Sandra Cox's Blog, page 285

Minder Contest

To celebrate the release of Minder, I'll be running a month long contest. The winner  gets:
A set of butterfly pins--on right
A Starbucks gift certificate
A book dedication
and
A download of Minder
To enter: Just leave a coment mentioning Minder and  include your email addie.
 Blurb:
Among the northern tribes there is a legend passed down from generation to generation about shape-shifting Minders—guardians of the innocents—and how they came to be.  It is said that nowadays only a handful of Minders exist, hunted to near extinction by a fearsome beast. Of the remaining Minders, only one wears a garnet-studded collar, the symbol of protection and royalty.   Even when my aunt told me the story, and handed me an ancient garnet-studded band, I had no idea the tale applied to me. After all, it’s only a legend…
Excerpt: “Try on the necklace.” “There’s no clasp.” I held it between my fingers and studied it. “Just slip it over your head.”“I don’t think it will fit.”“Try.”The necklace widened easily as I slipped it over my hair then narrowed to embrace my throat. I straightened and lifted my chin. I might be outdoorsy, and though I don’t obsess over them, I enjoy pretty things especially clothes and jewelry.  But this was different. This piece of jewelry was an extension of me. I felt alive, regal, protected. I frowned. Protected? What an odd thought.“It’s beautiful. It sets off your long swan-like neck to perfection. It belongs on you.” My aunt studied me her eyes alight with what looked like affirmation.“Yes.” I touched it. “It feels like it was made for me.”I felt the pull of an intent gaze and knew who would be staring. I turned my head. Our gazes collided. I could see his golden eyes dilate to black, his nostrils flare and strangest of all I could smell his heat.His gaze locked with mine, he stood abruptly. The woman who sat beside him grabbed his arm and pulled him down. She glared at me.Acutely aware of him, I broke eye contact and turned back to my aunt. “You said it was a gift from my mother?”“She wore it. Do you remember?” Aunt leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, her eyes intent.I frowned and tried to recall. A forgotten memory surfaced. A young woman who looked like me turning in a circle laughing, butterflies fluttering around her, the necklace at her throat. I felt a thrill. Our features were nearly identical, her hair the same color, texture and sheen only longer.“Yes, I do.” I smiled. The memory a gift I would cherish and hug close to my heart. https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=470&category_id=6&keyword=Minder&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1

Shadows Deep

Title: Shadows Deep (Shadows, Part II)Author: Cege SmithPublisher: SelfLength: 70,000 wordsGenres: Horror, Paranormal (Non-Romance)
Available at:Amazon| Barnes & Noble
Blurb:Ellie Coulter made a deal with the devil, and now it’s time to pay the price. Little did she know, the shadows that have swirled around her life since her parents’ death were not a coincidence. As Ellie's destiny is revealed, it comes with the knowledge that her fate is the lynchpin in a far larger, and more dangerous game. And the one who found her has no intention of ever letting her go.
Ellie walks a fine line between keeping up the appearance of acceptance while gathering the information she needs to escape. Along the way, she has to decide who to trust and that includes the man she loves.  As facts give way to lies, Ellie begins to question everything.
With her true intentions on the verge of being discovered, Ellie must find a way to defeat her captor before she becomes a shadow herself. Excerpt:Letting go was one of the hardest things a person could ever do. Ellie knew that. What happened when she let go of the idea that reality as she knew it was merely a cover on a rabbit hole? She had willingly taken the cover off and fallen down into the unknown darkness. She’d surrendered. Somehow it felt easier that way. But the Voice kept picking at her even though she was deep in her hidey hole. It wouldn’t leave her alone.
“What was it like for you when your parents died?”
Ellie had answered some variation of that question what seemed like a million times over the years, but her response always paled in comparison to the effect of that one event on the rest of her life. How could she explain the depth of pain she felt when the two people who she loved most were ripped out of her life? Or the excruciating, almost debilitating sense of loneliness that followed when she finally comprehended that she was completely alone in the world?
“I was eight,” Ellie replied. “I had no other family. One minute I was surrounded by love. In the blink of an eye I was an orphan. What do you think it was like?” No one could understand what she had been through, and eventually she gave up trying to explain. Her parents’ death was just something that happened to her a long time ago. Ellie preferred to leave that buried there.
“I am sure it was difficult. But you obviously learned to cope, even thrive.”
“Thrive isn’t the word I’d choose,” Ellie said. “I learned how to survive. Eventually I learned ways to be happy again, but I did that on my own. I never felt like I belonged anywhere again.”
The Voice was silent for a while and Ellie was relieved. When it wasn’t poking at her, the darkness was peaceful. Ellie was used to being alone.
“Tell me about your ability. You’ve linked that to your parents’ death.”
Ellie was tired of the questions. They had covered the same ground over and over again. But it was like the Voice was missing some nuance, and so it all started again. Combing through her life. Looking for clues. “I noticed it the first time at the funeral. I was standing there in the cemetery, looking at their caskets, with the social worker beside me. I kept looking around for more people, but it was just the three of us: me, the social worker, and the minister. And then I noticed that the longer the minister spoke, the more these colors seemed to grow out of him. It didn’t make any sense at the time. The colors were deep purple and blue and they got more vivid every time he made eye contact with me. It scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know what to do.”
A familiar cloud of sadness fell over her thoughts as she remembered that lost little girl. “When the service was over, I wanted to kick and scream and lash out. I wanted to push over those caskets because I convinced myself they were empty and it was some elaborate hoax. Any minute they would appear to take me home. But it wasn’t a hoax. My parents raised me to think that showing emotion in public wasn’t ladylike, so as desperately as I wanted to throw a tantrum, I knew they wouldn’t approve. I looked at the social worker and she had a glow of white tinged with yellow around her. Even though I didn’t know what it meant, the colors were soothing. I had to accept that I was left with nothing but this woman to take care of me. I was naive and automatically assumed that she was kind and that she’d be good to me.”
“She wasn’t?”
Ellie sighed. “After twenty-five years of reading auras, I know now that she was indifferent. She probably saw a dozen kids just like me every week. Her aura meant that she was at peace and even slightly happy, but it had nothing to do with me. I was part of her job, and while I was watching my parents be buried, she was probably thinking about getting a manicure or going home and having a glass of wine. Me, I had no home left.”
“You went into foster care.”
“Yes, and in foster care I stayed until I applied for emancipation when I was sixteen.” She remembered the day that the court approved her request. It had been bittersweet.
“Your ability must have been advantageous in that kind of hostile environment.”
“If you mean it helped keep me out of trouble, then probably it did. But I was always a good kid. I studied hard, got decent grades, and generally stayed out of everyone’s way.  I never gave my foster families any reason to really concern themselves with me. I wanted to be invisible. I was pretty good at it,” Ellie said. She had closed herself off from anyone who tried to reach her. It was a defense mechanism that worked well. Perhaps too well.
“Until you met Veronica.”
A face flashed in Ellie’s mind. A pretty blond with infectious laughter. Whereas her parents’ faces had faded over time, Roni’s was vivid and seemed so real that Ellie almost thought her friend was there with her in the darkness.
“Roni just wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Ellie said. “She saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. And for some reason she wanted to be my friend. I owe her a lot.” It was strange talking about Veronica. Those memories were under strict lock and key for a reason.About the Author:Cege Smith is a Minnesota based writer who is addicted to lattes and B-rated horror films. She had been crafting spooky stories since she was twelve years old. She lives with her husband, two adorable stepsons, and mini long-hair dachshund, Juliet in the suburbs of Minneapolis.
Blog: http://www.cegesmith.comFacebook: http://www.facebook.com/cegesmithTwitter: https://www.twitter.com/cegesmith

http://cblspromotions.blogspot.com/2012/05/scheduled-vbt-shadows-deep-shadows-part.html

Westridge

Westridge: The Heroine                                                                                  Hello, everyone! I'm really excited to be here at Sandra's Blog today—the third stop on my 10-day blog tour.
I'm doing four guest posts over the duration of my tour, and I thought I'd kick off the first one by sharing a little bit about Westridge's heroine: Gabby Jones.
Gabby is introduced as a typical chatty 23 year-old, gabbing on her cell phone when her attention should probably be on her surroundings. She’s boarding a bus for her hometown of Westridge, and from the start it’s clear she has a haunted past. Gabby and her childhood sweetheart, Jason Dawson, were fated to be together, but she left to find her fortune in the big city the second they finished high school. At least, that’s what she told him.
Jason never bought her story, and, in a way, Gabby never expected him to. She just needed an out, and so far she’s managed to avoid seeing him on her brief visits home. In fact, she’s managed to avoid seeing just about everyone except for her parents on her visits home. No one gossips like the residents of Westridge, and Gabby’s never dealt well with being the subject of their speculation.
But now, she’s back in town for a funeral—an event she, Jason, and everyone else in town will be attending. Gabby will have to face her past, face Jason, and by the end of her stay she just might just find herself revealing her secrets and falling in love all over again.
Here’s a brief excerpt describing Gabby from Jason’s point of view, while she’s reluctantly accepting his help with a flat tire:
Gabby stood outside the SUV and leaned against the driver's side door, watching [Jason] work. She had the frown of a brooding teenager on her face, but it didn't detract from her appearance. The freckles she'd had as a child were faded but still visible to his knowing eyes, and her cheeks were flushed from the cool breeze. She wore a simple, blue knit dress and a fitted beige jacket that only hinted at her modest curves. She almost looked like she belonged in the city, but a pair of cowboy boots finished off the look. She was beautiful.
Thank you so much for stopping by and reading the post! Please leave any questions or comments below—I’ll be checking back throughout the day to join in the conversation!
Title: WestridgeAuthor: Heather LinPublisher: Silver PublishingLength: 178 pagesGenres: Contemporary Romance

Blurb:Gabby Jones and Jason Dawson were born only months apart in the small, country town of Westridge. For the next eighteen years, they were inseparable, but after their high school graduation, Gabby got on a bus to the city, leaving Jason with a weak explanation and a broken heart. After five years of making it a point to avoid her old flame, Gabby comes home for a funeral and, thanks to meddling parents and circumstance, she and Jason are thrown together again.
But now Jason is an auto mechanic with an ex-wife and a daughter, and Gabby owns a successful flower shop in the city. Even if Gabby is able to admit she still loves Jason, and even if Jason is able to convince her to tell him the real reason she left, will they be able to get past the changes and broken pieces in time to start over?
 Excerpt:
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Jason demanded, slamming the door to his truck shut.
"I'm leaving."
Gabby had to work hard to keep her chin raised and her lips from trembling.
"Just like that? And all I get is a note in my locker on the last day of school?"
He threw a crumpled piece of paper at her feet. Her parents had dropped her off at the bus stop, but they were long gone. If that goodbye had been painful, this one would be excruciating -- which was exactly why she'd tried to avoid it.
"I told you in the note--"
"And now you can tell me to my face."
He was making a scene. Gabby was embarrassed, and the tears she'd tried desperately to keep at bay burned in her eyes.
"There isn't anything to do in this town. I just need to see what else is out there."
"This is bullshit, Gabby. A few months ago, we were talking about getting married."
Her voice rose as she lied desperately through her teeth, trying to keep control.
"Well, I changed my mind."
The bus pulled up, and Jason's anger turned to pleading.
"Don't, Gabby. If you need some time away from this place, I'll go with you."
"You belong here, Jason."
"I belong with you."
"Not anymore."
Then she turned and boarded the bus, ignoring the stares. She managed to hold the tears back until he was out of sight.
* * * *
The pain of the memory was scorching, surprising Gabby with its intensity. She opened her eyes. She had to get a hold of herself. She looked past the old man reading a magazine, her gaze falling on the houses outside. They were reaching the suburbs, but her destination lay far beyond that. Gabby groaned and firmly pushed the last image she had of her high school sweetheart out of her mind. The next few days were going to be hell.  About the Author: Heather lives in Delaware with her loving husband and loyal cat. She began writing erotic and slightly less-erotic romance in 2008 and hasn't been able to keep her mind out of the gutter since. Her next novel, a futuristic romance called The System, is due out in August from Silver Publishing. Until then, feel free to check out her short stories, which can be found at TheEroticWoman.com, in the Coming Together anthologies, and through New Concepts Publishing. Visit Heather at http://heatherlin88.blogspot.com/.http://cblspromotions.blogspot.com/2012/06/scheduled-vbt-westridge-by-heather-lin.html

Beach Wedding

The wedding went perfectly. The weather was balmy. A light wind blew. The music was  furnished by the surf. It was a small group only family and friends. A notary republic performed a short but poignant ceremony. The simplicity and beauty made it one of the best  I've ever attended.
It's not their first marriage, but I have no doubts it will be their last.

   The happy couple
The fam~*~ I am Love
Some say I can fly on the wind, yet I haven’t any wings. Some have found me flowing on the open sea, yet I cannot swim. Some have felt my warmth on cold nights, yet I have no flame.  And though you cannot see me, I lay between two lovers at the hearth of fireplaces. I am the twinkle in your child’s eyes. I am hidden in the lines of your mother’s face. I am your father’s shield as he guards your home. And yet….Some say I am stronger than steel, yet I am as fragile as a tear. Some have never searched for me, yet I am around them always. Some say I die with loss, yet I am endless. And though you cannot hear me, I dance on the laughter of children. I am woven into the whispers of passion. I am in the blessings of Grandmothers. I embrace the cries of newborn babies. And yet….Some say I am a flower, yet I am also the seed. Some have little faith in me, yet I will always believe in them. Some say I cannot cure the ill, yet I nourish the soul. And though you cannot touch me, I am the gentle hand of the kind. I am the fingertips that caress your cheek at night. I am the hug of a child.I am love.
Author Unknown

In The Shadow of War

Ever read the popular comic strip Beetle Baileyabout the antics of a soldier stationed at Camp Swampy? Mort Walker didn’t just dream up a mythical Army post – he based it on his time stationed at the “real” Camp Swampy, a World War II training camp in the wilds of southern Missouri called Camp Crowder. These days, not much remains of the original Camp Crowder or the short-lived Fort Crowder years but there’s still a National Guard base on site, still called Camp Crowder. A few of the original barracks buildings are still there too. Since I happen to live in Neosho, where Camp Crowder is located, I’ve long been intrigued with the history. As one older resident, now deceased, once told me, life changed forever in this small sleepy town when the Army arrived. “It was night and day,” Mr. Harold Welcher told me, “night and day.”

My new Rebel Ink Press release, In The Shadow of War, is set during World War II. I think the blurb explains what the story is about so here it is:

Blurb:
Her great-granddaughter wants to know if Bette remembers World War II for a school project and her questions revive old memories….

Small town school teacher Bette Sullivan's life was interrupted when the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor on December 7th 1941 but her world changed forever when she met Private Benny Levy, a soldier from the Flatbush neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York stationed at Camp Crowder, the local Army base.

Their attraction is immediate and mutual but as their relationship grows their love and lives are shadowed by World War II. As the future looms uncertain the couple comes together with almost desperate need and a powerful love they hope can weather anything, including the war.

It’s my first full length historical romance but so far, a lot of important (well, to me, anyway) people tell me they think I’ve hit on something, a genre which works for me. Since I earned a dual BA degree in History and English, it may be so. I hope it is – because my second full length historical romance, Guy’s Angel debuts on June 3 from Rebel Ink Press.

Here’s a little excerpt from In The Shadow of War:
This soldier sported a neat snub nose and a strong chin. When he turned as if he sensed her gaze, Bette noted his slender gold-rimmed eyeglasses. Behind the specs, his beautiful grey eyes were framed with black lashes. His slender lips curved in a half-smile and a blush heated her cheeks as she glanced away. If she read his expression right, he liked her admiration. When she fumbled the next response, Aunt Virgie glared at her so she tried to pay more attention, but after Mass she tried to get outside to see if the soldier lingered. She saw him as soon as they exited the church, but he stood in the center of a group of other Army men, smoking.

Bette watched him while her aunt chattered. The more she saw, the more she liked. He stood with a Lucky clinging to his lip, his stance more cocky than military. He laughed at something one of the other soldiers said and started to move away from the group headed in her general direction. Bette took two steps forward, jerked one of the dime store hoop earrings from her ear, and dropped it.
“Whoops,” she said, raising her voice as she touched her fingers to her ear lobe. “I just lost an earring.”
The earbob dropped into a thick clump of clover but before she could attempt to retrieve it, a shadow fell across the green patch and the soldier she’d admired scooped up the earring with one hand. He stretched out his hand, his square fingers wrapped around the little gold hoop.
“Is this yours?”he asked, his voice coming out with an accent she’d never heard outside the pictures. To Bette’s ears, it sounded like he’d said. Is dis yers?, with the last word stretched out into multiple syllables.
“It is, thanks,”she said and held out her hand. He dropped the hoop into her palm as his fingers tickled over her skin. The slight touch made her shiver. “I guess you’re stationed at Camp Crowder?”
“Yeah,” he said in a voice similar to Jimmy Cagney’s. “I’ve been here a coupla weeks now. It’s a long way from home.”
“Where are you from?” she asked, unable to stop staring at his gorgeous eyes.
“Brooklyn,” he said without hesitation. “Flatbush, Brooklyn. I’m Private Levy, Benjamin Levy although my ma calls me Benny.”
Bette couldn’t stop smiling at him. “Well, Benny Levy, I’m Bette Sullivan and I’m a farm girl from just outside Neosho.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Ben Levy said. “Hey you wanta go have coffee with me downtown or something? I’ll buy you breakfast if you like. I’m starving.”

She admired his dark looks, enhanced by the starched summer khakis he wore and nodded. “I’d love to. Let me go tell my aunt so she won’t expect me home.”
Bette turned around to find Aunt Virgie watching, mouth drooped open and eyes broad with surprise. Her cadre of lady friends wore the same stunned expression.
“Aunt Virgie,”Bette said, in her best polite tone. “I’m going downtown with Private Levy, but I’ll be home for dinner, okay?”
“Child, you don’t even know him!” Her aunt’s shocked outrage wasn’t faked. “You weren’t raised like this.”
“We’re at war,”Bette replied, voice mild. “I’m going to breakfast, not a bar room.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Ben Levy said, appearing at Bette’s side. “I’m Private Benjamin Levy from Brooklyn, New York. My home parish is Our Lady of Refuge. I’ve been an altar boy and until I joined the Army, I worked as an auto mechanic. If you need a reference, Father Connolly can give you one if you write him a letter or you can call my ma. We ain’t got a phone but the neighbor downstairs will fetch her if you want the number.
Although his voice remained even and polite, nice as anyone at any social gathering, his cheek amused Bette. With just a few words, he charmed and disarmed her aunt.
“Well, I don’t think I need to,” Aunt Virgie said with a sigh. “Honey, go ahead and have breakfast. Private Levy, would you like to join us for Sunday dinner?”
He grinned wide and Bette’s heart heated up a few more degrees. Lord but his good looks and sweet words warmed her.


http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1110895080?ean=2940014427760

http://www.amazon.com/In-The-Shadow-War-ebook/dp/B0083V4RUW/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1337249940&sr=1-1

http://www.bookstrand.com/in-the-shadow-of-war

http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-intheshadowofwar-792577-148.html

http://cblspromotions.blogspot.com/2012/05/scheduled-vbt-in-shadow-of-war-by-lee.html
 

  About the Author: Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy is a full-time romance author.  A native of the old historic city of St. Joseph, Missouri, one time home to both Jesse James and the Pony Express, she now lives and writes in the beautiful Missouri Ozark region.  Her romance novels include Love Never Fails, Witness Protection Program, Sing We Now of Christmas, A Patient Heart, In Love’s Own Time, Miss Good Samaritan, In The Shadow of War, Guy’s Angel,  and Heart of the Ozarks, all from Rebel Ink Press.  She also has six other novels and several novellas available. Her work also appears in more than twenty anthologies and she has multiple short story/non-fiction credits.
She is a member of RWA, Missouri Writers Guild, EPIC, and the Ozarks Writers League. Her work also appears in multiple anthologies. She earned a BA degree in both English and History from Missouri Southern State University as well as an AA Degree in Journalism from Crowder College.  She worked in broadcast media for a decade and also has a background in education.  Her weekly column “Hindsight” appears each week in the Neosho Daily News.
She is married to Roy W. Murphy and the couple has three children, Emily, Megan, and Patrick Murphy.
If Lee Ann – or Lee as many of her writing friends know her – isn’t writing, she’s reading or spending time outdoors.
In Neosho, Missouri, the small town she now calls home, she serves on the local library board, is active in the annual Relay For Life fight against cancer, has worked with the local Arts Council, and is active in her parish.
A Page In The Life: http://leeannsontheimermurphywriterauthor.blogspot.comRebel Writer - Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy: http://leeannsontheimermurphy.blogspot.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/#!/leeann.sontheimermurphyTwitter: https://twitter.com/#!/leeannwriter

I'm At The Beach

My brother and  his lovely fiancee are getting married today at Folly Beach. It's going to be joyous.

To celebrate the release of Minder, I'll be running a mon...

To celebrate the release of Minder, I'll be running a month long contest. The winner  gets:
A set of butterfly pins--on right
A Starbucks gift certificate
A book dedication
and
A download of Minder
To enter: Just leave a coment mentioning Minder and  include your email addie.
 Blurb:
Among the northern tribes there is a legend passed down from generation to generation about shape-shifting Minders—guardians of the innocents—and how they came to be.  It is said that nowadays only a handful of Minders exist, hunted to near extinction by a fearsome beast. Of the remaining Minders, only one wears a garnet-studded collar, the symbol of protection and royalty.   Even when my aunt told me the story, and handed me an ancient garnet-studded band, I had no idea the tale applied to me. After all, it’s only a legend…
Excerpt: I opened the drawstrings andshook the contents of the bag into my hand. An antique necklace glittered in my palm. It appeared to be some sort of choker. The material was like nothing I’d ever seen, almost like stretchy soft leather glittering with fire opal dust, inlaid with oval garnets. I held it to the light. My eyes widened when prisms of color danced around the stones, breathtaking in their beauty. While I examined it, I felt someone’s stare. Drawn, I turned my head. My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounded, and my palms began to sweat. The buzz from the surrounding tables faded. People nearby became shadowy figures.A golden glow bathed the room as I stared at the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Thick, tawny, almost leonine hair capped his skull. His unusual amber eyes glowed like a cat’s. Skin stretched taut and smooth over high cheekbones. His lips made my mouth water. My face must have reflected the same rapture I saw on his. Unfortunately, his gaze was fastened on my necklace.
http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=470&category_id=69&manufacturer_id=233&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1&vmcchk=1&Itemid=1
 

From Sci Fi to Reality

How exciting is this? Another frontier. I'd like to see what the inside of the pods look like and what the plans are for anyone who develops health issues.

I Admire People

As some of you know, I work at a community college. We've got a lot of great folks there, but especially our maintenance crew. One of the men was helping me set up for an event the other day. While he was helping me, he told me, that every morning he tries to think of something he can do to help someone else. Is that not an awesome attitude? It gave me perspective.

The King Must Die

The author will be awarding a $25 Amazon GC to one randomly drawn commenter during the tour.
The tour dates can be found here:  http://goddessfishpromotions.blogspot.com/2012/04/virtual-book-tour-king-must-die-by-n.html
~*~
I asked Gemini to tell us about the clothes in the period of The King Must Die, how they are similar to what we wear today. And how are they different.

In the late Middle Ages, clothes were, first and foremost, about function. What people wore had to be versatile, comfortable and durable. A woolen cloak had to keep the rain off, warm you during winter, sometimes double as a blanket and last until it fell apart at the seams. Unless they were nobility, people didn’t have wardrobes full of clothes. Money, when they had any, was better spent on food. By the twelfth century, roads had improved enough so that trading increased options for fabrics. Flanders (a region encompassing part of modern day Belgium, France and Holland), for example, became known for its weaving and tapestries. Linen (made from flax) and wool were the most common fabrics; it wasn’t until later that silk and velvet were known in Europe and those were affordable only by the rich. As the centuries progressed and various dyes from afar were more available, clothes became more colorful, but there were often restrictions on what colors you could wear, depending on your class. Feel like wearing purple? Sorry, not unless you’re the king or queen.
The very rich often took fashion to extremes, such as oversized draping sleeves that swept to the floor and long pointed toes on the men’s hose. Young girls wore their hair loose or plaited, but married women were more likely to keep their heads covered with a type of veil called a wimple. This not only kept one’s head warmer in the colder months and kept the sun off one’s neck in summer, but solved the problem of what to do with unwashed hair. More than mere decoration, jewels were a status symbol for both sexes. It wouldn’t have been unusual for a lord or earl to wear a jeweled clasp on his cloak or a jewel-studded belt.
It’s easier to say that men’s clothes in the Middle Ages held more similarities to those of today than women’s. For shirts, men wore tunics – a type of loose-fitting shirt, belted at the waist and hanging to somewhere between the hips and knees, depending on the era. Instead of tailored pants or jeans, men wore leggings – baggier in a way than the leggings we have today, but meant for movement. Women, for reasons of modesty, couldn’t wear anything but long skirts, not even when riding horses. Heaven forbid we should see an ankle or calf! Layers were the thing back then, particularly for women, and yes, they did sometimes wear undergarments, but nothing elaborate and entirely for practical purposes.
While it may seem impractical to me to wear a gown I had to lace up the back and skirts with multiple layers, it would have been absolutely scandalous to a woman of the thirteenth century to wear pants. Nowadays we have far more flexibility in the fabrics, colors and styles we can choose – and I’m grateful for that.
BLURB:What is done cannot be undone.
England, 1326. Edward II has been dethroned. Queen Isabella and her lover, Sir Roger Mortimer, are at the pinnacle of their power.
Fated to rule, Isabella’s son becomes King Edward III at the callow age of fourteen. Young Edward, however, must bide his time as the loyal son until he can break the shackles of his minority and dissolve the regency council which dictates his every action.
When the former king is found mysteriously dead in his cell, the truth becomes obscured and Isabella can no longer trust her own memory . . . or confide in those closest to her. Meanwhile, she struggles to keep her beloved Mortimer at her side and gain yet another crown—France’s—for the son who no longer trusts her.
Amidst a maelstrom of shifting loyalties, accusations of murder propel England to the brink of civil war.
In the sequel to Isabeau, secrecy and treason, conspiracy and revenge once again overtake England. The future rests in the hands of a mother and son whose bonds have reached a breaking point.
The Wedding of Edward III and Philippa of Hainault Edward III – York, January 1328
While a howling wind lashed the snow into knee-high drifts, we proceeded to the castle. Philippa and I rode abreast of one another, our horses caparisoned in heraldic silks, the silver bells attached to their bridles and reins tinkling gaily amid the clamor. It may well have been the coldest and snowiest day in years, but it did nothing to dampen the spirits of England’s people. We dismounted before the steps to the great hall, the bells of York’s churches pealing in celebration. She slipped her hand from beneath the warmth of her miniver-edged cloak. I grasped her fingers and pulled her closer.
“I regret to say,” I whispered rapidly, before anyone could close in and overhear, “that my mother has raised objection to our wedding night being so close to Lent. She thinks we should forego, ah, a certain ‘rite’ in the hopes of receiving God’s blessing upon our union.”
Philippa clasped her other hand over my forearm. “I had not thought of that. Will we not ...?”
Casting a glance around, I guided her up the steps. A pair of porters opened the great doors before us. I shrugged. “Do youwant to?”
“I do.” Lowering her chin, she shrank inside her hood to conceal her blushing. “That is, if it would not trouble your conscience.”
“Mine? No.” I scoffed. “Christ himself could not keep me from you tonight.”
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
N. Gemini Sasson is also the author of The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy: Book I), Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy: Book II), The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy: Book III) and Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer (2011 IPPY Silver Medalist for Historical Fiction). She holds a M.S. in Biology from Wright State University where she ran cross country on athletic scholarship. She has worked as an aquatic toxicologist, an environmental engineer, a teacher and a track and cross country coach. A longtime breeder and judge of Australian Shepherds, her articles on bobtail genetics have been translated into seven languages.
Links:Web site: http://www.ngeminisasson.comBlog: http://ngeminisasson.blogspot.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/NGeminiSassonTwitter: http://www.twitter.com/NGeminiSasson