Showing posts with label Miscellaneous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Miscellaneous. Show all posts

1 October 2021

[Blog Tour] 'Bloody Dominions' (The Conquest Trilogy, Book 1) By Nick Macklin #HistoricalFiction

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[Blog Tour] 'Bloody Dominions' (The Conquest Trilogy, Book 1) By Nick Macklin #HistoricalFiction
Bloody Dominions - Tour Banner

The Book:

Bloody Dominions
(The Conquest Trilogy, Book 1)
By Nick Macklin

Publication Date: 28th June 2021
Publisher: Troubador Publishing
Page Length: 368 Pages
Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

Journey with those at the heart of the conflict as Caesar embarks on the tumultuous conquest of Gaul 58-51 BC. Book One 58-56 BC.

As Caesar’s campaign begins, tests of courage and belief will confront the three protagonists, shaping them as individuals and challenging their views of the world and each other:

Atticus – an impetuous but naturally gifted soldier, whose grandfather served with distinction in the legions;

Allerix – a Chieftain of the Aduatuci, who finds himself fighting both for and against Caesar; and

Epona – a fierce warrior and Allerixs’ adopted sister.

Experiencing the brutalities of conflict and the repercussions of both victory and defeat, Atticus, Allerix and Epona will cross paths repeatedly, their destinies bound together across time, the vast and hostile territories of Gaul and the barriers of fate that have defined them as enemies. In a twist of fate, Atticus and Allerix discover that they share a bond, a secret that nobody could ever foresee…

Trigger Warnings: Violence, attempted rape.

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[Blog Tour] 'Bloody Dominions' (The Conquest Trilogy, Book 1) By Nick Macklin #HistoricalFiction
Bloody Dominions - Book Cover

 'Bloody Dominions' - Excerpt:

Free of his armour, Atticus set off up the slope after Garmanos. Surprisingly nimble for one so large, he was already approaching the top of the climb. Determined to close the gap, Atticus gritted his teeth and pushed on. It was hard going and he was dripping with sweat and breathing heavily as he reached Garmanos, who was by now laying prostate on the forest floor. He signalled for Atticus to do likewise and together they inched forward until they were able to peer cautiously over the ridge. Screwing up his eyes against the glare of the sun, Atticus could see that the ridge was topped with a grass-covered hollow. It was quite narrow but extended for some distance along the ridge. Garmanos nudged Atticus and gestured toward the remains of a fire in the centre of the open space. It didn’t look like it had long been extinguished. He could see the signs of several more at either end of the hollow. By the looks of it, a sizeable group had camped here and very recently too. He felt decidedly uneasy. Garmanos took one last look around and jumped to his feet. Atticus followed him down the bank and watched as he quickly surveyed the ground. He wasn’t sure how Garmanos had determined which of the paths to follow but he seemed confident enough.

“This way. But quietly. There are men and horses on this side of the hill.”

Leaving that thought hanging he set off down the path. If anything, the hill was steeper on this side but the path wound its way down the slope in a series of wide arcs sweeping between the trees and they were able to make good progress. As they rounded one of the bends, Atticus could see that the path dropped abruptly into a ditch running parallel to a wider track cutting across their own. He followed Garmanos into the ditch and was about to climb out when he felt a tug to his sleeve. Garmanos signalled for him to be quiet and pointed to a moss-covered tree trunk that had long since fallen into the ditch. Atticus wasn’t sure what was happening but he followed Garmanos as he hurriedly edged towards the tree and squeezed into the space between the upturned roots and the wall of the ditch. Garmanos pointed towards the right of the track.

“Riders. Two of them.”

Atticus hadn’t seen or heard anything but he wrapped his arms tightly around his legs and tried to make himself as small as possible. He pulled some of the larger ferns across the gap and tried to control his breathing. For a while, Atticus wondered if Garmanos had been mistaken. Then he heard the sound of hooves on the road. He swallowed nervously; they were tucked well into the bank but he still felt horribly exposed. And he would have walked right into their path if it hadn’t been for Garmanos. Perhaps he had misjudged his prowess as a guide after all. Hardly daring to move, he peered towards the path from the corner of his eye. The two riders trotted slowly into view. Warriors. They were talking animatedly as they rode but gave no indication that they had seen anything untoward. Relieved, Atticus let out a deep breath. As the riders reached the intersection of the two paths, they paused. After what seemed like a heated discussion, they set off again, continuing along the wider track, passing directly above them as they did. Atticus could hear them laughing. Garmanos waited for a few moments and quietly crawled back into the ditch. Atticus followed him out from under the roots, keeping a careful watch on the track.

“What was that all about?”

“They are looking for you and your friends. The scout must have alerted them to our presence in the forest.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“Whether they should explore the smaller path.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“The wider track was easier and…”

Garmanos paused. Atticus felt a pang of concern.

“And what?”

“They said it wouldn’t matter since you would all be dead soon enough anyway.”

Atticus’ blood ran cold. He had to warn Plautius but what about? He didn’t know how many warriors there were. He needed to know more. Fighting the impulse to head back immediately, he gestured in the direction from which the warriors had approached.

“Can we follow the track a little further?”

Garmanos seemed a little surprised at this but he shrugged and nodded his head. Remaining in the ditch for safety, they carefully moved forward. They hadn’t gone far when the path started to dip and the treeline began to thin, revealing what looked like a narrow valley nestling between the hills. It might have been a pleasant sight if the lush green fields hadn’t been filled by a huge camp. Stretching as far as the eye could see, the valley was filled with tents, wagons, horses and a growing number of enemy warriors. Those already on the plain were being jostled slowly forward as more and more spilled out from the woods on either side. Atticus was filled with a sudden sense of dread. The first of the legions would surely be arriving soon.

They were walking into a trap.

He had to get back. He nodded to Garmanos and they hurriedly set about retracing their steps. Atticus desperately wanted to break cover and use the track but he knew it increased the risk of them being spotted. He was growing ever more anxious however as they finally arrived back at the path they had originally followed. Inching up the bank, he craned his neck to see if he could detect any sign of the warriors behind them. Nothing. Yet. They might still have time. Garmanos dragged himself up the bank and with one final look he set off back up the hill. Atticus followed suit. Running for his life and those of his unsuspecting comrades on the opposite side of the hill.
[Blog Tour] 'Bloody Dominions' (The Conquest Trilogy, Book 1) By Nick Macklin #HistoricalFiction
Nick Macklin

Author Bio:

A history graduate, Nick Macklin enjoyed developing the skills that would stand him in good stead during the extensive research he conducted prior to writing his novel. Whilst the ancient world unfortunately didn’t feature to any extent in his history degree, (the result of failing miserably to secure the A level grades that would have permitted greater choice) he maintained a lifelong and profound interest in ancient history and especially the Roman Empire, continuing to read avidly as he embarked on a career in HR. Over the next 30 years or so Nick occupied a variety of Senior/Director roles, most recently in the NHS. Unsurprisingly, writing in these roles was largely confined to the prosaic demands of Board papers but Nick never lost the long-harboured belief, motivated by the works of writers such as Robert Fabbri, Robyn Young, Anthony Riches, Simon Scarrow, Matthew Harffy and Giles Kristian, that he too had a story to tell. When he was presented with a window of opportunity c3 years ago he took the decision to place his career on hold and see if he could convert that belief into reality.

Nick always knew that he wanted to set the novel against the backdrop of a significant event/period in Roman history. Looking to narrow that down to something offering the potential for meaningful character and plot development, but that hadn’t already received exhaustive coverage, he settled on Caesars tumultuous occupation of Gaul. Spanning 8 years, the prolonged clash of cultures offered ample opportunity for the kind of dual perspective from which he was hoping to tell the story, whilst the violent conflict provided a wealth of exciting material to explore the changing fortunes of war and its impact at a personal level. The switching of allegiances, nations fighting for and against Rome also provided the potential for some intriguing plot lines. As his research unfolded, he was also struck by just how heavily the Roman psyche during this period was influenced by the scare they had received 50 years earlier when Germanic tribes invaded their territories and defeated their legions. Seeing references to the veterans of that war watching their sons and grandsons enlist for a similar campaign, he started to think about developing that link on both sides of the conflict. And so, the idea for the Conquest Trilogy was born.

In Bloody Dominions Nick has sought to produce a novel in which unfolding events are experienced and described from the perspective of protagonists on both sides of Caesar’s incursion into Gaul. Conscious that the role of women in Roman fiction, Boudica aside, is largely confined to spouse, prostitute or slave, Nick wanted to ensure that one of his lead characters was female and a prominent member of the warrior clan of her tribe. The novel is driven by these characters but the framework against which their stories unfold is historically accurate, featuring actual participants in Caesar’s campaign and drawing on real events as they occurred. As such Nick is genuinely excited about his characters and the story they have to tell.

Nick lives in Exeter with his two daughters and is currently juggling work as an Independent HR Consultant with writing the second novel in the Conquest Trilogy, Battle Scars.

Connect with Nick Macklin:

[Blog Tour] 'Bloody Dominions' (The Conquest Trilogy, Book 1) By Nick Macklin #HistoricalFiction
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28 September 2021

[Blog Tour] 'The Amber Crane' By Malve von Hassell #HistoricalFiction #Timeslip

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[Blog Tour] 'The Amber Crane' By Malve von Hassell #HistoricalFiction #Timeslip
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The Book:

The Amber Crane
By Malve von Hassell

Publication Date: 25th June 2021
Publisher: Odyssey Books
Page Length: 268 Pages
Genre: Time-slip Historical Fiction / Young Adult

The Blurb:

Chafing at the rules of the amber guild, Peter, an apprentice during the waning years of the Thirty Years’ War, finds and keeps a forbidden piece of amber, despite the risk of severe penalties should his secret be discovered.

Little does he know that this amber has hidden powers, transporting him into a future far beyond anything he could imagine. In dreamlike encounters, Peter witnesses the ravages of the final months of World War II in and around his home. He becomes embroiled in the troubles faced by Lioba, a girl he meets who seeks to escape from the oncoming Russian army.

Peter struggles with the consequences of his actions, endangering his family, his amber master’s reputation, and his own future. How much is Peter prepared to sacrifice to right his wrongs?

  • Trigger Warnings: References to rape, Holocaust, World War II, violence

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[Blog Tour] 'The Amber Crane' By Malve von Hassell #HistoricalFiction #Timeslip
The Amber Crane - Book Cover

'The Amber Crane' - Excerpt:

Excerpt from Chapter 8 - LIOBA

Peter bumps against a wall. It is dark. Feeling around with his hand, he touches a metal knob. He twists it, and a door opens.

Peter stares at the sight in front of him, faintly illuminated by early morning light from a window. It is a room filled with rows of wooden tables and chairs. Peter’s eyes are drawn to a huge picture on the wall. A face with a mustache, shiny black hair combed to one side, and piercing eyes looms over the room. On a big blackboard, he can just make out two lines on top in a scraggly script, the last word missing where someone had started to wipe the board.

Oh, stranger, when you arrive in Sparta, tell of our pride
That here, obeying her behests, we –


“That here, obeying her behests, we died,” he completes the line in his mind. He had heard the lines often enough from Lorenz, who had learned them from his tutor. He had recited them to Peter over and over again at night when they sat in their beds and talked. Three hundred Spartans had died there at the battle of Thermopylae, the narrow pass where they made their last stand against tens of thousands of enemies.

Maybe this is a schoolroom, albeit an elaborate one. In the school in Stolpmünde, where Peter and Lorenz learned their letters, there are only benches without tables and a plain lectern for the teacher. Still, this space somehow smells like a schoolroom, stale and musty, evoking bored students waiting for the droning voice of the teacher to come to an end.

Startled by a soft rustling, Peter whips his head around.

The girl from his dreams is sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, wrapped in a ratty-looking blanket. She is awake.

“It’s you again.” The girl pulls up the blanket. “Are you in my dream, or am I in yours?”

“I honestly do not know,” Peter says slowly. “This is not like any dream I have ever had.”

“Well, at least you’re not a Russian soldier. Anyway, they haven’t gotten this far west yet. Are you going to vanish again in midsentence?”

“I do not even know how I got here. Why do you talk so strangely?” He could understand her, but it was like listening to someone through a thick blanket. She seemed to swallow many of her words. “Why do you keep talking about Russians? Where is this?”

“Somewhere east of Danzig.” The girl frowns at him. “You sound like someone reciting the Luther Bible.”

Peter stares at her, bewildered and shaken. The bread from his supper sits in his stomach like a rock. The long-legged beast he remembers from before gets up from behind the desk and stretches.

Peter backs up.

“Don’t worry, she won’t bite you.”

It is the tallest dog he has ever seen—if it is a dog. It comes up to Peter and starts sniffing him vigorously. He can feel its breath. Then it evidently loses interest and lies down again, its legs stretched out in front like those of a crane. The matted fur smells like a sack of dirty woolens, but it is a warm and comforting scent.

“Your dog seems real,” Peter says, eyeing the beast nervously.

“So do you—for someone in a dream.” The girl studies him. She does not seem afraid any longer. “My name is Lioba. What’s yours?”

“Peter.”

“Well, Peter, are you going to vanish again, or can we talk a bit? This is actually nice. You are the first person I have talked to in a while.” She starts to laugh. “Since you aren’t real, it’s not as if you are going to hurt me.” Then she wipes her face roughly as if irritated.

“You are crying,” Peter says.

Lioba’s hands are long and slender, but her nails are ragged and dirty.

The dog lifts its head as if in response to her distress and pushes its long nose against her leg.

Uncomfortable with Lioba’s evident anguish, Peter tries to distract her. “What sort of dog is that?”

“I think it’s a Borzoi.” Her voice sounds muffled.

“A what?”

“You know—a Russian wolfhound.”

“What do you mean, you think? This is not your dog?”

“She has been following me for weeks. You don’t have anything to eat, by any chance?” The dark shadows under Lioba’s eyes emphasize her broad cheekbones.

“Sorry.” Peter thinks of the loaf of bread Mistress Nowak had cut up for supper. Maybe the next time he goes to sleep, he should try to keep a piece of bread in his pocket.

Lioba drops the blanket and gets up. She closes the shutters of the windows and fastens them. She pulls the two panels of black fabric together, plunging the room into total darkness.

“Why are you doing this? I cannot see you.”

“Haven’t you heard of the blackout?” she scoffs.

Blackout? Bewildered, Peter hears the girl move toward the wall near the door. Suddenly, light streams from a strange lamp. At least, he thinks it is a lamp. Definitely not a candle or an oil lantern. “How did you do that?” he asks.

“Really?” Lioba scowls. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No, of course not. What is that? How did you make it glow?”

“Electricity, stupid! What century are you living in?”

“What do you mean, what century?” How dare this girl call him stupid? Clearly, she was confused. “Everybody knows that. This is the year of our Lord 1644.”

Lioba stares at him. Then her lips widen into a grin. “I don’t believe this. I am talking to someone in a dream, and he is not even from my own time.”

“Your own time?”

“Right. I don’t know about the year of our Lord 1644. This sure isn’t that. This is 1944. But I would gladly trade with you if I could.”

Three hundred years into the future. Peter reaches out to touch the wall next to him. It feels solid. The dog’s smell certainly feels real. Nothing else does in this strange, flat, dark grey world. It is as if he is standing outside, looking through the frame of a window.

Lioba frowns, folding her arms across her chest.

There is a roaring in his ears. A door bangs loudly somewhere, and everything goes dark.
[Blog Tour] 'The Amber Crane' By Malve von Hassell #HistoricalFiction #Timeslip
Malve von Hassell

Author Bio:

Malve von Hassell is a freelance writer, researcher, and translator. She holds a Ph.D. in anthropology from the New School for Social Research. Working as an independent scholar, she published The Struggle for Eden: Community Gardens in New York City (Bergin & Garvey 2002) and Homesteading in New York City 1978-1993: The Divided Heart of Loisaida (Bergin & Garvey 1996). She has also edited her grandfather Ulrich von Hassell's memoirs written in prison in 1944, Der Kreis schließt sich - Aufzeichnungen aus der Haft 1944 (Propylaen Verlag 1994). She has taught at Queens College, Baruch College, Pace University, and Suffolk County Community College, while continuing her work as a translator and writer. She has self-published two children’s picture books, Letters from the Tooth Fairy (2012/2020) and Turtle Crossing (2021), and her translation and annotation of a German children’s classic by Tamara Ramsay, Rennefarre: Dott’s Wonderful Travels and Adventures (Two Harbors Press, 2012). The Falconer’s Apprentice (namelos, 2015) was her first historical fiction novel for young adults. She has published Alina: A Song for the Telling (BHC Press, 2020), set in Jerusalem in the time of the crusades, and The Amber Crane (Odyssey Books, 2021), set in Germany in 1645 and 1945. She has completed a biographical work about a woman coming of age in Nazi Germany and is working on a historical fiction trilogy featuring Adela of Normandy.

Connect with Malve von Hassell:

[Blog Tour] 'The Amber Crane' By Malve von Hassell #HistoricalFiction #Timeslip
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20 September 2021

[Blog Tour] 'Where Your Treasure Is' By M. C. Bunn #HistoricalFiction #VictorianRomance

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[Blog Tour] 'Where Your Treasure Is' By M. C. Bunn #HistoricalFiction #VictorianRomance
'Where Your Treasure Is' - Tour Banner

The Book:

Where Your Treasure Is
By M. C. Bunn
Publication Date: 23rd April 2021
Publisher: Bellastoria Press
Page Length: 454 Pages
Genre: Historical Fiction, Historical Romance, Victorian Romance

The Blurb:

Feisty, independent heiress Winifred de la Coeur has never wanted to live according to someone else’s rules—but even she didn’t plan on falling in love with a bank robber.

Winifred is a wealthy, nontraditional beauty who bridles against the strict rules and conventions of Victorian London society. When she gets caught up in the chaos of a bungled bank robbery, she is thrust unwillingly into an encounter with Court Furor, a reluctant getaway driver and prizefighter. In the bitter cold of a bleak London winter, sparks fly.

Winifred and Court are two misfits in their own circumscribed worlds—the fashionable beau monde with its rigorously upheld rules, and the gritty demimonde, where survival often means life-or-death choices.

Despite their conflicting backgrounds, they fall desperately in love while acknowledging the impossibility of remaining together. Returning to their own worlds, they try to make peace with their lives until a moment of unrestrained honesty and defiance threatens to topple the deceptions that they have carefully constructed to protect each other.

A story of the overlapping entanglements of Victorian London’s social classes, the strength of family bonds and true friendship, and the power of love to heal a broken spirit.

Buy Links:

'Where Your Treasure Is' - Cover

'Where Your Treasure Is' - Excerpt:

Winifred and the man stumbled down a flight of narrow stairs. He kicked a door. Before them a deserted kitchen gleamed. Pots steamed unattended. The man pushed her toward the scullery. In a moment they would be outdoors. She redoubled her efforts to break free of him.

In a corner, a scullery maid and a butcher’s boy kissed. At the sound of Winifred’s screams, they broke apart guiltily and stared openmouthed at her. Her captor swore and pointed his gun at the couple. The girl screeched, and the boy snatched up a dripping pot lid in defense of his paramour.

“Fire!” the man shouted at them. “Run for your lives!”

The boy threw down the pot lid, grabbed his girl, and they fled outside.

Gasping, the man pushed Winifred after them. Stairs, fresh air—she gulped at it. Then she saw a hackney waiting in the alley and the driver in his purple coat.

******

Court’s horse remained wary, her ears up, and swung her head toward the stairs that led down to the scullery. All at once, the butcher’s boy and a shrieking scullery maid clambered up the steps. They raced down the alley and took off in the boy’s cart at top speed. There was another rumble like the one Court had heard a minute ago. It sounded like distant thunder. He was vaguely aware of a rattle of bells in the street at the other end of the alley. A fire brigade passed. He smelled smoke.

Suddenly Geoff and a woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs. They were covered in white dust and coughing. A bright, wet, bloody streak covered half of Geoff’s face. Their progress was impeded by the woman’s wildly kicking little boots. Her struggles and the flashes of her bright green and purple silks made her look like an exotic bird thrashing in Geoff’s arms.

“What in ’ell ’appened to you? Where’s ’Ez?” Court shouted and ran forward to help.

“I don’t know!” Geoff coughed. “Forget ’im! We’ve got to get out ’o ’ere!”

“What about ’er? I saw a fire truck! Is she ’urt?”

“She’s comin’ with us!”

“Bleedin’ ’ell! ’Ave you lost your mind?” Court shouted. “Put ’er down!”

Geoff coughed and swore. “No! She saw me! Open the door!”

Geoff did not wait for Court to comply and thrust the woman at him. While Geoff bent over in another fit of coughing, the woman struggled and kicked, fanning dust all over Court, and cried for help. Involuntarily, he clapped his hand over her mouth. She only screamed louder.

“Shut up, you fat sow!” Geoff swatted her across the temple with Hez’s pistol.

The woman’s eyes rolled and she went limp.

Court howled in dismay and caught her.

Unconscious, her face took on an even sicklier pallor than the dust already gave it. In his arms, she was a mountain of soft cashmere and folds of velvet. Her mantle fell open, and her scent hit him. Lilies and some dark, exotic spice. It was so unexpected and heavenly that the alley and the hackney disappeared. Even his panic was gone.

“Give ’er ’ere!” Geoff grabbed the woman and hauled her into the cab. The hem of her skirt caught on the door and ripped. “Give me your tie,” Geoff ordered.

Court removed his neckerchief, thinking Geoff wanted to wipe the blood off his face. Instead, he gagged the woman then removed his belt in order to bind her wrists. This was too much. Court grabbed the woman’s ankles. “Put ’er ’ands in front o’ ’er at least!”

“The bitch tried to stab me with a ’atpin!”

“Do it, or we ain’t goin’ nowhere!”

Geoff scowled in disgust but tied her hands in front. “Soft!”

From above came another low rumble. The mare lunged. Court let go of the woman to steady the horse. Another fire truck raced past the end of the alley. There was a distinct odor of smoke.

Geoff dumped the woman onto the floor of the cab. “The gas lines is goin’! Go on, drive!”

In spite of the horse, Court made another attempt to extract the woman from Geoff’s clutches. “We can’t leave ’Ez! We can’t take ’er!”

Geoff clicked off the safety and waved the pistol under Court’s nose. When Court did not let go of the woman, he pointed the pistol at her head. “I ain’t arguin’! Drive!” He slammed the cab door.

His heart hammering, his head whirling, Court untied the horse, swung up onto the box, and grabbed the reins. As he turned the cab into the street behind the bank, yet another fire truck raced past.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! They were in for it now.

[Blog Tour] 'Where Your Treasure Is' By M. C. Bunn #HistoricalFiction #VictorianRomance
M. C. Bunn 

Author Bio:

M. C. Bunn grew up in a house full of books, history, and music. “Daddy was a master storyteller. The past was another world, but one that seemed familiar because of him. He read aloud at the table, classics or whatever historical subject interested him. His idea of bedtime stories were passages from Dickens, Twain, and Stevenson. Mama told me I could write whatever I wanted. She put a dictionary in my hands and let me use her typewriter, or watch I, Claudius and Shoulder to Shoulder when they first aired on Masterpiece Theatre. She was the realist. He was the romantic. They were a great team.”

Where Your Treasure Is, a novel set in late-Victorian London and Norfolk, came together after the sudden death of the author’s father. “I’d been teaching high school English for over a decade and had spent the summer cleaning my parents’ house and their offices. It was August, time for classes to begin. The characters emerged out of nowhere, sort of like they knew I needed them. They took over.

She had worked on a novella as part of her master’s degree in English years before but set it aside, along with many other stories. “I was also writing songs for the band I’m in and had done a libretto for a sacred piece. All of that was completely different from Where Your Treasure Is. Before her health declined, my mother heard Treasure’s first draft and encouraged me to return to prose. The novel is a nod to all the wonderful books my father read to us, the old movies we stayed up to watch, a thank you to my parents, especially Mama for reminding me that nothing is wasted. Dreams don’t have to die. Neither does love.

When M. C. Bunn is not writing, she’s researching or reading. Her idea of a well-appointed room includes multiple bookshelves, a full pot of coffee, and a place to lie down with a big, old book. To further feed her soul, she and her husband take long walks with their dog, Emeril in North Carolina’s woods, or she makes music with friends.

“I try to remember to look up at the sky and take some time each day to be thankful.”

Connect with M. C. Bunn:

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15 September 2021

[Blog Tour] 'The Wisdom of the Flock: Franklin and Mesmer in Paris' By Steve M. Gnatz #HistoricalFiction

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[Blog Tour] 'The Wisdom of the Flock: Franklin and Mesmer in Paris' By Steve M. Gnatz #HistoricalFiction
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The Book:

The Wisdom of the Flock: Franklin and Mesmer in Paris
By Steve M. Gnatz
  • Publication Date: November 2020
  • Publisher: Leather Apron Press
  • Page Length: 541 Pages
  • Genre: Historical Fiction

The Book Trailer:

The Blurb:

A WORLD OF ENLIGHTENMENT, REVOLUTION, AND INTRIGUE

1776: Benjamin Franklin sails to Paris, carrying a copy of the Declaration of Independence, freshly signed. His charge: gain the support of France for the unfolding American Revolution. Yet Paris is a city of distractions. Ben’s lover, Marianne Davies, will soon arrive, and he yearns to rekindle his affair with the beautiful musician.

Dr. Franz Mesmer has plans for Marianne too. He has taken Parisian nobility by storm with his discovery of magnétisme animale, a mysterious force claimed to heal the sick. Marianne’s ability to channel Mesmer’s phenomena is key to his success.

A skeptical King Louis XVI appoints Ben to head a commission investigating the astonishing magnétisme animale. By nature, Ben requires proof. Can he scientifically prove that it does not exist? Mesmer will stop at nothing to protect his profitable claim.

The Wisdom of The Flock explores the conflict between science and mysticism in a time rife with revolution, love, spies, and passion.

  • Trigger Warnings: Mild sexual content
[Blog Tour] 'The Wisdom of the Flock: Franklin and Mesmer in Paris' By Steve M. Gnatz #HistoricalFiction
The Wisdom of the Flock - Book Cover

'The Wisdom of the Flock: Franklin and Mesmer in Paris' - Excerpt:

The crew would be starting their breakfast soon, yet food was the last thing Ben wanted. He made his way to the cloth-covered part of the deck. The thick oaken planks were wet with rain and sea spray. The area he sought was sheltered from the howling wind. Ben found the air on deck to be electrically charged and more invigorating than usual, exactly what he needed to settle his stomach and pounding head.

Ben sat down on a deck chair and spread a heavy wool blanket over his legs to shelter himself from the cold ocean spray.

“Do you believe in God, Doctor Franklin?” a deep voice asked.

Ben jumped, flailing his arms out of his lap. He hadn’t realized he was not alone. He squinted through his bifocals to make out a gaunt man, completely dressed in black, occupying a nearby chair. He was as emaciated as a saint but with the haughty countenance of a bishop. It was the Reverend William Smith.

“Reverend, I fervently hope that not only does He exist on such a foul day as this . . . but that He has a benevolent nature,” Ben replied.

The Reverend sat back and pulled a blanket up around his neck. “Well spoken,” he said with a chill in his voice.

Ben had learned long ago that there was no gain to be had in debating religious faith with devotees such as the Reverend. It wasn’t that Ben didn’t believe in God; it was simply that he didn’t have proof. And Ben needed proof of things. He could think of only a few aspects of his life that he was willing to take on faith. The love of his late wife came to mind. But then, that belief hadn’t been based entirely on faith either, for she had had ways of proving her love to him. God was a different matter altogether. A painful memory flashed of Ben praying to God to spare his son Francis from the pox, but the four-year-old succumbed. While this certainly wasn’t proof that God didn’t exist, though, it had shaken his faith. However, Ben knew that, like any true believer worth his salt, the Reverend would have an explanation for God’s lapse. Ben decided to change the subject.

“That bolt of lightning was close just now,” Ben said. He gazed out at the clouds that flashed in the distance.

“Aye, a bit too close for comfort,” the Reverend said. “But we can thank the Almighty for the effectiveness of your lightning rod. Lord knows how many ships were destroyed by fire before you were inspired by Him to invent it.”

Ben had not been certain that the clergyman would even know about his invention. Smith’s reply encouraged him to go on.

“Thank you, Reverend,” he said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, even through men such as me. Though I am sure He’s familiar with how the rod works, I wonder if you are?”

The Reverend sat up a bit. “I know only that the lightning bolt was somehow prevented from striking the ship,” he replied.

“Oh no, the lightning almost certainly struck our ship just now,” Ben explained. “Our mast is the tallest point for miles at sea. When I began studying the behavior of lightning, I noted that it always seeks the highest point in the landscape. Not only that, but also that lightning always seeks its way to the ground. My lightning rod simply creates a safe channel for the lightning to pass through the ship, so as not to endanger the vessel or its cargo. If the lightning were to strike a mast, there would be damage or fire. And if the damage were severe enough, it might even sink the ship.

“My rod is placed at the highest point on the ship and attracts the lightning. But that alone isn’t enough to prevent catastrophe, for I also found that I needed to channel it through the ship to the water. A thick metal cable runs from the lightning rod to below the water line to accomplish this.”

“A truly marvelous invention,” the Reverend replied. “Thanks be to God. But I thought you said that lightning always seeks the ground. Wouldn’t you have to run your metal cable back to the Colonies for the rod to be effective?”

“Excellent, excellent,” Ben exclaimed, “that is just the sort of question a man of science carries within him like a man of the cloth seeks to understand the mysteries of his faith . . . but I do beg to remind you that our country is now called the United States of America.”

“Oh, yes! Force of habit,” the Reverend exclaimed.

“Perhaps not a bad habit to maintain until your mission is accomplished,” Ben said. “Your Anglican Church does not support independence for the people of the United States.”

“That doth vex me,” the Reverend replied. He sunk back in his chair.

Ben resumed his explanation animatedly. “You will observe Reverend, as I did early on, that lightning is an electrical fluid that has no trouble traveling quickly through the air. Through careful experiments, I also found that this electrical fluid travels through water, albeit more slowly. Hence, there’s no need to run a cable back to shore so long as we are connected to the earth by water. Scientists around the world have taken to calling this electrical fluid ‘electricity’.”

“But what do you believe to be the source of this ‘electricity’, as you call it?” the Reverend asked. “The Bible tells us that lightning is sent down from Heaven by God.”

A slight shiver traveled Ben’s spine. Was it the cold sea spray or a sense that the Reverend was once again testing his religious beliefs?

It had not been so many years since scientists had been treated as heretics and persecuted for their belief that natural forces might be studied for the benefit of mankind. Now, in modern-day 1776, in this age of enlightenment, a fragile truce existed between religion and science. Ben believed the truce had occurred in part because of advances in natural philosophy—the science of the natural world and medicine.

The revelation that tiny creatures seen through the microscope by Van Leeuwenhoek and others in the last century might be the cause of human diseases was gaining wider acceptance. With increasing frequency, descriptions of these microbes and their associated diseases were being published in the proceedings of the Royal Society in London.

Ben had a personal stake in understanding the spread of disease and in making others aware. Smallpox had claimed the life of his beloved son Francis over forty years ago, and still claimed the lives of thousands each year.

It was disheartening that despite the advent of effective inoculation against smallpox, the Church continued to consider the medical technique to be inconsistent with the established canon. Ben had stormed out of more than one sermon when the clergyman had condemned vaccination as unholy.

“Reverend, you may if you wish, believe that lightning represents the wrath of God . . . sent down to avenge the sins of mankind,” Ben said. “But I believe that this electrical fluid is simply another natural force—no more mystical than the powerful flow of water through a stream that the miller uses to turn a wheel and grind the grain from the field. Mankind has learned to harness many natural forces. While it is wild and dangerous today, I believe that electricity may someday yield tangible benefits to mankind . . . if we can learn how to channel it appropriately.”

The Reverend appeared to be deep in thought. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set ignorance in the human heart; so that no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end,” he said.

“Ecclesiastes,” Ben replied. “But what do you mean by it?”

“Ben, don’t you see that there might be mysteries that are not intended to be known to man? That God has intended for some things to be taken on faith? That your natural philosophy both cannot, and I dare say should not, attempt to provide a proof for everything under the Sun? That by attempting to do so, by requiring proof for everything, you denigrate God and His power?”

“No, I don’t see it that way at all, Reverend,” Ben said. “I believe that God would want mankind to discover the intricate workings of the universe that He has created for us to live in. I believe that He has designed us to be probing, intelligent beings; designed us to yearn to discover and elucidate the hidden workings of the universe—not designed us as sheep, blindly following established doctrine.”

The Reverend looked as if he might object but said nothing.

Ben went on. “Take your own situation as an example. You do not believe that the Anglican Church is right in backing the British in this conflict over our freedom, correct?”

The Reverend squirmed in his seat. “Aye.”

“And the Church would say that you should accept their decision blindly, that it is God’s will, correct?”

“Aye.”

“But you do not see it that way. You have seen the injustices inflicted by the British on our people. You have thought independently and asked yourself why God would want things this way. The answer we agree upon is that God would want our people to be free. It is the Church that has a different goal, the Church that has a need to maintain the status quo. Your Anglican Church claims to know the will of God in this matter . . . but do they? Once you start asking questions, as you have, once you start demanding proof of things, as I do—then you will ultimately find the correct answer: that the will of God and the will of the Church may not be one and the same.”

“Yes, I see your point,” the Reverend replied, “but what of God’s true will? Would it not be one of the mysteries that cannot be proven? Isn’t God’s will ultimately something that must be taken on faith?”

Ben didn’t have an answer to his question, but during the time they had talked, the storm had abated enough that his appetite returned.

“Reverend, what say we see what the cook has prepared for breakfast?”

“Nay, I’m not yet ready to eat, sir. I’ll sit out here a bit longer, contemplating what the Lord may have in store for me.”

Ben bid the Reverend good day and headed for the galley.


[Blog Tour] 'The Wisdom of the Flock: Franklin and Mesmer in Paris' By Steve M. Gnatz #HistoricalFiction
Steve Gnatz

Author Bio:

Steve Gnatz is a writer, physician, bicyclist, photographer, traveler, and aspiring ukulele player. The son of a history professor and a nurse, it seems that both medicine and history are in his blood. Writing historical fiction came naturally. An undergraduate degree in biology was complemented by a minor in classics. After completing medical school, he embarked on an academic medical career specializing in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation. There was little time for writing during those years, other than research papers and a technical primer on electromyography. Now retired from the practice of medicine, he devotes himself to the craft of fiction. The history of science is of particular interest, but also the dynamics of human relationships. People want to be good scientists, but sometimes human nature gets in the way. That makes for interesting stories. When not writing or traveling, he enjoys restoring Italian racing bicycles at home in Chicago with his wife and daughters.

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8 September 2021

[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction

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[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction
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The Book: 

At Her Fingertips
(The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3)
By Kellyn Roth

  • Publication Date: 17th July 2021
  • Publisher: Wild Blue Wonder Press
  • Genre: Christian Historical Romance

The Blurb:

She’s willing to do anything to follow her plan.

Debutante Alice Knight is ready for her first social season in London. She’s determined to impress society and her mother with an affluent match, at last escaping her past and embracing a future of her own making.

Peter Strauss, an American reporter visiting England, isn’t exactly what Alice had in mind. However, his friendship proves invaluable as Alice faces the challenges of her debut. Almost immediately, she attracts the attention of a well-born gentleman—perfect save for the simple fact that he’s not a Christian.

The life she longs for is finally at her fingertips, but between her own heart and the convictions of her faith, she isn’t sure she ought to grasp it.

At Her Fingertips, a romantic women's fiction novel, is the third novel in Kellyn Roth's Christian family saga, The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy.
[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction
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'At Her Fingertips' - Excerpt:

Miss Knight was sitting by herself after dinner, staring into the fire with her eyes absent. Normally, Peter left people who seemed consumed by their own thoughts alone—that was what he preferred. But something told him she wasn’t the type to enjoy her own ponderings.

She continued to puzzle him. Strong and weak. Over and over again, those words echoed in his head. Miss Ivy was a delicate flower that would continue to bloom if crushed; he didn’t sense that in Miss Knight. She was more like a mighty pine that, once felled, would lie there until it crumbled into splinters. He didn’t know how she would handle collapse, or if she would at all.

Was it his business? No. Normally he would’ve made his observations within his own mind and kept silent. However, something about her compelled him to take a seat near her and make the necessary pleasantries.

After conversation faded again, he asked her if they could visit the library with Miss Ivy. “I haven’t had a chance, and Miss Ivy has told me about it often. Of course I wouldn’t go with her alone.”

“Of course.” There was grudging respect in her eyes. Did she think it was so different in America that he wouldn’t take care of Miss Ivy’s reputation? He honestly wasn’t sure why Miss Knight was so suspicious of him.

Had America stolen her father? Was that her reasoning? Or was she just too traditional to conceive of a friendship with him? He supposed it wasn’t exactly normal, but he made friends with anyone he could, and that usually included women. Not in an improper way—most women just seemed to, for no discernable reason, confide in him.

It was simultaneously frustrating and touching.

The three of them went to the library together, and Miss Ivy rambled on about their collection, who had added books over the years, and so on. Peter found it interesting but couldn’t help but be concerned about Miss Knight, and he began searching for a conversation topic that would suit all three of them.

It was when he gave up, however, that he succeeded. “Do either of your parents read?” he asked, deciding to focus his efforts on Miss Ivy, who actually wanted to talk to him. Reading, he felt, they could talk about.

Miss Ivy answered that her mother would read occasionally, and Miss Knight’s eyes focused on them both, interested for the first time.

Thank God, he thought.

“Mother reads what Nettie does,” Miss Knight said. “But then she’s not had time until lately to read.”

“Oh?” Peter supposed the lady had had a child almost every year, but she only had somewhere in the range of three to five children—he’d gotten confused at this point as to which were hers by birth and which by marriage. Ned certainly was the child of the late Mrs. Hazel Bailey Knight, but otherwise he didn’t know.

“Yes, because—” Then Miss Ivy stopped and looked to Miss Knight.

There was a moment in which the sisters stared each other down, clearly unsure who was going to communicate what. Then Miss Knight cleared her throat.

“Mr. Strauss, I know you asked one of our footmen for details about our family, and he declined to give you the full story.” Her dark eyes focused on him, intense to the point of anger. “If I were to tell you my family history, I don’t know what your reaction would be. Ivy promises me you are a fair, compassionate man, but I don’t know you, and you are a reporter.”

Peter winced. “I am at that. But I’m not the type of reporter who would ever discuss private details publicly, either in writing or with my mouth.” He struggled for the correct words. “I always take my cues from Proverbs. ‘Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.’”

“I see.” Miss Knight glanced at Miss Ivy.

She nodded.

“I’ll tell you a bit of what’s happened, so that there need be no awkwardness to us.” She gestured to a few chairs across the library. “It’s a simple story, really.”

Miss Ivy raised her eyebrows. “It is not.”

“Nevertheless, let’s sit down and go over it. Quickly.”

Curiosity spiked, but determined to remain compassionate, Peter took a seat and fixed his eyes on Miss Knight’s face.


[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction
Kellyn Roth

Author Bio:

Kellyn Roth is a Christian historical women’s fiction & romance author from North-Eastern Oregon who has independently published multiple novels, the most notable being The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy series. You should definitely call her Kell.

Kell lives on family-owned property outside an unmemorable but historical town with her parents, two little brothers, precious border collies, a dozen cows, and lots of chickens. She also possesses a classic, vintage aesthetic which does not at all speak to her country girl side, but such is life.

When not writing, Kell likes to blog, work as a virtual assistant for authors and other small business owners, and spend lavish amounts of money on Dairy Queen french fries. She also likes to talk about her books (and occasionally Keira Knightley) way too much. You’ve been warned.

Connect with Kellyn Roth:

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30 August 2021

[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction

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[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction
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The Book:

The Queen of the Citadels
(The King’s Germans, Book 3)
By Dominic Fielder
  • Publication Date: 26th August 2021
  • Publisher: Independently Published
  • Page Length: 550 Pages
  • Genre: Historical Military Fiction

The Blurb:

October 1793: The French border.

Dunkirk was a disaster for the Duke of York’s army. The French, sensing victory before the winter, launch attacks along the length of the border. Menen is captured and the French now hold the whip hand. Nieuport and Ostend are threatened, and Sebastian Krombach finds himself involved in a desperate plan to stop the Black Lions as they spearhead the French advance. Werner Brandt and the men of 2nd Battalion race to Menen to counterattack and rescue Erich von Bomm and the Grenadiers, whilst von Bomm struggles to save himself from his infatuation with a mysterious French vivandière.

Meanwhile, dark and brooding, the citadel of Lille dominates the border. The Queen of the Citadels has never been captured by force. The allies must now keep Menen, which guards Flanders, and seize Lille to open the road to Paris. All of this must be done under the watchful eyes of a spy in the Austrian camp. Juliette of Marboré is fighting her own secret war to free Julian Beauvais, languishing in the Conciergerie prison, and waiting for his appointment with the guillotine, as the Terror rages in Paris.
[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction
The Queen of the Citadels - Book Cover

 'The Queen of the Citadels' - Excerpt:

Paris: 20th December 1793

“I once said that what matters most is ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’. That is what should be written on our flags, into the very fabric of our uniforms. Well, I was wrong. Do you know what matter most at this very moment? What the people truly need?” Maximillian Robespierre turned around to face his audience. A dozen men focused on the pointed finger of Robespierre as he moved from face to face. The question was rhetorical. Carnot was amongst those who listened. Genet sat at the back of the room and watched the most powerful Jacobin ministers spellbound by his master’s voice.

Robespierre held the room at the point of his finger, and then whispered a solitary word,” Fear!”

His audience nodded understandingly, to Robespierre and then to one another as though the pronouncement had been handed down from on high.

“The past few months have been called ‘the Terror’, by some in this room and by our enemies. That’s true enough but until the revolution is secured so that we may hand back to the people what we have won on their behalf, there must be ‘Terror’. It must continue! It is the language that the people understand, and it is the most effective way of preventing failure!”

Robespierre was working the room; Genet had felt the electricity of his master’s words before but never like this. Maximillian Robespierre was a force of nature.

“The Bourbons had four hundred years to stake their claim to the throne. They did not rule by kindness, and they never once ruled for the good of the people. We rule in the name of the people but like any good father we must show discipline now….” The voice once raised to a crescendo had died away to a whisper again…”so that when France grows from the child like state in which the Bourbons kept it, into a strong and noble prince amongst nations, the people will know truly know the price of ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’ and will never again question the price of defending such a privilege!”

The room stood as one and applauded, a dozen pairs of hands reached out to shake his. Genet noticed the signal, no more than a nod in his direction. Robespierre waved the men down and motioned for quiet.

“To that end, we must continue to make examples of those who fail to protect the republic. These papers call for the arrest of the commanders of the armies of the North and the Rhine. We have reports from trusted officers as to the ineffective methods and lack of conviction in Generals Jourdan and Hoche. The people shall decide their fate. Any general now condemned to death will be executed in front of his own men. The army must understand Terror too and know that the punishment of a loving father is worse than the fiercest cannonade of the enemy! Who will countersign these orders?”

There it was: the lie hidden in the barrage of hyperbole. France had failed to secure victories on her borders. The generals would not turn on themselves, Genet knew that, but they had to fear that such an outcome might arise. It had been Genet’s brainchild and Robespierre had clapped his hands with glee the moment that the scheme was laid before him.

It was the soldiers who were always the problem. Come the spring, the army would do the bidding of Maximillian Robespierre. And Serge Genet would make such a wish a reality.


Wissembourg: 31st December 1793

“You came from Paris to deliver this and arrest the General?”

Pale grey eyes surveyed Maurice Caillat, not out of fear, reproach, or pity. Perhaps instead they searched for understanding. After all, it cannot have been a usual occurrence to receive notification of a fellow general’s arrest; orders to provide evidence against that same officer; and a promotion to command the Army of the North as a most obvious bribe.

But that was what Jean-Charles Pichegru was being asked to contemplate. His hand ruffled shoulder length hair where steel grey was beginning to outstrip black, despite the general only being two years past his thirtieth birthday.

“Somebody has sent you on a fool’s errand, Monsieur. I will accept the promotion, but I will not indict General Hoche.

“But I have been told to…”

Pichegru held up a hand, “Monsieur?”

“Caillat, Maurice Caillat, Representat…”

“Yes, yes, I know your rank. Monsieur Caillat, Maurice, remove that raincoat, pour yourself a glass of wine and take a seat by the fire. Words seem so less intimidating when there is at least a degree of civility.”

However, Maurice Caillat had imagined this interview to progress, drinks with his quarry had not been a possible scenario. And the more questionable the purpose, the more Caillat doubted in his own ability to resolve matters to Genet’s satisfaction. This trip was only serving to underline that point.

Caillat took his seat as ordered, and the two men faced one another, fierce yellows of the fire casting long shadows across the peasant cottage that Pichegru had taken for his quarters.

“Pray, continue…you were saying that you had been told to?”

“Err, yes, General, I have been instructed to tell…”

“Not General… too formal… I am Jean, and you will be Maurice, is that agreeable? Good…this wine is rather agreeable too, isn’t it?”

Maurice Caillat was at a loss as to what to say. The fire was warm; the chair comfortable, far better than the carriage that he had spent ten days travelling in; and the wine was rather good. Threatening a man who had shown such hospitality to a stranger seemed, frankly, to be both absurd and ungrateful. Caillat’s mouth open and closed; thoughts formed but no words came out.

“Maurice, I shall save you the trouble. I have been rather rude. I am, as you may well be aware, the president of one of the most powerful Jacobin clubs in Paris. I knew of your orders and the arrest of Lazare Hoche, three days before your arrival. Oh, they will make a fuss over Hoche, of course. But he is a capable soldier. I haven’t always agreed with his methods, but nothing would compel me to sign that death warrant that you were sent with. And make no mistake, that is the purpose of the message that you were delivering from your friends in Paris.”

“I have no friends in Paris, General.”

Caillat had not meant the words to come out, but they had escaped and there was no taking them back.

Pichegru tutted heavily.

“Now Maurice, you are not playing the game. Around my fireside, I am Jean and nothing more formal than that.”

Caillat gazed into his dark silhouette dancing on the red surface of the glass.

“I am supposed to be representing the authority of Paris: the might and the Terror.”

“Paris should not be about might and terror. We are Frenchmen, born of the same soil. We should be able to resolve our disagreements more cordially, do you not think?” For a moment there had been iron and anger in the words but in an instant, they were gone and the warm, near mesmeric voice of Pichegru had returned. “Now tell me of yourself and of Paris.”

Caillat told the General of his life before the revolution and after, in part because he wanted to, and because he felt that Pichegru already knew the answers. Maurice Caillat had been an investigator for the Marquis de Beurnonville, once Minister of War, now a captive of the Austrians, following the treachery of Dumouriez. He even recounted the events in Dunkirk and the matters involving Julian Beauvais, whose release had lifted a very real threat to his life.

Pichegru had listened, nodded but asked for no additional detail, save one.

“Wattignies, are you certain about Wattignies, Maurice?”

“Yes, Gener…err… Yes, Jean I am, why?”

“Let me tell you one or two things, Maurice. Firstly, no man can hope to live in Paris, as things stand, without friends. You will leave here tomorrow at first light, with an introduction to my club. They are expecting you. Secondly, you do not question why I should want to accept the death sentence that has become command of the Army of the North.”

Caillat mouthed to ask but Pichegru held up his hand.

“What Hoche and I accomplished here, beating the Austrians, Prussians, Brunswickers was done with a third of the resources that are in the north. Jourdan is a good man, as far as I can tell. He does not deserve this spectacle of a trial. You want to know what I’m going to do with the Army of the North? I’m going to liberate Flanders and throw the Austrians back over the Rhine and chase the British into the North Sea. Now go and find one of my orderlies, they will find a bed for you. I have reports to prepare which you will take to Paris. And consider my advice. A man needs friends. If the people who sent you on this fool’s errand do not change then…”

Pichegru drained his glass, eased his tired body from the chair, and motioned towards the door. “Goodnight, Monsieur Caillat, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction
Dominic Fielder

Author Bio:

Dominic Fielder has had careers in retail and the private education sector and is currently working as a secondary school Maths teacher. He has a First-class honours degree in history and a lifetime’s interest in the hobby of wargaming. The King's Germans series is a project that grew out of this passion He currently juggles writing and research around a crowded work and family life.

Whilst self-published he is very grateful for an excellent support team. The Black Lions of Flanders (set in 1793) is the first in the King's Germans' series, which will follow an array of characters through to the final book in Waterloo. He lives just outside of Tavistock on the edge of Dartmoor. where he enjoys walking on the moors and the occasional horse-riding excursion as both writing inspiration and relaxation.

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