[Blog Tour] 'Ropewalk; Rebellion. Love. Survival' (The Ropewalk Series, Book 1) By H D Coulter #HistoricalFiction

'Ropewalk; Rebellion. Love. Survival' - Blog Tour Banner

The Book:

Ropewalk; Rebellion. Love. Survival
(The Ropewalk Series, Book 1)
By H D Coulter

• Publication Date: 23rd November 2020
• Publisher: Independently Published
• Page Length: 243 Pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

The North of England, 1831.

The working class are gathering. Rebellion is stirring, and the people are divided.

Beatrice Lightfoot, a young woman fighting her own personal rebellion, is looking for an opportunity to change her luck. When she gains the attention of the enigmatic Captain Hanley, he offers her a tantalising deal to attend the May Day dance. She accepts, unaware of the true price of her own free will.

Her subsequent entanglement with Joshua Mason, the son of a local merchant, draws all three into a destructive and dangerous relationship, which threatens to drag Beatrice, and all she knows into darkness.

Now, Beatrice must choose between rebellion, love and survival before all is lost, and the Northern uprising changes her world forever.

Buy Links: Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Universal Link to other bookshops ✔

• 'Ropewalk; Rebellion. Love. Survival.' can be bought for only 0.99 during the tour and signed copies of the paperbacks are also available on the author’s website 

'Ropewalk; Rebellion. Love. Survival' - Book Front Cover

'Ropewalk; Rebellion. Love. Survival.' Excerpt:

Chapter 4

Bent over the old wooden table, Bea sprinkled out a second dusting of flour before pulling and stretching the stringy wholemeal dough to make the bread for the evening meal. The house was quiet; her brothers were out working with her Da, and her eldest sister Beth was a housemaid over on Southergate. Holly and Rowan sat playing with their wooden toys by the fire as Bea placed the dough in a bowl in front of the grate, covered it with a cloth and allowed it to prove. She made a start on the rabbit stew with the animal she caught yesterday in one of her Da's traps. She peeled the potatoes and chopped the cabbages she had dug out of the small vegetable patch earlier that morning, finishing with a handful of the dried thyme and rosemary which hung in bunches over the hearth, throwing them in to the pot.

With the stew bubbling away above the fire, Bea placed the bread in the small oven inset to the right of the grate. The front door rattled open, abruptly disturbing the peace, as Mrs Lightfoot strutted into the seat in front of the fire.

"Come on girls, move out the way." She kept nudging them until she could sit down. They looked up at Bea, who gestured with her eyes for them to play at the other end of the table.

"How is Mrs Dent faring?" Bea asked politely. Mrs Dent had a nasty turn at the same time every morning, roughly about the time Mr Lightfoot left for work.

"Oh, she is just fine now," her mother remarked with no interest.

"How's dinner comin' by? Anythin' else you need to do? Your father and brothers will be home soon."

Bea continued in silence, turning her back on her Mam and smiling towards the girls. This seemed to vex her Mam once more. She raised her voice a notch higher.

"Your Father can't be expected to always. . ."

A knock echoed across the room, putting a stop to her complaint. Bea let out the breath she had been holding in. Like a Greek player with two masks, Mrs Lightfoot quickly substituted her frown for a large smile. She stood up and smoothed down her dress, rushing hastily to the door.

"Good day, Captain Hanley! Please, come in!"

Without thinking, Bea ducked down and hid by the girls behind the kitchen table. She couldn't imagine what he had come for; it had been a week since their last encounter and the awkwardness she had felt then suddenly came flooding back.

"Good day, Mrs Lightfoot, forgive the intrusion," he greeted her as he stepped into the room, scanning his surroundings quickly.

"Tea?" Her Mam grabbed a grimy tin from the top shelf of the dresser and dusted off the small china teapot given to her as a wedding gift. She hovered over the precious leaves, counting out each spoonful.

"Please." He took off his hat and placed it on the table alongside a large paper parcel.

"If you don't mind me being so bold, Captain Hanley, what do you have there?" She offered the Captain a beaming smile, attempting to convince him it was meant for her. With relief, Bea realised, her Mam had no intention of making her presence known.

"Is Miss Beatrice around?" he enquired, ignoring Mrs Lightfoot’s question.

Mrs Lightfoot paused. So did Bea, mid-breath. Holly looked down at her sister with a delighted smile and bellowed, "Here, Bea is HERE!" She covered her mouth for a second, and then descended into a fit of giggles. Bea's cheeks became hot, feeling like a child herself, caught hiding with the young ones. Rowan joined in with Holly's laughter. Bea stood up slowly, keeping her eyes low.

"Good day Miss Beatrice, I have brought you a little something, which I hope you will like.” Hanley smiled, indicating the parcel.

"I… thank you…?" She hesitated, unsure how to receive such a gift, or if she should receive it at all. She stepped out from behind the security of her sisters and moved towards the Captain.

"Please - open it." His voice held a hint of pride.

The brown wrapping paper was closed with a golden ribbon. Without thinking, she stroked the satin material with her fingers, tugging at the tails, and in doing so, sealed her acceptance. The ribbon fell away gracefully on to the table, and the paper cracked as it gave way to yards and yards of stunning silk cloth which glowed like her beloved early dawns down at the harbour. A couple of seconds passed, and no one uttered a word.

"Do you like it?" Hanley knew it had already worked its magic.

"Thank you, Captain, it is beautiful. . . but I cannot accept this". She folded the brown paper back over, concealing the temptation inside.

"Now Miss Lightfoot, it is merely a simple gift - I came across it through a friend, for half the selling price, and thought you could make good use of it with the dance coming up."

He opened it up again, luring her in. She did not recognise it from Johnson’s, she was certain of that. So where had he obtained it? From his connections with the smugglers, being a sailor? He might be a smuggler himself, for all she knew. Regardless, it must have cost him a shilling a yard, if not more, even at half the price. There must be at least twenty yards sat on the kitchen table. She felt a reckless tightness in her chest. The sound of his voice brought her back into the room.

"Will you do me the honour of accepting it?" His soft voice was low and clear.

"Sir – Captain - it is too much; I’ve done nothing to deserve…" Her heart was a marching drum in her chest. She had never, would never, be able to afford such a quantity of beautiful fabric in her life. It would give her the dress she wanted, allow her to attend the May Day ball which would please Alice - and herself, if she was honest. But what would she owe him in return?

"Forgive me, but I saw how you looked at the fabrics in Johnson's, the other day," he looked at her in a way that made her feel they were the only two in the room, "and by coincidence I came across this similar silk at a lower price only hours later. It was meant for you."

Bea felt the words pulling her in. His hand slowly crept towards hers across the oak boards.

"Isn't that lovely Beatrice?" Mrs Lightfoot exclaimed in a shrill voice, breaking the spell. "You didn't tell me you saw Captain Hanley the other day? And to think, 'e has bought you such a lovely gift!" Bea pulled back her hand and took a step away from the parcel, looking at the door. She wanted to escape, to bring this ordeal to an end.

"What if we perform a simple exchange?" He felt her attention return to him. "If you accept this small gift, in return I ask for the first two dances at the May Day Ball?" Bea's eyes widened, and she looked at him earnestly, inspecting as best she could the meaning in his words, the truth behind the smile. She knew the implications if she said yes.

Glancing at her mother, she saw an unpleasant look on her face, a mixture of frustration, envy and resentment, her hands twisting her apron into a funnel, like a dishcloth. Bea's finger graced the top of the fabric. It reminded her of the creaminess of a rose petal. She would be a golden rose. It would make her beautiful. The equal to any of the other ladies, for one night only, to know what it was like to have opportunities. Her heart cried out for her to say yes; for the price of the first two dances, how could she refuse.

"Captain, I will accept your offer."

Hanley looked triumphant. "I am pleased to hear this. I look forward to seeing the dress you create from the silk, and to have the honour of the first two dances." He made his way without ceremony to the door.

"Thank you…" Bea nodded her head at no one in particular, dazed.

A wide smile filled his face, and he gave Bea a deep bow. Turning on his heels, he faced Mrs Lightfoot.

"Thank you for the hospitality, as always, ma'am," and tilted his head with a curt nod. In two steps he was out of the door, leaving behind a chipped cup full of untouched tea, and a silent kitchen.

Ropewalk: Rebellion. Love. Survival.

Copyright: ©H D Coulter

• Book 2: 'Saving Grace; Deception. Obsession. Redemption'. can now be preordered.here: Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Universal Link to other bookshops ✔

Author Bio:

Hayley was born and raised in the lake district and across Cumbria. From a young age, Hayley loved learning about history, visiting castles and discovering local stories from the past. Hayley and her partner lived in Ulverston for three years and spent her weekends walking along the Ropewalk and down by the old harbour. She became inspired by the spirit of the area and stories that had taken place along the historic streets.

As a teacher, Hayley had loved the art of storytelling by studying drama and theatre. The power of the written word, how it can transport the reader to another world or even another time in history. But it wasn't until living in Ulverston did she discover a story worth telling. From that point, the characters became alive and she fell in love with the story.

Connect with Hayley:

• Website
• Twitter
• Instagram 
• Facebook 

'Ropewalk; Rebellion. Love. Survival' - Tour Schedule

[Blog Tour] 'A Sword Among Ravens' (The Long-Hair Saga) By Cynthia Ripley Miller #HistoricalMystery #AncientWorld

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The Book:

A Sword Among Ravens

(The Long-Hair Saga) 

By Cynthia Ripley Miller
Publication Date: 9th December 2020
Publisher: BookLocker
Page Length: 267 Pages
Genre: Romantic Historical Mystery

The Blurb:

In a grave, on the edge of a Roman battlefield, an ancient sword has been discovered. Legend claims it belonged to King David of Israel and carries a curse—those who wield it will tragically die—but not the chosen.

AD 455. Arria Felix and her husband, Garic the Frank, have safely delivered a sacred relic to Emperor Marcian in Constantinople. But now, Arria and Garic will accept a new mission. The emperor has asked them to carry the sword of King David of Israel to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem where Arria will dedicate it in her murdered father’s memory.

As Arria and Garic travel into the heart of the Holy Land, they face many challenges and dangers. Their young daughter is missing then found in the company of a strange and suspicious old monk. A brutal killer stalks their path. And a band of cold-blooded thieves is determined to steal the sword for their own gains. But when Arria confronts the question of where the sword should truly rest—old friendships, loyalties, and her duty are put to the test like never before. At every turn, Arria and Garic find themselves caught in a treacherous mission wrapped in mystery, murder, and A Sword Among Ravens.

Buy Links:

Amazon UK • Amazon US • Amazon CA • Amazon AU • Barnes and Noble • Kobo

'A Sword Among Ravens' - Front Cover

'A Sword Among Ravens' - Excerpt:

Prologue

A Husband, a Sword, and a Curse

AD 447: Roman Province of Dacia Ripensis (Bulgaria)—Month of Julius

Waves of burnt grass fell away as Lucius Valerius Marcian stomped through the battlefield. Behind him, his surviving cavalry soldiers—the Roman VIII Augusta Equites—found their horses abandoned when the fighting went to foot. Marcian stopped and looked around.

Toward the west, bold yellow rays stretched from the late afternoon sun across gray clouds gathering overhead. They shined with an ominous brightness that rattled through him, making him uneasy—on guard. The battle against the Huns had been fierce. Both sides suffered heavy losses, but their Roman general had died on the field, a brutal blow for the Romans. Shouting victory, the Huns had moved east toward a nearby city, and greater plunders.

A mild breeze swept past him. He winced. A stench floated from the barbarian and Roman corpses around them. The smell of death wasn’t new to him. But even now, after many battles and bodies at his feet, the foul odor, the sight of bloated flesh, and gaping wounds were still difficult to ignore.

Marcian swallowed hard and turned from the wind. He searched the distance. On a small hill, he spied Apollo. The horse grazed beside a cluster of bushes that circled a large oak tree. Sweat dripped from Marcian’s curls and onto his brow while splatters of blood and skin stuck to his tunic, helmet, and leather armor. The summer heat had laughed at the slaughter, adding a cruel torment to the battle, but they had persevered, fought tight, outmaneuvered—and lived. He would see Arria again.

The other horses stood farther away, and the men fanned in that direction. Marcian grinned. It was just like Apollo to go in his own direction and very similar to his master, who often struggled with his own independent nature. Even the girl he chose to marry was not the average Roman woman. Arria had been raised unconventionally. Her father had provided her with a man’s education, not just the domestic arts taught to women. As a result, many in Rome respected her for her sharp wit, powers of deduction, and diplomacy. Marcian’s friends warned that she might be a difficult wife to control, but he had no desire to rule over her; he just wanted to live with and lay beside her. He loved her tenacity, her keen mind, and most important to him, they laughed together.

Marcian ran up the hill while Apollo continued to graze. Suddenly, he stumbled and went sprawling face down onto the ground. Something solid had tripped him. He rose to his knees and shook his head. Running his fingers over his forehead, he glanced behind him. A small black object jutted out from the grass at an angle.

Scrambling to his feet, he went and crouched over it. To the eye and touch, it looked and felt like an iron ring pushing through the earth, eroded by weather and time. Marcian drew his knife and scratched the exterior. Hardened dirt stuck to the surface, forcing him to chip it away. The more he scraped, the larger the object grew. After several more attempts, the ring appeared attached to a metal slab. Marcian looked around. The field was quiet. Most of his men had retrieved their horses and returned to the field camp. Roman bodies needed to be stripped and buried. Not far from him, he spotted his centurion riding in his direction. He waved, and the Roman soldier trotted his horse toward him. A barbarian by birth, the tall, husky blond Goth, Darius, wore only a tunic with a thick leather belt, boots, and no helmet. He lent a sharp contrast to Marcian’s shorter, rugged build and dark coloring.

“Darius, help me!” Marcian stood and shouted. “I’ve found something odd buried in the grass.”

The centurion rode up the hill and jumped from his horse. “What is it, sir?” he asked.

“An iron ring attached to a lid or door, but I want to know what’s inside. Tie up my horse. Then go to the camp and bring back two shovels.”

Marcian returned to his knees while Darius tethered Apollo and then rode away. Thunder pealed in the distance. He looked toward the sky. A few sun rays still pierced the clouds, but the moving layers looked darker, heavier. He raked his knife faster. With a strong hand, he brushed away the earth. Marcian sat back on his haunches, gazed at the ring, and waited. Soon, Darius arrived with the shovels. They dug along the perimeter in opposite directions. Within minutes, they uncovered two hinges on what was clearly a bronze frame. Whatever lay beneath the earth was larger than Marcian had imagined.

In unison, they fought feverishly to unearth the mysterious object and beat the threatening rain. With the last layer of dirt gone, both men stopped to rest. Embedded in the hill’s grassy slope, a three by six-foot rusted iron door shone dark brown in the light. Darius sat on a nearby rock. Marcian took a breath, removed his helmet, and dropped it on the ground.

“How strange,” Marcian commented, pulling a short scarf from around his neck. He wiped his brow and then tied it around his forehead.

Darius nodded, then pursed his lips and scratched his jaw. “Looks heavy, I wonder if it can be opened?” With a quick laugh, he added. “I brought some mead to strengthen us.”

“Good man!”

Darius retrieved a pouch hanging on his saddle and tossed it to Marcian, who took a swig and handed the pouch back to the centurion. Darius took a long drink.

Marcian looked at the sky. “The sun is hidden now. Let’s open this door—to the devil knows what—and be done before the rain falls.” He grabbed the handle, and Darius used the shovel to pry open the door from its frame.

The first attempt proved futile. Their breath labored, they heaved and groaned as thunder rolled over them.

“Balls! This is stubborn,” Darius hissed between clenched teeth.

Marcian tugged at the handle. Darius wedged the shovel’s blade between the door and the frame. The door hinges creaked, giving them hope. Their muscles straining, they braced their legs, bent forward, and yanked. The door screeched like a warning owl. “Harder,” Marcian gasped. Darius bellowed a curse.

The door suddenly gave way, almost knocking Marcian backward. He steadied himself, took a step, and looked down. A dark hole leading into a tunnel gaped back at him.

“Shit! What’s that?” Darius spat.

“How the hell do I know,” Marcian replied gruffly, but I’m going to find out.”

Darius nodded, swiped the pouch from the ground, and took another drink. “Will you go first, Tribune?”

Marcian laughed. “Centurion, I won’t let my rank trump your lack of courage.” With a last look into the pit, he jumped in. The edge of the earth came to his waist, and he knelt to crawl in deeper. A few feet ahead of him, he saw bone fragments, a partial jaw with several teeth, and a bundle of deteriorated leather. A shield rested nearby.

Marcian’s heart beat faster. He looked closer. A metal box poked through the bones and animal skin. A sudden rush of dread washed over him. Sweat trickled from beneath the scarf covering his brow. He paused but spied a metal grip. Marcian quickly yanked the box and scurried backward, dragging the case to the opening. Darius gave him a hand, and Marcian jumped out. Together, they reached into the hole and lifted the box onto the ground.

They stood beside it and stared. The box looked about three feet long, a foot wide and half as deep. Marcian tore away the decomposed leather clinging to the outside. On closer inspection, the case proved to be silver, heavily tarnished. A lock secured the lid. Marcian snatched a remnant of the aged leather and rubbed the top of the metal. A short row of engraved and unrecognizable letters or symbols, dulled by time, appeared. He frowned. The case seemed quite old, perhaps ancient.

“Shall we open it?” Darius asked, his eyes shining.

“Better to open it here than in camp with many around us. Use the shovel.”

Darius nodded and swung the blade down against the lock. Yielding to the force of the clanging iron tool, the lock snapped open. Marcian planted his feet firmly behind the box, at the base, and clamped his fingers on the lid’s edge. Darius pressed one foot on the front side and used his knife to pry at it while Marcian pulled from behind. The rusted lid budged a little but groaned its refusal.

“Lift!” Marcian barked, and his jaw tightened. The lid creaked one more time—then gave in and opened.

A whoosh escaped the box trailed by a faint odor of eucalyptus. Both men flinched with the sensation and glanced at one another. Inside, an object wrapped in grayed linen cloth fit snugly into the container.

“This gets more mysterious by the moment,” Marcian said softly.

Darius scratched his head. “What is it?”

“Let’s find out; the day is dying, and a raindrop just brushed my cheek.” Marcian kneeled and lifted the bundle from its case. With a pivot and his arms extended, he gently placed it on the ground. As Marcian unwrapped the object, pieces of the linen crumbled. A soft flash of light burst through the fabric and struck his eyes; he blinked. When he looked again, a sword, simple in form but strangely beautiful lay nestled in the cloth.

Cynthia Ripley Miller

Author Bio:

Cynthia Ripley Miller is a first generation Italian-American writer with a love for history, languages, and books. She has lived in Europe and traveled world-wide, holds two degrees, and taught history and English. Her short fiction has appeared in the anthology Summer Tapestry, at Orchard Press Mysteries.com, and The Scriptor. She is a Chanticleer International Chatelaine Award finalist with awards from Circle of Books-Rings of Honor and The Coffee Pot Book Club. She has reviewed for UNRV Roman History, and blogs at Historical Happenings and Oddities: A Distant Focus and on her website, www.cynthiaripleymiller.com

Cynthia is the author of On the Edge of Sunrise, The Quest for the Crown of Thorns, and A Sword Among Ravens, books 1-3 in her Long-Hair Saga series set in Late Ancient Rome, France, and Jerusalem. Cynthia lives outside of Chicago with her family, along with a cute but bossy cat.

Connect with Cynthia:

Website • Facebook • Twitter • Pinterest • Amazon • Goodreads

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[Audio Blog Tour] 'State of Treason' (Book 1, William Constable Spy Thrillers) By Paul Walker #HistoricalFiction #audio

'State of Treason' - Tour Banner

The Book:

State of Treason
(Book 1, William Constable Spy Thrillers)
By Paul Walker

• Narrator: Edward Gist
• Publication Date: February 2021
• Publisher: Audible Studios
• Page Length: 317 pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction

'State of Treason' -Front Cover

The Blurb:

London, 1578

William Constable is a scholar of mathematics, astrology and practices as a physician. He receives an unexpected summons to the Queen’s spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham in the middle of the night. He fears for his life when he spies the tortured body of an old friend in the palace precincts.

His meeting with Walsingham takes an unexpected turn when he is charged to assist a renowned Puritan, John Foxe, in uncovering the secrets of a mysterious cabinet containing an astrological chart and coded message. Together, these claim Elizabeth has a hidden, illegitimate child (an “unknowing maid”) who will be declared to the masses and serve as the focus for an invasion.

Constable is swept up in the chase to uncover the identity of the plotters, unaware that he is also under suspicion. He schemes to gain the confidence of the adventurer John Hawkins and a rich merchant. Pressured into taking a role as court physician to pick up unguarded comments from nobles and others, he has become a reluctant intelligencer for Walsingham.

Do the stars and cipher speak true, or is there some other malign intent in the complex web of scheming?

Constable must race to unravel the threads of political manoeuvring for power before a new-found love and perhaps his own life are forfeit.

Buy Links: Amazon Audio: Amazon UK • Amazon US

• This book can be read for free with #KindleUnlimited subscription.

'State of Treason' - Audio Cover

The Audio Excerpt:

The Author Bio:

Paul Walker is married and lives in a village 30 miles north of London. Having worked in universities and run his own business, he is now a full-time writer of fiction and part-time director of an education trust. His writing in a garden shed is regularly disrupted by children and a growing number of grandchildren and dogs.

Paul writes historical fiction. He inherited his love of British history and historical fiction from his mother, who was an avid member of Richard III Society. The William Constable series of historical thrillers is based around real characters and events in the late sixteenth century. The first three books in the series are State of Treason; A Necessary Killing; and The Queen’s Devil. He promises more will follow.

Paul Walker

• Connect with Paul: Website • Twitter • Facebook

'State of Treason' - Tour Schedule

[Blog Tour] "Blood Libel" By M Lynes #HistoricalFiction #Mystery

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The Book:

Blood Libel
By M Lynes

• Publication Date: 31st January 2021
• Publisher: Independently Published
• Page Length: 260 Pages
• Genre: Historical Mystery

The Blurb:

Seville, 1495

The mutilated body of a child is discovered behind a disused synagogue. The brutal Spanish Inquisition accuses the Jewish community of ritual child murder - the ‘blood libel’. The Inquisition will not rest until all heretics are punished.

Isaac Alvarez, a lawyer working for the royal estate, is a reluctant convert to Catholicism who continues to secretly practice Judaism. When his childhood friend is accused of the murder Isaac is torn between saving him and protecting his family. Isaac is convinced that solving the murder will disprove the blood libel, save his family, and protect his faith.

As the Inquisition closes in how far will Isaac go to protect both his family and his faith?

Buy Links: Amazon UK • Amazon US

"Blood Libel" By M Lynes - Front cover

Blood Libel - Excerpt:

The testimony of Friar Alonso de Hojeda

Seville, Torre del Oro, April 1495

Deep in the heart of the night and I am alone in my cell. Sleep will not grace me with its balm. A single candle sputters, its light flickering across this parchment where I transcribe the secrets I dare not share with anyone, except you. I began this testimony two months ago having no one to confide in. The confession stall is far too dangerous. I must finish this entry before Lauds; it might be my last. I’ll discover the verdict of my earthly masters in a few hours. Then I may not have much longer to wait for the heavenly father’s judgment.

If this testimony is discovered whilst I live, I will burn on the cross. Once I depart this benighted world, I hope my testimony is found and that whoever reads it will not judge me harshly. Some might deem my actions sins. I fervently believe they were justified to further the faith. If absolution is not granted me in this life it will come in the hereafter; from the Almighty or from the readers of this account. Perhaps from both Him and you.

Is there one of the seven cardinal sins I have not committed? Pride, greed and envy, surely - but gluttony, anger and sloth are not weaknesses of mine. A tendency to self-pity is. It might not be a sin, but perhaps it should be. To even think that is to put words into God’s mouth. Another sin.

I have not spared myself in this account. I hope it will be viewed as an honest counterweight to the version of the story I fear will be propagated by those with most to lose from the real truth.

I look up at the only adornment on these walls and wonder whether Jesus on the cross looking down upon me forgives my thoughts, let alone my actions. I will get down on my knees and pray on my threadbare mat that he does. And that the Lord will guide me through whatever is to befall me when the sun rises.

M Lynes

The Author Bio:

Michael is an author of historical mysteries who writes under the pen name of M Lynes. He has a particular interest in early 16th century Andalucia. He is fascinated by the interplay between cultures, globalization and religious intolerance of that period in Spain’s history. The ‘Isaac Alvarez Mysteries’ are set against this rich background. He won a prize for his fiction at the 2020 Emirates Literature Festival and is an alumna of the Faber Academy’s Writing a Novel course.

His debut novel ‘Blood Libel’, the first full-length Isaac Alvarez Mystery, was published in January 2021. Isaac, a lawyer working for the royal estate, must solve a brutal child murder to protect his family and his faith from the Spanish Inquisition.

Michael is hard at work on the second novel in the series and planning the third. He is originally from London but currently lives in Dubai with his family.

Connect with Michael: Website • Twitter • Facebook

"Blood Libel" - Tour schedule

[Blog Tour] "The North Finchley Writers’ Group" by Richard Tearle, with Helen Hollick #ContemporaryRomance

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The Book: 

The North Finchley Writers’ Group
:By Richard Tearle, with Helen Hollick

• Publication Date: 2nd February 2021
• Publisher: Taw River Press
• Page Length: 142 pages
• Genre: Contemporary Romance

The Blurb:

When a group of north London writers meet each month for a chat, coffee, and cake – what else is on their agenda? Constructive criticism? New Ideas? An exciting project? And maybe, more than one prospective romance...?

Eavesdrop on the monthly meetings of the North Finchley Writers' Group, follow some ordinary people with a love of story writing, and an eagerness for success. Discover, along with them, the mysteries of creating characters and plot, of what inspires ideas, and how real life can, occasionally, divert the dream...

The North Finchley Writers’ Group - Front cover

Buy Links: Amazon

The North Finchley Writers’ Group - Excerpt:

LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF

My name – my personal and professional name – is Rob Taylor and I'm a writer.

It is rather strange to state that as a fact after years of scribbling, despair at rejections tempered by moments of high elation when one of my stories was accepted by a respected magazine. But I can state it as a truth now, for I write regularly for several publications, and my first compilation has recently been published with a fixed contract for two more to follow. At the moment, I write short stories, but more than a few friends have encouraged me with prompts such as “You have a novel in you, you know,” and, “A short story has the potential to be a novel writ long.” I am working on the idea.

But enough of that.

About a year or so ago, I was unexpectedly made redundant. Jobless, but with a good-enough redundancy bank balance to keep me going for a bit, and a determination to do what I wanted to do – write – I took the plunge and converted the spare bedroom into a study. I started writing full time and joined the North Finchley Writers' Group, where I met some lovely people who, one way or another, gave me the encouragement to develop my ideas.

All to my satisfaction, but my wife's dismay.

The members of our writers’ group are a very mixed bunch, as you will find out. We meet every month at a different house and whoever is the host gets to provide tea and coffee – often with cake or ‘light snacks’ – and chooses a topic for discussion. We talk, voice opinions and yes, sometimes we argue. But it is all forgotten when we walk away into the night.

Mostly.

They've had quite a turnover of members over the years. Some who came for a couple of meetings and then disappear. Some who weren't really writers but 'dabble' and think that attending a writers' group meeting makes them one. They never last long. Some have moved along and, sadly, one or two have passed on to the great Library in the Sky. Nowadays we have about a dozen or so regulars. There are one or two who are deliberately obstructive. Outspoken. Single minded. Cantankerous.

Some are shy and introvert and, in truth, offer little. But they listen and learn, and that is what we are all there for. To learn from others, be they best sellers or unpublished writers. Because, whatever our differences, we stick together and, if anyone is down, we stand by them and offer encouragement. If someone is on a high, then we enthuse in their success.

Most of us, anyway.

We do have a few Best Sellers. Angela Knight, for example, and Zak Nichols. Charlotte Caroll is more than adept at Regency romances, (not my bag, but, well, credit where credit's due) and Jean Hart uses her history degree to good effect, as does Hilary Jackson, albeit covering a different period of time.

I'll introduce them all properly as we go along...

Richard Tearle

A Word From Richard Tearle:

“To the writing community, whether they be traditionally published, indie or aspiring.

You make the rocking world go round...Writers are such a wonderful community – supportive, helpful and ever willing to give their time and expertise to one humble chap such as I. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Richard – December 2020

Helen Hollick

A Word From Helen Hollick:

It was with great enthusiasm that I encouraged Richard to write this, his first novel. His enjoyment of creating a good story, I felt, should be shared to readers and writers, everywhere. Unfortunately, at the editing stage, Richard became ill, involving hospitalisation. In discussion with his son, rather than abandon the project or put it on hold, we decided that the best course of action was for me to continue with getting this book published on his behalf. The characters, plot – the story – are all Richard’s immense talent, I merely tidied up and added the final polish, coming in as ‘painter and decorator’ to Richard’s main role as architect, designer, and builder.

• Connect with Richard: Website
• Connect with Helen: Twitter • Instagram

The North Finchley Writers’ Group - Tour Schedule

[Blog Tour] 'Beneath Black Clouds and White' By Virginia Crow #HistoricalFiction

'Beneath Black Clouds and White' By Virginia Crow - Blog Tour Banner

The Book:

Beneath Black Clouds and White 

By Virginia Crow

• Publication Date: 11th April 2019
• Publisher: Crowvus
• Print Length: 637 Pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction/Military Fiction/Family Saga

The Blurb:

Despite adoring his family and enjoying frequenting gaming tables, Captain Josiah Tenterchilt’s true love is the British Army and he is committed to his duty. As such, he does not hesitate to answer the army’s call when King Louis XVI of France is executed.

Accompanied by his wife to Flanders, Josiah finds his path crosses with a man who could not be more different from him: an apprentice surgeon named Henry Fotherby. As these two men pursue their own actions, fate and the careful connivance of a mysterious individual will push them together for the rest of their lives.

But it is a tumultuous time, and the French revolutionaries are not the only ones who pose a threat. The two gentlemen must find their place in a world where the constraints of social class are inescapable, and ‘slavery or abolition’ are the words on everyone’s lips.

• Beneath Black Clouds and White is the prequel to Day's Dying Glory, which was published by Crowvus in April 2017.

'Beneath Black Clouds and White' By Virginia Crow - Front Cover

Beneath Black Clouds and White - Excerpt:

Major Tenterchilt nodded and walked into his study and, pulling open the top drawer, he looked down at the pistol that rested there. He lifted it up and studied it with a fascination but set it down quickly as the door opened and his wife walked in.

“Good lord, Josiah! What are you doing with that?”

“Sparing you from terrible news.”

“Surely you mean robbing me,” she continued, her usual measured approach returning to her tone. “Robbing me of an explanation.”

“Robbing you of your inheritance, my dear.”

“Major Tenterchilt,” she began, pushing the pistol beyond his reach and kneeling down beside where he sat on the chair. “You have claimed all that was mine since that day we met. Do you recall it? Meeting on the roadside. I still wonder what made me talk to you. It was most out of character.”

“You would have been better if you had not done.”

“What has happened?” she asked fearfully. “For I cannot imagine life without you.”

“You were wearing a yellow gown and wide brimmed bonnet,” he whispered, smiling sadly across at her. “I was more nervous than I had ever been in my life.”

“Thomas was horrified,” she replied as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “For a lady to talk to a soldier without introduction? It was unheard of. But I knew. I knew even then.”

“And you shared all that you had with me, and I have lost it.”

“Lost it?” she whispered as she leaned away from him and stared hard at his guilty face. “What have you lost?”

“Our home, my dear. I have lost it all to a man who, I am certain, sat at the table with the sole intention of humiliating me.”

“You gambled Chanter’s House?” she hissed, rising to her feet. “How could you?”

“And the estate. I had a certainty of winning,” he responded as he dropped his head into his hands. “I could not lose.”

“And yet you did.”

“Every day for the past fifteen years I have thanked God that your carriage wheel splintered. Until now. This night I lament it.” He reached across the table and picked up the pistol. “As you can see, my dear, it would have been better if you had left the door unopened and me with this.”

Mrs Tenterchilt stared at her husband, willing herself to hate him for taking this house and the land that had been her only gift from the mother she had lost so many years ago. But, as she watched him lift the pistol, she tried to imagine her life without him and she felt an emptiness seize her. She snatched the gun from him and threw it across the room.

“I cannot believe that you have lost the house and estate, and I cannot bear to consider what is to become of us and our daughters. But nor can I bear to face it alone. Do not leave me, Major Tenterchilt, for I do not think I shall survive without you.”

Rising to his feet, Major Tenterchilt embraced his wife, trying to find the strength to support her but feeling that, in truth, she was by far the stronger half of the couple. For her own part, she needed her husband and loved him far more than she could admit at this moment.

The following day Mrs Tenterchilt rose early and ensured that she had time to discuss matters with her husband before he departed for Horse Guards. She sat at the dressing table and watched his reflection as he came to stand behind her.

“I shall visit Mr Dermot today,” she said flatly. “He will be able to advise us on what is the correct course of action.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He leaned forward and kissed her hair.

“There is something more, Josiah,” she said sternly, turning to face him. “I cannot bear that this might ever be repeated. Therefore, you must make me a promise.”

“What is it?”

“I will not tolerate gambling of any kind. For I have lost greatly to it and gained so little. And know this,” she added, steeling herself to speak the words that she had tried to contrive through the sleepless hours. “If you should fail in this promise, I shall take our daughters and begin a new life for us, for I shall not have you lose all that is theirs as well as my own.”

Major Tenterchilt stared down at her, his face becoming hard and stern.

“I mean it, Josiah,” she continued. “I will not compromise my children for a roll of a dice or a turn of a card.”

• Buy Links: Amazon UK • Amazon US • Smashwords • Kobo • Barnes and Noble

Virginia Crow

Author Bio:

Virginia Crow grew up in Orkney, using the breath-taking scenery to fuel her imagination and the writing fire within her. Her favourite genres to write are fantasy and historical fiction, sometimes mixing the two together such as her newly-published book "Caledon". She enjoys swashbuckling stories such as the Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas and is still waiting for a screen adaption that lives up to the book! When she's not writing, Virginia is usually to be found teaching music, and obtained her MLitt in "History of the Highlands and Islands" last year. She believes wholeheartedly in the power of music, especially as a tool of inspiration. She also helps out with the John O'Groats Book Festival which is celebrating its 3rd year this April. She now lives in the far flung corner of Scotland, soaking in inspiration from the rugged cliffs and miles of sandy beaches. She loves cheese, music and films, but hates mushrooms. 

• Connect with Virginia:  Website • Twitter • Facebook • Instagram • Publisher

'Beneath Black Clouds and White' - Blog Tour Schedule

[Blog Tour] 'Three Monkeys' (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 1) By Len Maynard #HistoricalFiction

Three Monkeys' (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 1) By Len Maynard - Blog Tour Banner

The Book:

Three Monkeys 
(DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 1)
By Len Maynard

• Publication Date: 22nd July 2020
• Publisher: Sharpe Books
  
• Page Length: 270 Pages
• Genre: Historical Crime

The Blurb:

1958.

A girl’s body is found in Hertfordshire.

Her eyes and mouth have been sewn shut. Candle wax has been poured into her ears to seal them.

DCI Jack Callum, policeman and dedicated family man, who cut his teeth walking the beat on the violent streets of London, before moving his family away from the city, to a safer, more restful life in the country, leads the investigation into this gruesome crime that shatters the peace of the sleepy English town.

Images of three monkeys are sent to the police to taunt them: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Something more sinister than a mere isolated murder seems to be going on as more victims come to light.

Who is doing this and why?

At the insistence of the first victim’s father, a local dignitary, officers from Scotland Yard are brought in to bring about a speedy conclusion to the case, side-lining Jack’s own investigation.

In a nail-biting climax, one of Jack’s daughters is snatched. Before she can become the next victim, Jack has to go against the orders of his superiors that have constantly hampered his investigation, and risk his own career in an attempted rescue at the killer’s own home.

• Buy Links: Amazon UK • Amazon US

Three Monkeys - Front cover

Three Monkeys: the first DCI Jack Callum Mystery - Excerpt:

Frances Anderton let herself out of the Blainey house and took a deep lungful of the warm, summer air. She walked down the crazy-paved path, through the gate and out into the tree-lined street. It was early, not yet seven. Hopefully, she would be home before breakfast.

She walked briskly along the street, before turning into Glendale Road, an equally leafy thoroughfare. A milkman trundled by, milk bottles rattling in the crates stacked on his float, but apart from him there didn’t seem to be anybody about. She crossed the road and took the small lane that led to Riverdale Avenue, a few streets away from her parents’ house.

She was regretting the argument she’d had with her father the previous evening that led to her being sent away by her mother to stay with family friends. It was to keep her out of the way of her father’s unpredictable temper – not that he’d ever hit her, but last night he had come very close to it. All because of that stupid dress, her desire to wear it, and his unreasonable demand that she should not.

It wasn’t as if she was a child. She was fourteen, for heaven’s sake. She should be allowed to dress how she liked, not be confined to the gymslips and ankle socks which, if her father had his way, would be all she was ever allowed to wear. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, stay his precious little girl forever. He should let her grow up. Her older sister hadn’t had these problems, she was sure. Fiona was wearing what she chose, going out to parties, mixing with boys, and father didn’t make her life miserable.

Along the road a young man was crouching down beside a gleaming, two-tone blue motor scooter. He appeared to be tinkering with the engine.

“Hello,” the young man said as she walked past. “It’s Frances, isn’t it?”

She was taken aback for a moment. “Yes,” she said, hesitantly. “How do you know who I am?” He was smartly dressed in a fawn jacket and cream slacks. His fair hair was short, neatly parted and combed, and he was very good looking. He was smiling at her, at her. She was not at all confident with boys, remaining very much in her sister’s much more glamorous shadow. Suddenly she was very aware of the wire braces on her teeth, her freckled face, and her unruly shock of ginger hair.

“You’re Fiona Anderton’s sister, aren’t you?”

“Are you a friend of Fiona?” she said.

“Yes, Fiona and I go back a long way. Derek Webster,” he said, and stuck out a hand.

She shook the hand. “Very pleased to meet you,” she said.

“Likewise, I’m sure. What do you think of the scooter?” he said. “I’ve only had it a few weeks.”

“It’s very…smart,” she said.

“It’s more than smart,” he said. “It’s a Phoenix, designed by the great Ernie Barratt, made with an all steel body and a 150cc engine. There’re not many of these around.”

She made a show of admiring the motor scooter, but not really sure what she was supposed to be admiring.

“Would you like a go?” he said.

“I…I don’t know how.”

He laughed. “Not to ride it,” he said. “I’ll take you for a spin, if you like, on the pillion.”

She shook her head. “I’d better not,” she said.

“Don’t you trust me?” he said. “Don’t you think I can ride it properly?”

“No,” she said. “It’s not that. I’m sure you ride very well.”

“Then where’s the harm?”

She glanced down at her Timex Alice in Wonderland wristwatch and felt immediately embarrassed by the childish timepiece. She pulled down the sleeve of her blouse to hide it. “I don’t want to be late for breakfast,” she said.

“You worry too much,” he said. “Your sister doesn’t…” He let the sentence fade away.

“All right then,” she said, rising to the unspoken challenge. “Take me for a ride on your wonderful Phoenix.”

“Well done,” he said. “Just hop on and hold onto my waist. I’ll have you home in time for breakfast.” He straddled the machine and steadied it as she climbed aboard.

Once she had settled behind him on the pillion, and wrapped her arms around his waist, he kick-started the scooter and eased it forward off its stand. Moments later they were heading down the street.

“Not too fast,” she called above the engine’s noise.

“Just relax,” he called back, “and when I lean into a bend, follow my lead and lean the same way.”

Within minutes they had left the leafy streets behind and were heading into a part of town she didn’t recognise. The neat houses with their tidy gardens were replaced by warehouses and factories guarded by yards of chain-link fencing.

“Where are we going?” she called.

“Away from traffic,” he called back. “I want to show you what this beauty can do.” He twisted the accelerator. The engine rose in pitch and she felt herself pushed back by the sudden turn of speed. She held onto his waist even tighter.

The scent of his hair oil was strong, almost overpowering, and she turned her face away from his neck to take a lungful of fresh air.

“I think I’ve had enough now.”

He didn’t answer. They had entered a long straight stretch of road and he increased their speed still further.

“I’d like to go home,” she said, but her words were whipped away on the air buffeting her face.

Still he was ignoring her.

Seconds later they were leaving the chain-link behind and entering more streets with houses.

“I want to go back, now,” she called.

Finally, he acknowledged her. “Yes, of course.” They were slowing down to a more sedate speed. “I just have to make a stop and then I’ll take you straight home.”

“Thank you,” she said with relief.

He steered them along a tree-lined avenue and then took a left turn, into a drive belonging to a large Victorian house that stood alone from its neighbours, surrounded by high privet hedges. He drew up outside the house and switched off the engine.

“I just have a call to make,’ he said, pulling the scooter up on its stand and dismounting.

“Should I come with you?” she said.

“No, you wait here. I’ll only be a moment.”

She watched him as he trotted up the steps to the front door of the house and inserted a key in the lock.

The door swung inwards and he disappeared inside.

She sat there on the pillion of the scooter and looked at her watch again. It had only been twenty minutes since he had offered her a ride, but to her it seemed much longer, and she was starting to wish she had never accepted his offer. She wanted to be at home, enjoying breakfast with her mother and sister, and building bridges with her father. Being a rebel didn’t sit comfortably with her.

She glanced at her watch again and was just about to dismount to see how long he was going to be. She had one foot on the ground when she was grabbed roughly from behind and something, a rag or a pad that smelled sweet and sickly, was clamped tightly over her nose and mouth. She tried to cry out, but whoever had grabbed her was too strong, and she was hauled backwards off the scooter. She flailed her arms and kicked out with her sandaled feet, her foot connecting with the rear end of the scooter, gashing her toe.

She was trying to pull air into her lungs, but the sickly-sweet aroma was all she could smell, and it was making her head spin. Gradually, as several minutes passed, her struggles grew weaker and her strength ebbed away from her. As she was dragged back over the ground her feet kicked weakly, but her arms just hung uselessly at her sides. Consciousness was slipping away, and her eyes started to close, until all she could see was the green blur of the privet hedges, and the crisp blue of the sky above her. And then they closed completely, and she sunk down into darkness.

Len Maynard

Author Bio:

Len Maynard was born in North London in 1953. 

In 1978, a book of short ghost stories, written in collaboration with Michael Sims, was published by London publisher William Kimber. For the following forty years the pair wrote ten more collections of ghost stories before moving into novels in 2006, completing over thirty more books, including the successful Department 18 series of supernatural/crime crossover novels as well as several standalone novels and novellas in the supernatural and crime genres. 

Always a keen reader of crime novels, and with a passion for the social history of the twentieth century it was fairly inevitable that, when he decided to branch out and write under his own name, some kind of combination of these two interests would occur. 

The six DCI Jack Callum Mysteries were the result of several years of total immersion in the world he created for Jack Callum, his family, his friends (and enemies) and his work colleagues. 

He has also written a trilogy of adventure thrillers set in the Bahamas (also available from Sharpe Books) 

He is currently at work on the seventh book in the DCI Jack Callum series

• Connect with Len: Website • Website “The DCI Jack Callum Mysteries” • Twitter • Instagram • Facebook 

'Three Monkeys' - Blog Tour schedule