her footing, setting her shoulders and walking away.When she reached the edge of the forest she turned around. "I worship him,too," she shrugged. She settled her face into a merry smile and walkedback out into the crowds.

Oleanna rested her head against the log andclosed her eyes, and dreamt not of the next pile of washing, or shearing thesheep, or making the lefse, but of high mountaintops and rowing, rowing aroundthe lake, close to the shore, towing her mother and Anna behind.

Later she awoke, curled into a ball and covereddirt and twigs, to find it quiet and cool under the trees. If she stayed verystill, she could just see a red fox melting into the hillside, hear a marsh titcalling to its mate. She sat up, yawning, and realized that the din of thecrowd had lessened and if she concentrated, she could pick out differentconversations – a gaggle of matrons next to the church, a couple high on thehillside above her, a group just beyond the trees below.

"Why can't you be happy for me?"

She recognized John's voice and picked her waydown the hillside, brushing twigs off of her skirt. She peeked through thetrees and saw John talking with Elisabeth and Anders; Elisabeth had her smallhand closed on Anders' arm. Oleanna stepped back into the cover of the trees;she could no longer see them.

"You won't let him leave, will you?"Elisabeth asked.

"It's not my place," Anders replied.

"What on earth do you mean by that?"she demanded.

Oleanna smiled, imagining her sister with handson hips.

"What he means," John said, "is hecouldn't stop me, even if he tried." She could hear the laughter in herbrother's voice.

"Could I?" Elisabeth said, morequietly.

"Could you what?"

"Could I stop you? If I tried?"

After a moment, John replied. "No. No, Ihave to go. I can't stay...If you could understand, Lisbet. Lisbet-"

"Let her go," Anders said.

After a few moments, she could hear her brothersigh. "She hates to be left behind," John said quietly.

"So take her with you."

"She would hate to go."

Oleanna closed her eyes. "Don't leaveus," she whispered. The long winter,cold and dark despite the constant drifting of white snow, came back to her:the long winter after Anton had left. Only three years ago, she marveled,looking up at the green canopy, which then had been only sharp spikes of darkagainst the whiteness and ice.

Anton and her mother had quarreled: so soon afterfather had died. He promised to send money from the farm he hoped to establish,promised to write every week. Her mother sat stone-faced as John waited on thewagon's bench, Anton saying his goodbyes. He'd kissed their mother's cheek asshe stared out at the lake. When John had returned from taking Anton to theferry in Vadheim, their mother extracted a promise from him that he would neverleave.

John was the only thing that kept them together,Oleanna thought. The only thing that kept them sane, during the last long darkwinter, just after mama and Anna died. Steady and sure, reliable and strong.And now that the spring has finally come, he has thawed, and he'll be gone,too.

"You missed the children's parade."

Oleanna gasped. She opened her eyes and spunaround. Anders leaned against a tall birch, hands in thepockets of his trousers.

She gathered herself. "AndersSamuelsson," she said.

He smiled at her formality. "Sleeping itoff, were you?"

"Sleeping what off?" she demanded.

"The beer."

"Oh. No. Just tired."

He stepped away from the tree and walked up thehillside to stand next to her. "Why did she do it?"

"Do what?"

"Steal the beer. You've been drinking itsince you were a child, why steal it?"

Oleanna blushed, then straightened her back."Oh, that," she said. "The old men stand there, making all therules, like they get to decide who drinks and who doesn't, and there we are,having to ask nicely and politely, just for a stupid bottle of beer. I hate it.So we take turns stealing as much as we can every year."

He laughed, that short, strange bark. "Verysensible," he smiled.

She narrowed her eyes, bristling. "You'venever had to go begging for beer."

"How do you know?"

Oleanna shrugged. "You're a man. You don'thave to beg for anything."

He grew serious. "Men may not have to workfor their beer, there are things we do have to work for."

"Name one."

"Freedom."

Oleanna looked sidelong at him. "Was it youthat put up the proper flag?"

Anders smiled, a warm blush of excitementspreading across his cheeks. "No, not me. Though I'm glad they did."

Oleanna cocked her head. "Was it the youngman? The one who spoke so well earlier?"

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"He's from across the lake, near Årdal. He'sbeen working in Førde and Bergen, and has contacts in the capital."

"Did you ask him to come?"

"Me? Oh, no," he said, looking down ather. "But I was very happy to make his acquaintance. He seems to thinkchange is coming, and quickly."

She caught his excitement and laughed. "I'mglad to hear it."

They stood in the forest, the sunlight dappledaround them, smiling at each other. After a moment, she grabbed his arm."How did you know we took the beer?"

He smiled broadly, eyes sparkling. "Greensuits you," he said.

She paused, taken aback, then raised an eyebrow."Red suits you," she said, squeezing his jacketed arm.

His eyes widened momentarily, and then his grinsoftened into a fond smile. "You are a wild thing," he whispered,squeezing her hand gently before removing it from his arm.

"No more than you." She looked him inthe eye.

He stared down at her, smiling, then abruptlyturned and walked out of the forest.

Oleanna's eyes narrowed. "Oh no," shewhispered after a few moments. "I can't do this again." And even so,Oleanna leaned against a birch tree, smiling, her face flushed and heartpounding.

http://oleannanovel.com

http://oleannanovel.tumblr.com

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13254652-oleanna

Guest Blog: David Gaughran, A Storm Hits Valparaiso

2012-01-08T08:35:00.000-06:00

This week, we're welcoming best-selling author David Gaughran, whose debut historical, A STORM HITS VALPARAISO, is set in South America during the 1800's. It's an epic story of the quest for freedom in colonial Argentina. David is here to talk about the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:

In 1810, José de San Martín deserts the Spanish Army and returns home to Buenos Aires to lead a bloody revolt against his former masters. Struggling with an increasing dependence on opiates, San Martín forms a secret army of thieves, mercenaries, slaves, and prostitutes to free Argentina from the Spanish Empire.

A Storm Hits Valparaíso is an epic, 400-page historical adventure with a huge cast of characters whose stories gradually interweave, including: two brothers torn apart by love; a slave running for his life, a disgraced British sailor seeking redemption in a foreign land; an Indian trapped in the death mines of Potosí; and a Spanish general who deserts the army to raise the flag of rebellion against Madrid.

Q&A with David Gaughran

Wedon’t see too many historical novels set in South America. What was thethinking there?

I’ve beenfascinated with that part of the world since I was a child: all those storiesof the Amazon, the Incas, and lost cities of gold. When I was alittle older, I found 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez onmy father’s bookshelf and the lyricism of those opening lines had a profoundeffect on me. I finally got an opportunity to travel to South America in 2005,after quitting a good job in Dublin with a plan to see the world and write abook. I spent nine months backpacking around the continent and came across astory from the independence wars which burrowed into my brain and wouldn’t giveme a moment’s peace until I wrote it. I returned there in 2008 for another ninemonths – ostensibly for research, but really just to walk down those streetsagain and hear people yammering in Spanish while I drank wine and scribbled ina notebook.

Whatkind of reader will A Storm Hits Valparaiso appeal to?

Some historicalfiction readers prefer certain time periods such as the Tudors, Ancient Rome,or the Civil War; I can understand that, they are rich with fascinatingcharacters. However, some readers are more adventurous and are looking for somethinga little more unusual. I’m quite surprised how little historical fiction hasbeen set in South America. There is so much material there for an author towork with. Researching this book never once felt like work. Some of thehistorical figures were like comic book characters: swashbuckling, larger thanlife, adventurous souls who continually cheat death with outrageous feats ofderring-do while being impossibly romantic but always carrying a kernel oftragedy around in their hearts. I think there is something in the water there. AStorm Hits Valparaiso has an epic scope – there are seven main characterswhose journeys commence in different parts of the world, all unfolding with thebackdrop of a bloody, twelve year war aimed at extricating South America fromthe Spanish Empire. It’s a meaty novel – over 400 pages – but I like to keepthings clipping along at a good pace, with the action switching from one exoticlocation to another as the reader tries to figure out how all these diversestrands will come together. I suppose it’s the kind of book I’ve always likedto read, and I draw heavily from my heroes: Gabriel García Márquez, Louis deBernières, and Mario Vargas Llosa. It’s an adventure story, a love story, and awar story, and, while there are several historical figures in the novel, I wasalso keen to tell the story of the ordinary people who lived (and died) duringthese extraordinary times. And that was part of the attraction to me: shining alight on a period of history which is little known (in our part of the world).

Ittook you five-and-a-half years to write this book. What took you so long?

I started thisbook in 2006 and finished it in 2009, and there was a year in the middle when Iwalked away from it, thinking I was done. I had taken on an incredibly complexproject, and, there were plenty of times it got the better of me. But Ipersisted, kept improving it, and eventually got it over the finish line. Ispent the next 18 months sending it off to agents and publishers, and rewritingthe novel over and over based on their feedback. Ultimately, I hit a brickwall. While they enjoyed the writing, they felt there wasn’t a big enoughmarket for historical novels set in South America. I think that readers are alittle more adventurous than that. If you talk to them, one of their primarycomplaints is that books are too similar, stick to existing tropes or formulas,or the same old settings. I think readers are crying out for something a littledifferent.

Sowe won’t have to wait five-and-a-half years for the next one?

Definitely not!And I was writing other stuff in that time. I released several shorts and anon-fiction book. I’m really not that slow. I should have a follow-uplater in the year. It’s not a sequel, but it will be set in Latin America atthe start of the 20^th century. And there are more planned after thatwhich should take us up to the present day. It’s not strictly a “series”,rather a collection of historical novels covering major incidents in modernSouth American history. The characters will be different but the voice andstyle should be quite similar. At the same time I will also be writing moreshorts, some novellas, and working on SouthAmericana.

Canyou tell us a little more about South Americana?

It’s a new blogI started towards the end of last year which will gather together all thecurious stories I picked up in two trips around the continent, little vignettesfrom history. There are a few articles up there already which will give readersan idea of what to expect – tales of shipwrecked emigrants, slave rebellions,romantic heroes, and historical mysteries. But mostly it’s an excuse for me tospend a lot of time thinking and talking about South America.

South Americana:SouthAmericana.com

PublishingBlog: Let'sGet Digital

Thank you, David, and best of luck with A Storm Hits Valparaiso. Remember, pleaseleave your comment to win a free copy of this exciting book.

Excerpt Thursday: A Storm Hits Valparaiso by David Gaughran

2012-01-05T09:12:00.001-06:00

This weekon Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming best-selling author DavidGaughran, whose debut historical, A STORM HITS VALPARAISO, is set in SouthAmerica during the 1800's. It's an epic story of the quest for freedom incolonial Argentina. Join us Sunday, when David will be here to talkabout the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:

In1810, José de San Martín deserts the Spanish Army and returns home to BuenosAires to lead a bloody revolt against his former masters. Struggling with anincreasing dependence on opiates, San Martín forms a secret army of thieves,mercenaries, slaves, and prostitutes to free Argentina from the Spanish Empire.

A Storm Hits Valparaíso is an epic, 400-page historical adventure with ahuge cast of characters whose stories gradually interweave, including: twobrothers torn apart by love; a slave running for his life, a disgraced Britishsailor seeking redemption in a foreign land; an Indian trapped in the deathmines of Potosí; and a Spanish general who deserts the army to raise the flagof rebellion against Madrid.

An Excerpt from AStorm Hits Valparaíso

CatalinaFlores de la Peña’s tongue got her in more trouble than any other part of herbody, even though there were far more likely candidates. However, as soon asanyone brought these to her attention, they realized why most men preferred toadmire her from the dusty corners of her father’s tavern, rather than approachher directly. So legendary was her temper that the mayor ordered her father tokeep her upstairs when dignitaries came to visit the tavern, fearing a repeatof the night she broke the magistrate’s nose.

When she was confined to her room, customerstended not to linger; there was no one to hasten the hours between the first piscoand the fall of night. Watching her glide between tables—flirting with one man,berating another, eyes flashing one moment, soft and kind the next—was one ofthe more pleasant ways to avoid thinking about the weather on Valparaíso’s longwinter nights.

Her father—Don Flores—was a stern man and no onewas quite sure of his first name. One customer swore his uncle grew up with DonFlores in Pucon, and that he was called Ignacio. Another insisted his brotheronce loitered outside the confessional and heard old Father Guido refer to DonFlores as Ricardo. Catalina’s father never let on, happy to give the mensomething to talk about other than his daughter. And anyway, the majority ofhis patrons were content simply calling him Don Flores, the honorificreflecting the distance he kept from them.

Don Flores’ low opinion of his fellow manresulted from years of seeing them at their worst, for he slept when he wasn’tworking and he worked when he wasn’t sleeping. His daughter was spared thisjudgment. He showered her with all the love and affection he withheld from therest of society. When Catalina was old enough, he insisted she work at the barso that she would form the same useful opinion of humanity that protected andcomforted him in equal measure.

* * *

Catalinacould feel his eyes—watching her. She tried to ignore him, but every time shelooked, there he was. Most men had the decency to look away when she caughtthem, but this Spanish puerco just went on staring, with the faintesthint of a sneer at the corner of his lips.

Something about him kept her on edge. She triedto put him out of her mind; she had troubles enough tonight. The crew of the Esmeraldahad descended on Valparaíso with no good in mind. Their ship had docked,needing repairs, and they were taking advantage of several days of unexpectedshore leave before continuing on to Lima. It had been a long voyage from Spain.The sailors hadn’t seen port during the journey across the Atlantic, down thebarren coast of Patagonia, past the frozen wastelands of Tierra del Fuego, andaround Cape Horn into the Pacific. The Chilean rebels had no ships worthy ofthe name, and their forces had withdrawn on sight of the frigate; their onepaltry cannon was no match for the Esmeralda’s forty-two guns. TheSpaniards had secured the waterfront in under an hour, encountering noresistance. Sentries were posted at each street corner, and the sailors whoescaped guard duty were determined to make the most of this opportunity.

Toward midnight, the bawdy crowd began to clear,following the musicians down the street, looking for whores and gamblingtables. An hour later, only one table was left: Spanish sailors, drunk, shoutinginsults. Except for him; he just watched. She tried to shake it off, hopingthey would be gone soon. Instead, they called for another drink.

“Very well, señores,” said Don Flores, ashe poured the pisco, “one more, then we close.”

Catalina placed the drinks on the table,grateful the night was nearly over, already thinking of bed. As she turned toleave, the puerco grabbed her arm. “I hope you are not going to throw usout on the street just yet. It’s still early.”

Catalina glared at him. “Let go of me, puerco,or you’ll be out now.”

He pulled her down onto his lap, grabbing herbreast. “Chica, the night’s only beginning—” He stopped short, her coldmetal blade pressed against his throat. The bar fell silent—a silence quicklyshattered by his companions jumping up from their chairs, upending the table intheir haste. Catalina pulled the puerco’s head back, exposing his sweatyneck. One of the sailors edged closer. The tip of her dagger nicked the puerco’sskin, drawing a small bead of blood.

“Stand back lads,” he cautioned.

Catalina turned to his companions. “You two,leave.”

They paused. The puerco gave a slightnod, the knife still firmly at his neck. Eyes on Catalina, his companionsstaggered backward to the door and stepped outside. Her father hurried to herside and eased the knife from her fingers. With his other hand, he twisted the puerco’sarm up behind his back and marched him after his companions.

“You tell that bitch this isn’t finished.” The puercostruggled. “I’ll be back for her.”

Don Flores threw him out the door, bolting itshut. He sighed then looked at his daughter. “Go to bed mi hija. It hasbeen a long night. Tomorrow we can clean.”

Catalina nodded and went upstairs.

The next morning, the air thick with stale sweatand tobacco, Catalina drummed her fingers on the bar as she surveyed thedamage. This day isn’t going to improve in a hurry, she thought. Lastnight’s crowd had been rough. Aside from dirty glasses and plates, she hadsmashed bottles and broken chairs to contend with. At least her regulars knewthe rules—and occasionally respected them—but those animals, they had norespect for anything. She cursed as a glass slipped from her hand andshattered. A groan came from the doorway outside. Pedro, she thought, asmile sailing through the storm of her face.

Every night, Pedro Villar fell asleep in thedoorway of the bar with a flower in his hand, intending to profess his love toCatalina. Every night, his courage would falter, leaving him slumped outside,cursing his cowardice and mourning his solitude. Every morning, Catalina senthim home to his mother—a stern woman who put a raw egg in his coffee aspunishment for his nightly excesses.

Catalina opened the door and shooed Pedro awaywith the broom, unmindful of the heart she broke a little more each day.

“Pedro Villar?” Her father appeared as she wasre-locking the door.

Catalina laughed. “Who else?”

“He has too much interest in you for my liking.”

“That drunk would chase a burro in adress.”

Her father grunted. “Catalina, put down thatbroom. I want to talk to you.”

“What is it, Papa?”

“I’m sending you to Santiago for a few days, toyour aunt. I don’t want any argument. It’s not safe for you here.”

“But Papa, we can’t let—”

“Sergeant Eduardo came by last night, after youwent to bed. He is worried about these sailors. They are hot-headed and foolishenough to do something stupid.” Don Flores took a bottle of pisco fromthe shelf, cleaning the label with his thumb before pouring himself a healthymeasure. “He can’t protect us. His hands are tied. None of his men can enterValparaíso while there is a Spanish warship in the bay.” He emptied thecontents with one gulp. “He feels it would be best if you visited somerelatives until the Spaniards leave town.”

“But this is my home.”

“I have made my decision, Catalina. Just for afew days, until these sailors leave.” He raised his hands, as if to brook anyfurther discussion.

“Papa—”

“That’s enough!”

Catalina continued cleaning in silence. Therewas no point arguing; her father’s mind was made up. She had no siblings toshare the burden of her father’s protectiveness, no mother to soften hisresolve; she was going to Santiago.

SouthAmericana: SouthAmericana.com

PublishingBlog: Let'sGet Digital

THE SOLDIER OF RAETIA Winner!

2012-01-01T19:50:00.001-06:00

We have a winner of Heather Domin's THE SOLDIER OF RAETIA. The lucky winner is:

J.R. Tomlin!

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!

Rites of Winter: Origins of Hogmanay

2011-12-28T09:02:00.000-06:00

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.


Photo printed by permission of Jenni Douglas

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

Guest Blog: Heather Domin

2011-12-25T08:00:00.000-06:00

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?

TheSoldier of Raetia is set within a Roman legion during theAugustan period (10BC to be precise), beginning with spring training in Rome thenshifting to a fortress on the Danube in what is now Bavaria. It tells the storyof two men: Valerian, the legion’s general, restive after ten years of emotionalisolation; and Dardanus, his potential protégé, anxious to prove himself aftera lonely adolescence. At first they seem woefully mismatched, but slowly a bondforms between them that no one, especially they, could have expected – until thelegion is threatened, and personal desires must be set aside. A Roman soldier vowsto surrender everything to his legion: unswerving loyalty, unreserveddedication, unconditional sacrifice. Can there be anything left to surrender tosomeone else?

How would you label the story? Romance? Military fiction? Gayfiction?

I suppose it’s “romantic adventure”, but I’m not a fan oflabels. I don’t believe in rigid genre division that says you can either writeA 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 battlefans don’t like my graphic romance. You can’t please everyone, as everyhistorical fiction writer knows all too well. So why limit yourself? I write storiesI would want to read, and the response has been absolutely wonderful. (Also, asa woman, I have no desire to appropriate the experience of gay men, so I don’tcall my stories Gay Fiction any more than I would call them African-AmericanFiction if they contained a character of color. I’m not about to co-opt the queer strugglejust because I write about dudes getting it on.)

What made you choose Rome for your setting, and the Roman Armyin particular?

I’ve loved Ancient Rome since I was a little girl – I wasintroduced to Greek mythology at an early age, which led me to Greece, whichled me to Rome, and Rome stuck. In college I majored in History and minored inClassics and German; I love many historical periods, but Ancient Rome is one ofmy favorites. Also, being a fan of military history, I’m fascinated by theRoman Army – its evolution and eventual degradation, its virtues and evils,successes and mistakes. (Actually that’s what I love about Rome herself, too.) Oneof the fundamental principles of the legion was dedication to others at thecost of self – that deep-seated commitment to duty over desire makes a greatbackdrop for personal drama.

Are any of the characters in TheSoldier of Raetia based on actual historical figures?

The only “real” person in my novel is Augustus, and he neverappears on screen. (I did make all mentions of him as historically correct aspossible, though.) Most of my characters share names with various kings,emperors, priests, etc, but it’s kind of impossible not to – there were justtoo few Roman names. Having said that, the next book in the series will featurereal 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 sequelto Soldier of Raetia, entitled Heirs of Fortune; and the other is acontemporary urban paranormal with a female protagonist. (How’s that for alabel?) I have a third novel that’s stuck in the research stage, which I’llfocus on after completing the other two; it has a medieval setting and a femaleprotagonist. In the meantime I’m polishing up one of my older novellas, an M/Mset in 1922 Dublin, for release as a free e-book to thank my readers for theirpatience. I’m a very slow writer, but I think that’s one of my strengths. Iwon’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.

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Excerpt Thursday: The Soldier of Raetia by Heather Domin

2011-12-22T08:00:00.000-06:00

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:

TheSoldier of Raetia is an historical novel set in Ancient Rome andthe Germanian frontier, a coming-of-age military adventure combined with anunorthodox love story. Rome, 10BC – Manilus Dardanus, a new soldier from theprovinces, applies for sponsorship with the respected general Cassius Valerian.Dardanus has a lot to learn about the life he has chosen, and at first Valerianseems the least willing candidate to teach him. But a bond forms between thisunlikely pair that neither could have imagined; and as the legion moves out tothe northern frontier, battles and betrayals will prove just how profoundlyDardanus 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 thesun, a long rectangle of green edged by the main colonnade on one side and aline of hedge and trees on the others. The end closest to the house thrivedwith manicured fruit trees and plants in containers bordering the pool leadingup to the general's office; but the other end sprawled open, an expanse ofspace broken only by walking paths and hedge. The rising sun striped the grassgold as it rose, a brilliant disc sending streaks of pink and white across thesky.

Dew clung to the grass beneath Dardanus' sandalsas 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 thesunlight glint off the god's opaque eyes. Makeme strong, he thought, and picked up his sword.

The general was inspecting his own practicegladius; he scratched at an imperfection, squinting, then tested the wood'sheft in his hand and whipped a few swings through the air.

"You've had sword training, yes? Hand tohand, from a proper swordsman?"

Dardanus thought of old Bergeron, the bestfighter in southern Germania's armies until a barbarian blade had taken one ofhis eyes. He should have died from the wound, and it had seemed to Dardanusthat an air of magic hung about the gnarled old warrior, as if he could pass onthat charmed life to his pupil by hard instruction. How he had drilled youngDardanus, endless hours of bruises and sweat, constant shouts of "Faster,boy!" and "Stop daydreaming!" and whacks on the shoulders orbackside to drive the point home. How proud he had been the day Dardanus bidhim farewell. You'll do us all credit,boy, as long as you keep your head out of the clouds and don't get yourselfkilled.

"Yes, sir," Dardanus said. "The bestI 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 knowsthat ranks break and shields shatter, and a sword can wound in ways a spearcan't. The enemy does not fight like a civilized Roman, and if you don't takethat seriously, you won't last long on the frontier."

"Yes, sir."

"Shall we begin?" He took a few stepsback into the open grass. Dardanus followed, his sandals slick with dew. Hecould hear Bergeron's gravelly voice in his head: He's a man, Dar, not a god. Fight him like you would fight me. Hedrew 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 hisbelly. The general came again from above, swinging down to Dardanus' shoulderand then, when deflected, jabbing forward toward his ribs. Dardanus batted theblade away and moved back, and twirled his sword once before returning to guardpose.

"Hm."

Dardanus tried to interpret that tone; when hedid so, the general attacked. The blow was much harder and drove Dardanusbackward; he spread his feet for balance and parried, then moved to push thesword away. The general took advantage of his imbalance and drove forward,swinging around and down to collide his sword into Dardanus' with terrificforce. Dardanus grunted, the wind knocked from him, and leaped back to dislodgethe blow. Retreat—he had lost ground. He tried to catch his breath.

"Someone has taught you a little," thegeneral said.

"Thank you, sir."

"You're hesitating. Are you nervous?"

It would be better not to lie. "Alittle."

"Why?"

"I—I'm being tested by my master tosee—"

"No!" The word was forceful, a harshsound. "I am not your master. Iam no free man's master."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." The generalexhaled, frowning. He looked at Dardanus again for a moment, and the frownhardened into something more grim. Slowly, he raised his sword until its woodenpoint hovered over Dardanus' breast bone. Dardanus stood motionless. The pointscratched his tunic with every breath.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes."

"Then defend yourself."

He was spinning before he saw the strokecoming—he whirled and raised his sword with both hands. Their blades met with awhack of wood against wood, crossed in a shadow above Dardanus' face.

"Better." The general held theirposition, 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 theircloaks lay, wiping his sweaty neck.

"Your military training is your centurion'sresponsibility. Your duty to me is to excel in it—my duty to you is to see youget a full education. I'll work with you like this when I can."

He pulled his tunic over his head and dropped iton the bench, then untied his under-tunic and let it fall to his hips. Dardanuscould see the crosshatch of tiny welts marring his armpits and shoulders. Hethought again of Bergeron, with his mottled back and ruined eye—the marks oflives spent in duty and service. But the general, he knew, carried an even moreimportant mark—and when he turned to wipe off his sword, Dardanus finally sawit. Across his back stretched the scrawl of long-healed scar; it crawled downhis right shoulder, a thick line of tissue, pale against the tanned skin. Thata 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 itdisplayed in the flesh filled him with a strange kind of intimidation. On itsheels came a sliver of fear; he could not imagine the force of the blow thatcould create such a wound.

The general turned to face him; Dardanusflinched and averted his eyes. It appeared his gawking had gone unnoticed. Thegeneral shrugged his shoulders, stretching his neck until it made littlepopping sounds. He sliced the warm air with his sword.

"Again," he said. "And this timefight me like a soldier, not a student. Can you do that?"

The risen sun had leached the pink dawn to a hotwhite morning. A bead of sweat rolled down Dardanus' spine; he forced hisshoulders to relax and braced his feet apart on the grass. His sword loosenedin his hand.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"Good." The general lifted his blade.Then defend yourself."

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

2011-12-21T16:12:00.000-06:00

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!

PAGAN'S PRIZE Winner!

2011-12-19T11:16:00.001-06:00

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!

Rites of Winter: Medieval Christmas Revels

2011-12-14T13:30:00.001-06:00

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.

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/

Guest Blog: Miriam Minger

2011-12-11T10:05:00.001-06:00

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’sPrize?

I love Viking stories! My first historical romance Twin Passions wasa Viking novel in honor of my Norwegian heritage. Ever since Ivisited Norway with my Norwegian grandmother Bodvild when I was 17 years old, Ihad dreamed of writing a novel set in that amazingly beautiful country with itsdeep fjords, thundering waterfalls, and towering mountains. Along every fjord I envisioned dragon-prowedViking ships and ruggedly handsome Vikings manning the oars, and I even fell inlove with a Norwegian sailor. What moreevocative setting could I find for my very first romance novel--and when I madea big jump to a new publisher I decided it was the perfect time to write mysecond Viking historical romance, The Pagan’s Prize. But instead of revisiting Norway I set thestory in Russia, which has a history rich in Viking lore.

What challenges did you face in researching The Pagan’s Prize?
The Vikings traveledfar and wide in search of plunder and wealth and to establish tradingsettlements, and I became intrigued by their forays into Russia andbeyond. I had never seen such a settingdone before in a Viking historical romance so I dove into researching the bookat the New York Public Library. The onlyproblem: Most of the historical textswere in Russian! Keep in mind this wassome time before the Internet as The Pagan’s Prize was originally published in1993. I continued researching anddigging and discovered such a rich and unusual history of the Vikings in Russiathat I found myself amazed by it all. Itwas truly a thrill to write that novel and bring such a fascinating era inhistory alive for my readers.

What’s up ahead for you?

The ebookrevolution is such an exciting time for authors, and I’m doubly thrilled tohave made my entire backlist of ten award-winning historical romances availableto a global audience. I have also recentlypublished my first straight-to-ebook romantic thriller Ripped Apart to ravefive-star reviews! I’m also very excitedabout e-publishing my Little Mike and Maddie series of three children’s picturebooks about a lovable pair of dogs and their motorcycle escapades, written undermy pen name Miriam Aronson.

My planfor 2012 is to write short stories, novellas, and a full-length novel inseveral different genres just for the fun of it and to surprise my readers. Socome 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!

Reviewsfor The Pagan’s Prize

"Anotherfine 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 thereader." - I'll Take Romance

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

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

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Excerpt Thursday: Pagan's Prize by Miriam Minger

2011-12-08T08:00:00.000-06:00

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 missionof conquest. But along the way a golden-haired captive inflamed him withlonging. He took up his sword to defend her…then swore to claim her for hisown.

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

**An Excerpt fromMiriam Minger’s THE PAGAN’S PRIZE**

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

He did notanswer, but she knew from the way he clenched his jaw that she had guessed thetruth.

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

“A pawn.”

His blunt replywas horribly final, and Zora was seized by sudden desperation. “Please…” shebegged, 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 knowthat I am a—”

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

Zora held herreckless tongue then. She must keep calm; use her head. It was a good thingthat he had interrupted her before she had given away her baseborn status. Avery good thing.

If she hadrevealed to him that she was a bastard daughter, Rurik might think her lessvaluable and decide that he could still take liberties with her. It waspossible. 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 herfather had offered an incredible reward for her, Rurik might hold the morecommon view.

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

Why not makethis journey as difficult for him as possible? Since he must protect her untilthey reached Novgorod, he would be loathe to touch her or punish her no matterwhat she did to frustrate him. And frustrate him she would! This pagan wouldwish a thousand times that he had left her in Chernigov!

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

Zora glancedfurtively at Rurik to find that he was paying her no heed, his expression grimand 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 ofher father’s troops down upon them. They might still be close enough toChernigov that someone might hear her.

Inhaling deeply,Zora let out such a piercing scream that a flock of blackbirds perched high inthe 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 inhis 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 wenchmight have given away our position. Ride hard, men, as if the black hounds ofHel were upon us! They might be now!”

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

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

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

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

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DIARIES OF THE FAMILY DRACUL Winner!

2011-12-06T20:51:00.001-06:00

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!

Rites of Winter: How to Make Saturnalia Cookies!

2011-12-05T10:00:00.000-06:00

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.

THE HONOR DUE A KING Winner!

2011-12-02T09:30:00.000-06:00

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!

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

2011-12-01T09:55:00.000-06:00

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:

BeforeWilliam 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 ruthlessinvader, King Edward Longshanks of England. After a bloody defeat in battle, heis dragged in chains to an English dungeon.

Soon the young knight escapes. He returns to findScotland under the heel of a conqueror and his betrothed sheltering in thehills of the Black Isle. Seizing his own castle from the English, he raises thebanner of Scottish freedom. Now he must lead the north of Scotland to rebellionin hope of defeating the English army sent to crush them.

**An Excerpt from FREEDOM'S SWORD**

Caitrinade Berkely snapped off her thread and examined the seam she had finishedsewing. There was no doubt. The seam was crooked.

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

Caitrinapeeked at her mother, afraid that she might have noticed that she had stoppedworking, but her mother was paying Caitrina no attention at all. Her mother wascounting a stack of white linen coifs and veils they had readied for Caitrina'sdeparture for the convent, a crease between her fair eyebrows as she refoldedthem. She said Caitrina should be grateful they were giving her to the churchand that she must be properly clothed for the novitiate. Her dower had alreadybeen paid.

Caitrinabent over the garment she held and chewed her lip. She could pick out the seamand 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 stitchin her embroidery.

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

Shestood up and started quietly for the door.

"Whereare you going, sister?" Isobail said in a voice as soft as one of the rosepetals that scented the bower.

"Iwant to have one last glance of the firth before I go. Would deny me that? I'llnever see it again."

Isobailcolored, but even that she did daintily just as she did everything. She hadeven gotten their mother's golden coloring instead of red hair like theirfather. Her skin was soft and white as freshly skimmed cream instead of dottedwith freckles.

Theirmother raised her eyes. "You have no need to see the firth today. You willsee it on your way."

Caitrinawanted to scream. It was just like Isobail speak up and let their mother knowshe was escaping.

"Letme see. Your clothes must be prepared for the morrow." Her mother stoodand picked up the underskirt. "Caitrina, this must be unpicked andre-sewn. It will not do at all."

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

Hermother said in a grimly soft voice, "Caitrina, come back here. Don't youdare take another step."

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

Whathad she done that was so bad? How could her father have agreed to send her awaybefore he left to lead their men to fight the English? Isobail was fifteen, ayear older. Perhaps by the time Caitrina was born there was no love left overfor her. Or perhaps it was that she wasn't the heir they wanted. It wasn'tfair. Isobail could dance, and sing, and play the harp. Even worse, she wasbeautiful like their mother. Their nurse had called Caitrina carrot-top whileshe doted on Isobail. Caitrina could ride a horse better and the sight of bloodnever made her cry. But who cared about such things in a lass?

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

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

Theyweren't pursuing her, but her mother would probably have them look in thevillage. There were better things to do than to stay there anyway. First, shehad to find Donnchadh. He would be as eager to escape his father's mill, as shewas to escape the castle.

Shearrived, hot and breathless, at the round stone millhouse that jutted above theedge of the firth. Inside, below the floor, the wheel screeched as the tideturned it, blending with the swish of the frothy waves below.

Donnchadhpropped up the wall, a faded plaid of green and yellow checks pleated over oneshoulder and his saffron tunic hanging to his knees. He gave her a curiouslook. "I thought they had you locked up in the castle until youleave."

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

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

Shedashed along the beach and up a stony path to the top of the rise. Donnchadhlet her have a head start. He always did, but she soon she heard the thud ofhis footsteps.

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

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

"Whatis that?" Donnchadh asked, frowning.

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

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

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

"Notmuch. But... Do you hear that?"

Shedidn't so much hear it as feel it, a rumble in the ground up through her feetfrom the road to the west. When she parted the brambles beside him, she couldsee nothing, because of the pinewoods that bordered the road, but as shestepped into the open, she could see sentries dashing into place on the castlewall.

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

"That'snot my father's horn. Nor Lord Avoch's. I know the sound from when they marchedaway." A deep-toned horn called from the castle. A horseman came in sightaround 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.

"Maybeyou should go back."

Outof the trees came a column of men-at-arms behind a hundred or so horsemen. Shegasped. "Look!"

"Whosebanner is that? Do you know it?"

Shejumped back into the brambles and peeked through the dense branches. "Justa 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 onthe end of tall polearms waved like a field of corn in the wind.

"Noneof our men were carrying those when they left," said Donnchadh.

"Itis pikes. I can see the blades flashing in the sun." She swallowed. A hugerock had grown in the middle of her chest. "Holy Mary... I think that'sthe banner of England. The cross of St. George."

The master-at-arms rode to meet a fat manin shining half-armor who spurred his huge black destrier ahead of the column.

"Let'ssee..." For a few moments, Caitrina fell silent as she watched. Nothingmoved. The only sound was a faint clatter of armor. The fat man gestured. SirAilean shook his head emphatically and turned to ride back the way he came."I wonder what..."

Themaster-at-arms slumped over in his saddle. Slowly, he slid sideways and crashedto the ground, a crossbow bolt thrusting up from his back.

"No!"

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

Thetrumpet blew again and the column marched on the castle, riding over the bodythat lay on the ground.

Announcements: The Harlequin Historical Authors Holiday Giveaway! Win a Kindle Fire!

2011-11-30T22:07:00.001-06:00

Win a Kindle Fire! The Harlequin Historical Authors Holiday Giveaway is back. In the spirit of an Advent calendar, the authors are givingaway daily prizes and a Grand Prize of a Kindle Fire. Play every day for morechances to win.

The Rules:

Each participating author will have an activity planned on theirwebsite for their special day. You may be asked to comment on a blog, find anornament, or visit a Facebook page. For each day you participate, your namewill be entered into the Grand Prize drawing. At the end of the month onDecember 23, one day from the calendar will be randomly selected. One of theentrants from that day will then be randomly selected to win the Kindle. Themore days you visit, the better your chances!

More on the official rules can be found here.

For international readers: THE PROMOTION IS OPEN TO U.S., UNITEDKINGDOM, IRELAND, CANADA, AUSTRALIA, NEW ZEALAND, AND EUROPEAN COUNTRIES WHEREA KINDLE MAY BE SHIPPED.

Participating Authors

November 29 – MichelleWillingham

November 30 – Elizabeth Rolls

December 1 – Charlene Sands

December2 – Diane Gaston

December 3 – Annie Burrows

December 5 – Elaine Golden

December 6 – Barbara Monajem

December7 – Michelle Styles

December 8 – Deborah Hale

December 9 – Marguerite Kaye

December 10 – Lynna Banning

December 12 – Carol Townend

December 13 – Blythe Gifford

December 14 – Julia Justiss

December 15 – Terri Brisbin

December 16 – Ann Lethbridge

December 17 – Bronwyn Scott

December 19 – Sarah Mallory

December 20 – Kate Bridges

December 21 – Amanda McCabe

December 22 – Jeannie Lin

December23 – Grand Prize Drawing

THE SEPTEMBER QUEEN Winner

2011-11-30T17:00:00.000-06:00

We have a winner of Gillian Bagwell's THE SEPTEMBER QUEEN! A free copy goes to:

Alison!

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!

The Life and Death of Port Royal, the Wickedest City on Earth

2011-11-27T16:09:00.001-06:00

by Anna C. Bowling

Some might say that Port Royal, Jamaica had it coming. Founded in 1518, as a Spanish holding, the city, near Kingston, proved a valuable asset for Spain, less for what its natural resources than for its strategic location. If the Spanish could keep control of Port Royal, they had control of important trade routes in the Carribbean.

At least until the English arrived in 1655, overtaking Spanish forces and seizing control of the valuable port, which functioned as Jamaica’s capitol. Taking such a prime location and holding it, the English forces soon realized, could be two different matters altogether and in 1657, Governor Edward D'Oley recruited what some might see as an unlikely but very useful ally – the Bretheren of the Coast. These pirates, many of them having turned to piracy after themselves being attacked by the Spanish, provided protection and a boost to the economy. Letters of marquee from the governor gave them the legal right to attack Spanish vessels and coastal settlements, while the harbor itself gave them a prime location to careen and tend to their vessels.

Thus licensed, the newly minted privateers took on their duties with gusto, keeping the Spanish far too busy dealing with them to make any decent effort at taking back the port. The Spanish weren’t happy with this new arrangement, but the pirates certainly were. Piracy and prostitution became booming businesses, along with such widespread drunkenness that contemporary accounts include descriptions of local animals partaking of strong spirits and men and women reduced to poverty, all due to drink. Infamous pirates such as Edward “Blackbeard” Teach, Henry Morgan (later to be named lieutenant governor) and the treacherous trio of Calico Jack Rackham, Anne Bonny and Mary Read called Port Royal home at some point. How long, some of the more conservative might have wondered, would such wickedness be allowed to go unchecked?

If we count from Governor D’Oley’s invitation, about thirty-five years. Shortly before noon on June 7th, 1692, a vicious earthquake shook the island of Jamaica, taking out the worst of its fury on Port Royal. As if that weren’t enough, the tsunami that followed destroyed even more of the city, including three forts. Historical accounts cite that local authorities were unable to dispose of all the dead bodies in and around the city, due to the sheer number and in many cases, inaccessibility, as two thirds of the city was now under water.

An attempt to rebuild in the early part of the next century proved moot, as a fire tore through the rebuilt city in 1703. A series of severe storms preceded a pair of earthquakes that ultimately sank the once-great city in 1722, never to regain her former glory. Modern Port Royal is a small fishing village, her scandalous past frozen in time beneath the Carribbean waters.

Writing historical romances allows Anna C. Bowling to travel through time on a daily basis and make the voices in her head pay rent. Her current release, ORPHANS IN THE STORM, is available from Awe-Struck E-books.

Guest Blog: Jeanne Kalogridis

2011-11-27T11:21:00.001-06:00

This week, we're welcoming best-selling historical author Jeanne Kalogridis, as she celebrates the release of her DIARIES OF THE FAMILY DRACUL trilogy on Kindle. The novels are available now. Jeanne is here to talk about her series and give away a copy of each of the books in the series, COVENANT WITH THE VAMPIRE, CHILDREN OF THE VAMPIRE and LORD OF THE VAMPIRES! Here's the blurb:

A sensual, terrifying, incredibly accomplished novel, this fascinating prequel to the classic and most popular horror novel of all time, Dracula, focuses on Dracula's great-nephew, who inherits the job of managing his great-uncle's estate...and his appetite.

At the castle of Prince Vlad Tsepesh, also known as Dracula, Vald's great-nephew Arkady is honored to care for his beloved though strange great-uncle...until he beings to realize what is expected of him in his new role. It seems that either he provides his great-uncle with unsuspecting victims to satisfy his needs, or Vlad will kill those Arkady loves. He is trapped into becoming party to murder and sadistic torture. And it is in his blood. When Arkady learns that his newborn son is being groomed one day to follow in his footsteps, he knows that he must fight Dracula, even if it means death.

**Q&A with Jeanne Kalogridis**

Tell us about theDiaries of the Family Dracul series.

There are three books in the trilogy: COVENANT WITHTHE VAMPIRE, CHILDREN OF THE VAMPIRE, and LORD OF THE VAMPIRES. The firstnovel, COVENANT, deals with our hero Arkady Tsepesh, who is summoned fromEngland upon his father's death to take over his role as caretaker of theestate where his ancient "Uncle Vlad" resides. Slowly, Arkadybegins to realize who and what Vlad is (none other than Dracula the vampire),and learns that as a descendant of Vlad Dracula, he is bound to him through a pact: Dracula wins his immortality by corrupting the soul of the eldest son of eachgeneration. It's the story of Arkady's desperate struggle to free himselffrom the covenant.

The second and third novels, CHILDREN and LORD, are thestory of Arkady's descendant, Bram (who, in an attempt to hide from Dracula andthe covenant by moving to Holland and taking the name Van Helsing). Thenovel LORD overlaps with the events of Stoker's novel DRACULA.

What inspired you towrite this series?

I've been a huge fan of the novel DRACULA since I was akid. I've always wanted to add to Dracula lore and still do. Iremember reading DRACULA: PRINCE OF MANY FACES, a biography, and wondering whatbecame of Vlad's kin. The genealogical tree in the book was the "aha!"I needed to get the plot rolling.

What challenges didyou face in researching the novels?

I had a pretty easy time, actually, since a marvelous newbiography of Vlad, DRACULA: PRINCE OF MANY FACES, had just been released. I also had Stoker's novel to serve as my guide for style, tone, details andtimelines, and I had the good fortune to find his original source material ofTransylvanian folklore, THE LAND BEYOND THE FOREST, in my nearest universitylibrary.

How do theprotagonists change and grow with each new challenge?

In some cases, the changing is from living to undead; ofcourse, the story of my hero is one of finding the courage to combat the evilthat surrounds him. He moves through denial, terror, acceptance, andfinally grows brave enough to consider self-sacrifice.

What’s next for you?

I'm under contract to write two more historicalnovels. Once I'm free, I'd love to visit the world of the FAMILY DRACULagain!

Excerpt Thursday: Covenant with the Vampire by Jeanne Kalogridis

2011-11-24T10:05:00.001-06:00

Thisweek on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming best-selling historical author Jeanne Kalogridis, as she celebrates the release of her DIARIES OF THEFAMILY DRACUL trilogy on Kindle. The novels are available now. Join us Sunday,when Jeanne will be here to talk about her series and give away a copy ofeach of the books in the series, COVENANT WITH THE VAMPIRE, CHILDREN OFTHE VAMPIRE and LORD OF THE VAMPIRES! Today, Jeanne offersan excerpt from the first book in the trilogy. Here's the blurb:

A sensual, terrifying,incredibly accomplished novel, this fascinating prequel to the classicand most popular horror novel of all time, Dracula, focuses onDracula's great-nephew, who inherits the job of managing his great-uncle'sestate...and his appetite.

Atthe castle of Prince Vlad Tsepesh, also known as Dracula, Vald's great-nephewArkady is honored to care for his beloved though strange great-uncle...until hebeings to realize what is expected of him in his new role. It seems that eitherhe provides his great-uncle with unsuspecting victims to satisfy his needs, orVlad will kill those Arkady loves. He is trapped into becoming party to murderand sadistic torture. And it is in his blood. When Arkady learns that hisnewborn son is being groomed one day to follow in his footsteps, he knows thathe must fight Dracula, even if it means death.

**An Excerpt from COVENANT WITH THEVAMPIRE**

Inthe excerpt, "Stefan" is the ghost of the narrator’s, Arkady,brother. Arkady drives the carriage (caleche) into theTransylvanian forest in search of a missing houseguest (Jeffries) of his"Uncle" Vlad's; Arkady fears something sinister has happened to Mr.Jeffries. Arkady does not yet realize who and what his Uncle Vlad is: Dracula, who has exerted mental control over him to keep him from seeingthe truth. But Arkady's subconscious, in the form of the ghost of hisyounger brother Stefan, is urging him to seek the truth.

It was a warm spring day. Dawn had been clear, butearly afternoon saw iron clouds filling the sky, and the air had the smell andfeel of an approaching storm. Some inexplicable compulsion drove metowards the edge of the forest where I had last seen Stefan. As I urgedthe horses between the trees, a gentle rain began to fall, but the thick foliageprotected us. Even so, we grew wet as the sweeping branches sprinkled uswith dew.

Theanimals tossed their heads and whinnied their disapproval of my foolishdecision to re-enter the forest. I told myself that I was not afraid,though my mouth was suddenly so parched my tongue adhered to the inside of mycheek, and I held the reins taut in slightly trembling hands. Not afraid,though I could not keep from peering up at the tops of the tallest trees, tosee whether Jeffries lay swaying there with the wind.

Itwas day and it was warm. Wolves did not attack in daytime in warmweather, nor singly, but in packs, and then usually only on winter nights. That was the prevailing folk wisdom, yet Stefan had died on a beautiful,glistening summer's day, killed by a solitary half-wolf. I rememberedFather's revolver, beside me on the seat where I had stowed it for just such anoccasion. I set it on my lap.

Therewas no sign of Stefan. I drove the horses forward a bit, slowly,straining my eyes in the showy dimness for my dead brother's small form. We retraced the progress I remembered, finally coming to a stop at theplace I decided was the one where the wolves had attacked.

Thehorses lifted their hooves and snorted, impatient, nervous. I held verystill, watching the same spot in the shade of an alder tree where I believeStefan had last been. Watching, and listening, to a distant rustling inthe trees--most likely of birds and squirrels. A crow cawed, reproachful;a bird sang.

Isat watching several minutes, aware of every sound around me, of the mutedpatter of rain against trees, of my own breathing. At last, slowly,slowly, out of the reticulate pattern of light and sepia shadow against tremblingleaves, Stefan emerged.

Andgestured onward, at the deep recesses of the forest.

Wefollowed, the wheels rolling against the damp, needle-strewn ground with thesnap of breaking twigs.

Onceagain, my brother's spectre vanished, only to reappear once I progressed a fairdistance in the direction indicated. We continued a good half hour intothe forest in this manner.

Atlast, Stefan appeared but gestured no more; only stared intently at me a time,as might a living loved one trying to memorise the details of my face uponparting.

Andthen he disappeared.

Confused,I looked round, and saw nothing but the same alder and pine trees. Iwaited some minutes, then slipped the waist of my trousers and crawled out ofthe caleche. I tethered the horses to a branch, then commencedinvestigating the area. There was nothing remarkable, just the same densefoliage as before, and dark soil almost entirely covered by a carpet of deadleaves and pine needles.

Butwhen I walked over to the large tree where Stefan's ghost had stood, the groundabruptly sank, soft and spongy, beneath my feet. I pushed away the damp,vegetal detritus and discovered fresh dug earth, darker and more loosely packedcompared to the surrounding soil.

Myheart began to beat more swiftly. Quickly, I swept more of the dead foliageaside. As I did, I discovered something hard and white--a fragment ofbone, from an animal, I thought. But before I could examine it, thehorses emitted high-pitched, panicked whinnies.

Ilooked up to see a wolf, running swift and low between the trees, headed nottowards the caleche and the captive horses, but toward me.

Istraightened and in a split second entertained the grisly notion that Stefanhad enticed me here to suffer the same fate as my two brothers; I imagined mybright blood merged with the gentle rain and bejeweling the forest with crimsondew.

Thewolf lunged. I drew the pistol from beneath my coat and fired. Notfour feet away, the animal emitted a shrill, canine yelp and dropped inmid-leap, at the highest point of the arc, blooded at the juncture of leg andshoulder.

Yetit gathered itself and rose, unsteady, limping on three legs, and came at me. I was forced to shoot again; this time, the proximity permitted me tomake a clean kill, and lodge a bullet just above and between its stark whiteeyes. The creature sank to the forest floor with a whine that terminatedin a death rattle.

Iwanted nothing better than to sag weakly against the nearest tree trunk andmaster my trembling--but the ominous recollection of the two dead wolves lyingat the open gate of our family tomb persuaded me to remain with pistol at theready.

Therecame a crashing of twigs and leaves; the second wolf appeared bare secondsafterwards. I forced myself to wait until he was near enough for my aimto be certain, and when at last I prepared to fire, I had to steady my shakingright arm with my left. The wolf charged and I squeezed the trigger, butthe sparse rain that dripped down through the forest canopy left the weaponbeaded with moisture; it slipped in my grasp as it discharged, sending thebullet wide of its mark.

Inthe fraction of a second it took to realise I had missed my target, I knew allwas lost. The wolf leapt for my throat. Its body collided withmine, knocking the pistol from my hand. Huge paws struck my shoulders,slamming them against damp ground. I steeled myself for the pain of thosecruel teeth upon my neck, thinking not of the irony of my fate, nor thetreachery of my brother's ghost, but only of Mary and the child.

Thewolf lowered its face to mine and peered at me with large, colourless, feraleyes; its panting mouth revealed a long pink tongue and yellowed fangsglistening with saliva. It snarled, and opened its mouth wide inpreparation for the kill. I felt its breath, hot upon the exposed, tenderskin of my throat, Gasping, I squeezed my eyes shut and braced for death.

Andthen the impossible occurred.

Isensed movement beyond my closed eyes, but it was not accompanied by the painof my throat being flayed asunder. The heat on my neck was replaced bythe cool damp of the forest; the pressure of paws against my shouldersdisappeared.

Iopened my eyes and saw that the wolf had withdrawn. He now sat on hishaunches at my feet like an obedient, panting dog, tongue lolling out the sideof his deadly mouth.

Ipushed myself to a half-sitting position. The wolf snarled and snapped,and moved to charge again--but reluctantly held himself back at the lastinstant, as though an invisible, unwanted barrier held him in check.

Iwasted no time questioning the reason for this remarkable phenomenon. Ifound the revolver nearby on the ground and moved slowly, stealthily towards itas the wolf growled his displeasure, but remained otherwise still. Atlast, I reached swiftly for the gun and fired point-blank at the creature, whoremained so unresisting that I felt a stab of pity. It died with a softwhine as its head sank onto its forelegs.

Afterwards,there was only silence--not even the scurrying of a squirrel, or the singing ofa bird, only the soft, steady drum of rain upon foliage. The third wolfnever appeared. When my trembling eased, I determined with footsteps thelimits of the sinking soil. It was much smaller than I expected, perhapsonly three square feet--far too small for a body. With dark mirth thatverged on hysteria, I began to laugh: perhaps the tales of the moroi weretrue. Perhaps my brother had led me to a buried cache of jewels or goldencoins.

Obsessed,I began to do with nothing more than my hands.

Itwas sweaty work. The soil was heavy with moisture and after an hour,perhaps two, I was soaked, covered with mud, aching. The rain was comingdown hard. I was on the verge of giving up when my chilled fingersfinally struck something soft and yielding beneath the inch of muddy water.

Itfelt like a thick layer of fabric. I frantically cleared away enough mudto determine the dimensions of the hidden prize: it was a square roughlytwelve inches on each side, and when I dug deep enough to get my fingersbeneath it, I could feel that it was apparently a perfectly square box of somevery hard material, either metal or wood, beneath the cloth.

Iknelt on the wet, yielding ground and leaned forward, wriggling first fingers,then hands, beneath the box. It took several moments before I could get agood enough grip and enough momentum to pull it from the wet earth, but at lastI gave a mighty yank and it came forth with a loud sucking sound.

Ifell back onto m haunches and studied my treasure: it had been wrapped inseveral layers of fine black silk, now soaked and filthy, but too new and intoo good shape to have been more than a day in the earth. Eagerly, Iunwrapped it, and discovered beneath a simple, unvarnished wooden box fashionedfrom the native pine, with a crude brass latch.

Iset the box on the ground and unfastened the latch, cutting my thumb on itssharp, unpolished edge, but in my fearful excitement, I did not care. Iflung back the latch, slipped my fingertips over the top, and attempted to prythe box open. It took a good deal of effort, as the wood was swollen fromthe moisture, but at last it came, and I threw back the top.

Andscreamed when I stared into Jeffries' wide, death-clouded eyes.

Isprang to my feet; the box fell from my hands. Jeffries' head rolled outacross the soggy foliage with a damp crackling sound and came to rest face upon the very edge of the gaping grave., As it rolled, something fell fromthe open mouth, which was frozen in the same anguished rictus it had worn in mydream. I reached for the white object on the dark glistening ground, andpicked up a head of garlic.

Hisneck had been sawed through in the same manner as father's, and his mouthcrammed full of the pungent herb, His skin was whiter than I thought it possiblefor any human's to have been; it was precisely the colour of chalk, even palerthan the tufts of tousled hair that stuck out wildly in all directions from hisscalp.

Thunderrumbled as I stared, aghast, down at the severed head. An abruptcloudburst beat down through the sheltering trees, spilling a violent cascadeon me and my unfortunate erstwhile guest, washing mud from my trouser legs andsleeves. The rain pounded down on Jeffries' open, unseeing eyes, gluedhis hair to his scalp, swept away twigs and soil and the solitary alder leafthat had clung to his marble-white cheek.

Foran instant, I thought I would vomit; but what erupted from the depths of myterrified being was entirely unexpected,

Ibegan to laugh.

Lowat first, then rising higher in pitch until the sound became hysterical. I threw back my head and laughed harder, weeping, letting the rain minglewith my tears, letting it drum against my open eyes as it did Jeffries'sightless ones, letting it fill my grinning rictus of a mouth until I bentforward, gagging, still convulsed by hellish glee.

ForI realized that Stefan had first appeared before Jeffries'death. Jeffries was merely coincidental, an afterthought.

Therewas more treasure to be found.

AndI found it, little brother. Oh, I found it.

Ispread my arms wide, embracing the rain, whirling in circles like a childseeing how much he could bear before becoming dizzy. I danced, crashingthrough the brush, unmindful of wolves, uncaring, pressing my feet into theloamy, carpeted soil, pausing when it yielded to dig in the mud like a doghell-bent on retrieving a bone.

Ifound bones, a graveyard full of them--and all of them skulls. Big skullsand little ones, too. The infants were buried without any amenities,; Ifound their heads in a mass grave. Many of the tiny skulls wereirregularly shaped, and hinted at gross deformity. One child had half anextra head emerging from his cranium, as if he had endeavoured and failed togive birth to Athena.

Istopped opening the boxes after the second one--which contained the head of aman several months' decayed and slippery with moss--though I continued my madexcavation, collecting the small boxes like so many trophies. But aftersome two dozen--in addition to too many infants' skulls to count--I found mymaniacal energy exhausted, though the ground still gave way in several placesimmediately surrounding me.

Andhow many more graveyards like this lay hidden in the endless forest?

Money Matters: Taxes and How To Avoid Them

2011-11-21T05:05:00.001-06:00

By Anita Davison

In the 16th century, Bristol was famous for wine smuggling from France and the Mediterranean: according to some reports only half the wine landed there paid duty, and the customs officers pocketed a £30 bribe for each ship that landed. It appears that the income from this illegal source was not fairly divided: when a clerk threatened to inform on his superiors, he spent 18 months in prison on a trumped-up charge of debt, and even when he reported the illicit dealings, no action was taken.

During the English Civil War, a new tax on domestic consumption, excise, was levied by Parliament to pay for the war. By 1660, this applied to items like chocolate, coffee, tea, beer, cider and spirits. Then in 1688 it was progressively widened to include essentials such as salt, leather, and soap.

Collecting taxes was a cumbersome and inefficient process with a hostile population where communication and transport links were slow and inefficient, so whole communities tended to become involved in the 'free-trade', as it was euphemistically known. The farm labourer helped carry goods inland; the parson bought cheap tea and wine; the local squire lent his horses for transport; the wealthy merchant obtained cut-price supplies of silks and lace; and at the very pinnacle of society, members of the gentry conducted foreign business through intermediaries involved in smuggling.

Attention in the 17th century focused on the tobacco trade with Bermuda and Virginia, from which the Bristol Customs authorities were quick to profit. William Culliford investigated the port in the 1680s, and found a rat's nest of fraudulent officials. The only tide-waiter considered to be honest was blind!

The standard way to smuggle goods in was for the ship's master to keep two sets of accounts. One showed the true cargo: this was for the benefit of its owners. A second set of books was presented to the customs authorities with a nod and a wink. One example was a ship called the Bristol Merchant, which docked with 9¼ tons of tobacco on board. It cost the crew £80 to get the customs officials to turn a blind eye, but this was less than half what they saved in duty. Pay-offs took place at Mother Grindham's Coffee House on Bristol quayside.

Houses in known smugglers haunts in the West Country set a bottle bottom in the plaster below a gable end of the house to indicate the owners were smugger sympathisers.

Whilst searching for a character to include in my latest wip, I came across a famous smuggler in the West Country during the 17th century named Thomas Coumbe, known as The Smuggler Squire. Born in Devon in 1620, he married a tall, auburn haired beauty named Bridget, who was much younger than himself and reputed to be a descendant of Sir Ralph de Blanchminster, a Cornish Knight who followed Richard Coeur de Lion on the Third Crusade.

Thomas Coumbe became a church warden in 1666, subsequently gaining great wealth from his association with the smugglers at Bude. His chief entry points for smuggling were Bude and Widemouth on the North Devon coast, at a spot from which signal flares from Widemouth Bay or Bude Haven could be seen by the smugglers at sea.

At a time when sand was used to break up the heavy loam of Devon before the employment of artificial manures, the Smuggling Squire made a weekly trip between Tavistock and Exeter on his sand cart, in which he hid tobacco, silk, brandy and wine.

According to old deeds, he owned land from "Sea to Sea", i.e. from Exeter on the South Devon coast to Bude on the north, a distance of 53 miles. He had a number of illegitimate children, to whom no doubt some of the farms were bequeathed. How could I resist adding this colourful character to my story?

A brown, hard, stern looking man with one blue eye, over the other he wore a patch having lost an eye in a duel, and regularly dressed in leather with a bob wig.

Some sections of this article were taken from: Smuggler's Britain by Richard Platt

Guest Blog: N. Gemini Sasson

2011-11-20T08:00:00.000-06:00

This week, we're welcoming historical author N. Gemini Sasson, as she celebrates the release of THE HONOR DUE A KING, the third book in her Robert the Bruce trilogy, set in 13th century Scotland. The novel is available now. Gemi is here to talk about her novel and give away a copy of her latest, AND the two prior books in the series, THE CROWN IN THE HEATHER and WORTH DYING FOR! Here's the blurb:

In the dawn of a kingdom,

loyalties and lies collide.

The truth will change England and Scotland forever.

In the triumphant aftermath of Bannockburn, Robert the Bruce faces unfamiliar battles. His wife Elizabeth, held captive in England for eight long years, has finally returned home to Scotland. With his marriage in ruin and hopes for an heir quickly fading, Robert vows to fulfill an oath from long ago—one which will not only bind his daughter to a man she does not love, but challenge the honor of his most trusted knight, James Douglas.

While Ireland falls to the Scots, King Edward II of England must contend with quarrelsome barons. Hugh Despenser is the one man who can give him both the loyalty and love he so desperately craves. War with France looms and Edward’s only chance at peace rests with his queen, Isabella—a woman who has every reason to seek her own revenge.

Tormented by his past, James returns to a solitary, ruthless life of raiding into the north of England. When a bewitching spy promises him the ultimate victory, James must weigh whether to unveil the truth and risk losing her love—or guard his secrets and forever preserve Robert’s faith in him.

**Q&A with N. Gemini Sasson**

Whatinspired you to write about Robert the Bruce?

For yearsI’ve been a fan of Celtic music. Nothing stirs my soul more than theskirl of bagpipes. I also have Scottish ancestry on my mother’sside. The first time I went to Scotland, I felt like I’d come home, eventhough I’d never been there before. It was a very surreal feeling.

Afterseeing the movie Braveheart (yes, I know it’s full of inaccuracies, butit was great storytelling), I was inspired to write something epic. Mycuriosity about the rest of the story, beyond William Wallace, had been piquedand so I began to read, and read, and read . . . Four years later I had threebooks (The Crown in the Heather, Worth Dying For and The Honor Due a King) about the lives of Robert the Bruce, JamesDouglas and Edward II, although they’ve since undergone many revisions. Fromconception to the publication of the final installment, it’s been a journey often years.

Did you set out to write a trilogy?

Heavens,no. My original plan was just to write one epic, standalone book. But to cover30+ years and do the characters justice in one shot would have been aninjustice. I thought about narrowing down the timeframe, but there was too muchworth writing about in the years between Robert’s early adulthood and hisdeath. Writing it as a trilogy gave me a chance to get to know the charactersand take them each on their own journey.

You’ve written these books in first person, from threedifferent points of view. Was that difficult and what are the advantages anddisadvantages of it?

As areader and writer, I enjoy the intimacy of first person. It’s easier tounderstand the characters because you’re inside their heads. The drawback isthat a single character POV is limited in scope. Initially I was going to writethe story entirely from James Douglas’s viewpoint, but Robert kept creeping in,and eventually Edward II was clamoring to be heard. I can completely understandwhy some readers might not like switching from one character to another; otherreaders feel like it makes the story more well-rounded. While I’m aware that my choice ofpresentation may not appeal to some readers, I think it has also garnered somediehard fans. It’s just what felt right to me. In hindsight, I wouldn’t havedone it any other way.

Why do you write historicalfiction?

In highschool, I thought history class was boring. All we did was spit back names,dates and places. Thankfully, I’d discovered historical novels at the library.They were my escape when teenage life got too dramatic.

One of mygoals in writing historical fiction is to make history feel real andaccessible, not academic and boring. Hopefully, readers will get a sensethat history is more than just dates and names. It's also about more thancostumes and weaponry. It is about real people who had some of the samefears and dreams, flaws and ambitions that we do today. My sincerehope is to get new readers hooked on the genre. To do that, I think you have topresent a story in a new and exciting way that today’s readers can relate to.

What’s next for you?

I’mcurrently working on the sequel for Isabeau,tentatively entitled The King Must Die.It takes place in England, beginning in 1327, and is about the early years ofKing Edward III’s reign and the mysterious circumstances surrounding the deathof his father, the deposed Edward II. After that, I’m not sure. The 15^thcentury is calling to me, but I also have ideas floating around for otherprojects, some non-historical.

Thank you, Gemi, and best of luck with THE HONOR DUE A KING. Readers, please leave your comment to win a copy of this exciting conclusion to Gemi's Robert the Bruce trilogy, or the previous books in the series.

The Honor Due a King by N. Gemini Sasson

2011-11-17T06:42:00.001-06:00

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming historical author N. Gemini Sasson, as she celebrates the release of THE HONOR DUE A KING, the third book in her Robert the Bruce trilogy, set in 13th century Scotland. The novel is available now. Join us Sunday, when Gemi will be here to talk about her novel and give away a copy of her latest, AND the two prior books in the series, THE CROWN IN THE HEATHER and WORTH DYING FOR! Here's the blurb:

In the dawnof a kingdom,

loyalties and lies collide.

The truth will change England and Scotland forever.

In the triumphant aftermath of Bannockburn, Robert theBruce faces unfamiliar battles. His wife Elizabeth, held captive in England foreight long years, has finally returned home to Scotland. With his marriage inruin and hopes for an heir quickly fading, Robert vows to fulfill an oath fromlong ago—one which will not only bind his daughter to a man she does not love,but challenge the honor of his most trusted knight, James Douglas.

While Ireland falls to the Scots, KingEdward II of England must contend with quarrelsome barons. Hugh Despenser isthe one man who can give him both the loyalty and love he so desperatelycraves. War with France looms and Edward’s only chance at peace rests with hisqueen, Isabella—a woman who has every reason to seek her own revenge.

Tormented by his past, James returns toa solitary, ruthless life of raiding into the north of England. When abewitching spy promises him the ultimate victory, James must weigh whether tounveil the truth and risk losing her love—or guard his secrets and forever preserveRobert’s faith in him.

**Excerptfrom The Honor Due a King**

(Ch. 2, Robert the Bruce - Melrose Abbey, 1314 … Afew months after his victory at the Battle of Bannockburn, Robert the Bruce’swife Elizabeth, who has been imprisoned in England for eight years, has justbeen returned to Scotland. She has fallen gravely ill on the journey and Robertis praying for her recovery.)

When not by Elizabeth’s side, I was inthe barley fields beyond the abbey, one eye straining to focus on the brokenbarrel that served as my butt, the taut string of my bow cutting into myfingers and the fledging of an arrow tickling my cheek before I let it singacross the distance. But my arrows too often missed their mark, their pointsplowing into soft dirt. James attempted to join me one morning, retrieving thearrows scattered about the fallow field from the previous evening, but he soonsensed I was not in need of company and left me alone with my silence.

Cold whispered against my neck and Ilooked around to see the first snowflakes of the season falling. I tucked thelast arrow back in my belt and dragged the corner of my cloak across a runnynose. All around, the world blended in shades of gray, transmuted between thefaint light of a cloud-choked day and the heaviness of descending night. Thefaint silhouette of the abbey’s narrow belfry against a silver sky beckoned andI started back. At once, I stepped upon a frozen puddle, too lazy or lacking incare to go around it. The ice cracked and broke under my weight. Mud splatteredover my leggings and frigid water seeped into my boots. Toes numb, I trudgedacross the snowy ground, up mossy stone steps and down the narrow corridor thatled to Elizabeth’s room.

It was well past vespers when I nudgedopen the door. Instantly, I was assaulted with the caustic scent of lye mingledwith a faint fumitory of pennyroyal. I put a hand over my nose until my sensesgrew accustomed to the odors. On a long, narrow table near the door sat anempty laver, a ewer full of water and a stack of folded, clean cloths. Wisps ofsmoke curled from the small piercings in the bell lid of a bronze incensebrazier which was topped with a small, leaning cross, tingeing the air with thesweetness of rosemary and cloves.

On the far side of the room, a smallhearth contained the flames of a well-fed fire. The stones around it borelittle trace of soot, indicating that the abbot must not have used it often,probably thinking the luxury too much of an indulgence when wood could be usedto cook food or warm the sick.

The abbot had afforded himself onecomfort and that was a large four-postered bed, its mattress plump withfeathers and encased in undyed canvas. Cocooned beneath layers of linen sheetsand woolen blankets lay my Elizabeth, her head propped against a dark bluebolster.

If not for Gruoch’s snoring, I might nothave seen her lying in the shadows on her pallet between the door and the bed.I crept toward Elizabeth’s sleeping form and stood at the side of her bed.Barely, slowly, her chest rose and fell. A ragged tendril of hair, damp withsweat, lay crookedly from her hairline to the corner of her mouth. I pushed itaway, the backs of my fingers lingering at her jawline.

DearGod in Heaven, don’t . . . please don’t take her from me. Not after bringingher back. Not after so long without her.

I wanted to kneel beside her and lay myhand over hers, but instead I turned back toward the door. An indrawn breath,ragged but deep, stalled me.

“Will you go . . .” came a hoarse voice,“without a kiss?”

When I first turned to look, her eyes wereclosed. Surely I had dreamed the words? But then her lashes fluttered andparted.

“Turnberry,” she said meekly, curling herfingers over the edge of her blanket. “Will you take me there?”

I returned to her and sought her hand.“Aye. In time.”

Elizabeth turned her face away, but whenshe looked back at me, I could see the heartache of eight long years behindthose once vibrant green eyes. “When?”

“Soon, my love. Soon.” The coolness ofher cheek as I kissed it reassured me that the fever had at last left her. “Thesea air is brisk this time of year, but perhaps it will refresh you.”

“It has been so long, Robert. So long.” Her mouth trembled. “I hardlyknow what to make of everything that has happened. What to say . . . Where tobegin, even.”

Begin?Why not now, today . . . this very moment?

In truth, though, I knew it would not beso easy. We were strangers, she and I, in ways as yet unknown to us both. Godknows I had changed—and not so certainly for the better.

I knelt at her bedside and cupped her handsbetween mine. “We have many years still ahead of us, sweet Elizabeth. Many, many years.”

THE SINNER Winner!

2011-11-15T09:11:00.001-06:00

We have a winner of Margaret Mallory's THE SINNER - it was so hard to choose, thanks to all your generous comments! A free copy goes to:

Chicks of Characterization!

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!

Pets during the Victorian Era

2011-11-14T06:00:00.010-06:00

By: Isabel Roman

During most of history dogs weren't exactly considered pets. I'm sure there were exeptions, but then again, there always are.Dogs were working animals who could get on with the household enough for some friendly play during off hours. But as pets? As with so many things during the 1800s this, too changed. Dogs as pets became not only the fashion but a family dog (as opposed to a working dog) as well.

From Victoriana

For a fashionable woman in Victorian England a pet miniature dog was as indispensable as an opera box or presentation at court. She was nobody without her pet who accompanied her wherever she went, and was fed and housed, according to canine requirements, as daintily as the heir to the title and estates. In spite of the devotion of mistresses to their dogs, however, it must be admitted that they were extremely fickle in their attachments, as the fashion in lapdogs changed as rapidly as that in gowns and bonnets.

During one London season, the favorite miniature dog had been the small animal known as the Schipperke, mainly because its hair was short and black. Long-haired dogs in drawing-rooms and boudoirs were found to be incompatible because white hairs on furniture and gowns were absolutely distressing. Even a poodle was found to be a nuisance, and required its own valet or maid to keep it in condition.

“Lapdog” was the old-fashioned name for the miniature dogs called toys, and quaintly indicated where the line was drawn between household animals. They were dogs small enough to be held in the lap, and they were emphatically pets for the parlor, requiring the care of the lady herself, or of a well-trained maid.

It goes on about which kind of dogs, but I’m sure Labs and German Shepards weren’t allowed. They were outside dogs, not yappers.

Isabel Roman is the pseudonym used by writing team Christine Koehler and Marisa Velez. Their Victorian Druids series has been featured on The Home Shopping Network and is available in bookstores everywhere. Currently they're working on a Prohibition-era series and wondering why time flies so quickly. Visit the Isabel Roman blog!