Mary Anne Yarde's Blog: The Coffee Pot Book Club , page 72
September 2, 2020
Have a sneak-peek between the covers of Nik Grybaski's fabulous book — Black Danube: A Leo Katz Mystery #HistoricalFiction #CrimeFiction @nikgrybaski
Black Danube
A Leo Katz Mystery
By Nik Grybaski
1899, fin de siècle Vienna.
A young man is found dead, his face mutilated - his fiancée, the prime suspect.
Crime photographer Leo Katz has proof she is not guilty. But to save the innocent woman from the gallows, he risks revealing that he is a fraud and on the run.
As Leo unmasks the sordid network of vice behind the city’s elegant facades, he realises the gruesome death is a smokescreen for more depraved crimes.
Can he face his demons, expose his true identity, and put his life in danger to bring the murderers to justice?
Excerpt
Chapter One
I stood on the platform of the Kaiser Franz Josef Railway station in bare feet. I had no luggage or hat. People shuffled past, taking side-long looks, shaking their heads as if to say, ‘Ah, another penniless immigrant. Vienna is going to the dogs.’
The top two buttons on my dark brown waistcoat popped open. I clutched at my chest, hunched my shoulders, and pulled my gaberdine tight to hide my defective attire. A high-pitched whistle blew and a cloud of light grey smoke surrounded me. Metal wheels scraping along the track screeched so loud I thought I would never hear again. Gradually, the noise faded. I wiped moisture left by the steam train from my face and tried to focus. But my eyes were fuzzy as though I had indulged in an excess of alcohol.
I unfastened my stiff shirt collar to let in some air and scuttled to the exit. Once outside I halted in front of the grand pillared entrance. Not daring to move, in case I loosened more buttons on my constrictive garments, I observed the washed out faces of men and women walking along the street. They stared ahead not looking at anything or anyone. I blinked rapidly. They shimmered and faded becoming nothing more than ghost-like figures floating above the raised wooden pavements.
A swirling wind blew the phantoms away. It caught at my coat-tails, whipping them up and down so fast I almost took to the air. I held onto them until the gusts decreased and glanced down the steps. At the bottom lay my absent black shoes. Heels broken, soles ripped off halfway, they gaped open like the mouths of dying fish.
I stumbled down the stairs and crouched by my broken footwear. Rain pelted my neck and shoulders. I raised my head. Through the rippling water that slid down my lashes, I saw gigantic eyes appear in every window of the massive grey station that loomed over me.
Standing quickly, I ran across the road, tripping over the newly installed tram lines. I stepped into a deep puddle; it splashed my trousers with blood-red water. I tore at the stained fabric with my elongated fingernails and ripped the garment from my legs, revealing white bloomers that flapped in the wind like an injured bird trying to take off. I attempted to cover the underwear with my hands, but my fingers turned into dumplings and melted.
‘Kazab!’ Yelled an old flower seller dressed in a voluminous white high-necked blouse and billowing black skirt. Her face was so wrinkled it caught the water that fell in the deep crevices of her cheeks. She grasped a bunch of dead roses, held them before me and shouted louder than before, ‘Kazab!’ I put my hands over my ears but her cry of, ‘Kazab!’ was deafening. My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground. ‘Kazab!’ She screeched the word over and over. It pounded my head like rocks being thrown. ‘Kazab! Kazab!’
They say the truth hurts, and it does, for I am indeed a liar.
‘Herr Katz.’
The images dispersed, I opened my eyes to darkness and heard my name called again.
‘Herr Katz? Are you awake.’ Rapid knocks on the door, an unfamiliar voice. Odd. ‘Sir, please, you are needed. Herr Rosenbloom sent me to fetch you. Come quick. There’s been a horrible murder.’
Where was Miriam? It was not like her to let strangers in. ‘Miriam?’ I rolled over, fumbling for some matches. ‘Miriam?’ The dream had shaken me. It always did. If I cried out after a nightmare as a child, Miriam was there to comfort me with a whispered song and a warm embrace. Too old now for such youthful tenderness. I sighed, groped along the bedside table for a box of Lucifers and felt something soft. I retracted my hand and called out to my aunt like I had so many times when I encountered anything small, such as a mouse, moth or spider. ‘Miriam?’
‘Herr Katz? Please, Sir.’
A high voice, cracking with each word. What had such an animated youth to do with me? Despite my fear of finding another unwelcome visitor, I stretched out my fingers. The familiar square box came into reach and I lit my lamp without encountering another insect. When the wick stopped spluttering and an even glow surrounded me, I got out of bed. Holding my breath, I walked to the door. I rested my ear on the wood and listened. A wet sniff, nothing more. Was I afraid of a boy? I was a grown man. What had I to fear? I placed my hand on the knob ready to open it, but I stopped at the sound of Miriam’s voice.
‘Leo? Are you dressed?’
I looked down at my rumpled night shirt unbuttoned to the navel. ‘Ah, no. Do not come in. Who is our…’ I opened the door to a crack and peered out. ‘Who is here so early?’
‘Herr Rosenbloom’s boy. You know, Aaron, the son of his housekeeper.’ Miriam, hair dishevelled, carrying an oil lamp, stood behind a thin youth.
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Come quickly, Sir. You are to bring your special camera.’
‘Where is the location?’
‘Nowhere you’d know, Sir. It’s in the Matzoh Island quarter in Leopoldstradt, Stuwerviertel, not far from the Prater.’ I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. ‘No? Well, it’s of no matter, Sir. I doubt you’d know the place unless you, well…’ he paused, ‘like to visit ladies who charge, you know, for, things. Anyway, Herr Rosenbloom says I must take you, since I worked in the bakery in that part of the city, until mama got the job in his house. We owe him so much and…’
Miriam swiped his shoulder. ‘Enough chatter, boy. I thought you were in a hurry?’
‘I am, Fraü Vogel. The police want to take the body away, but Herr Rosenbloom has managed to make them wait until you get there to take some photographs for his records, and theirs, so he said. Then he muttered something about things not being right, stuff like that.’
‘All this gushing will only add to the time. Now, come with me. I’ll give you some bread and a hot drink. Let’s leave Herr Katz to dress. Come down when you’re ready, Leo.’ She gently pushed him towards the staircase.
He twisted his head round just before descending. ‘I’m to stress that you are to be as quick as can be. The police are very eager to take the body. It’s right there in the street with folk moaning and crying. I haven’t seen it though. There’s been an arrest. His fiancée. What do you think of that?’
Miriam gave him a sharp shove between his shoulder blades. ‘Down to the kitchen boy, enough said.’
I closed the door, hurried to my wardrobe, took out a shirt, trousers and waistcoat, and put them on. Then I opened my collar draw, selected a narrow rim and clipped it onto my shirt along with a dark blue short-tongued tie. Opening my jar of Henkel & Cie pomade, I scooped out a small amount of the soft waxy substance and fingered it through my unruly locks. Parting my now smooth hair on the right, I paused to look in the mirror. Strange to see a perfect gentleman looking back.
I slid on my shoes and fastened the metal buttons with the hook iron. I stood, opened the top drawer of my writing desk, reached behind the paper, blotter and pens for my spy camera in the shape of a watch. I checked it was loaded, then knelt, and dragged out my bag. It contained my official bellows camera, Blitzlicht flash gun with spare powder. I picked up my tripod and went down to the kitchen.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the hour. I yawned, not used to being awake at three in the morning. A waft of Miriam’s sweetened hot coffee brought back memories of my childhood when nightmares had me shrieking in terror. She would bring me such a brew loaded with hot milk. Together we would sip as she told me tales of mythical creatures and heroes from the past. She gestured for me to sit. I shook my head. ‘No time. Come, Aaron, finish your drink. Lead me to the crime scene.’ He gulped down what remained in his cup, stood, bowed to Miriam, and exited into the damp night air.
Miriam stalled me in the hallway. ‘Don’t forget your gaberdine and hat. The rain is heavy. You don’t want to catch a cold. And, well, be careful with the boy. Don’t let him get too near. Or you get too close to him, or, oh I don’t what I saying anymore. You know what I mean. We have to be careful.’
‘Always.’ I snatched my knee-length coat from the hook on the wall and hastily put it on. Pulling up the collar and pressing my hat onto my head, I met Aaron on the street. His thick, curly hair stuck to his face. He blinked away raindrops and shook off the excess water from his flimsy jacket like a dog.
He held out his hand. ‘Shall I take the three-legged stick for you?’
‘Yes, thank you, the tripod is unwieldy.’ I gave it to him. He pointed ahead.
‘This way, Sir. No trams yet, still too early. I haven’t seen a cab. Still, it shouldn’t take long if we walk fast. Maybe half an hour if we take it brisk-like.’
I nodded and followed him closely through the dark alleyways I never frequented. Hurrying along this narrow passageway with arches connecting neighbouring buildings, I realised how different Vienna was to my rural upbringing. More used to the sounds of chickens clucking than the ear-splitting barking of dogs and screeching cats, I became somewhat agitated. I’d been here almost two years, yet these partly lit roads with claustrophobic tenement buildings caused me to take deep breaths to calm my juddering heart. It wasn’t until we reached Rotenturmstrasse that the roads widened, and I relaxed.
Pick up your copy of
Black Danube
Add Black Danube to your ‘to-read’ list on
Nik Grybaski
Nik Grybaski lives in the shadows of the worlds Nik creates.
A writer, photographer, baker and gin enthusiast, Nik enjoys nature and watching obscure black and white films. Nik has been writing for many years. Sharing stories but never publishing them, until now. Black Danube came to Nik when he was washing away cat wee from the kitchen floor. To this day Nik does not know how cleaning inspired this book.
Connect with Nik:
Website • Instagram • Facebook • Twitter • Amazon Author Page.
Take a sneak-peek between the covers of Faith L. Justice's fabulous book — Dawn Empress: A Novel of Imperial Rome (The Theodosian Women Book 2) #HistoricalFiction #AncientRome @faithljustice
Dawn Empress:
A Novel of Imperial Rome
(The Theodosian Women Book 2)
By Faith L. Justice
As Rome reels under barbarian assaults, a young girl must step up.
After the Emperor’s unexpected death, ambitious men eye the Eastern Roman throne occupied by seven-year-old Theodosius II. His older sister Pulcheria faces a stark choice: she must find allies and take control of the Eastern court or doom the imperial children to a life of obscurity—or worse! Beloved by the people and respected by the Church, Pulcheria forges her own path to power. Can her piety and steely will protect her brother from military assassins, heretic bishops, scheming eunuchs and—most insidious of all—a beautiful, intelligent bride? Or will she lose all in the trying?
Praise for Dawn Empress
"A gripping tale…Justice chronicles, with a skillful blend of historical rigor and dramatic action, the extraordinary efforts of Pulcheria to outmaneuver her adversaries. The prose is razor sharp, and the tale is as impressively unsentimental as it is genuinely moving."
Kirkus Reviews
“The prose is beautiful, sprinkled with vivid descriptions…Dawn Empress is fast-paced and engaging, one of those novels that will keep fans of historical novels reading through the night.”
Readers’ Favorite (5-star review)
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Imperial Palace, Constantinople, October 6, 404
PULCHERIA WINCED AS HER FATHER’S HAND ground her fingers together. She stepped on the hem of her night shift and stumbled. Father jerked her upright.
“Come, girl, when did you become so clumsy?” His voice was rough with wine, anger, and pain. Pulcheria had never seen him so distraught in her five short years of life. For the first time her father Arcadius, the Emperor of Eastern Rome, frightened her.
When he had awakened her moments before, her head muzzy with dreams, she knew something was wrong. Father never came to her chambers. The palace nursery, where she and her siblings Arcadia, Theodosius, and baby Marina lived, was the province of nurses and tutors. She only saw him on those rare occasions he ordered the children to accompany him on some outing. Her mother, Empress Eudoxia, inspected the nursery and questioned the servants about her children’s health and well-being when it suited her—which was not often. Now her father dragged her down the echoing marble halls toward a part of the palace to which she had never been.
They entered a sumptuous but disordered receiving room. A half-eaten meal of beef doused with fishy smelling garum sauce sat on a silver tray, the Persian carpet lay askew, and several cloaks lay carelessly on a gilt chair. The disarray only added to her chaotic feelings of fear and bewilderment. She tried to lag behind, but her father dragged her forward, nearly pulling her off her feet. Pulcheria whimpered at the pain in her hand and shoulder but refused to cry out.
Antiochus, the Chief Eunuch and head of the imperial household, sat near the door to another chamber. He rose, approached her father, and bowed low. “I’m so very sorry, Augustus, but your blessed wife is dead. She passed on to God’s good grace but moments ago.”
“More likely she passed on to the devil. She will make him a good whore.” Arcadius’ face went purple as he spat the words at the eunuch. “The child?”
Antiochus glanced at Pulcheria and lowered his voice. “He came much too early to save.”
“Better dead than another set of horns on my head,” her father muttered.
Pulcheria struggled to find meaning in the words of the adults. Her mother was dead? What child? Her father grew horns? She looked at his forehead with muddled curiosity but saw no bumps.
Father started forward, pushing at the eunuch’s chest. “Out of my way.”
Antiochus stepped back, but still blocked their path. His voice quavered. “Most Kind Augustus, is this really the place for the princess? Let us at least ready the body before she views it.”
Pulcheria tugged on her captive hand and cried, “Please, Father, let me go back.”
Father’s hand tightened on hers, but he turned and dropped to one knee to look into her face. “This is important, Pulcheria. You will be first lady of the land now. Show me how an Augusta behaves.”
Pulcheria steadied under his gaze. She wanted to make him proud. “Yes, Father, I will do as you wish.”
“That’s my girl. You’ve got a backbone, unlike your sniveling brother.”
A small flame of anger at this attack on her baby brother warmed Pulcheria’s chilled body. Theo was not quite three, and still a child. As the oldest, everyone demanded more from her, and she was proud to give it. It wasn’t fair for Father to compare Theo to her!
One look at her father’s angry face doused that flame. She had no way to fight for herself, much less her brother. Helplessness clove her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She nodded. Father’s lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look happy; his eyes were red with tears and his breath stank of wine.
Antiochus stepped aside, sparing a pitying look for Pulcheria. Arcadius straightened and led the girl into the bedroom. Antiochus’ words came rushing back. Her mother was dead. What did it mean? What would she see? A sense of dread knotted her stomach and again slowed her steps, so that Father had to, again, tug on her arm.
As her father opened the door, she heard the soft chanting of priests and the shriller murmurs of female servants. Burning musky incense failed to mask an odor that left a coppery taste in her mouth.
Blood.
She remembered the smell and taste from scraped knees and split lips. Blood usually meant stinging pain. This room reeked of it. Pulcheria’s heart raced. She took shallow breaths through her mouth, trying to avoid the stench.
Olive oil lamps shone steady, illuminating the brilliantly painted scenes on the walls. Pulcheria noticed fleetingly that most of the images were of naked people entwined in awkward positions. Servants and priests bowed their heads as they passed. Her gaze fixed on the wide bed dominating the room. Her mother’s court ladies screened the bed from her sight, but she couldn’t miss the blood-soaked rags piled in a bronze bowl. At the sight of her father, the women parted, darting horrified glances at Pulcheria.
More gently this time, Arcadius pulled her to the foot of the bed and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “Here are the wages of sin, Pulcheria. Blood and death.”
Pulcheria held her breath as she gazed upon the still body. Her mother’s face looked angelic, eyes closed and face pale. People always praised her mother’s beauty. The height and comeliness Eudoxia inherited from her father’s Frankish ancestors had captured the heart of the teenage Emperor Arcadius nine years before. Those same people lamented that Pulcheria seemed the only one of their four children with the stamp of her dour-faced father.
Except for the sweat-soaked blond hair tangled about her face, Eudoxia looked asleep. A peaceful look, unlike the impatience her mother’s face usually bore with her children. The last time Eudoxia visited the nursery, she spent most of her time complaining about ink spots on Pulcheria’s robes and the disordered state of her hair. Mother would not be happy, knowing others now saw her own hair in such disarray.
Pulcheria’s gaze strayed lower. She gasped at the fine linen sheets sodden with red gore. The stench caused her stomach to heave. An acid taste flooded her mouth. She took a deep breath.
“F-Father, must I stay longer?”
Arcadius squeezed her shoulder. “No, my good girl, you have seen enough.”
A midwife approached Arcadius with a still bundle, no bigger than one of Pulcheria’s dolls “What should I do with the babe, Augustus?”
“Give it to the dogs!” Arcadius snarled.
The woman gasped and backed away quickly. Pulcheria shrank from her father’s renewed anger, but his left hand held her shoulder fast. Antiochus approached the woman and whispered in her ear.
“Antiochus!” Arcadius pointed at the eunuch. “You will see that my daughter does not grow up to be like her twice-damned mother. Teach her the Gospels, train her to be a good Christian woman, modest and obedient.”
“As you will, Augustus.”
Her father’s hand began to tremble on her shoulder. In a choked voice, he cried, “All of you out.” Servants, priests, and court ladies filed out a back door, silent, but with frightened looks at the Emperor standing over the body of his wife.
Antiochus came forward to take Pulcheria’s hand. “Shall I take the princess back to the nursery?”
“Yes. Go.”
As they exited, Pulcheria glanced over her shoulder. Her father knelt at the foot of the bed, narrow shoulders shaking with sobs as he buried his face in the bloody sheets.
“Your father is distraught, Princess. Pay no heed to his words.” The eunuch led her through the receiving room and back to the marble hall.
She shivered, suddenly aware of her bare feet on cold stone. No braziers chased the icy fall air from the corridor.
“Are you chilled, princess?” The eunuch bent to look at her face.
“Y-y-yes.” Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. From the chill? The blood? Her thoughts and feelings reeled from the sights in the bedroom. What would happen to her and her brother and sisters?
Antiochus gathered her up in his arms and held her close. Warmth radiating from his soft plump body helped dispel some of the chill. “Poor child,” he muttered. “Poor, poor child.”
Pulcheria lay quietly in his arms, listening to his heart beat steadily in his chest, as he carried her slight weight back to the nursery. The regular double-thump settled her nerves. As they grew closer, his breathing grew more labored. A question nagged at her thoughts. “Is Mother in Heaven?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know, child. Only God knows.”
“Father said not.”
“Even the powerful Emperor of Rome does not command God. The Good Lord in his mercy will judge your mother’s soul. Hush now. Think no more of it.”
But Pulcheria could think of nothing else. Her father never took an interest in the nursery. If her mother were not on earth or in Heaven to look out for them, would the servants bring them food or help them bathe? Pulcheria thought she could care for herself, Arcadia, and possibly her brother, but baby Marina needed a wet nurse. Would Nana leave? The thought of losing Nana, her nurse since she was a baby, brought on a new wave of shudders. Surely Nana would never leave me!
The eunuch grunted as he shifted her weight to one arm and opened the door to the nursery. The outer room filled with murmurs from servants as they clustered around low-burning lamps. Pulcheria spied her nurse and struggled to escape the eunuch’s arms. He set her down.
“Nana!” she cried, speeding to the comforting arms of the heavy-set woman whose plain features lit up Pulcheria’s world.
Antiochus followed her. “The Empress is dead.” He cut off the ritual wails with an upraised hand. “The Emperor is understandably distraught. He will not be pleased when his grief has passed if he finds his children neglected.”
Pulcheria noted a few raised eyebrows and pursed lips at this declaration.
“Attend them with good will. I will return in the morning to see to their affairs.”
Nana rose, Pulcheria clinging tightly to her leg. “Forgive me, Antiochus, but should not the Emperor appoint a court woman to oversee the children’s daily welfare? You are tasked with the entire household and have many duties to perform.”
“Daily care will proceed as before. The Emperor asked that I see to their religious instruction in the future.” He shrugged. “I don’t think the Emperor wants any of his wife’s women to influence the children. Perhaps I could appoint you to oversee the nursery. We will decide when this sad time is over.”
Nana offered the eunuch a slight bow. “Thank you.” She put her hand on Pulcheria’s back. “Come, dumpling, let’s get you into a nice warm bed.”
Comforted by the eunuch’s words and Nana’s presence, Pulcheria suppressed a deep yawn, nodded, and followed her nurse to bed. She struggled against sleep, her mind still awhirl with the changes to come. Her worry gave way as lethargy crept up her limbs and sleep quieted her mind.
Pick up your copy of
Dawn Empress
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Add Dawn Empress to your ‘to-read’ list on
Faith L. Justice
FAITH L. JUSTICE writes award-winning historical novels, short stories, and articles in Brooklyn, New York where she lives with her family and the requisite gaggle of cats. Her work has appeared in Salon.com, Writer’s Digest, The Copperfield Review, and many more publications. She is Chair of the New York City chapter of the Historical Novel Society, and Associate Editor for Space and Time Magazine. She co-founded a writer’s workshop many more years ago than she likes to admit. For fun, she digs in the dirt—her garden and various archaeological sites.
Connect with Faith:
Website • Facebook • Twitter • Instagram • LinkedIn.
·
Have a sneak-peak between the pages of Anne O'Brien's fabulous #NewRelease — The Queen's Rival #HistoricalFiction @anne_obrien
The Queen's Rival
Anne O'Brien
Cecily Neville, Duchess of York, King's Mother. A formidable woman in a time of conflict…One family united by blood. Torn apart by war…
England, 1459: Cecily Neville, Duchess of York, is embroiled in a struggle to topple the weak-minded King Henry VI from the throne. But when the Yorkists are defeated in the fiasco at the Battle of Ludford Bridge, Cecily’s family flees and abandons her to face a marauding Lancastrian army.
Her men-folk attainted for treason, the Duchess under restraint, what will the future hold for her? Cecily begins to spin a web of deceit – one that will lead to the fall of King Henry VI, and to her eldest son being crowned King Edward IV.
This is a story of heartbreak, ambition and treachery, of one woman’s quest to claim the throne for the House of York during the violence and tragedy of the Wars of the Roses.
Excerpt
Cecily, Duchess of York, to my youngest son Diccon, on the occasion of his seventh birthday celebrated here at Ludlow, on the second day of October in the year 1459
Today, my son, we mark the day of your birth.
You will have unwrapped your gifts by now, among them a fine dagger from your father with a damascened blade. He persuades me that you are old enough to own such a weapon. It belonged to him when he was a boy. He has the scars to prove it. Ask him to show you them when he has a moment of leisure. It is not a bauble and you should treat it with respect. I will confiscate it if you use it unwisely.
From me you will have discovered the book of stories of Greek heroes which you are now able to read. They all use their swords and daggers with care.
Enjoy the special day, with all the family here together, although you will be disappointed that the promised tournament will not happen. Your father has much on his mind with so many of our soldiers billeted in the castle and in the town, but your brothers have something planned so that the day does not go unmarked. The cook will make your favourite Payn Ragoun to be served at the end of dinner; it is the day of your birth so I will accept a little indulgence.
Remember to thank the Blessed Virgin Mary for your life and health.
Remember your duty to God and to the King, whatever happens in the coming days.
Remember your duty to your family of York.
Do not forget to attend Mass.
I have also given you an illuminated Book of Hours that belonged to me when I was a young girl. I know that you will be tempted to write in your own birth-date in the page of October. Do not do so. It is a masterpiece of clerkish work and will not benefit from your scrawl in the margins.
From your loving mother,
Cecily, Duchess of York
To my Lady Mother, Duchess Cecily, on the evening of this second day of October 1459
My tutor says that I must give you gracious thanks for the gifts, and prove that I can write well.
My father showed me the scar where his first dagger hacked into his wrist when he was skinning a rabbit. I promise I will not do that. My father said that he was too busy to show me the rest. I have not written in my Book of Hours. But one day I will. One day I think it will be important to me to mark the day of my birth. I promise I will write it neatly.
I have started to read the book of Greek heroes. I have decided I would wish to be like Achilles, to live bravely and to die well, even if I am not very old when I meet my doom.
I enjoyed the Payn Ragoun, although George ate more than I did. He says it is his right because he is three years older than I am.
I hope it makes his teeth drop out.
I have also had to hide my new dagger from him.
From your dutiful son,
Diccon
Cecily, Duchess of York, to her son George
I wish to see you in my chamber immediately after Mass.
It has come to my notice that you have not yet learned the lessons of either generosity or humility, or family affection. Gluttony, I must warn you, is also a sin.
Do not put me to the trouble of coming to find you in the stables. You will not enjoy the consequences.
Because I know that you will take heed and learn from your mistakes, I remain your loving mother.
Cecily, Duchess of York
Cecily, Duchess of York, for the immediate attention of the Duke of York
Richard,
I warned you that Diccon was too young for such a gift. George is suffering from a severe attack of envy so that Diccon has already had to fight to keep possession of his dagger. They have both been blooded and show signs of battle, but our younger son has emerged victorious. He might lack the physical bulk of George but his spirit is strong.
I advise you to make no mention of their colourful afflictions when you next see them. Do not praise them for any false courage. I have dealt with the matter.
I think this will find you before I do, when you at last return to the castle.
I know that you have much on your mind and that you will say, rightly, that it is my role to supervise the education of our sons, but sometimes a word of paternal admonishing would not go amiss.
In exasperation,
Your loving wife,
Cis
Duchess Cecily teaches a lesson in Ludlow Castle, October 1459
We were in occupation of one of the corner chambers in the old gatehouse keep at Ludlow Castle because it was a good vantage point from which to detect approaching marauders. Despite the lack of light and the all-pervasive reek of damp, I lit candles then unrolled the precious scroll with a flourish. It was a line of succession, drawn as a tree with thorny branches, all the way from the first man and woman on earth, Adam and Eve, enclosed in leaves and flowers in the Garden of Eden, to King Henry the Sixth, our present crowned and anointed King of England.
‘Hold down the corners,’ I said to my children.
My two elder sons already knew this lesson well, as did my elder daughters, Anne and Elizabeth, who were wed and living in their own households. Here with me were my three younger offspring. Margaret, more frequently called Meg, at twelve years was adept at reading and could work it out for herself. George at ten, and Richard, known to all as Diccon to avoid unnecessary complications in our domestic dealings, the youngest of my sons who had not yet achieved eight years, were still in the process of gleaning information on old alliances. It was time they knew of their profound inheritance. Indeed, in the circumstances, it had become an urgent affair.
George slouched over the table edge, pressing down hard with his whole hand, while Meg applied her fingertips with neat precision. Diccon had his elbows splayed along one edge, leaning close to survey the pattern of lines and names.
‘Do you see the roundels, painted next to each name?’ I pointed to some of them, the closest to us today and the most highly coloured, all capped or crowned with gold. ‘The scribe has included a picture of each King, and his heraldic symbol so that you might recognise him.’
They peered over the document, sufficiently engrossed, even George who preferred weapons to books.
‘Our King Henry.’ George pointed. ‘Our cousin.’
Meg placed her finger on a sword-wielding figure, two branches above. ‘That is the fourth King Henry.’
‘He was my mother’s – your grandmother Joan’s – half-brother.’ I traced my finger down from that fourth Henry to his son, the fifth Henry, and then his grandson, the sixth, our present King. ‘These Kings – all three Henrys – are from the House of Lancaster.’
‘Why is the fourth Henry the only one with a sword?’ Diccon asked.
‘Because he used the sword to slice through the branches of the tree. There.’ I pointed to the break in the branches. ‘Henry cut the order of succession and deposed King Richard.’ I watched as a frown furrowed George’s brow. ‘The fourth Henry is what we would call a usurper.’
‘What happened to Richard?’ George asked.
‘He died. In Pontefract Castle.’
‘Did Henry have him killed?’ Meg asked.
‘No one knows.’
‘I wager he did. He is fierce in the picture.’ Diccon looked impressed.
‘What do you learn from this?’ I asked.
‘They are all branches of the same tree, from father to son. Except there, when the Lancastrian Kings took over.’ Meg regarded me with her solemn stare. Her eyes were forthright, her chin stubborn, her countenance often firm-lipped and unsmiling, but I thought she would grow into a handsome woman. My husband said that of them all she was most like me, and perhaps he was right. She was developing a strong will. ‘Would it have been better to keep Richard, whatever his faults?’ she asked.
‘The Lancastrian Henrys have brought us a peaceful and strong country,’ I stated. ‘Victory abroad in battles against the French. Richard may not have done so. And Richard had no son to follow him. It is important to have sons.’
‘Is our King Henry a good King?’ Diccon asked.
‘Sometimes he is not well,’ I suggested. ‘Sometimes he needs good advisors.’
‘Like our father?’
I regarded Diccon. My other sons would be as tall and broad and fair as the painted angels on the walls of my private chapel. Diccon would be neither tall nor broad, and his hair was the dark of a raven’s wing. He was the image of his father, who had more wiry strength than powerful muscle.
‘Yes, like your father.’
Pick up your copy of
The Queen’s Rival
Add The Queens Rival to your ‘to-read’ list on
Anne O’Brien
Sunday Times Bestselling author Anne O’Brien was born in West Yorkshire. After gaining a BA Honours degree in History at Manchester University and a Master’s in Education at Hull, she lived in East Yorkshire for many years as a teacher of history.
Today she has sold over 700,000 copies of her books in the UK and internationally. She lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century timber-framed cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches in Herefordshire. The area provides endless inspiration for her novels about the forgotten women of history.
Connect with Anne:
Check out A Thin Porridge by Benjamin J. Gohs #HistoricalFiction #Thriller @BenGohs
A Thin PorridgeBy Benjamin J. Gohs
When 19-year-old Abeona Browne's renowned abolitionist father Jon Browne dies in summer of 1860, devastating family secrets are revealed, and her life of privilege and naiveté in Southern Michigan becomes a frantic transatlantic search for someone she didn't even know existed.
Still in mourning, Abeona sneaks aboard the ship carrying her father’s attorney Terrence Swifte and his assistant Djimon—a young man with his own secrets—on a quest to fulfill a dying wish.
Along the journey, Abeona learns of her father’s tragic and terrible past through a collection of letters intended for someone he lost long ago.
Passage to the Dark Continent is fraught with wild beasts, raging storms, illness, and the bounty hunters who know Jon Browne’s diaries are filled with damning secrets which could threaten the very anti-slavery movement he helped to build.
Can Abeona overcome antebellum attitudes and triumph over her own fears to right the wrongs in her famous family’s sordid past?
A Thin Porridge is a Homeric tale of second chances, forgiveness, and adventure that will whisk readers from the filth of tweendecks, into the treachery of Cameroons Town, across the beauty of Table Bay, and deep into the heart of the fynbos—where Boer miners continue the outlawed scourge of slavery.
The Coffee Pot Book Club
★★★★★
Highly Recommended
Read the full review HERE!
Pick up your copy ofA Thin PorridgeAmazon UK • Amazon US
Benjamin Gohs
Benjamin J. Gohs writes dark literary novels about sympathetic losers struggling to survive in a hostile world.After graduating high school in 1993, Benjamin went on to work at just about everything from cooking and auto repair to dealing blackjack and being attacked by protection dogs.
In 2003, Benjamin began freelance writing and worked his way into a full-time reporter job in 2005 which led to his first editorship.
Benjamin now divides his time between writing novels and managing the print + digital community newspaper he co-founded in 2009.
Connect with Benjamin: Website • Twitter • Goodreads.
Welcome to Day #3 of the blog tour for Drake: Tudor Corsair #HistoricalFiction #SirFrancisDrake #CoffeePotBookClub @tonyriches @TheDebATL
Drake - Tudor Corsair
(The Elizabethan Series Book 1)
By Tony Riches
1564
Devon sailor Francis Drake sets out on a journey of adventure.
Drake learns of routes used to transport Spanish silver and gold, and risks his life in an audacious plan to steal a fortune.
Queen Elizabeth is intrigued by Drake and secretly encourages his piracy. Her unlikely champion becomes a national hero, sailing around the world in the Golden Hind and attacking the Spanish fleet.
King Philip of Spain has enough of Drake’s plunder and orders an armada to threaten the future of England.
Today, we are stopping over on
All Things Tudor.
Click HERE!
September 1, 2020
#BookReview: Scribbler Tales Presents: Escape from Berlin by Mary Ann Bernal #shortstories #Thrillers @BritonandDane
Scribbler Tales Presents: Escape from Berlin
By Mary Ann Bernal
Escape from Berlin
Mark Dresdner’s cover is blown, forcing him to flee East Germany, yet he refuses to leave the woman he loves. Finding the border crossing blocked, and the enemy closing in, will he evade capture or be forced to make the ultimate sacrifice?
Lose yourself in five tantalisingly delicious bite-size short stories that are filled with action, drama, crime and broken promises — Scribbler Tales Presents: Escape from Berlin by Mary Ann Bernal is as enthralling as it is addictive.
Bernal is an author who always delivers, and I was really looking forward to diving into this anthology of short stories. All of the stories in this collection are rich in detail and highly entertaining. Not only are the stories immensely readable, but they are also impressively narrated. This is an anthology that is not only bold in its delivery but immensely successful as well.
Each of the stories in this collection read like a snap-shot in time. What happened before, and what happens after, we are not always told, but I think that is what makes this collection so exciting. Bernal is an author who is fabulous at creating tension and anticipation in her writing. Bernal is also very gifted at creating believable characters and situations. I thought this collection was absolutely sublime, and I enjoyed every word, every sentence, every syllable.
Escape from Berlin was a wonderful story to start this collection. It is a desperate, heart-rending tale about war, loss, and betrayal. This story really tugged at my heartstrings. The protagonist is so brave and kind, which makes this story all the more heart-breaking. But it is also a reminder that nothing is fair in love and war.
The second book in this collection, aptly named Betrayal, tells the story of a woman who trusts her husband with her deepest darkest secret. This story had me reaching for the tissues — it is such an emotional story filled with fear, pain and a terrible sense of injustice. Bernal has penned a story that is not only rich in content but also in historical detail. I thought this story was simply brilliant.
Deadly Secrets is a story that is bursting with tension and drama. This crime thriller is filled with mystery and plot twists. I enjoyed this story very much, and I thought it was an excellent addition to the collection.
I found myself swept away by the narrative as Murder in the First hurtled towards its dramatic ending. I thought this story was tautly gripping and incredibly engaging.
The final story in the collection is called The Ritual. The Ritual was a fascinating story about a pagan cult. It is a desperate tragedy, and it was one of the stories that really impressed me with its ingenuity. I thought The Ritual was a fabulous story to end this collection with.
If you are a fan of thrillers, then I think you will find Scribbler Tales Presents: Escape from Berlin by Mary Ann Bernal extremely agreeable. I really did enjoy all of the stories in this collection, and I cannot wait to read more from this very talented author.
I Highly Recommend.
Review by Mary Anne Yarde.
The Coffee Pot Book Club.
Pick up your copy of
Scribbler Tales Presents: Escape from Berlin
Mary Ann Bernal
Mary Ann Bernal attended Mercy College, Dobbs Ferry, NY, where she received a degree in Business Administration. Her literary aspirations were ultimately realized when the first book of The Briton and the Dane novels was published in 2009. In addition to writing historical fiction, Mary Ann has also authored a collection of contemporary short stories in the Scribbler Tales series. Her latest endeavor is a science fiction/fantasy novel entitled Planetary Wars Rise of an Empire. Originally hailing from New York, Mary Ann now resides in Elkhorn, Nebraska.
Connect with Mary Ann:
Website • Whispering Legends Press • Twitter.
Check out Jayne Davis' fabulous book — An Embroidered Spoon #RegencyRomance #HistoricalRomance @jaynedavis142
An Embroidered SpoonBy Jayne Davis
Wales 1817
After refusing every offer of marriage that comes her way, Isolde Farrington is packed off to a spinster aunt in Wales until she comes to her senses.
Rhys Williams, there on business, is turning over his uncle’s choice of bride for him, and the last thing he needs is to fall for an impertinent miss like Izzy – who takes Rhys for a yokel.
Izzy’s new surroundings make her look at life, and Rhys, afresh. But when her father, Lord Bedley, discovers that the situation in Wales is not what he thought, and that Rhys is in trade, a gulf opens for a pair who’ve come to love each other. Will a difference in class keep them apart?
The Coffee Pot Book Club
★★★★★
Highly Recommended
Read the full review HERE!
Pick up your copy of An Embroidered Spoon Amazon UK • Amazon US
Jayne Davis
Jayne Davis writes historical romances set in the late Georgian/Regency era, published as both ebooks and paperbacks.She was hooked on Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer as a teenager, and longed to write similar novels herself. Real life intervened, and she had several careers, including as a non-fiction author under another name. That wasn't quite the writing career she had in mind...
Finally, she got around to polishing up stories written for her own amusement in long winter evenings, and became the kind of author she’d dreamed of in her teens. She is now working on the first few books in the Marstone Series, set in the late Georgian/early Regency period.
You can find Jayne: Website • Pinterest • Twitter.
August 31, 2020
#BookReview — Scribbler Tales Volumes One - Five by Mary Ann Bernal #ShortStories #Thriller @BritonandDane
Scribbler Tales Volumes One - Five
By Mary Ann Bernal
Volume One
Desperate Measures; Forbidden Lore; Forever Lost; The Hourglass; Sail with Me
Volume Two
Broken Promises; Deception; Endgame; Malice; The Portrait
Volume Three
Hidden Lies; Nightmare; Payback; The Night Stalker; Turning Point
Volume Four
Abducted; Cunning; Enamored; Reckless; Safeguard
Volume Five
Bloodlust; Illusion; Manhunt; Pandemic; Revenge
The Scribblers Tales Volume One – Five by Mary Ann Bernal is a collection of 25 fabulous short-stories that will entice, enthral and utterly enchant the reader. This is a book that you can dip into as time allows — it is absolutely perfect for a coffee break.
This collection opens with a mesmerising industrial espionage thriller, which is tangled with a love story that is built on a web of lies. And thus, Bernal sets the tone for this collection. Each story is unique, but they are all equally gripping. Bernal lets her readers glimpse into some very troubled minds, so prepare yourself!
Sometimes the protagonists of these stories walk away unscathed, other times the antagonists are the victors. There are appalling acts of revenge, as well as desperate discoveries. This is a collection that really keeps a reader entertained, for the dramatic plot twists is enough to satisfy any lover of quality thrillers.
Bernal certainly has a novelist eye for the human detail, which gives these stories a real sense of authenticity as well as authority. These stories, as short as they may be, are tautly gripping from start to finish. They are also immensely readable and next to impossible to put down.
Revenge was one of my favourite stories in this book. In this quick read, we meet Angela Westin, a woman who seemingly has it all — a perfect marriage, money and position. But under this happy facade is a woman who is trapped with a man whose illicit dealings destroyed their marriage. Driven to despair, Angela has no choice but to take matters into her own hands. The question is, does she have the courage to see it through to the bitter end? This story was written with such a gripping and compelling style that I completely forgot all about my coffee as I lost myself within the story
Another story that I really enjoyed was Abducted. This cleverly crafted story is masterly executed. There are enough plot twists to cause a reader whip-lash, but it is also written in an easy prose style. The fast-paced narrative and the unexpected ending made this short-story incredibly entertaining.
In The Night Stalker, we follow the obsessive journey of a killer, while in Safeguard, we meet an antagonist whose clever manipulation of the medical professionals means she gets away with murder.
In Turning Point, we follow the work of an arsonist. While Brandi fears for her firefighter husband’s safety, she is completely unaware of how close the arsonist is. This short-story saw me sitting on the edge of my seat.
Bernal explores the devastating consequences of being falsely accused of rape in her short-story called Malice. This story was incredibly real in the telling, and also very realistic. To be accused of rape by a woman whom you had only met the once in a professional capacity nearly destroys Andrew’s life. I thought this story was exceptionally well written.
In The Hourglass, young Flair makes a covenant with Death. This story was engrossing and one that I simply could not read quickly enough as I was desperate to know if Flair would be set free from her obligation.
There are so many fabulous stories in Scribblers Tales Volumes One to Five that it was difficult to choose which ones to include in this review. But be assured all the stories in this collection are wonderfully written and a real joy to any reader.
If you are a lover of thrillers, psychological murder mysteries, and paranormal adventures, then you will adore Scribblers Tales Volumes One to Five by Mary Ann Bernal. I cannot wait to get my hands on Volume Two of what promises to be an equally enjoyable read. Bernal is the indisputable queen of short-stories.
I Highly Recommend.
Review by Mary Anne Yarde.
The Coffee Pot Book Club.
Pick up your copy of
Scribbler Tales Volumes One - Five
Mary Ann Bernal
Mary Ann Bernal attended Mercy College, Dobbs Ferry, NY, where she received a degree in Business Administration. Her literary aspirations were ultimately realized when the first book of The Briton and the Dane novels was published in 2009. In addition to writing historical fiction, Mary Ann has also authored a collection of contemporary short stories in the Scribbler Tales series. Her latest endeavor is a science fiction/fantasy novel entitled Planetary Wars Rise of an Empire. Originally hailing from New York, Mary Ann now resides in Elkhorn, Nebraska.
Connect with Mary Ann: Website • Whispering Legends Press • Twitter.
Check out Catherine Kullmann fabulous #RegencyRomance — The Potential For Love @CKullmannAuthor
The Potential For LoveBy Catherine Kullmann
When Arabella Malvin sees the figure of an officer silhouetted against the sun, for one interminable moment she thinks he is her brother, against all odds home from Waterloo. But it is Major Thomas Ferraunt, the rector’s son, newly returned from occupied Paris who stands in front of her.
For over six years, Thomas’s thoughts have been of war. Now he must ask himself what his place is in this new world and what he wants from it. More and more, his thoughts turn to Miss Malvin, but would Lord Malvin agree to such a mismatch for his daughter, especially when she is being courted by Lord Henry Danlow?
As Arabella embarks on her fourth Season, she finds herself more in demand than ever before. But she is tired of the life of a debutante, waiting in the wings for her real life to begin. She is ready to marry. But which of her suitors has the potential for love and who will agree to the type of marriage she wants?
As she struggles to make her choice, she is faced with danger from an unexpected quarter while Thomas is stunned by a new challenge. Will these events bring them together or drive them apart?
The Coffee Pot Book Club
★★★★★
Highly Recommended
Read the full review HERE!
Pick up your copy ofThe Potential For LoveAmazon UK • Amazon US
Catherine Kullmann
I was born and educated in Dublin. Following a three-year courtship conducted mostly by letter, I moved to Germany where I lived for twenty-five years before returning to Ireland. I have worked in the Irish and New Zealand public services and in the private sector.I have a keen sense of history and of connection with the past which so often determines the present. I am fascinated by people. I love a good story, especially when characters come to life in a book.
I have always enjoyed writing, I love the fall of words, the shaping of an expressive phrase, the satisfaction when a sentence conveys my meaning exactly. I enjoy plotting and revel in the challenge of evoking a historic era for characters who behave authentically in their period while making their actions and decisions plausible and sympathetic to a modern reader. In addition, I am fanatical about language, especially using the right language as it would have been used during the period about which I am writing. But rewarding as all this craft is, there is nothing to match the moment when a book takes flight, when your characters suddenly determine the route of their journey.
Connect with Catherine: Website • Twitter • Goodreads.
Check out Jill Caugherty's fabulous book — Waltz in Swing Time #HistoricalFiction #America @JillCaugherty
Waltz in Swing TimeBy Jill Caugherty
Growing up in a strict Utah farm family during the Depression, Irene Larsen copes with her family’s hardship by playing piano. Even when an unthinkable tragedy strikes, Irene clings to her dream of becoming a musician. When a neighbor's farm is foreclosed, Irene's brother marries the neighbor's daughter, who moves in with the Larsens and coaches Irene into winning leading roles in musicals. Clashing with her mother, who dismisses her ambition as a waste of time, Irene leaves home.During a summer job at Zion National Park, she meets professional dancer Spike, a maverick who might be her ticket to a musical career. But does pursuing her dream justify its steep price?Alternating between Irene’s ninetieth year in 2006 and her coming-of-age in the thirties, Waltz in Swing Time is a poignant tale of mother-daughter relationships, finding hope amidst loss, and forging an independent path.
The Coffee Pot Book Club
★★★★★
Highly Recommended
Read the full review HERE!
Pick up your copy ofWaltz in Swing TimeAmazon UK • Amazon US
Jill Caugherty
Jill Caugherty is the author of the novel WALTZ IN SWING TIME, set in Depression-era Utah.Jill’s short stories have been published in 805Lit and Oyster River Pages, and her debut short story, “Real People,” was nominated for the 2019 PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers.
Jill holds a B.S. in Computer Science from Stanford University, an M.S. in Computer Science from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, and an MBA with honors from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill Kenan-Flagler Business School.
An award-winning marketing manager with over twenty-five years of experience in the high tech industry, she lives in Raleigh, North Carolina with her husband and daughter. Connect with Jill: Website • Twitter • Goodreads.
The Coffee Pot Book Club
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