Excerpt Thursday: Stephanie Dray

This week on Excerpt Thursday we're happy to help contributor Stephanie Dray celebrate the release of her historical fiction debut, LILY OF THE NILE, in which Cleopatra's daughter struggles to survive in the treacherous Roman court. Join us Sunday when Stephanie will be here to answer questions and give away a copy! Here's the blurb:

With her parents dead, the daughter of Cleopatra and Mark Antony is left at the mercy of her Roman captors. Heir to one empire and prisoner of another, it falls to Princess Selene to save her brothers and reclaim what is rightfully hers...

In the aftermath of Alexandria's tragic fall, Princess Selene is taken from Egypt, the only home she's ever known. Along with her two surviving brothers, she's put on display as a war trophy in Rome. Selene's captors mock her royalty and drag her through the streets in chains, but on the brink of death, the children are spared as a favor to the emperor's sister, who takes them to live as hostages in the so-called lamentable embassy of royal orphans...

Now trapped in a Roman court of intrigue that reviles her heritage and suspects her faith, Selene can't hide the hieroglyphics that carve themselves into her flesh. Nor can she stop the emperor from using her for his own political ends. But faced with a new and ruthless Caesar who is obsessed with having a Cleopatra of his very own, Selene is determined honor her mother's lost legacy. The magic of Egypt and Isis remain within her. But can she succeed where her mother failed? And what will it cost her in a political game where the only rule is win or die?

***

Then my mother stared into the flame as sweet smoke filled the tomb, the scent of light magic surrounding us. She took a more formal tone. "Tonight, I've a gift for each of you. To protect you when I'm gone."

From the chest, my mother took a Collar of Gold amulet and placed it around Philadelphus' neck. She touched her forehead to his and said, "Ptolemy Philadelphus, I give you my sight." Then she whispered the spell over the amulet to imbue it with power. "Oh my father Osiris, my brother Horus, my mother Isis, I'm unswathed and I see."

Philadelphus' soulful brown eyes fluttered wide. He staggered back as if he saw something frightening. Helios and I both turned to check behind us, fearful that Romans had entered this sanctuary, but we saw only my mother's handmaidens.

Then my mother put a golden vulture amulet around Helios' neck and he bowed his head, fists balled in frustration. "Alexander Helios, I give you my power, my sekhem." She held his hand as she spoke the holy words. "The sovereignty of the whole world is decreed for him. May he war mightily and maketh his deeds to be remembered. His mother, the mighty lady Isis, protecteth him, and she hath transferred her strength unto him."

At last, my mother came to me. She fastened upon my neck a small jade frog pendant. I squinted, for my brothers' amulets seemed so much more impressive. Curious, I read the words carved on the frog's green underbelly, and I arched a curious brow.

"Read it aloud," my mother said.

My words came out bold and strong. "I am the Resurrection."

In that moment, a power surged through me that I had never known. Magic.

The Nile's green waves lapped at my consciousness, drawing me into the marshy reeds of a waking dream where life teemed. I saw the frog and the minnows, the life-giving silt settling onto the fields beyond, and everywhere I turned in the water, the birds flocked and water lilies blossomed. With my fingers, I traced lazy circles into the dream river bringing fish leaping to the surface. I passed dried brown foliage as I made my way to shore, and it sprouted green with life again. I gazed upon the washed up carcass of a snake and it arose, coiled and shimmering.

It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, but the intensity was too much. My knees buckled under me. My mother's guiding hands caught me to stop my fall. "Cleopatra Selene, I entrust you with my spirit, my ba. You are the resurrection."

Guest Author: Gillian Bagwell

This week on Unusual Historicals we're welcoming Berkley author Gillian Bagwell as she celebrates the release of her historical fiction debut, THE DARLING STRUMPET, set in Restoration Era England. Based on the life of Nell Gwynn, THE DARLING STRUMPET tells the story of her rise from the streets to become one of London's most beloved actresses and the life-long mistress of King Charles II. Check out below how you can win a copy!

From London's slums to its bawdy playhouses, THE DARLING STRUMPET transports the reader to the tumultuous world of seventeenth-century England, charting the meteoric rise of the dazzling Nell Gwynn, who captivates the heart of King Charles II-and becomes one of the century's most famous courtesans.

Witty and beautiful, Nell was born into poverty but is drawn into the enthralling world of the theater, where her saucy humor and sensuous charm earn her a place in the King's Company. As one of the first actresses in the newly-opened playhouses, she catapults to fame, winning the affection of legions of fans--and the heart of the most powerful man in all of England, the King himself. Surrendering herself to Charles, Nell will be forced to maneuver the ruthless and shifting allegiances of the royal court--and discover a world of decadence and passion she never imagined possible.

***

"Richly engaging portrait of the life and times of one of history's most appealing characters!" ~ Diana Gabaldon, author of the best-selling Outlander series

"Hard to resist this sort of seduction--a Nell Gwynn who pleasures the crowds upon the stages of London and the noblest men of England in their bedrooms. A vivid portrait of an age that makes our own seem prudish, told with verve, humour, pathos...and not a little eroticism." ~ C.C. Humphreys, actor and author of Jack Absolute

***

Are any of the houses where Nell lived or the theatres where she performed still there?

Sadly, none of her haunts in London are still standing, but the layout of the streets hasn't changed significantly in much of central London, and it is possible to figure out more or less where some of the old places were. No one knows exactly where she was born, but it was likely in what was then the maze of slums around Covent Garden, and her early life didn't take her far from there.

Lewkenor's Lane, the site of Madam Ross's brothel, is now Macklin Street (above), just off the north end of Drury Lane. The Cat & Fiddle and Cock & Pie taverns and inns were near the south end of Drury Lane. The Maypole in the Strand stood just about in front of the church of St. Mary Le Strand (left), which is still there, and Maypole Alley, which led to Drury Lane, would have passed through approximately the location of Bush House, which used to house the BBC and still houses some parts of it, I believe. Of course the present Theatre Royal in Drury Lane is in the same spot as the theatre Nell acted in but it's about the third building on the site.

Before Nell began acting, the King's Company and Duke's Company were both performing in converted tennis courts just off Lincoln's Inn Fields. The location of the Duke's Company theatre is at the back of what is now the Royal College of Surgeons, in a space that, at least as of the summer of 2008, was let to the London School of Economics. In fact, oddly, the LSE was occupying several places that were the sites of old theatres. Nell had a house in Newman's Row, in the northeast corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields. The passage is still there, and the square not too much changed from her days, though the house is gone.

There is a blue plaque historical market on the house at 79 Pall Mall, which is where Nell lived from about 1671 to the end of her life, but that, too, is a different building. The Banqueting House is all that remains of Whitehall Palace, but Nell certainly knew that building. By comparing old maps with contemporary maps and the layout of the ground, I've come to the conclusion that Charles II's bedroom, the site of so much intrigue, was probably right about at the location of the statue that stands behind the Ministry of Defense, just off the river.

There's a building in Windsor that is allegedly where Nell stayed sometimes, and, very incongruously, it now houses a Chinese restaurant. Burford House, which Charles gave her, is still on the grounds of Windsor Castle, but has been much altered from her time.

How many of the characters in your book are real and how many are imaginary?

Most of the major characters and quite a lot of the minor ones are real people that Nell would have known. All the actors that she watches, learns from, and plays with are based on real actors, and the stage roles they play in the book are mostly the roles those actors actually performed. Orange Moll, who had the concession to sell oranges and sweetmeats in the theatre, is real, as is the rope dancer Jacob Hall, who really did become the lover of the Duchess of Castlemaine for a while. The old sailor Dicky One-Shank, who works as a stagehand, is fictitious, but there were sailors who worked in theatres--both jobs required some of the same knowledge of rigging, hauling canvas, and so on--and Nell surely knew some of them.

How did you recreate Nell's performances, or even know what plays she acted in?

Thanks to Samuel Pepys's diary, we have some glimpses into events at the playhouse, and Nell's performances. She didn't like serious roles, and she wasn't very good in them. More than once Pepys complains about her ruining a show with her performance. But he couldn't get enough of her when she was in a comic role, and the playwrights took advantage of that and wrote great parts for her, including many that had her playing opposite her lover Charles Hart. They became the Myrna Loy and William Powell of the 1660s, playing witty bantering couples who spar and jab and have a lot of humor and sexual chemistry.

Your second book, THE SEPTEMBER QUEEN, coming next November, also involves Charles II, but at a much earlier period of his life. How did that come about?

In the course of researching THE DARLING STRUMPET, I learned about Charles's escape after the disastrous Battle of Worcester in 1651, and how a girl named Jane Lane risked her life to help him by disguising him as her servant and riding behind him on horseback so he could get to the coast where he could find a boat that would take him to safety in France. It was an enormously important and formative period for Charles, and he told the story to anyone who would listen for the rest of his life.

I couldn't get into much depth about these events without slowing the story down, and with regret, I just had Charles say, "That's a story for another time." When my agent asked what I was going to write next, and I was casting around for ideas, I remembered Jane Lane. My agent loved the idea too, and we were both astonished and delighted to discover that apparently no one had ever written a novel about the really unbelievable story of her journey with Charles.

***

Thanks so much for stopping by today, Gillian, and best of luck with your debut! Readers, if you'd like the chance to win a copy of THE DARLING STRUMPET, answer this: What is it about the Cinderella/commoner-to-royalty idea that remains so timeless in history, legend and romance? Is it a trope you enjoy? I'll draw a winner at random next Sunday. Void where prohibited. Best of luck!

Excerpt Thursday: Gillian Bagwell

This week on Excerpt Thursday we're welcoming Berkley author Gillian Bagwell as she celebrates the release of her historical fiction debut, THE DARLING STRUMPET, set in Restoration Era England. Based on the life of Nell Gwynn, THE DARLING STRUMPET tells the story of her rise from the streets to become one of London's most beloved actresses and the life-long mistress of King Charles II. Join us Sunday when Gillian will be here to answer questions and give away a copy!

From London's slums to its bawdy playhouses, THE DARLING STRUMPET transports the reader to the tumultuous world of seventeenth-century England, charting the meteoric rise of the dazzling Nell Gwynn, who captivates the heart of King Charles II-and becomes one of the century's most famous courtesans.

Witty and beautiful, Nell was born into poverty but is drawn into the enthralling world of the theater, where her saucy humor and sensuous charm earn her a place in the King's Company. As one of the first actresses in the newly-opened playhouses, she catapults to fame, winning the affection of legions of fans--and the heart of the most powerful man in all of England, the King himself. Surrendering herself to Charles, Nell will be forced to maneuver the ruthless and shifting allegiances of the royal court--and discover a world of decadence and passion she never imagined possible.

***

Nell's first impression of the King's privy chamber was that it was like a chessboard filled with clocks. The floor was in squares of black and white marble, and a row of timepieces stood along the shining black mantle atop the enormous fireplace. Others dotted tables and shelves, and a tall case clock emitted a steady tock. The vast bed was surmounted by a canopy with great eagles above it, its curtains supported by cherubs that appeared to be in flight toward the elaborately painted ceiling high above. Paintings in heavy gold frames were mounted on the walls. The life-sized portraits of ladies and gentlemen in stiff finery seemed to Nell to look down on her as she passed.

It took Nell a moment to spot the King. He was seated at a writing desk, his back to the door, evidently engrossed in whatever he was studying. Three spaniels lay curled near his feet, and they lifted their heads to regard the visitors.

"Your Majesty," Buckingham began, but as he spoke, the tall clock began to tell the hour with a series of deep bongs. Another clock sounded, and then, as if they had been caught napping and were guiltily snapping to their work, the others chimed in one by one on their own notes and rhythms, creating a cacophonous jangle.

"George." The King stood and came smiling toward them, embraced Buckingham, and turned to Nell as the last of the bells faded to silence, pulling her up from her curtsy.

"Mistress Nelly. May I call you Nelly? I always think of you like that, you know, and calling you anything else would seem amiss."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Nell dimpled at him, pleased beyond measure that he "always" thought of her in any way at all.

"I've just been looking at Wren's plans for some of the new churches – come see." The King led them toward the desk, where a large drawing was unfurled.

"St. Paul's," he said. "Is it not splendid?"

"Magnificent," Buckingham agreed. "But what about some wine?"

Charles laughed. "Of course. Forgive me, Nelly, for being such a poor host. Faith, you grow more beautiful each time I see you."

"If it be so, Your Majesty, then I hope that you shall see me frequently, so that both of us may benefit," Nell laughed.

"And witty as well," Charles said over Nell's head to Buckingham. "Pretty, witty Nell."

Save for the servant who brought in the food and poured the wine, and the dogs, the three of them were alone. Charles and Buckingham were in jovial spirits, and chaffed with each other like the brothers they almost were.

They lingered over wine and sweetmeats, but as the clocks set up their clamor on the hour of ten, Buckingham declared that it was time for him to be gone.

"And you, Nelly?" asked Charles. "Must you run away? Or will you stay to keep me company a little while yet?"

"Gladly, sir," Nell said, "If it will give you pleasure."

Buckingham's footsteps faded, and Nell felt momentarily awkward – what should she do or say? But Charles poured more wine, silently raised his glass to her with a smile, and she felt at ease.

He pulled a morsel of meat from the pullet carcass on the table and held it out to one of his spaniels, who wolfed it down. Nell laughed as the dog licked its chops and cocked its head expectantly, clearly hoping for more. Charles gently pulled one of the dog's ears and scratched it under the chin.

"I had one of these beasts with me in France," he said. "Sometimes I thought he was my only true friend in the world."

"I have never had a dog, Your Majesty, but have often wondered if I had a true friend. He must have been a comfort to you."

Charles leaned forward and brushed a tendril of hair from Nell's cheek, letting his hand trail down her face, her throat, her breast. Nell felt a twinge in her belly – the involuntary contraction of arousal. She had fully expected the king to bed her. She had not expected to desire him as intensely as she suddenly found she did.

Excerpt Thursday: Donna Russo Morin

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming historical fiction author Donna Russo Morin. Her debut THE COURTIER'S SECRET was a finalist in this year's National Readers' Choice Award in the mainstream category, and won the winner of RWI's Best First Book Award. Book Illuminations has chosen her latest release, THE SECRET OF GLASS, as an Outstanding Pick for 2010. Join us Sunday when Donna will be here to talk about her books, answer questions and give away a signed copy.

At the dawn of the 17th Century, the glassmakers of Murano are revered as master artisans, enjoying privileges far beyond their station, but they are forced to live in virtual imprisonment, contained by the greedy Venetian government who fears other countries will learn the intricacies of the craft…and reap the rewards.

Sophia Fiolario, the comely daughter of a glass making maestro, has no desire for marriage, finding her serenity in the love of her family and the beauty of the glass. She learns of its secrets at her father's side, where a woman has no right to be. The life Sophia loves is threatened by the poor health of her father and the determined attentions of a nobleman who could and would never love her but seeks to possess her wealth and the privilege it affords.

Thrust into the opulent world of the Venice court, Sophia becomes embroiled in the scheming machinations of the courtiers' lives. The beauty of Venice, the magnificence of the Doge's Palace, are rivaled only by the intrigue and danger that festers behind their splendid facades. As she searches for an escape, she finds the arms of another, a man whose own desperate situation is yet another obstacle in their path.

Amidst political and religious intrigue, the scientific furor ignited by Galileo, and even murder, Sophia must do anything to protect herself, her family…and the secret of the glass.

***

For the love of God, what are you doing?

The frantic thought flashed through her mind, but she gave it little consideration, she couldn't. If she did, the fear would paralyze her completely.

Waiting impatiently for a scant few seconds, she stole a furtive glance inside and saw only a narrow brick walled opening--barely wide enough for two averaged sized men to walk abreast--and light gray, uneven stone stairs leading to a narrow landing. The first flight of stairs was empty; the group had ascended the landing and turned the corner.

Sophia entered the small foyer and began the almost inconceivable climb to the top. She paced herself, making sure never to catch up with the men ahead of her.

Higher and higher they climbed, slower and slower they moved. Sophia crested another flight, turned another corner, her own young and healthy heart thudding against her chest. An unobstructed beam of sunlight found her, and she crouched low, back into the shaded pit.

The group arrived at the top. Sophia slunk up the last flight of stairs on her hands and knees, keeping close against the cold stone, covering the front of her gown with the gray, sooty dirt. Peeking above the upper most step, she peered furtively into the square landing above. The last of the men to reach the pinnacle clustered together, leaning upon one another in an exhausted group, holding each other up as they caught their breath.

Sophia lunged, using their huddling, groaning mass as a cover, sneaking passed them to hide behind the farthest and largest bell. Within the safety of its unlit silhouette, Sophia looked around. Her full bottom lip lowered in unfettered astonishment. Though she had lived in this land, passed by the tall base of this obelisk all her life, she had never hurdled its stairs, had never seen this magnificent architecture waiting upon its zenith.

"Over here, if you please, Your Honor."

Sophia heard Galileo's call and stole a stealthy peep around the curved edge of the bell. Diagonally opposite from Sophia's position, he stood in the southeast corner of the tower, beckoning the Doge to join him, and extracting a strangely shaped device--long and circular--from his bag.

The other men swarmed around them against the parapet, their hair dancing in the buffeting, powerful wind of the lofty altitude, their low murmurs and questions tripping over one another. Galileo held one end of the lengthy, round cylinder up to his left eye and pointed the other end out toward the lagoon.

"My God!" His cutting whisper, like a fervent prayer, silenced the quizzical, conjecturing voices around him. Without another word, he offered the instrument to the Doge. Galileo sparkled as a dumbstruck, enraptured smile spread upon his face, like a man who had seen his newly born child for the first time.

Donato took the device and held it up to his eye, mimicking Galileo's posture, pointing it out to the glittering ocean. The large man jerked back his head as if struck, and thrust the tube away from his face. The attentive men gathered around him came on guard, heads spinning about searching for the threat, hands drawn to hilts. The Doge's large, horse-like stare spun to Galileo, probing the scientist's face with his questioning glare.

"Yes, yes, it is real." Galileo's long beard quivered from his chin. He smiled with childish joy at Sagredo and the priest who stood close beside him.

The Doge shook his head as if to deny the man's words, but put the instrument back to his eye.

"Holy Mother of God." Donato's breathy whisper ripped the expectant silence to shreds. "It is a miracolo!"

Sophia forced herself not to crow aloud, forced back the joyous laughter that bubbled within before it could forsake her hiding place behind the large bell. She knew what this device was, why this group had gathered upon this tall summit. Galileo had finished his creation, and from the shock upon his face and that of the Doge, it worked stupendously.

Excerpt Thursday: Frances Hunter

This week on Excerpt Thursday we're featuring Frances Hunter and the release of THE FAIREST PORTION OF THE GLOBE, a historical thriller set in the danger and squalor of the eighteenth-century American frontier. This gritty tale of intrigue, betrayal, and the birth of a legendary American friendship is the prequel to the highly-acclaimed TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH: THE LAST JOURNEY OF LEWIS & CLARK. Historical Novels Review praised the new release as "a well-researched, fast-paced, and incredibly lively novel of frontier war and intrigue...urgently, whole-heartedly recommended."

Frances will be here on Sunday to talk about the new book and give away a set of her novels. Please join us!

***

La Louisiane--a land of riches beyond imagining. Whoever controls the vast domain along the Mississippi River will decide the fate of the North American continent. When young French diplomat Citizen Genet arrives in America, he's determined to wrest Louisiana away from Spain and win it back for France--even if it means global war.

Caught up this astonishing scheme are George Rogers Clark, the washed-up hero of the Revolution and unlikely commander of Genet's renegade force; his beautiful sister Fanny, who risks her own sanity to save her brother's soul; General "Mad Anthony" Wayne, who never imagined he'd find the country's deadliest enemy inside his own army; and two young soldiers, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, who dream of claiming the Western territory in the name of the United States--only to become the pawns of those who seek to destroy it.

From the frontier forts of Ohio to the elegant halls of Philadelphia, the virgin forests of Kentucky to the mansions of Natchez, Frances Hunter has written a page-turning tale of ambition, intrigue, and the birth of a legendary American friendship--in a time when America was fighting to survive.

***

Damn me. Damn my eyes. Damn my long-suffering mother for bearing me. Damn my benighted father for siring me. Damn the soil on which I was reared, and the air and nourishment that sustained me.

Lewis sat by the fireside, almost weeping. Everything he owned was soaked and covered with wet, stinking peat. His rifle was waterlogged and the powder in his powder horn hopelessly damp; even the papers in the dispatch case were slightly sodden, the ink bleeding through the pages.

As usual, his Achilles heel--which was just as wet as the rest of him--was his damnable curiosity. After what seemed like years of walking through the thick, overhanging forest, Lewis had finally emerged into a wild, grassy clearing. He stopped dead when he felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. He stared down at the soggy forest floor as water the color of dried blood seeped around his bootsoles.

When he looked up, he thought he was in a dream. Before him lay the shattered, sun-bleached remains of a giant creature. An enormous skull lay half-submerged in the boggy ground, while the graceful arcs of two ancient tusks angled upward. Nearby, a pile of bleached bones lay in a jumble, looking like the fallen pillars of a ruined temple.

"I've heard of this place! My God!" His heart pounding with excitement, he had skirted the edge of the marsh, avid to see more. His mind spun back to Monticello, remembering the enormous jawbone of a mastodon Mr. Jefferson kept in his front hall. It had been a gift from George Rogers Clark, and it had come from here.

For a while he forgot himself completely. The ground was bubbling with salty springs that ran warm over his fingers. Mastodons, mammoths, and other ancient animals had come here to drink, and their fossilized remains were everywhere. He picked up several giant teeth and stuffed them in his knapsack; he spent a glorious hour trying to find the tibia and fibula to match a giant thighbone he found standing on end at the edge of a bubbling spring. Tusks, ribs, and skulls lay on the ground, their cavernous eyes gaping at him as he rambled amidst the salt flats, the only living creature in a vast tableau of lovely, ruined solitude. He wished with all his heart that he could box up all the fossils and cart the lot of them home for Mr. Jefferson.

Picking his way around the lick, he thrilled to the tremor of the bog's skin beneath his feet. Across a stretch of sodden earth, he saw a sight that took his breath away: the skeleton of an ancient horse resting on a sandy ledge, scattered upon the ground as if the animal had simply laid down to sleep a million years ago. His heart almost burst with longing. He had to see it--to touch it--to count the bones--

Beneath him the ground quaked, little more than a saturated sponge of smelly, half-rotted vegetation. But what the hell! Who ever gained anything without risk? Carefully shifting his pack to balance the load, he had held onto a tree branch and stepped out gingerly onto the bog. It held.

A wild surge of rapture overtook him. For a crazy moment, he started to bounce. His movement caused ripples to undulate out in all directions as the bog rocked and quaked. Grinning like a madman, he watched the trees that clung to the tangled mats of moss rise and fall along with him.

Strong enough to hold a man's weight. Here goes--

Now, he stared dismally at the soggy contents of his knapsack, which he had spread before the fire. The sealed letter from Wayne lay next to the now-cursed mastodon teeth. He had made it about ten steps when the bog opened its maw beneath him and swallowed him up in its murky depths, a mountain of slime closing with a plop over his bobbing head. He could only pray everything would be dry by morning.

Rubbing his aching gut, he let out a loud belch, his stomach roiling from the great gulps of marsh water he had swallowed as he struggled to free himself from the bog's slimy clutches. He sat naked, his body covered by the bites of flies and leeches and the stings of nettles, an unbearable symphony of itching. Draped on a tree branch nearby, his sodden clothes drifted listlessly in the breeze. Lewis tossed another stick into the fire and muttered another self-recrimination. His foolishness had almost drowned him. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that he had forgotten what he was here for. Forgotten about the mission Anthony Wayne had entrusted to him. Forgotten about Clark.

"It's one thing to get myself killed," he muttered through his teeth. "The world would little mourn the loss of a lowly wretch such as I. But Clark--"

He dragged a hand through his smelly, damp hair. He had to make this mission a success. If he failed, the losses would be disastrous. Clark's life. Wayne's peace. The more he thought about it, the life of every man at Fort Washington hung in the balance. For if he died of fly bites, or drowned in a bog, or got lost in the wilderness, or was captured by that bounder Wilkinson...what would become of Clark? Who would stop his brother from storming down the river? And what would become of peace on the frontier, and the future of the American nation?

He burped again, and almost laughed. "There it is, Lewis," he said to himself. "The fate of the whole goddamn country is squarely on your shoulders. Better not make a hash of it."

Crime & Punishment:Bounty Hunters in the Old West

By Jacquie Rogers

The law was a bit sparse in the Old West, often not a lawman around for hundreds of miles. If a criminal knew how to live off the land and he owned a fast horse, he was pretty well guaranteed an escape. What's a sheriff to do?

In 1872, the Supreme Court ruled that bounty hunters were a part of the U.S. law enforcement system with a decision in Taylor vs. Taintor:

When the bail is given, the principal is regarded as delivered to the custody of his sureties. Their domain is a continuance of the original imprisonment. Whenever they choose to do so, they may seize him and deliver him up to his discharge; and if it cannot be done at once, they may imprison him until it can be done. They may exercise their rights in person or by agent. They may pursue him into another state; may arrest him on the Sabbath; and if necessary, may break and enter his house for that purpose. The seizure is not made by virtue of due process. None is needed. It is likened to the arrest by the Sheriff of an escaped prisoner.

As you can see by this decision, bounty hunters didn't have to adhere to the same rules of due process that lawmen did. (This is still true in some states.)

One of the greatest bounty hunters was Pinkerton Detective, Charlie Siringo. Siringo had a long and distinguished, if not controversial, career. He had steely nerves and his cleverness got him out of more than one jam. But he wrote a book, and the Pinkerton Agency wasn't too keen about that, so he spent several years at the end of his life arguing with them. Could be that the Pinkertons were the only ones to ever best him.

Lots of town marshals and county sheriffs supplemented their meager incomes with bounties. Of course, they had to follow the rules of due process while a bounty hunter had no such restrictions. Then again, if there's no one around for a couple hundred miles, who's to know? This is part of how the West was tamed. Many lawmen straddled the fence between law-enforcing and law-breaking.

Charlene Sands, author of Bodine's Bounty, blogged about bounty hunters on Pistols and Petticoats. Really good info at this site on lots of Old West topics. Anyway, she points out that in order for a bounty hunter to get his money in British Columbia, he had to bring the criminal in alive. The US had no such compunctions, but the bounty was half if the prisoner died before making it to jail. She also mentions that the bounty hunters didn't receive payment until later, so when they brought in prisoners, they'd either have to wait, or have the money sent to a bank. (They'd probably wait, considering the state of banking at the time.) But the most important thing that Ms. Sands mentioned was that bounty hunters' names were never, ever recorded, because their anonymity was their protection. This little item is what makes research difficult.

Much to movie and TV viewers' delight, popular lore glorifies the Old West bounty hunter. The role of Josh Randall in Wanted: Dead or Alive in the 1950s made Steve McQueen a star.

Josh Randall (Steve McQueen) was a man of few words. A bounty hunter by trade, he tracked his prey all over the West. Randall carried an 1892 44/40 center fire Winchester carbine that he called "Mare's Laig." It handled like a revolver by had the punch of a rifle. Unlike other bounty hunters, Randall had scruples. He tried to bring the prisoner in alive and often found himself called upon to protect people in need.

Then there's my personal favorite, Paladin, played by Richard Boone on "Have Gun-Will Travel." (Okay, so he was more gunslinger than bounty hunter, but they go together well.) I'm not the only one impressed with that character: Eminem will be starring as Paladin in a contemporary movie remake. Does Eminem have what Richard Boone had?

We'll see!

Jacquie

Please vote for Faery Special Romances in The New Covey Awards! It's #23, and I'd really love to see the cover artist, Monika Wolmarans, win this!



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Pioneer Women Of Australia

I have just finished reading this book, which is a newer version of previous diaries I've read about some of the women featured.

The diaries of pioneer women are something which I not only collect but also use for research material in writing my own novels, such as Kitty McKenzie's Land and A Noble Place - both books set in my country, Australia, during the Victorian era.

About the book:
These brave and resourceful women encountered conditions which would test their resilience and resourcefulness to the utmost: relentless heat, dust and isolation; and no doctors or pioneer women featured who faced the risk of dying from malaria, the scourge of tropical Australia.

Many women lived in wooden huts or tin sheds with concrete floors, cooked on wood-fired stoves, and lacked any of the domestic appliances we take for granted today.

Georgiana Molloy and the Brussell women tamed hectares of virgin bush with primitive implements. Myrtle White was trapped among sand hills, the fine grains invading her home and impeding her harrowing attempts to get her feverish baby son to the doctor before he died.

White's predicament was quoted by the Rev John Flynn while raising funds for his Flying Doctor service.The outback was indeed 'no place for a lady'.

Yet many women with no previous experience of hardship rose to the challenge of creating homes, nursing farming - and keeping journals, which provided a startling vivid picture of the life they faced - part of the outback legend.'Great Pioneer Women of the Outback' profiles ten female pioneers, from Jeannie Gunn, author of 'We of the Never Never' to equally remarkable but lesser known women, such as Emma Withnell in Western Australia and Evelyn Maunsell in Queensland.

Building on the women's own records and her knowledge of Australian women's history, Susanna de Vries documents the extraordinary grit and determination it took to build lives that their grandchildren have difficulty in comprehending but some older Australians still remember.

'Great Pioneer Women of the Outback' features women pioneering in some of the harshest land in Western Australia, Queensland, South Australia, the Northern Territory and New South Wales.
Distributor: Harper Collins
Author: Susanna De Vries
ISBN: 0732276632
RRP: $29.95 AUD
For my own stories I find the strength of pioneer women fascinating. Their stories sometimes seem too outlandish to be true. If you wrote down half of the things they had to endure, readers would think we wrote fantasy. Yet, these women survived such harsh primitive conditions, rearing children, working beside their men and coping with the demands of running not only a home but usually a large station and staff.

I have dedicated my Australian historical, A Noble Place to women such as these, hoping that in some small I can honour them.

What part of your research do you find makes you want to recreate? Or which era in history makes you eager to explore and do justice to in a novel?