[Blog Tour] 'Ariadne Unraveled: A Mythic Retelling' By Zenobia Neil #HistoricalFantasy

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The Book:

Ariadne Unraveled: A Mythic Retelling
By Zenobia Neil

• Publication Date: 7th July 2021
• Publisher: Hypatia Books
• Page Length: 345 Pages
• Genre: Mythic retelling/ Historical Romance

Ariadne Unraveled - Front Cover

The Blurb:

Ariadne, high priestess of Crete, grew up duty-bound to the goddess Artemis. If she takes a husband, she must sacrifice him to her goddess after no more than three years of marriage. For this reason, she refuses to love any man, until a mysterious stranger arrives on her island.

The stranger is Dionysus, the new god of wine who empowers women and breaks the rules of the old gods. He came to Crete seeking vengeance against Artemis. He never expected to fall in love.

Furious that Dionysus would dare meddle with her high priestess, Artemis threatens to kill Ariadne if Dionysus doesn’t abandon her. Heartbroken, the new god leaves Crete, vowing to become better than the Olympians.

From the bloody labyrinth and the shadows of Hades to the halls of Olympus, Dionysus must find a way to defy Artemis and unite with his true love. Forced to betray her people, Ariadne discovers her own power to choose between the goddess she pledged herself to and the god she loves.

• Buy Links: Universal Amazon Link ✔ Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Amazon CA  ✔ Amazon AU ✔

Ariadne Unraveled - Teaser

Ariadne Unraveled - Excerpt:

The sacred olive grove, which usually gave Ariadne such peace, was dry and brittle with the heat of the long summer. Leaves and a few neglected olives crunched under her feet as she walked with Thalia. Manko and Talos followed behind at a distance.

“I brought honey and oil if you desire it,” Thalia said.

“Thank you, Little Leopard.” Years ago when Zoe had teased Thalia for her freckles, Ariadne had given Thalia the name to show how much she liked the spots.

Ariadne had told no one that the goddess had ceased speaking to her long before Dionysus had come. The goddess did not always speak to her high priestesses, but this felt different. Sometimes a high priestess could reach the goddess by swinging to epiphany.

They stopped before the sacred swing that Daedalus had built for Pasiphae. In early spring, novice priestesses wove flower braids around the two cedar posts. Musicians would play, and priestesses and novices would sing while Ariadne swung.

But now, at the height of summer, the swing appeared dried out, as if the sacred doorway would yield nothing. Still, Ariadne would try. She smoothed her skirt down and sat on the swing.

This is as close as you will come to flying, her mother had said when she and Phaedra first learned how to pump their legs on the swings designed for children. This one was different. The pillars were wider at the top, so the ropes hung at an angle. She had to work much harder, but that often led to epiphany.

She gripped the hot ropes and kicked off. As a child, she had thought Phaedra would travel this path with her, believing the two daughters of Pasiphae would both become priestesses. Ariadne’s crescent-shaped mark had begun to tingle at her first blood, but the goddess had never spoken to Phaedra.

Ariadne pulled back and pushed. The wind rushed through her hair, whooshing in her ears. She let the rhythm carry her to and fro. Sweat beaded her brow. The sun beat down. Let this be another show of my devotion, Goddess. Please tell me what to do. She pumped her legs, leaned back on the ropes. Had she angered the goddess by marrying Dionysus? Had the offerings Thalia, Melia, and Zoe left not appeased her? Or did the goddess no longer care?

She swung higher, pumped, and extended her legs over and over again, until her mind cleared. Now the goddess could enter and convey what she wanted Ariadne to do.

Fully entranced, Ariadne let her mind search for the goddess as her body continued to swing. She traveled to the cave sanctuaries. First, the one in the hills above Knossos, but the darkened cavern where women left offerings and came to give birth was empty. Her mind’s eye flew high, leaping from one peak to another. An old priestess alone in a cavern, staring out from the rocky crag to the sea below. Two girls who had just started their moon blood climbed up to another, eager to be able to enter the sacred space for the first time.

But the goddess was not there.

Ariadne swung, searching in her mind, calling the goddess by her names.

Mistress of Wild Things, Great Goddess, Our Lady, Artemis.

She searched across the island, from temple to temple to the uninhabited wild lands. She spied mountain goats asleep in the shade, and a griffin vulture circled above a canyon. Ariadne felt herself soar with the bird, the wind on her wings, her vision keen.

Great Goddess, where are you?

This sensation of flying with the bird, of going from cave to cave was a new one. Her power had never been this strong before.

She swung higher and higher, ignoring the pain in her hands and legs. Intense heat enveloped her, and she imagined jumping straight up into the sky, directly into the sun. Bright light and searing heat surrounded her.

Granddaughter.

The Titan Helios stood before her, his bronze skin giving off its own light. His eyes glowed with the sun itself; a crown of flames danced on his pure gold hair.

I have had a vision of you, child. Your fame will be great, but you will be abandoned and remembered as a girl left behind, though you will be far more than that. Your service to Crete is near its end.

Ariadne gasped. What did he mean? She could not speak. The fire of the sun consumed her, blinding her so she lost her connection to her strength. She put her hands up to feel where she was and began to fall, out of the sky, plummeting to the earth below.

She imagined falling into the sea, being extinguished by the water, but no, she fell toward Crete, past the griffin vulture, gliding on the wind, past the sleeping mountain goats and back toward her vacant body in the dried-out grove.

Thalia screamed as Ariadne’s body pitched backwards off the swing. Ariadne opened her eyes to see a flash of blue sky, the crooked olive branches. She had flown, and now she fell. She had reached an epiphany only to be thrown back to earth. Was she to die? Was that the goddess’s message to her?

Zenobia Neil

Author Bio:

Zenobia Neil was named after an ancient warrior queen who fought against the Romans. She writes historical romance about the mythic past and Greek and Roman gods having too much fun. Visit her at ZenobiaNeil.com

Connect with Zenobia Neil:

• Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Instagram ✔ Pinterest ✔ Book Bub ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔

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[Blog Tour] 'The Art of Love' (The Golden City, Book One) By A.B. Michaels #HistoricalFiction

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The Book:

The Art of Love
(The Golden City, Book One)
By A.B. Michaels

• Publication Date: 4th May 2014
• Publisher: Red Trumpet Press
• Page Length: 360 Pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

Your Journey to The Golden City begins here...

FORTUNE…SACRIFICE…PASSION...and SECRETS

A tale of mystery, social morality and second chances during America’s Gilded Age, The Art of Love will take you on an unforgettable journey from the last frontier of the Yukon Territory to the new Sodom and Gomorrah of its time - the boomtown of San Francisco.

After digging a fortune from the frozen fields of the Klondike, August Wolff heads south to the “Golden City,” hoping to put the unsolved disappearance of his wife and daughter behind him. The turn of the twentieth century brings him even more success, but the distractions of a hedonistic mecca can’t fill the gaping hole in his life.

Amelia Starling is a wildly talented artist caught in the straightjacket of Old New York society. Making a heart-breaking decision, she moves to San Francisco to further her career, all the while living with the pain of a sacrifice no woman should ever have to make.

Brought together by the city’s flourishing art scene, Gus and Lia forge a rare connection. But the past, shrouded in mystery, prevents the two of them from moving forward as one. Unwilling to face society’s scorn, Lia leaves the city and vows to begin again in Europe.

The Golden City offers everything a man could wish for except the answers Gus is desperate to find. But find them he must, or he and Lia have no chance at all.

• Buy Links: The Art of Love ✔ The Depth of Beauty ✔ The Promise ✔ The Price of Compassion ✔ Josephine’s Daughter ✔ The Madness of Mrs Whittaker ✔

The Art of Love - front cover

'The Art of Love' - Excerpt:

New York, 1899

Over the next several days, under the guise of carrying artwork to and from school, Lia moved her most important belongings to the apartment Sandy had rented. She packed clothing, art supplies, her jewelry, and most important, the items that would remind her of the one real treasure she was giving up. Every evening she sat and watched Little Georgie, sketching him at play and at rest, trying to memorize every part of the precious child she had brought into the world. His tiny, exquisitely formed little ears; his soft cheeks (which someday, she imagined, would grow angular like his father’s); his mouth shaped like a cupid’s bow, rooting quietly as he slept.

She gave Polly and the housekeeper time away to visit their families and spent her last day at home with her son, sitting with him on the floor of the nursery as he built tall castles out of blocks and laughed delightedly when they fell. She held up the carved wooden cow and asked him what a cow says and he said “Moo.” The sheep? “Baa.” The horse? “Eee eee eee.”

“That’s my smart little man,” she whispered, tears running unchecked down her face.

“Mama,” he said, waddling over and patting the wetness of her cheeks.

“Yes, my darling boy,” she whispered. “Mama loves you. Mama will always love you.”

She put him to bed one more time and crooned his favorite lullaby. “Sleepyhead, close your eyes. Mother’s right here beside you. I’ll protect you from harm, you will wake in my … my … ” she couldn’t go on. He lay on his back looking up at her and smiled and reached for her. She leaned down and hugged him one last time and stayed with him until he fell asleep.

You can do this you can do this you can do this, she chanted to keep herself in one piece. She filled her small suitcase, donned her coat, and went downstairs to confront George. He was working in the library. The light in the room was dim except for the lamp on his desk. It lent an intimacy to the space. It was quiet; only the tic, tic, tic of the Ormolu clock marred the silence.

“George?” she called from the doorway.

“Yes, come in,” he replied, still engrossed in the report he was reading.

She checked the pendant watch he had given her on their first anniversary. Sandy would arrive to pick her up shortly; she had only to get through this last charade. She walked over to his desk.

“George, look at me.”

George looked up, a puzzled expression crossing his face as he saw that she was dressed to go out. He frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving you for someone else.”

He leaned back in his chair, disbelieving. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m leaving you for someone else.”

“Lia, that’s not funny.”

“It’s not meant to be.” She leaned over his desk. “Do you understand? I’m leaving this marriage and I’m committing adultery to do it. Do. You. Understand?” She drew the words out as she held his eyes.

Comprehension cast a shadow over his features, and he slowly shook his head. “No, Lia. No. You don’t have to do this.”

She stood up straight and repeated the words she’d rehearsed many times. “I love someone else and I no longer love you. I’m moving in with my lover and I’m never coming back.”

“Wait. Who—”

“Sandy,” she said.

George rolled his eyes and snorted. “Ah, yes. The sodomite.”

Lia drilled him with her stare until he felt compelled to face her again. “Ask your mother and her friends about that … and thank you for the insult to one of the finest men I know. You are making this easier.”

George stood up as if to overpower her. “I’ll fight you on this.”

It was Lia’s turn to scoff. “Will you, George? Think long and hard about that. What will you gain? What will you lose?”

“What about your son?” he asked, frustration lacing his tone. “Our son. You’re just going to abandon him?”

You can do this you can do this you can do this. “My son will be loved,” she replied. “You talk to Emmaline about that.”

“Em? What does Em know about this?”

“Nothing. Only that she is a woman with so much to give who is ready to be loved … do you understand me, George?”

He stared at her, not speaking, and she could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he processed all that she was saying, all that she implied. His own eyes welled with tears as he realized what she was doing for him, for them. He reached for her. “Lia—”

She held out her arm to ward him off. “You must hate me until this is over, it is the only way,” she whispered. “Hate me to your parents, to your friends, to your lawyer, to everyone except Em and our son, and do not call Sandy a sodomite ever again. Do you understand me?” she repeated. She heard the near hysteria in her voice.

His eyes clear with comprehension, he nodded. “What will you do?”

“Lay low until the storm passes, then San Francisco, I think.” She smiled sadly. “So, you won’t have to pay that invoice from the Institute after all.”

“Lia?” Sandy stood in the doorway to the library, hat in hand. “I’m sorry. No one answered, so I let myself in. Are … are you ready to go?”

Lia continued to look at George. After a moment she inclined her head and saw George echo her, ever so slightly. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, smiling through her tears.

“I will send you the address where your attorney can reach me,” she said. “Polly and Mrs. Rudd will be back tomorrow. If Little … Little Georgie wakes up—”

“I know,” he assured her gently. “Sing him the lullaby.”

“That’s right,” she said, her voice breaking. “Good night, George, and … and bless you.” Lia turned and took Sandy by the arm. They stepped into the cool of the evening and began walking down the street.

Sandy patted her hand. “How did it go?”

She sighed and put her head on his shoulder. Her voice hitched. “I think I know what it feels like to stab oneself in the heart.”

“You are quite a woman, Amelia. If I were someone else, I think I’d do anything to make you mine.”

“You are just who I need you to be, dear friend. Let’s see how it all plays out.”

“Yes, let’s,” he said as they continued on their way.

Author Bio:

A native of California, A.B. Michaels holds masters’ degrees in history (UCLA) and broadcasting (San Francisco State University). After working for many years as a promotional writer and editor, she turned to writing fiction, which is the hardest thing she's ever done besides raise two boys. She lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in Boise, Idaho, where she is often distracted by playing darts and bocce and trying to hit a golf ball more than fifty yards. Reading, quilt-making and travel figure into the mix as well, leading her to hope that sometime soon, someone invents a 25+ hour day.

Connect with A.B. Michaels:

• Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Pinterest ✔ Book Bub ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads  ✔

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[Blog Tour] 'Queen of Blood' (The Cross and the Crown, Book 4) By Sarah Kennedy #HistoricalFiction

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The Book: 

Queen of Blood
(The Cross and the Crown, Book 4)
By Sarah Kennedy

• Publication Date: 26th March 2021
• Publisher: Penmore Press
• Page Length: 321 Pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

Queen of Blood, Book Four of the Cross and the Crown series, continues the story of Catherine Havens, a former nun in Tudor England. It is now 1553, and Mary Tudor has just been crowned queen of England. Still a Roman Catholic, Mary seeks to return England to its former religion, and Catherine hopes that the country will be at peace under the daughter of Henry VIII. But rebellion is brewing around Thomas Wyatt, the son of a Tudor courtier, and when Catherine’s estranged son suddenly returns from Wittenberg amid circulating rumours about overthrowing the new monarch, Catherine finds herself having to choose between the queen she has always loved and the son who seems determined to join the Protestants who seek to usurp her throne.

• Buy Links: Universal Link ✔ Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Amazon CA  ✔ Amazon AU ✔

'Queen of Blood' - Front Cover

'Queen of Blood' - Excerpt:

At dinner, Benjamin studied the young men who occupied one side of the long table. The four newcomers, guided by Robbie, helped themselves to the roast lamb and bread without assistance, and they finished off five bottles of French wine among them. They had been introduced simply as Tom, John, Edward, and Peter, and they laid into the custard with a vengeance, not waiting until the dirty plates had been taken away. Diana had taken a low seat, across from the newcomers and away from the others, and Veronica appraised the strangers more than she ate. Alice kicked at Catherine under the table until her shin could withstand no more abuse and she squeezed the girl’s knee. Old Moll peeked around the corner of the doorway once, and backed away.
“Have you brought your books home with you, Robbie?” Catherine finally asked.

“Books will be burned in England,” her son said. “And I am called Robert now.”

“Who has said anything of burning books?” said Catherine.

“Books. Men. It will be all the same. I have brought my necessities and no more.”

Benjamin said, “And what is necessary for a young man these days?”

The two at the end exchanged a sideways glance and dug into their sweets. Robert said, “Men will need their consciences more than anything else now.”

“Yours must be very heavy,” said Benjamin. He rose and turned his back to tend to the fire.

Robert spoke to his mother. “The reformed priests will be forced to divorce their wives. The lands will be seized for the Pope. Some of those lands are mine.”

Catherine coughed into her hand. She scanned the four feeders. “The lands are held in my name, Robbie. Robert. Until my death. The properties that will be yours were Overton land, never the Church’s. They’re safe enough.”

“The church lands will be mine, will they not, Mother?” added Veronica. She cast her brother a glare. “If anyone must worry, Brother, I am the one, not you.”

“Anyone who is the child of a priest should worry,” said Robert. “Anything owned by a person who holds old Church property will come under the scrutiny of this new court. That may mean my land.”

“You’re chasing ghosts, boy,” said Benjamin, sitting again. “England is ruled by law, and even the queen must follow it. Is this what you came back for? To raise a rabble like the drunks in the public houses?”

Again the furtive meetings of eyes.

“I’m not worried,” said Veronica. “The queen has always been a great friend to me. And the queen’s sister, as well.”

“The queen’s sister?” said one of the four. “She will need friends. She has had too few.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Benjamin. He leaned onto the table, and the daughters all leaned back.

“He means that the Lady Elizabeth is reformed and the new queen is not,” said Robert. “She has been ill-treated by this Roman Mary and someone must defend her rights.” He pushed himself away and stood. “This is no time for wrangling and debate. We are weary and will retire.” The others all shoveled in last bites and wiped their faces. They bowed stiffly at Catherine and crowded out.

“What a pack of hounds he’s gathered,” said Benjamin. “And what a large set of cases they carry about with them, for men who need nothing more than their consciences.”

“They’re young, and young men are often angry,” said Catherine. “They want the world to turn on them.”

“It will turn on them, in truth, if they don’t mind their mouths,” said Benjamin. “And if they are so angry, what are they doing here? Why didn’t they stay in Wittenberg, where they have allies?”

Catherine said, “He didn’t say that they came from Wittenberg. Did you not hear them speak? I think these friends of his are all Englishmen.”

Sarah Kennedy

Author Bio:

Sarah Kennedy is the author of the Tudor historical series, The Cross and the Crown, including The Altarpiece, City of Ladies, The King’s Sisters, and Queen of Blood. She has also published a stand-alone contemporary novel, Self-Portrait, with Ghost, as well as seven books of poems. A professor of English at Mary Baldwin University in Staunton, Virginia, Sarah Kennedy holds a PhD in Renaissance Literature and an MFA in Creative Writing. She has received grants from both the National Endowment for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Virginia Commission for the Arts.

Connect with Sarah Kennedy:

• Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔

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[Blog Tour] Discovery By Barbara Greig #HistoricalFiction

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The Book:

Discovery
By Barbara Greig

• Publication Date: 28th June 2020
• Publisher: Matador (imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd)
• Page Length: 336 Pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

Discovery: An epic tale of love, loss and courage When Elizabeth Gharsia’s headstrong nephew, Gabriel, joins Samuel Champlain’s 1608 expedition to establish a settlement at Quebec, he soon becomes embroiled in a complicated tribal conflict. As months turn into years, Gabriel appears lost to his family.

Meanwhile at home in France the death of her father, Luis, adds to Elizabeth’s anguish. Devastated by her loss, she struggles to make sense of his final words. Could her mother’s journals, found hidden among Luis’s possessions, provide the key to the mystery?

The arrival of Pedro Torres disrupts Elizabeth’s world even further. Rescued from starvation on the streets of Marseille by her brother, Pedro is a victim of the brutal expulsion of his people from Spain. Initially antagonistic, will Elizabeth come to appreciate Pedro’s qualities and to understand the complexity of her family?

Buy Links: 

Available on Kindle Unlimited ✔ Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔: Amazon CA ✔: Amazon AU ✔: Waterstones ✔: Kobo ✔: Troubador ✔: WHSmith ✔: iBooks ✔: Google Play ✔ Book Depository ✔: 

Discovery - cover

Discovery - Excerpt:

Despite being weary, Elizabeth did not go to bed after she had taken her leave of Thomas. Waiting until she heard his heavy footsteps pass her chamber, she crept out of her room in the direction of her father’s. She paused momentarily outside Pedro’s door and wondered if he was asleep and if he had helped himself to some cold mutton from the kitchen before retiring for the night. Once again, she experienced a niggle of guilt as she had done earlier in the day; she should have invited him to eat some supper instead of acquiescing to Thomas’s demand.

On reaching Luis’s chamber, Elizabeth lifted the latch tentatively and was rewarded by the faintest of clicks as it was released. She eased the door open. Shafts of silvery light flooded the room and through the open shutters Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the full moon, riding high in a cloudless sky now that the storm had passed. Leaving the shutters open, she padded towards the bedside table and positioned the candle to give maximum light. Its yellow glow fused with the moonlight, producing an eeriness which somewhat unnerved her. Glancing around the room, to check that she was alone, Elizabeth chided herself for being fanciful.

The chest, one of two which held her father’s books, was locked. Thwarted, she took her time to think where he might have put the key. She scanned the room, puzzled over why the chest was locked, for the books had been freely available when her father was alive. The volumes, although valuable, many of which had been collected by her father’s grandfather, Hernando Gharsia, were only known to the family and to friends at the university. Her eyes alighted on the other chest in the room, the one where she had found the letter. It was worth a second look.

As before, she removed the items one by one except for the letter which was now concealed in her own jewellery casket: a piece of paper so momentous that no-one must see it, especially Thomas. However, unlike the previous occasion when she just laid it to one side, Elizabeth untied the bundle of silk. It rippled from her hands, a cascade of sea-green, the colour given depth by the ghostly light. The material was old and creased with dirt at the edges where the linen cover had slipped open but enough could be salvaged to fashion an exquisite dress. She ran her hand across the silk. Why did her father have it in his possession? Why had her mother never used it? Or told Elizabeth about it?

Returning to the task in hand, Elizabeth retrieved the candle from the table and held it low over the open chest, revealing the base and all four corners. There was no key. Disappointed, she returned her father’s treasures, ensuring that the silk was well-wrapped within the linen, and was about to take a last look around the chamber when Thomas’s deep bass boomed from the threshold. “What do you think you are doing?”

She swung round to face him, the candle-holder shaking in her hand. “You gave me such a fright!”

Thomas made a dismissive gesture. “It is your own fault – creeping like a thief in the night.”

Elizabeth did not retaliate, which immediately aroused her brother’s suspicions. Instead, she continued to stare at him, her eyes huge and defensive in the flickering flame. “Well?” he demanded.

“I wanted to look in Papa’s book-chest.”

“What for?”

“A book,” she replied lamely. She could tell he did not believe her, so she challenged him. “Why is the chest locked?”

“The contents are very valuable.”

“I know, but I can’t remember Papa ever locking it.”

“I am the head of the household now.”

“You have the key?”

“Yes.”

“Why have you locked the chest?”

“We have a guest in the house.”

Elizabeth surprised herself by rushing to the Castilian’s defence. “Pedro would never steal from us.”

“How can you be certain? I see you have given him access to the books in the parlour. He might wonder what others we have.”

“Pedro would not steal. I have come to know him while you have been away.”

“Perhaps that is so, but you know that our father has many books in his possession unsuitable for a faithful Roman Catholic.”

“Pedro would not betray us either. He is a Morisco. Papa gave him his Qur’an.”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“True, I think it unlikely he would betray us, but we must protect ourselves, and our assets.”

“Assets?” Realisation dawned on Elizabeth. “You cannot think of selling some of Papa’s books!”

“I might if money is short.”

“But we have the vineyard, the saffron, and our trade.”

“I was not talking about us.”

“Oh Thomas,” Elizabeth warned. “You must not support the Huguenot cause now. It is too dangerous.”

“Nonsense! Now is the time to arm, to be ready for any attack from the new king. I plan to set off for Uzès the day after tomorrow to see what preparations that city is making. Then I will return to Montauban.”

There was no point in arguing, Thomas was, as he had said, the head of the family. Elizabeth walked towards the door. “I think I will go to bed.”

“What about the book you were looking for?”

“It can wait. I am tired.”

She reached the threshold, came to a halt and waited for Thomas to move. Raising the candle, she looked directly into his eyes but did not speak. He paused long enough to make her feel uncomfortable and then stepped to the side. “You can ask me for the key anytime.”

Barbara Greig

Author Bio:

Barbara Greig was born in Sunderland and lived in Roker until her family moved to Teesdale. An avid reader, she also discovered the joy of history at an early age. A last-minute change of heart, in the sixth form, caused her to alter her university application form. Instead of English, Barbara read Modern and Ancient History at Sheffield University. It was a decision she never regretted.

Barbara worked for twenty years in sixth form colleges, teaching History and Classical Civilisation. Eventually, although enjoying a role in management, she found there was less time for teaching and historical study. A change of focus was required. With her children having flown the nest, she was able to pursue her love of writing and story-telling. She has a passion for hiking, and dancing, the perfect antidotes to long hours of historical research and writing, as well as for travel and, wherever possible, she walks in the footsteps of her characters.

Discovery is Barbara’s second novel. Her debut novel Secret Lives was published in 2016 (Sacristy Press).

Connect with Barbara Greig:

Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔

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[Blog Tour] 'Sisters at War' By Clare Flynn #HistoricalFiction #WW2

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The Book:

Sisters at War
By Clare Flynn

• Publication Date: 1st May 2021
• Publisher: Cranbrook Press
• Page Length: 314 Pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

1940 Liverpool. The pressures of war threaten to tear apart two sisters traumatised by their father’s murder of their mother.

With her new husband, Will, a merchant seaman, deployed on dangerous Atlantic convoy missions, Hannah needs her younger sister Judith more than ever. But when Mussolini declares war on Britain, Judith's Italian sweetheart, Paolo is imprisoned as an enemy alien, and Judith's loyalties are divided.

Each sister wants only to be with the man she loves but, as the war progresses, tensions between them boil over, and they face an impossible decision.

A heart-wrenching page-turner about the everyday bravery of ordinary people during wartime. From heavily blitzed Liverpool to the terrors of the North Atlantic and the scorched plains of Australia, Sisters at War will bring tears to your eyes and joy to your heart.

• Buy Links: Universal Link ✔ Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Amazon CA ✔ Amazon AU ✔ Kobo ✔

Sisters at War - Front Cover 

'Sisters at War' - Excerpt:

At some point his luck was going to run out. As a merchant seaman, Will Kidd was only too aware of the heavy losses sustained by merchant ships and yet, so far, he had come through the first months of the war with barely a sight of a German vessel. On the way south through the Bay of Biscay, towards Gibraltar, just two weeks ago, they had spotted the periscope of a submarine, only to find on closer inspection that it was a piece of driftwood. They had also identified a German warship off the south coast of Ireland but either it was running low on fuel and heading for home, unwilling for an encounter with a convoy, or somehow it failed to spot them. Either way, it sailed on without engaging. Such good fortune could not last forever.

This morning, Will was keeping watch as they headed back to England. The Christina was straggling along, heavily laden with cargo. Being low in the water, they’d been unable to sustain the eight knots the rest of the convoy were keeping to, and Captain Palmer had requested permission for them to continue alone. They were following a course as far from the Spanish and Portuguese coast as possible, as the risk of being sighted was less the further out to sea they were.

Will scanned the dark water around him with a practised eye, all too aware that somewhere out there, danger was lurking. The stretches closer to home were always the most perilous.

The Christina was an ageing tramp steamer. Will knew the ship like the back of his hand, having served on her between African ports before the war. The vessel was slow, cumbersome and would have been all too easily picked off trailing at the rear of the convoy. Better to take their chances alone, rather than slow the other ships down. But the problem of leaving the shelter of the convoy was that they only had a four-inch, low-angle gun, a relic from the last war. If a torpedo struck, they could be heading to the bottom of the sea before they had a chance to fire a shot back.

Night was falling. Will was near the end of his watch and looking forward to a few hours’ sleep. At first, he thought he saw a pod of dolphins, then realised it was moving much too fast – a line of bubbles crossing the bows from starboard to port. Grabbing the voice pipe, he sounded the alarm whistle and within moments Captain Palmer was beside him on the bridge.

‘Bring her about!’ Palmer ordered and the helmsman swung the ship through ninety degrees. The captain ordered them to increase speed but, even at full throttle, the Christina was too slow for a U-boat, even a submerged one whose speed would be constrained by battery power.

As the captain reached for the steam whistle to alert the rest of his sleeping crew, Will saw the unmistakable phosphorescent trail of a torpedo as it narrowly missed the Christina’s bow, closely followed by another.

‘Send an SSS with our coordinates,’ the captain instructed the radio operator.

The first officer appeared on the bridge. ‘Torpedo near miss off the stern.’

‘Turn her again. To port, hard about ninety degrees.’

The Christina turned again so that the stern of the ship faced the attacker. Will was astonished. Three torpedoes and none of them on target. He could barely believe their luck. It couldn’t hold out.

‘Full steam ahead.’ The captain was holding them on a steady course, hoping to put some distance between them before the U-boat fired another torpedo.

Will was the first to see the sub as it surfaced on the port side. He sent out an alarm as shells began raining down.

The radio officer was frantically sending out signals that they were under submarine attack; the Germans were targetting the ship’s aerial masts. The only gun, better suited to anti-aircraft defence, was little use at the angle required to fire at a surfaced submarine.

Palmer continued to steer the Christina on a random zigzag path, to make aiming as difficult as possible for the German vessel, aided by the cover of darkness.

But the shelling had only just begun. The Christina shook and groaned under the onslaught of fire from close range. Shells exploded everywhere across the decks.

Will looked at Captain Palmer, awaiting instructions.

‘Bastards.’ Palmer’s voice was grim. He grabbed the megaphone and gave the order.

‘Abandon ship.’

The booming of exploding torpedoes continued. Water rushed down the companion ways. Steam shot up as a boiler exploded. Torchlights cut through the blackness of the night.

Everything was happening so fast. Will staggered along the deck to supervise the lowering of the port lifeboat, under the constant bombardment from shellfire.

Looking back, he saw the captain flinging the confidential books overboard, consigning them to the depths, safe from German hands.

As the bosun climbed into the port lifeboat to ready it for lowering, a shell exploded on the deck beside them. Will watched in horror. The explosion killed the first officer instantly and sent the bosun and the lifeboat plunging headlong into the roiling sea. Blinding lights, confusion, noise, pitching back and forth. Will looked over the side but there was no sign of the bosun. Just a mess of shattered timber floating on the black void of the sea.

The Germans must have known that they were abandoning ship, yet the U-boat had fired regardless. Will and the rest of the crew followed Captain Palmer over to the other side where they managed to lower the starboard lifeboat and clamber on board, fumbling in the dark, lit only by torchlight. The waves crashed against the Christina and buffeted the lifeboat as it went into the water.

The boat moved away from the ship and the men watched as the German U-boat continued to hammer shells into the now-blazing hull of the Christina. It was sport – like throwing balls at a fairground coconut shy. Shattering. Blasting. On and on, remorselessly.

The pounding of the old girl was painful to the whole crew. A slow noisy torture. They sat huddled in the lifeboat surrounded by the cold sea, watching transfixed.

It took a full hour before the Christina gave a few earsplitting creaks, roaring like an animal in the jaws of a lion, before she finally succumbed and slipped beneath the waves. No one spoke. But there was a collective sigh as the vessel that had been their home disappeared.

The silence was broken by Captain Palmer reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Thinking of their two lost comrades, the men joined in or bowed their heads respectfully, regardless of their religious beliefs.

Its brutal task complete, the U-boat slid away into the darkness. The destruction of the Christina had been performed with complete disregard for human life or the terms of the Geneva Conventions. The men, drenched with salt water, shivering from cold and shock, began to sing to keep their spirits up, before hoisting sail.

Will exchanged looks with Captain Palmer. They were the longest-serving on the Christina. Will could imagine what Palmer must be going through having lost his ship as well as one of his three officers and a valued crew member. Whilst not the fastest or most elegant of vessels, the Christina had been home to them for a long time and both men had many memories.

The lifeboat limped along, through mercifully calmer seas, in what the compass indicated was towards the north-west coast of Spain. Will sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his life had been spared in his first encounter with the enemy. He would be seeing Hannah again soon.

Clare Flynn

Author Bio:

Clare Flynn is the author of thirteen historical novels and a collection of short stories. A former International Marketing Director and strategic management consultant, she is now a full-time writer.

Having lived and worked in London, Paris, Brussels, Milan and Sydney, home is now on the coast, in Sussex, England, where she can watch the sea from her windows. An avid traveler, her books are often set in exotic locations.

Clare is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, a member of The Society of Authors, ALLi, and the Romantic Novelists Association. When not writing, she loves to read, quilt, paint and play the piano.

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[Blog Tour] 'The Usurper King' (The Plantagenet Legacy, Book 3) By Mercedes Rochelle #HistoricalFiction

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The Book:

The Usurper King
(The Plantagenet Legacy, Book 3)
By Mercedes Rochelle

• Publisher: Sergeant Press
• Page Length: 308 Pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

From Outlaw to Usurper, Henry Bolingbroke fought one rebellion after another.

First, he led his own uprising. Gathering support the day he returned from exile, Henry marched across the country and vanquished the forsaken Richard II. Little did he realize that his problems were only just beginning. How does a usurper prove his legitimacy? What to do with the deposed king? Only three months after he took the crown, Henry IV had to face a rebellion led by Richard's disgruntled favorites. Worse yet, he was harassed by rumors of Richard's return to claim the throne. His own supporters were turning against him. How to control the overweening Percies, who were already demanding more than he could give? What to do with the rebellious Welsh? After only three years, the horrific Battle of Shrewsbury nearly cost him the throne—and his life. It didn't take long for Henry to discover that that having the kingship was much less rewarding than striving for it.

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'The Usurper King' - Front Cover

'The Usurper King' - Excerpt:

The Duke of York confronts Henry Bolingbroke:

York was waiting for them at the Church of St. Mary's. It was an old edifice hosting many generations of the Berkeley family within its humble vaulted nave. Accompanied by his nobles, Henry pushed open the door and slowly entered, looking over the silent effigies lining both sides of the church. The Duke of York stood before the altar, waiting in the gloom. At his side hovered John Beaufort and a handful of knights like so many ghosts.

Henry could just imagine that the king's regent wanted nothing more than to sit down; he knew his uncle suffered from severe arthritis, and this audience was undoubtedly a strain for him. The newcomers moved closer. York's face, usually so affable, was drawn and frowning. Despite himself, Henry felt a pang of guilt.

Putting his hands on his hips, the duke stuck out his chin. "You have much to answer for, Henry Bolingbroke. How dare you drag your horde of bandits across England, pillaging the good people who have done nothing to deserve this outrage?"

Henry extended his hands. "Uncle, uncle. Give me a chance to explain."

"Don't uncle me! You have been forbidden to return these six years, and here you are, just as soon as the king conveniently leaves the country. Surely you must know I speak for him."

"I do, your grace. And I trust your good judgment."

"My good judgment!" York sputtered. "My good judgment! I judge that you are outlawed."

Despite York's words, Henry felt his uncle spoke out of obligation rather than conviction. He took a step forward. "It was Bolingbroke who was outlawed. I speak for Lancaster."

Temporarily at a loss, Edmund opened and closed his mouth. The trembling of his thin white beard betrayed his inner conflict. Henry took advantage of his discomfiture.

"Uncle, listen to me. My poor father, whom I was not allowed to see even at the last, would have trusted you to look after my entitlements—just as he would have looked after your son's claims had they been challenged. I ask no less of you. You know I have been wronged..." He paused, waiting for an answer. None was forthcoming.

Percy stepped up next to Henry. "This issue touches all of us," he said in his gruff voice. "We stand united behind Lancaster. If such a great inheritance can be thus taken away, then none of us are safe."

Unresolved, York lowered his head.

"And what have I done to deserve this treatment?" Henry pleaded. "What treason have I committed? I only ask to be given what I was promised: the ability to sue for my inheritance. I have come to claim my own." He dropped to one knee. "I am prepared to swear to this, before the altar."

Throwing up his hands, Edmund turned toward the sepulcher. "Then do so, nephew." He crossed his arms, waiting.

Exchanging glances with Percy, Henry moved forward, kneeling under the great crucifix. "I swear, as God is my witness, I have come to claim my inheritance. That is all." He crossed himself.

"Hmm." York was unconvinced. "Why do you need such a large army to merely claim your inheritance?"

Considering his oath discharged, Henry stood. "I am well aware that if I fell into the king's hands, my life would be forfeit."

"So you will confront the king as well?"

"If I must, uncle. I believe he seeks to enrich himself with Lancaster's patrimony. Many would call King Richard a tyrant. Many feel he needs the guidance of wiser heads."

"Like yours, I suppose?" York's voice sounded shrill.

"And yours, uncle. We have had ruling councils before."

Snorting in disgust, Edmund turned his back on Henry.

"Surely you have heard the cries of the people," Bolingbroke pleaded. "The king is not satisfied with one pardon. He requires many. He demands surety from every side. No one knows whether he is safe from arrest. No one knows whether their possessions will fall prey to the king's cupidity. As Lord High Steward of England, I have sworn to right these wrongs." He paused; whether he should be acting High Steward was anyone's guess. So far, no one debated his right to it—even York, it seemed.

Turning again, Edmund balanced on legs spread wide. "You have sworn to right these wrongs? By deposing the king?"

"That is not my intent." Henry gestured to the others. "Ask them. They would not follow a usurper."

Setting his mouth, York glared at Henry's companions. They stared back at him, not giving an inch. The silence stretched uncomfortably.

Finally, Edmund gave in, shaking his head. "All right. So be it. I no longer have the means to oppose you." Pausing, he raised a finger threateningly. "But do not assume I give you a free hand in this. You are bound by your word."

Allowing himself a smile, Henry put on his gloves. "I hope to convince you we mean to do the best for England's sake."

Grunting again, Edmund sat heavily on the nearest pew. It was the dismissal Henry was waiting for. He knew that in time, he would be able to cozen his uncle. For the moment, however, it would probably be better to let him get used to his failure as regent. It wasn't York's fault. He had done the best he could, considering that the king had left him with very few resources. Luckily for Henry. Luckily for Lancaster. So far, things had gone amazingly well. Henry almost couldn't believe it.

Mercedes Rochelle

Author Bio:

Mercedes Rochelle is an ardent lover of medieval history, and has channeled this interest into fiction writing. Her first four books cover eleventh-century Britain and events surrounding the Norman Conquest of England. The next series is called The Plantagenet Legacy about the struggles and abdication of Richard II, leading to the troubled reigns of the Lancastrian Kings. She also writes a blog: HistoricalBritainBlog.com to explore the history behind the story. Born in St. Louis, MO, she received by BA in Literature at the Univ. of Missouri St.Louis in 1979 then moved to New York in 1982 while in her mid-20s to “see the world”. The search hasn’t ended! Today she lives in Sergeantsville, NJ with her husband in a log home they had built themselves

Connect with Mercedes Rochelle:

• Website ✔ Blog ✔ Facebook ✔ Twitter ✔ Book Bub ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔

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[Book Tour] 'Chateau Laux' By David Loux #HistoricalFiction

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The Book:

Chateau Laux
By David Loux

• Publication Date: April 6, 2021
• Publisher: Wire Gate Press
• Page Length: 292 Pages
• Genre: Historical/Literary Fiction

The Blurb:

A young entrepreneur from a youthful Philadelphia, chances upon a French aristocrat and his family living on the edge of the frontier. Born to an unwed mother and raised by a disapproving and judgmental grandfather, he is drawn to the close-knit family. As part of his courtship of one of the patriarch’s daughters, he builds a château for her, setting in motion a sequence of events he could not have anticipated.

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Chateau Laux - Front Cover

'Chateau Laux' - Excerpt:

Excerpt from Chateau Laux, starting on Chapter TWELVE, Page 95 . . .

Long before Martin Luther, Jean Calvin, and the Protestant Reformation, there were a number of groups, in addition to Catholics, who called themselves Christians, and while their beliefs differed in fundamental ways, one of the problems they all shared was explaining how a just, all-powerful God could countenance evil in the world. The Cathar solution was simple. According to them, there were two gods—a New Testament god of goodness and light, and an Evil One, who ruled the physical world, where unholiness prevailed. Pierre may have reached the point where he no longer wished to think of himself as a religious man, because he had witnessed firsthand the malevolence of the followers of a so-called loving god, be they Catholic, Protestant, or otherwise. But his mother had been a devoutly religious woman, whether he liked it or not. He could reject her Catharism. But he couldn’t reject her love, no matter how problematic it seemed, and the seed of her faith followed him to the New World, where all things were not as new as he might have hoped.

Little prepared him for that desperate ocean passage into what was then still largely an unknown. People left the European ports and but precious few came back, and at the age of thirteen, Pierre found himself on a ship crammed with hollow-eyed men, huddled women, and sickly children. In extremis, a person needs a sustaining thought, something to hold onto, and he thought of horses. The manoir had had a stable and he remembered the smell of them, their sighs and shuddering vocalizations, their settlings and shufflings. As a young child, he would press his cheek against the massive velvet noses and breathe the same air they breathed, imagining he was running with them through lush green fields. He dreamed he was one of them, heart to heart and soul to soul, and on the rolling and tossing ship to the New World, the word for them was the first that he learned in English.

His teacher was a Norman boy who worked as a deckhand and whom he would meet on the bow, where the fresh breezes blew. The Norman had a blistered, brick red face and blue eyes pale as water.

“You talk funny,” the Norman said.

“If that’s what you think, then you should hear yourself. I can hardly understand a word you say.”

The Norman gave a snort.

“You’re kind of quiet, aren’t you, and now maybe I know why. If people can’t figure out what you’re saying, then why say anything at all? Right?”

The Norman laughed at his own joke, but both boys knew it was not always easy for one person to understand another. In the land they were from, residents of one village struggled to talk to the residents of another, and a person from as far away as another valley was sometimes impossible to understand. The fact that the boys could speak to each other at all was due to Pierre’s education—which was not at all a common thing—and his familiarity with the language of the Far Court, as his father had called it.

“So, tell me,” the Norman said, shaking his head. “With all of the English words that I know and could tell you about, why do you want to know about horses? I’ve never had a horse—have you? Only rich people ride horses, and you don’t look any richer than I am. You’re not rich, are you?”

This was a challenge that could not go unanswered, as Pierre’s friendship with the Norman was based on what they had in common, not what set them apart. What they had in common was youth and proximity, the sense that they were impoverished vagabonds in a world that loomed large. What would set them apart was anything one had that the other lacked.

“I just like them,” Pierre said. He felt the weight of the pouch of gold coins under his shirt, against his skin, and knew that he had to guard its secret well.

“If you like them so much, why are you here? Why not just be a stable boy and spend your life cleaning up turds?”

“Let’s change the subject.”

“I’m just having some fun with you,” the Norman chided. His eyes softened and his chin relaxed, as he eased into his role as teacher. “Eh bien,” he said. “C’est ce que vous voulez. Pour le cheval, le mot en anglais, c’est horse. Ha-oh-are-ess. Ho-arse. Horse.”

“Seriously?” Pierre said, in his native Occitan.

“Quoi?” the other boy said, in his Norman French.

“It’s such an abrupt, ugly word for such a noble animal,” Pierre said.

“Mais oui, vous avez parfaitement raison,” the Norman said, grinning. “You can only know the true spirit of something in your own language, n’est-ce pas?”

“Yes,” Pierre said, nodding and thinking the statement profound. Indeed, he had already come to the realization that he might never hear his own language again, that the lyricism of his youth was gone forever.

David Loux

Author Bio:

David Loux is a short story writer who has published under pseudonym and served as past board member of California Poets in the Schools. Chateau Laux is his first novel. He lives in the Eastern Sierra with his wife, Lynn.

• Connect with David Loux: Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Goodreads ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔

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