Judith Arnopp's Blog, page 29

Henry Fitzroy – The Almost King

by Judith ArnoppHenry Fitzroy Duke of Richmond and Somerset (1519-36)
Kings, especially Tudor kings, could have everything they wanted. Power, property, wealth, women, it was all theirs with a click of the fingers yet, for many years, Henry VIII was denied one thing – a son and heir to follow him.

In 1519, less than forty years after Bosworth, the Tudor dynasty was still young, and it was Henry’s job to ensure it continued to flourish. The responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders and, as Catherine of Aragon suffered more and more miscarriages, and the sons she did bear died in infancy, his need became an obsession.

With just one legitimate daughter, Mary, Henry was becoming desperate. Imagine his frustration when his mistress, Elizabeth Blount, with no trouble at all produced a healthy son. The temptation to turn his bastard into something more was irresistible. They named the child Henry.

Just to ensure that no one was mistaken, the name Fitzroy which means 'the king’s son', was often given to base-born male offspring, but although it is likely there were a good few more, Henry Fitzroy is the only illegitimate child that the king acknowledged.

Shortly after he was born, Elizabeth was married to Sir George Talboys and assigned several manors in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. A mark of favour, or perhaps gratitude, for providing the king with what his wife could not.

While the relationship between Henry and Elizabeth ceased, he continued to show Fitzroy favour. At his christening it was Cardinal Wolsey who stood as Godfather, and by the time he was six young Henry was made Knight of the Garter, and created Earl of Nottingham and Duke of Richmond and Somerset. This double dukedom ensured that he took precedence over all other dukes in the land, barring the King’s lawful issue – should he have them.

 Duke of Richmond

He was also appointed King’s Lieutenant-general north of Trent, and Keeper of the City and Castle of Carlisle.This may seem a lot for a small boy, but it didn’t stop there, and by the time of his death in 1536 he was Lord |High Admiral of England, Wales, Ireland, Normandy, Gascony, and Aquitane, with a further commission as warden general of the Scottish marches thrown in for good measure.

Throughout his life he acquired castles, land and immense fortune, making him the richest man in England after the King. With the breakdown of Henry and Catherine’s marriage, and the advent of Anne Boleyn and the failures of that union, it soon became clear that, in the absence of a legitimate son, Fitzroy would be Henry’s heir. Nothing, bar the birth of a legitimate son, could stop it.

Henry Fitzroy received an education to match his status. Although often at court, he was resident in King’s College, Cambridge and taught by Richard Croke, a pioneer of Greek Scholarship in England, and John Palsgrave, another eminent scholar. By the time he was ten young Henry was reading Caesar, Virgil, Terence, and speaking Greek.

Arms of Henry Fitzroy

Henry VIII, proud of his son, despite the stain of his birth, lost no time in proposing matrimonial alliances beneficial to England, attempting to wed him into the family of Pope Clement VII, to a Danish princess, a French princess, and a the sister of Charles V who later became Queen of France.

In spring 1532 Fitzroy spent some time at Hatfield, accompanying Henry VIII to Calais in the autumn. He moved on to Paris, staying with his friend the Earl of Surrey until September 1533. And, later that year, at the age of fourteen, possibly at the instigation of Anne Boleyn, he married Mary Howard, daughter of Thomas, the third Duke of Norfolk by his second wife. The marriage was never consummated due to their age. Thereafter plans for him to go to Ireland were abandoned, and he remained at court in the midst of the furor surrounding the reformation and the downfall of Anne Boleyn.

He is recorded as being present at the execution of the Carthusians in May 1535 and was one of the peers at Anne Boleyn’s trial, witnessing her execution as Henry’s representative in May 1536.  Fitzroy benefited both in wealth and status from Anne’s death and those that died with her.
Henry VIII

Among Anne’s detractors there were rumours of jealous rivalry between Fitzroy and the Boleyns and whispers that she and her brother, Rochford, plotted to poison him. His death was more likely to have been due to consumption or possibly plague.

Fitzroy’s death in July, just two months after his stepmother, must have proved devastating for the King who, having disinherited both his daughters by this time was left temporarily heirless. But Henry VIII had a new wife and was pinning all his hopes on Jane, who was already pregnant, perhaps with a legitimate son this time. One that would live.

Henry Fitzroy was not given a state funeral as one might expect after his royal upbringing; the arrangements were left to his father in law, the Duke of Norfolk. He is believed to be interred at Thetford Priory with other members of the Howard family. After Fitzroy’s death it was decreed that, since the marriage was not consummated, the marriage was invalid, consequently stripping his widow of her benefits.

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Judith Arnopp is the author of twelve historical novels; three set in the medieval and nine in the Tudor period. Details can be found here.
author.to/juditharnoppbooks




Illustrations

1. Henry Fitzroy http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia...

2. The Duke of Richmond sometimes thought to be Edward of Middleham. http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia...

3. Henry VIII by Holbein  http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia...

4.http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia...

Samantha Wilcoxson is in the building!

Delighted to welcome Samantha Wilcoxson to my blog today. Samantha is a history enthusiast and avid traveler. Her published works include the Plantagenet Embers series with novels and novellas that explore the Wars of the Roses and early Tudor era. Luminous is her first foray into 20th century American history, but she suspects that it will not be her last. Samantha enjoys exploring the personal side of historic events and creating emotive, inspiring stories.
The Society of the Living DeadBy Samantha Wilcoxson 


In the years following World War I, Radium Dial was one of the best places for working-class girls of Ottawa, Illinois to earn good wages to help support their family or set savings aside for when they were married. Little did those girls know that the material they used to paint watch and instrument dials was slowly poisoning them. Even when realization dawned, they were faced with opposition from the radium industry, which did not wish to see their profits disappear, and the medical community, which had been using radium as a miracle cure. One group of dial painters decided they did not want to see future workers suffer their fate, so they decided to form the Society of the Living Dead.
Pearl Payne took the lead on forming the shockingly named organization. She worked at Radium Dial for less than a year, but she suffered health problems for the rest of her life that she attributed to radium poisoning. Along with coworkers, Catherine Donohue, Marie Rossiter, and Charlotte Purcell, Pearl convinced their lawyer, Leonard Grossman, that they needed to do more than win their own case against Radium Dial. They wanted to “band together, secure legal aid and in general use our organized presence to simplify, promote, and improve the laws relative to those who are maimed due to occupational hazards.”
The called themselves the Society of the Living Dead because some victims of radium poisoning had the eerie appearance of walking corpses. Charlotte Purcell had an arm amputated, and Catherine Donohue’s body wasted away to less than half of her healthy weight. Other women grew giant tumors or had their jaws and noses rot away. The varied symptoms of radium poisoning was one of the factors that made it difficult to diagnose and hold employers responsible.

The Society got the attention of the press and used it to spread awareness of the struggle of the “radium girls,” as they came to be known. Even the women who did not enjoy being the center attention allowed media photos of their emaciated bodies and underdeveloped children to increase sympathy and action. The news stories requested that readers send funds to help support the disabled workers whose families were struggling with medical bills and loss of wages.
Leonard Grossman was vital to the success of the women’s legal cases and the Society’s success at raising awareness. “You hear the voice of the Society of the Living Dead. That is the voice of the ghost women speaking not only here in this room but to the world. This voice is going to strike the shackles off the industrial slaves of America,” he stated in one interview. The women could not have succeeded without his tireless efforts and countless hours of free legal work.
As the former dial painters sickened and died, Radium Dial and other companies in the radium industry fought to deny liability or even the idea that radium might be causing their health problems. Without the work of the Society of the Living Dead, the fight to see radium poisoning recognized as an occupational hazard might have taken years longer. These women’s quest to protect others from the harm they had suffered saved countless lives, even as they lost their own.
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My new book, Luminous, tells the story of Catherine Donohue, one of the key members of the Society of the Living Dead. Photos of her shrinking frame and her tiny children inspired sympathy and increased awareness across the country, but there is much more to her than those media photos and news stories. Her private struggle is what I strive to capture in Luminous. What did it feel like to fight for your life when even the medical community seemed to be an enemy? How did she cope with watching her health fail at the time of her life that should have been filled with health and happiness? How did a quiet Catholic girl stand up to the might of the radium industry? Find out in Luminous: The Story of a Radium Girl. To read it click here: mybook.to/luminous
To read Samantha's Blog: click here
Find Samantha on Social Media:
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Jennifer C.Wilson

As oart of The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour, I am very pleased to welcome Jennifer C. Wilson back to my blog with news of her new release due out on 4th of June 2020



Jennifer C. Wilson stalks dead people (usually monarchs, mostly Mary Queen of Scots and Richard III). Inspired by childhood visits to as many castles and historical sites her parents could find, and losing herself in their stories (not to mention quote often the castles themselves!), at least now her daydreams make it onto the page.

After returning to the north-east of England for work, she joined a creative writing class, and has been filling notebooks ever since. Jennifer won North Tyneside Libraries’ Story Tyne short story competition in 2014, and in 2015, her debut novel, Kindred Spirits: Tower of London was published by Crooked Cat Books. The full series was re-released by Darkstroke in January 2020.

Jennifer is a founder and host of the award-winning North Tyneside Writers’ Circle, and has been running writing workshops in North Tyneside since 2015. She also publishes historical fiction novels with Ocelot Press. She lives in Whitley Bay, and is very proud of her two-inch view of the North Sea.




Kindred Spirits: EphemeraBy Jennifer C. Wilson

The afterlife is alive with possibility…
In this collection of stories, we follow kings and queens as they make important (and history-defying) visits, watch a football game featuring the foulest of fouls, and meet a host of new spirits-in-residence across the British Isles and beyond.
Be transported to ancient ruins, a world-famous cemetery, and a new cathedral, and catch up with old friends – and enemies.
Because when the dead outnumber the living and start to travel, the adventures really do begin.
Kindred Spirits: Ephemera is a charming collection of stories about your favourite ghosts!


Here is a short excerpt

Kindred Spirits: Carlisle Castle
It had begun peacefully, just like every year. Then, again, just like every year, things had got out of hand.
“After all these years, decades, centuries even, you’d think this could be better handled by now?” mused Queen Mary to the young soldier standing beside her, as they looked down on the proceedings.
William hadn’t been picked for the Carlisle Castle team, and had instead chosen to stay on the castle walls with his former prisoner, who, luckily for him, had deemed him unworthy of having a grudge held against him. He nodded to the Scots Queen, as he and his colleagues had called her when they were watching her, centuries before. “I’d like to say the Jacobites team start it each year, Madame, but sadly, I think this year our guards are as much to blame.”
It had started with a foul, potentially in what had been roughly designated the Castle Guards’ penalty area thanks to some stolen jumpers and cones. But, ghosts being ghosts, one or two had been spirited forward before the referee (an old guardsman from the cathedral) had wheezed his way up the pitch to sort things out. He hadn’t made it in time, and in less than a minute both teams were engaged in what would have been a fight to the death, if they weren’t already dead.
“I suppose, in one way, it’s safer now there cannot be too many actual injuries,” Queen Mary said. Suddenly, her attention was drawn to a commotion at the other end of the field. If she had still had a heart, it would have pushed harder inside her chest at the sight. A group of locals, very drunk by the look (and sound) of them, were heading haphazardly towards the makeshift pitch. “Oh, here we go.” Signalling to William, the pair floated from the battlements to the ground below.
The teams had heard the approaching gang, and frozen, invisible to the living, watching as they tried to work out what the newcomers would do.
Seeing the pitch set up, in the middle of the night, the locals paused for a moment, wondering aloud whether they had disrupted an ongoing match, or found the remnants of one long finished. Little did they know, the battle they had disturbed had been ongoing for longer than anyone living could remember.
“Well?” One of the local lads had reached the football. “What do you reckon?” He looked around his group of friends, clearly trying to count through the alcohol-induced fog.
“We’re one short for five-a-side, mate.” His friend had been quicker at the maths. “But since Smithy’s played for the town, he counts as two, so his side only needs four men.” Laughing, the second man ducked as the aforementioned Smithy found a discarded baseball cap and sent it spinning through the air at his friend.
“Let’s go short sleeves versus long,” called another of the group.
As they looked around, they evidently realised it would work. A general murmur of agreement spread around the men, and they formed themselves, staggeringly, into the two agreed teams.
The Jacobites and the Guards had barely moved during the whole interlude. Now, meeting each other’s eyes and realising here was not only a greater danger but also a greater opportunity, they silently broke away, mid-fight. On the sideline, Queen Mary watched on, smiling at what she hoped was about to unfold. There was the odd haunting within the walls of Carlisle Castle, but it didn’t have the reputation of some places, once you left the more enclosed areas. And there was nothing wrong with a little fun now and then, was there? Even ghosts needed entertainment.
In a heartbeat, if ghosts had heartbeats, Jacobites and Guards had found their football stolen, their match abandoned, and a new game about to begin. But even arch-enemies could work together for a common cause. The local lads were drunk enough that the odd glimpse of a ghostly uniformed guard might be missed; the dead might need something stronger…


Included short- stories are
Kindred Spirits: St Paul’s Cathedral
Kindred Spirits: Jailbreak
Kindred Spirits: Carlisle Castle
Kindred Spirits: The Sisterhood of Hampton Court Palace
Kindred Spirits: Leicester – Return of the King
Kindred Spirits: The Jewel of the Wall
Kindred Spirits: Eurostar
Kindred Spirits: Père Lachaise
Kindred Spirits: York, Revisited

Buy Links:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Amazon CA

You can connect with Jennifer online: Blog • Facebook • Twitter • Instagram • Amazon

A Visit from author Mary Ann Bernal

I am excited to welcome Mary Ann to my blog to tell us all about her new release. Publisher: Whispering Legends Press


Crusader's Path By Mary Ann Bernal

From the sweeping hills of Argences to the port city of Cologne overlooking the River Rhine, Etienne and Avielle find themselves drawn by the need for redemption against the backdrop of the First Crusade.

Heeding the call of His Holiness, Urban II, to free the Holy Land from the infidel, Etienne follows Duke Robert of Normandy across the treacherous miles, braving sweltering heat and snow-covered mountain passes while en route to the Byzantine Empire.

Moved by Peter of Amiens’ charismatic rhetoric in the streets of the Holy Roman Empire, Avielle joins the humble army of pilgrims. Upon arrival in Mentz, the peasant Crusaders do the unthinkable, destroying the Jewish Community. Consumed with guilt, Avielle is determined to die fighting for Christ, assuring her place in Heaven.

Etienne and Avielle cross paths in Constantinople, where they commiserate over past misdeeds. A spark becomes a flame, but when Avielle contracts leprosy, Etienne makes a promise to God, offering to take the priest cowl in exchange for ridding Avielle of her affliction.

Will Etienne be true to his word if Avielle is cleansed of the contagion, or will he risk eternal damnation to be with the woman he loves?



Excerpt
Chapter Twelve
In the stillness, Avielle reflected on Peter’s decision to join a seasoned Army, which rekindled her desire to free the Holy Land from Muslim rule. She could ride with the camp followers, tending to the women and children if not the embattled soldiers.
Surely, they would not turn me away. With so many men, there are never enough healers,she thought.
Avielle wanted to take Brother Joseph into her confidence, seeking his wisdom and blessing should she decide to take up the Cross once again. Before leaving, she would teach the novitiates, and holy sisters and whoever else wished to learn the healer’s craft. Avielle did not want to leave Brother Joseph just as she had not wanted to leave Brother Dacien. An inner voice directed her steps, the Lord’s voice, perhaps.
Since the Army of Christ needed permission from His Holiness before setting out, she also had to obtain the Bishop’s approval by obeying the laws of God. And Urban spoke for God. Whichever Army she chose needed His Holiness’s blessing to take part in this Holy War, and she believed Peter never received Urban’s approval. Avielle thought Peter preyed on the vulnerability of people without hope, his dynamic speeches a distraction. The truth was hidden behind their expectations as he reminded them the Holy Ghost was the guardian of the soul and body.
Peter was not a military leader. He battled the evil one, a spiritual undertaking, and of no use when facing starvation, disease, and death. The holy monk probably meant no harm to those participating in such a daunting task, yet he should not have left without proper funding. Peasants did not have many possessions, and they lacked warfare instruction and self-restraint. Peter’s impatience left him grieving for what might have been; his Army marching behind him as they entered Jerusalem triumphantly, ahead of the wealthy and powerful, the poor and lowly, accomplishing what Kings could not.
You are being unduly harsh, Avielle.
Staring at the dying man, Avielle felt an uncomfortable tingling and prickling sensation. Opening and closing her fingers relieved the feeling, but her wrist hurt. Pulling up her sleeves, she carefully examined her arms, looking for redness, bumps, and spots, which were difficult to see in the darkness.
You are clean, do not think otherwise.
Avielle tried to remember when the contagion changed her father’s outward appearance. How long had it taken them to return to her uncle’s home? How long before Brother Dacien gave them succor? How long before they buried him?
Should she take the veil while still unblemished? The Abbess could not cast her out after final vows, but she might lock her away, alone in a cell for the rest of her days. Solitude destroyed minds, no matter the lineage. Avielle had observed such horrors wandering the countryside with her father when condemned prisoners pleaded for death, freeing them from their suffering.
You can care for the lepers and beg alms for a hospital. Find a patron. With men of great wealth visiting the city, maybe, someone seeking redemption?
Best to think of something now, before it is too late, and you are condemned to walk the earth, ringing a bell to warn people of your coming.
Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/Crusaders-Path-Mary-Ann-Bernal-ebook/dp/B084F3PGRQAmazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Crusaders-Path-Mary-Ann-Bernal-ebook/dp/B084F3PGRQ




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 and a science fiction/fantasy novel entitled Planetary Wars Rise of an Empire. Her latest endeavor is Crusader’s Path, a story of redemption set against the backdrop of the First Crusade.
Connect with Mary Ann: Website • Blog • Whispering Legends Press •  Twitter • Facebook.

Website: http://www.maryannbernal.com/


Blog: http://maryannbernal.blogspot.com/
Whispering Legends Press: https://www.whisperinglegendspress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheBritonandtheDane/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/BritonandDane

Time to reveal who has won a FREE signed copy of The Kiss of the Concubine!

Thank you to everyone who entered to win a copy of The Kiss of the Concubine to mark the anniversary of Anne's death. There were a few teething problems with people accessing or commenting on the blog and I appologise for that. Since so many of you struggled to enter I have added everyone who commented on the Facebook posts too. Unfortunately, for obvious reasons I couldn't include those of you who commented under 'annoymous' or 'unknown'.

Usually, I ask my four year old grandson to pull out a name but since that is tricky during lockdown (still in place in Wales) I have had to improvise and get my husband to do it. He is cute but in a different way to my grandson. Please rest assured the result is totally annonymous.
First, I listed the names on a piece of paper.
Then I cut them into strips.

Folded them up so they all look the same.

Then I placed them in my truncated henin (a french hood would be more appropriate but wouldn't work as well).
Husband then closed his eyes, plunged in his hand and pulled out ...

a name!


 CONGRATULATIONS to LISA CROUSE!!!
Thank you so much to all who entered! Please follow my blog for a chance in other draws and competitions.
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn is available on Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, Paperback and Audible.  mybook.to/tkoc2
author.to/juditharnoppbooks

A Q&A with authors, Olivia Longueville and J.C. Plummer.

Robin Hood’s Widow (Book Two in the Robin Hood Trilogy)Author Q&A with Olivia Longueville and J.C. Plummer
Robin Hood has been featured in many books, movies, and television shows.  How is your trilogy different?
In our first book, Robin Hood’s Dawn, we re-imagined the origins of the Robin Hood legend, which included exploring his family dynamics: an aloof, selfish father and a kind-hearted mother devoted to ministering to the poor.  One theme is how the consequences of immoral actions and secret sins can reverberate across generations.  This is part of Robin’s legacy from his father.We cast Robin as a hero fighting against the tyranny of a lawless government official. When Robin is falsely accused of a shocking crime by the new Sheriff of Nottingham, he could have retreated to a safe place beyond the reach of the sheriff.  However, he feels a responsibility to the people because he believes in the intrinsic value of every human being.  Instead of running away, he stays to protect the people from the sheriff.  And this points to another theme: one person can make a difference by taking a stand for what is right.The second book, Robin Hood’s Widow, picks up where the first book ends. Robin is alive and still with King Richard in the Holy Land, but Marian, the sheriff, and Guy of Gisborne have returned to England thinking that Robin Hood is dead.Robin Hood’s Widow explores themes of grief and redemption, while featuring Marian’s adventures as leader of the outlaws. Her story is interwoven with Robin’s quest to return home while fulfilling his obligations to King Richard.In this book, we wanted to explore both the stages of grief and their non-linear nature. Experiencing loss and grief is not like climbing stairs; you don’t complete one stage, progress to the next, and eventually arrive at acceptance. The emotional turmoil of an earlier stage can reappear and reassert itself during the process.That being said, this story is not sad or depressing; Robin Hood’s Widow is an optimistic tale of triumphing over adversity. 

You’ve emphasized how your Robin Hood story has been re-imagined.  Will fans of the traditional ballads still recognize this as a Robin Hood story?
There is a lot of variety in the many books and screen adaptations of the Robin Hood legend.  We wanted to create a story that was respectful towards fans of the original ballads and legends without adhering to the same story lines that have been previously written.  We hope that all Robin Hood fans will enjoy this fresh retelling of the story.However, we felt that Marian is a character who deserves more attention.  All too often she is a background character with little to do.  With this in mind, we have focused on creating a Lady Marian who will figure more prominently in the story, especially in Robin Hood’s Widow, where she takes center stage as the leader of the outlaws. She must learn how to lead while finding clever ways to thwart the sheriff and rob those supporters of Prince John who dare enter Sherwood Forest.  We also wanted Marian to be feminine and believable as a woman of the 12th century.    
Do the first two books of the trilogy end in cliff-hangers? Are the books stand alone?  
We have structured the trilogy so that the books do not end in cliff-hangers, and we have endeavored to create a sense of completion in each of the books. Although we want readers to start with Robin Hood’s Dawn, we know that some might be more interested in Robin Hood’s Widow. Therefore, we have endeavored to provide enough information in the second book so that a new reader will not be lost.Both Robin and Marian are guarding secrets that will be revealed in Robin Hood’s Widow!
How did you become interested in writing this story and working together as co-authors?Olivia:The story of Robin Hood’s Widow is very special to me, and I wrote the original version after I experienced a devastating personal loss. Readers might be surprised to learn that Robin Hood’s Widow was written before Robin Hood’s Dawn!I love to tell stories with multi-dimensional characters.  I am multi-lingual, and I enjoy writing stories in different languages.  My first novel is an English-language alternate history featuring Anne Boleyn.I met Coleen (J.C.) on the Internet, and we decided to co-author a Robin Hood Trilogy with Robin Hood’s Widow as its centerpiece.  
So, you’ve never met, you come from different countries, different cultures, and speak different languages.  How can you co-author a book?  Is it because you have similar writing styles?Coleen:Fortunately, Olivia is fluent in English, because that’s the only language I know!Olivia:We have found that we have a lot in common—especially our love of writing and of history.  We have to work hard to merge our writing styles, but we have successfully done this. Coleen:That’s true.  Olivia and I have very different “voices” and writing styles.  You might even say they are nearly opposite styles.  I write in a straightforward, expository style, with a minimum of descriptive elements and metaphorical flourishes.  I am good at explaining things, organizing ideas, and creating natural sounding dialogue.Olivia:My writing is characterized by lush romanticism and passionate lyricism.  I love to create metaphors and descriptions which excite the imagination of the reader in a vivid and dramatic way.Coleen:In some respects, Olivia’s words are the emotional heart of the story, and my words represent the rational intellect.  Of course, it’s not quite that cut-and-dried, but it is one way to describe how two people with such different styles have come together to create Robin Hood’s Dawn and Robin Hood’s Widow. 

Both books available in paperback and Kindle. Click here to purchase Robin Hood's Dawn:
USA:
UK:


Clck here to purchase Robin Hood's WidowUSA:UK:
About the Authors
Olivia Longueville Olivia has always loved literature and fiction, and she is passionate about historical research, genealogy, and the arts.  She has several degrees in finance & general management from London Business School (LBS) and other universities.  At present, she helps her father run the family business.  During her first trip to France at the age of ten, Olivia had a life-changing epiphany when she visited the magnificent Château de Fontainebleau and toured its library.  This truly transformed her life as she realized her passion for books and writing, foreshadowing her future career as a writer.  In childhood, she began writing stories and poems in different languages.  Loving writing more than anything else in her life, Olivia has resolved to devote her life to creating historical fiction novels.  She has a special interest in the history of France and England.  Having met on the Internet, Olivia and J. C. Plummer, a writer and historian, decided to co-author The Robin Hood Trilogy.  Olivia and J. C. are retelling the Robin Hood story with an unusual and imaginative plot that is solidly grounded in 12th century history. The trilogy incorporates twists and turns which will captivate and entertain readers.
Olivia’s social media profiles:Personal website: www.olivialongueville.com/Project website: www.angevinworld.com/Twitter: @O_LonguevilleFacebook: www.facebook.com/OliviaLongueville/Tumblr: www.olivia-longueville.tumblr.com/
________________________________________
J. C. Plummer J.C. Plummer (Jennie Coleen) graduated Summa Cum Laude from Washburn University with a Bachelor of Arts degree in History and Anthropology.  She later earned a Master of Science degree in Computer Information Science from Dartmouth College.Co-authoring The Robin Hood Trilogy has merged J.C.’s passions for history, culture, and technology into one unique, exciting project.As an author and historian, J.C.’s goal is to provide thoughtful and entertaining storytelling that honors the past, is mindful of the present, and is optimistic for the future.
J.C.’s social media profiles:Project website: www.angevinworld.com/Twitter: @JC_PlummerFacebook: www.facebook.com/jennie.newbrand/

Introducing Vivienne Brereton - Historical Fiction Author

Author Vivienne Brereton
Thank you so much, Judith, for inviting me onto your Blog to talk about the 1520 Field of Cloth of Gold, near Calais in France.  This event was intended to be a summit meeting between Henry VIII of England and François I of France but quickly turned into perhaps the most memorable occasion of the sixteenth century.
Field of the Cloth of Gold (Wikimedia commons)
Why did you decide to use the Field of Cloth of Gold as the backdrop for your Tudor series: ‘The House of the Red Duke’?
I first became aware of the event when I went to stay with a French family just outside Rouen, in Normandy, when I was about seventeen. I can remember being dazzled by a sculpture depicting the Field of Cloth of Gold on the outside of the sixteenth century Hôtel de Bourgtheroulde. In a touch of synchronicity, the image on my A level history book was taken from a painting of the same event. So I suppose it entered my subconscious at a fairly early age.
Henry VIII meeting Francis I Wikimedia Commons
Why do you think it captured the public imagination, both then and now?
It had all the right ingredients: royalty, wealth, beauty, outstanding sportsmen, music, fine dining. And the invitations were only for the chosen few. Imagine all our most famous events all piled together in one big extravaganza and you would be close to how the twelve thousand participants appeared to a sixteenth century audience. It was a combination of the red carpet at the Oscars or Cannes; the Grand National; the final of Masterchef; Paris fashion week; the Last Night of the Proms; an architectural bonanza. And a whole host of royals and celebrities thrown in for good measure.  In 2020, the five hundred year celebrations have sadly been halted because of the pandemic but it doesn’t stop us looking back at it in awe.

Could you describe two of your favourite moments from it?
I am writing this on June 7th, the five hundredth anniversary of the meeting between François and Henry. Here were two good-looking, highly intelligent, sporty young men, of twenty-five and twenty-nine respectively, who along with the twenty-year-old Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, dominated the stage of Europe. Three warlike young men who were used to getting their own way in everything. So the anticipation of meeting one another that year must have been almost unbearable. There were huge fears on both sides that it might turn out to be a trap or an ambush so even when the two of them rode down a hill to meet each other, everyone on both sides were collectively holding their breath. In a later novel in the series, I had great fun imagining what was going on in the two royal heads when they finally set eyes upon each other.   The second favourite moment for me was the impromptu wrestling match between François and Henry, instigated by the latter and won by the former. The two of them were drinking in a pavilion when Henry came up with the bright idea, not realizing that François would defeat him with a ‘tour de Bretagne’, some kind of special trick that left a red-faced Henry flat on his back.   In England, wrestlers from Cornwall and Devon were considered the best but on this day, English pride was well and truly defeated. Henry, being Henry, asked for a re-match but was turned down. I love how Joycelyne Gledhill Russell describes the English records as being ‘silent’ on the matter but points out how Robert de La Marck, Seigneur de Florange, an eyewitness, mentions it in his memoirs. Classic Henry, ha ha!
Field of the  Cloth of Gold Wikimedia Commons
After all the jousting, the preening, prancing, flirting, dancing and dining came to an end, what do you think was achieved, if anything?
    The two major sources for the Field of Gold, the 1969 version by Joycelyne Gledhill Russell and the 2013 one by Glenn Richardson, differ on this. Russell concludes that it was all a very expensive, extravagant mirage, considering Henry went off to meet Charles of Habsburg immediately afterwards. Richardson, on the other hand, sees the lasting value for England for many years to come, cementing its place on the European stage. I think it was a mixture of the two, but far more the second. It certainly didn’t do England’s image any harm. The very fact that its reputation has lasted five hundred years until 2020 is a testament of its place as one of the most wondrous, ambitious events ever staged.   Thank you so much for inviting me, Judith. I’ve really enjoyed answering your questions. And if anyone is interested in finding out more about the event, they’ll find it my novel. 
‘The House of the Red Duke’, Book One ‘A Phoenix Rising’ can be ordered in bookshops or as a kindle. Below is the blurb.
COME AND PARTY LIKE IT’S 1520! AT THE EXTRAORDINARY FIELD OF CLOTH OF GOLD, near Calais. A series set against the Tudor, Valois, and Stewart courts of Henry VIII, François I of France, and James IV of Scotland. MEET THOMAS. Head of the Howards. One of the most powerful families in Tudor England, known for their good looks and charms. Soldier. Statesman. Courtier. Thomas is also a keeper of secrets. From the furthermost tip of Cornwall, up to the wilds of Scotland, and across the NarrowSea to France, Book One spins a fast-paced tale of intrigue, love and action. Explosive family secrets are concealed behind the ancient walls of castles in three lands. But there are no secrets that time does not reveal.
It is also available on Amazon. Click on the link below for further details:  

A FREE paperback about Anne Boleyn to mark the anniversary of her death.

The KissofThe Concubine
Judith Arnopp
28th January 1547 – Whitehall Palace

It is almost midnight and January has Whitehall Palace clenched in its wintery fist. The gardens are rimed with frost, the casements glazed with ice. Like a shadow, I wait alone by the window in the silver-blue moonlight, my eye fixed on the bed.
The room is crowded, yet nobody speaks.
I tread softly among them. The flickering torchlight illuminates a sheen of anticipation on their faces, the rank odour of their uncertainty rising in a suffocating fug. Few can remember the time that went before, and both friend and foe balance upon the cusp of change, and tremble at the terror of the unknown.
I move through the heavily perfumed air, brush aside jewelled velvet sleeves. At the high-canopied bed I sink to my knees and observe his face for a long moment. He is changed. This is not the man I used to know.
They have propped him on pillows, the vast belly mountainous beneath the counterpane, and the yellow skin of mortality’s mask is drawn tightly across his cheeks. There is not much time and before death can wipe his memory clean, I speak suddenly into his ear, a whisper meant only for him. “Henry!”
The king’s eyes fly open and his eyeballs swivel from side to side, his disintegrating ego peering as if through the slits in a mummer’s mask.
He knows me, and understands why I have come.
He whimpers like a frightened child and Anthony Denny steps forward and leans over the bed. “Your Majesty, Archbishop Cranmer has been summoned; he cannot be long now.”
Henry’s fat fingers tremble as he grips the coverlet, his pale lips coated with thick spittle as he tries to speak. I move closer, my face almost touching his, and the last rancid dregs of his breath engulf me. “They think you fear death, Henry. But you fear me more, don’t you, my Lord?”
“Anne?”
The sound is unintelligible, both a denial and a greeting, but it tells me what I need to know. He recognises and fears my presence. Those assembled begin to mutter that the king is raving, talking with shadows.
I sink into the mattress beside him and curl my body around his bulk. “How many times did we share this bed, Henry?” His breathing is laboured now and sweat drips from his brow, the stench of his fear exceeded only by that of his festering thigh. I tighten my grip upon him. “Did you ever love me, Henry? Oh, I know that you lusted but that isn’t the same. Do you remember how you burned for me, right to the end?”
I reach out to run my fingertip along his cheek and he leaps in fright, like a great fish floundering on a line, caught in a net of his own devising. One brave attendant steps forward to mop the king’s brow as I continue to tease.
“Poor Henry. Are you afraid even now of your own sins? To win me you broke from Rome, although in your heart you never wanted to. Even the destruction of a thousand years of worship was a small price to pay to have me in your bed, wasn’t it?”
Henry sucks in air and forgets to breathe again. A physician hurries forward, pushes the attendant aside and with great daring, lifts the king’s right eyelid. Henry jerks his head away and the doctor snatches back his hand as if it has been scalded.
Even now they are fearful of him. Although the king can no longer so much as raise his head from his pillow, they still cower. How long will it take for them to forget their fear?
Mumbling apologies, the physician bows and backs away to take his place with the others. As they watch and wait a little longer, the sound of mumbled prayer increases. “Not long now, Henry,” I whisper like a lover. “It is almost over.”
A door opens. Cold air rushes into the stifling chamber and Archbishop Cranmer enters, stamping his feet to dislodge the snow from his boots. He hands his outer clothes to a servant before pushing through the crowd to approach the bed, his Bible tucked beneath his arm.
I playfully poke the end of Henry’s nose. “Time to confess your sins, my husband.” Cranmer takes the king’s hand, his long slim fingers contrasting with the short swollen digits of his monarch. As he begins to mutter the last rites, I put my mouth close to Henry’s ear to taunt him.  “Tell the truth, Hal. Own up to all the lies you told; how you murdered and how you cheated. Go on ….”
But King Henry has lost the power of speech, and cannot make a full confession. Gasping for one more breath he clings tightly to Cranmer’s hand, and I know there is not long to wait before he is mine again. A single tear trickles from the corner of his eye to be lost upon his pillow.
“It’s time, Henry,” I whisper. “And I am here, waiting. For a few short years I showed you Paradise and now, perhaps, I can do so again. Unless, of course, I choose to show you Hell.”


15221 - Hever, Kent England seems small after the glories of the French court, and my father’s house cramped and inconvenient. I am horribly bored kicking my heels in the country, and long for company. Mother is distracted, Father wears a face like a thundercloud, and neither of them pays my arrival home as much heed as I would like. There is no one save George, who is home for a few days.My brother is always glad to listen to me and pretends to delight in the stories of my adventures overseas. “You do look fine, Anne,” he says, admiring my fine French-styled clothes. I have grown used to admiration and whereas once I would have blushed and dismissed his words, I am far too elegant to let my discomposure show now I am older. George takes my arm and leads me inside, the interior of the hall suddenly dark after the brilliance of the day. “Have you heard about Mary?” he whispers.My sister, Mary, has ever had the knack of stealing the attention from me, and is the centre of things once more. She almost brought disgrace on us by sharing the bed of the French king, but Father has recently managed to marry her off respectably to William Carey. We all imagined that now she was safely wed to a good man, she would settle down to provide Will with a string of infants. But although my parents have not spoken to me of it, I have lately learned that Mary is now enjoying a passionate ‘flirtation’ with King Henry. My sister, it seems, accumulates kings as one might collect butterflies, or compliments.After supper, George and I closet ourselves in a small chamber where I poke the slumbering fire back to life. “You can’t blame the king for fancying her, she is so pretty. Not cursed with my long nose and bony chin.”George laughs and stretches his feet toward the flames. “If I didn’t know you better, Anne, I’d think you were fishing for compliments when you know very well that what you lack in looks, you make up for with wit.” He is right; my face does lack Mary’s softness. Her expression is meek, just as men prefer. To make it worse, she boasts a nature twice as soft as mine. Although I tell myself I’d rather have brains than looks, I don’t want to hear confirmation of my lack of beauty, even if it is only from the lips of my brother. I throw a cushion at his head, but he catches it deftly and laughs at me. “Poor Anne,” he teases, “is it a sweetheart you are lacking? Don’t worry, sister, soon there will be courtiers aplenty fighting for your favour.”I try to stop the hot blood from burning my cheeks. “I don’t need a sweetheart. Father is arranging my marriage as we speak, as well you know.”I am intended for James Butler, the heir of the Ormond estates, but his father and mine spend overmuch time quibbling over details, protracting the arrangement and leaving me in limbo. Although I have never set eyes on James, I am content with the match. He is young and rich enough to make a good husband, and I have heard no ill stories of him. I trust my father to choose well for me.George leans forward and offers me a handful of nuts. I pop two into my cheek, continuing to speak with my mouth full. “Can you imagine Mary in the arms of the king? I am surprised she can think of a thing to say.”“He won’t care what she says as long as it’s yes.” George laughs, his eyes glinting in the firelight. He watches me, aware that he has planted unmaidenly pictures in my mind. I have heard that my brother has a way with women, and I can believe the tales. He is good looking, dark like myself but with Mary’s features; a goodly combination for a man. Both Mary and George, it seems, are irresistible to the opposite sex, while I myself have not yet been tempted by any, despite the licentiousness of the French court. Perhaps my reluctance shows; perhaps there is something about me that promises rejection. Whatever the reason, I have never been tempted or even yet kissed; perhaps if I had been, I would have a little more understanding of my sister.If I were indelicate enough to imagine Mary in a dalliance with any man, I could not visualise her ever refusing. She isn’t the sort to say no. And by that I do not mean that she is in any way cheap, only that her gentleness makes her wary of hurting a fellow’s feelings.“Anyway,” George continues, “as I said, you can’t blame a man for trying, not when the prize is so full of sweet promise.” Trying to ignore George’s crude inferences, I force my thoughts toward Mary’s husband. “My sympathies are with poor William. How hard it must be for him to be made so publically a cuckold. What must he be feeling? They’ve only been married a few months.” “Well, be fair, Anne. He isn’t the first man to be so used and besides, we don’t even know if the king has so honoured Mary. She might well fend him off and cling to her reputation yet. Although, on the other hand, a romp with the king might be good for all of us. The Carey purse isn’t a long one, and Henry usually looks after his concubines and pays well for a maid’s honour.”George cannot have forgotten that Mary’s honour was lost some time ago at the French court, but I don’t remind him. Instead, my mind drifts back to the king. I glimpsed him once or twice when I was a young girl, and have never forgotten his overwhelming presence. I cannot imagine ever having the wherewithal to resist such a man. The king does not look like a man who has ever been denied anything. Poor Mary, I’d not be in her shoes, not for all the jewels in the world.George cracks another walnut in his palms and begins to separate the flesh from the shell. “We will be better able to assess the situation in a week or two when I accompany you to court. You will find it very different to life in France.”“So I’ve been told. I really need new gowns, but Father says his purse will not stretch to it and I am to make do with what I have.” I pout and look up at George through my lashes, but if I was expecting sympathy, I am sore disappointed. Instead, he gives a shout of laughter that wakes the dog from his slumber. The old hound lifts his head and thumps his tail on the floor.“Anne! You have more sleeves and headdresses than all of the queen’s ladies put together. Believe me, you will not look ill-turned out beside even Queen Catherine herself.” He is right and I find myself cheered. I sit up straighter and stretch out my toes, admiring the jewels upon my slippers. “And there will be none with gowns cut in the French mode. I might not be the prettiest of the queen’s ladies, but I can probably manage to be the most stylish.”“That’s it, Anne, my girl. Astonish both king and court with your style and wit, and perhaps the gossips will leave Mary alone for a space.”

22nd March 1522 - York PlaceThe Cardinal’s house is crowded. I am drowning in a babble of voices, a thousand candles burning, a crush of bodies, the leaping shadows of the torches on the walls. As Mary helps me into a white satin gown and fastens on my headdress, I am in a fever of excitement. To my relief, her liaison with the king hasn’t altered her; She is still my gentle elder sister, overseeing my arrival at court, ensuring I am happily settled.Tonight there is to be a pageant to honour the Emperor Charles of Spain, who is visiting court to discuss his future marriage to Princess Mary who is, as yet, but a child. There have been jousts and feasts and today, to mark the beginning of Lent, we are putting on a production of Chateau Vert. Mary and I, together with the other court ladies, are to play the eight feminine virtues. The king’s sister, Princess Mary, is to represent Beauty, while my sister is Kindness, and Jane Parker, my brother’s betrothed, is Constancy. I am to play Perseverance.From behind the slits of my mask, I can see the other girls. They are all dressed identically and are as brim-full of excitement as I. They peek from behind the heavy fall of brocade that screens us from the assembly.“Chateau Vert is enormous!” shrieks Jane over her shoulder, “it looks like a real castle.” The other girls jostle her aside to get a closer look, and I follow them, elbowing past the Countess of Devonshire who is playing Honour. At one end of the hall stands a glittering castle, all painted green, adorned with red roses, the battlements shining with green foil, the whole thing brightly lit by flaming torches. The musicians are concealed behind the wooden walls, and the other girls and I, playing the feminine virtues, will soon be taking our places in the towers. Defending us along the battlements will be the contrary feminine vices; Danger, Disdain, Jealousy, Unkindness, Scorn, Sharp tongue, and Aloofness. Eight little boys, choristers from Wolsey’s household, will play these vices.To gain our hearts, the eight male Virtues, led they say by the king himself, must break a way through the Vices to win Fair Maiden’s heart. The men will represent Amorousness, Nobleness, Youth, Attendance, Loyalty, Pleasure, Gentleness and Liberty. “I wonder which the king will play?” Mary breathes in my ear, her face close to mine as we peek through the arras. I turn to look at her, my eyes level with her chin, and see a pulse beating at the base of her throat. She licks her lips, a blush upon her cheek.“Sir Loyal Heart?” I quip, but then, feeling remorse for my teasing, I add, “I’m sure we will know soon enough, there is no disguising the king, after all.” Henry is more than six feet tall and towers over all his court. His fiery red hair, broad chest and well-turned leg cannot be disguised, although that doesn’t deter him from such games of pretence. I have been instructed that we must all be surprised when he reveals himself at the unmasking.The Countess claps her hands and we all scramble to finish dressing. “Tie on your mask,” I cry to Mary who, realising she has mislaid it, upsets a pile of silk wraps in a fever of searching. With fumbling fingers I help her tie it over her eyes then, giggling and gossiping, we take a secret back passage into the hall and conceal ourselves within the wooden castle tower.Silence falls within the hall. I can hear Mary’s rapid breathing as the pageant spokesman steps forward to address the gathered company. It is William Cornish who, as Master of Choristers in the Chapel Royal, thinks up all these splendid pageants for the amusement of his king. Clad all in crimson satin, embroidered with burning flames of gold, Master Cornish opens his arms and looks toward the battlements where we are waiting.“Ladies,” he cries. “I am Ardent Desire and I beg you to surrender yourselves and come down to me.” We titter and hide behind our hands as two of the chorister boys, playing Scorn and Disdain, sneer a derisive and rather rude refusal.“Then,” Ardent Desire’s voice rattles the rafters, “we must take your chateau by storm and force you down.”A great burst of cannon fire sounds from outside, and the women scream in pretended terror. Mary jumps into my arms, laughing and shaking with excitement, her head thrown back, her long white neck exposed. The court is in uproar and even the severe features of the Emperor are screwed up with laughter; beside him even the queen is smiling, for once.The men come charging into the hall. The king’s gentlemen, splendid in blue velvet and cloth of gold, hurl oranges and dates at our defences. As the hail of missiles falls, amid roars of laughter, I grab a handful of sweetmeats and launch them at the encroaching foe. I recognise George despite his mask. He has one leg hooked over the battlements, his cap is lost, and Unkindness is bashing him with a cushion. The other men are in a similar predicament as Feminine Virtue puts up a sturdy fight. Dodging a hail of oranges, I lean over the battlements and scream encouragement. Then, a giant of a man, who can only be the king, chases Jealousy and Scorn from their position and breaches the inner wall. At this a triumphant cheer erupts from the spectators, and I see Charles Brandon making off with Princess Mary over his shoulder. She clings to his doublet, her mouth wide with delighted terror. By rights Sir Loyal Heart, played by the king, should rescue Beauty first, but instead he heads for my sister. King Henry, whom we must not recognise, scrambles up the wooden wall, roaring like a bear, and lunges for her as she scurries away. Not noticing his mistake, his hand fastens like a vice about my wrist and he gives a grunt of satisfaction. I try to pull back but he is too strong for me, his determination not to be refused. I find myself flung over his shoulder, the jewels on his doublet cutting through the thin stuff of my gown. As he runs away with me, the breath is forced from my lungs. My headdress slips and I grab for it as he bears me from the castle, his great hot hand gripping my upper thigh. I am dragged from his shoulder, my hair cascading about my face as I slide down the king’s body. He is very close, his breath in my face, his heart beating frantically against my own. I tilt my head to look up at him and for a long moment he returns my stare before deftly removing my mask. His eyes widen; eyes that are as brilliant as the summer sky.“You are not ….”“Mary? No, Your Grace, I am not. I am Anne; Anne Boleyn.”With my hand still held fast between his fingers, he hesitates before bowing slightly. I sink to my knees before him.After a long pause he raises me to my feet, opens his mouth to speak. “I am pleased to meet you, Mistress Anne.” Transfixed by his face, it is some seconds before I can tear my eyes from him and turn them to where Mary still waits within her tower. The fight is diminishing around her, all are vanquished. She has removed her mask, her hurt and disappointment plain for all to see. She is no longer smiling. I shake myself; free myself from the snare of Henry’s eyes. “You must return to the battle, Sir Loyal Heart. A fair maiden still awaits you.”After a moment, in which his blue eyes bore into mine, he bows sharply and, with a brave battle cry, turns once more into the fray.As the battle continues, I watch him for a moment before giving myself a mental shake and turning away toward the hall where the spectators are gathered. But before I am halfway across the room, my step is halted. “Mistress Anne?” Harry Percy makes a leg before me and asks if I will join him in the dance. I curtsey, and with my fingers balanced on his palm, allow him to lead me to the floor.The minstrels strike up a tune and the king, partnered now by Princess Mary, joins the dance. As we begin to move to the music, I cast a sideways glance at my partner. Harry, his face flushed scarlet, returns my smile before darting his eyes away again. I have, of course, spoken with him before. He is part of the Cardinal’s household and often accompanies him to court. More often than not, while the Cardinal is closeted with the king, Percy comes to the queen’s apartments to pass the time with her ladies.He does not speak much or push himself forward at all, but hovers in the background, listening and smiling and flushing every time our eyes meet, as they do … often. I do not underestimate how much courage it has taken for him to invite me to dance.“So, how did you like our pageant, My Lord?”“I liked it very well, Mistress,” he stammers, as we promenade before the dance forces us apart.Now and then, the serpentine steps lead us toward other partners; I touch other hands, exchange pleasantries with other men. But all the while, I am aware of Percy watching me. The knowledge makes me lift my chin a little higher, my feet become lighter, and I toss my head with more spirit. When at last we are drawn together again, and he engulfs my hand in his palm, my pulse races and my smile becomes a little too welcoming.When the music slides to an end, he makes his bow. I notice tiny spirals of curls at the nape of his neck. My tummy gives a little leap when he rises and fixes me with a look that is a little less nervous now. “Can I get you a cup of wine, Mistress?”My answering smile is as wanton as Mary’s.

Later, when the court revellers are settling to sleep, George and I share a nightcap. Something about the ill-lit chamber urges us to keep our heads close together as we speak in whispers before the hearth. At first we merely gossip, revisiting the uproarious pageant, exchanging notes on who was flirting with whom. After a while, George sobers. “You would do well, Sister, to remember that your hand is pledged elsewhere.”His words force my head up. For a moment, our eyes lock together while I decide whether to be frank or to feign innocence.“You mean Percy, I suppose. He is just a young man playing the game of love ... as our betters do.”“The game is dangerous, Anne. You don’t want your name bandied about … like Mary’s. It won’t do to have you both linked to easy virtue. Think what Father will say if you jeopardise the match with Ormond.”“Oh, George.” I tuck my feet beneath me on the settle. “I did but dance with him and share a cup of wine.”It is not easy to lie so blatantly. I concentrate on the way the firelight is playing upon his hair and try not to think of Percy.“You like him, I can tell. Never before have I seen your cheeks blush beneath a fellow’s gaze. He is betrothed, you know. Has been since childhood.”“Everyone knows that. I don’t know why you are making such a fuss. It was nothing.” I lower my face to my cup, close my eyes to remember again the softness of Harry Percy’s hand brushing mine, the fine cut of his leg, the way the Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he laughs. I have no idea why I am deceiving George, who is party to all my secrets. Perhaps the silent pledge that passed between Harry Percy and me is not for sharing. I want to hug the knowledge to myself and run it over and over in my mind. The king is forgotten and I can barely wait for the next day, when Harry Percy is bound to call at the queen’s apartments. But I have not fooled George and slyly he probes my motives further.“Of course,” he continues, “should his betrothal with Mary Talbot be broken, he would be as fine a match as you could ask for … but I fear such an arrangement will never be revoked.”Percy is the son of the Earl of Northumberland, and will one day come into a vast inheritance. A prize indeed were he to ask for my hand, but I know – we both know – that such a thing is impossible for such bonds cannot be broken. And our cause is doubly hopeless since we are both promised elsewhere. Nevertheless, George’s words grate on my senses; I do not wish to hear that our suit is hopeless. For the first time I am made aware of how little control I have over my own destiny. I don’t want to hear it. I untangle my legs and place my cup on a small table. “I am going to my bed. Where is Mary? Have you seen her?”“She entertains the king, no doubt.” He gets up and leaves a kiss on my forehead, places a finger beneath my chin and forces me to look into his eyes. “Tread carefully, Sister.”Impatiently, I shrug off his hand and march across the room. I throw open the door, almost colliding with Jane Parker on the threshold. “Oh,” she says, “there you are, Anne. I thought you were never coming to bed.” She peers past me to where George is quaffing the last of his wine. He makes a knee to his betrothed and she flushes and bobs a knee in reply. While her head is lowered George blows me a mocking kiss, making me long for something to throw at him.I turn on my heel. Grabbing Jane’s wrist, I whirl her along the corridor to the chamber we share with Madge Shelton and Margery Horsman. The girls are in various stages of making ready for bed and when I suddenly throw open the door they look up, their faces opening like flowers in surprise. I cross the room swiftly and turn suddenly, the draught from my skirts making the candles dip and dance. “Anne?” Jane is inquisitive. She follows me to my bed, perches on the mattress and watches as I try to quell the internal storm. In the end, her unspoken questions breach my defences and I burst out, “I could wish that George did not know me so well. Am I a book to be read, or a cypher to be broken? Sometimes, as much as I love him, I wish he would pay more mind to his own affairs.” She says nothing but she doesn’t have to. It is fast becoming obvious that George is less than satisfied with his own betrothal, and does all in his power to avoid Jane’s company. But she is resolute. She slides from the bed and begins to remove my cap. “Don’t worry, Anne. George will have enough to occupy him once we are wed. I will fill his house with children, and he will lack both the time and the energy to pry into your affairs.”  She pauses and picks up a brush, begins to smooth the tangles from my hair. “I saw Tom Wyatt watching you dance with Percy. You will have those two fighting like a pair of mastiffs if you are not careful.”“Cocks on the midden, more like,” I quip, shrugging off her inference.We laugh, but at the root of it, she comes close to the mark. Since I arrived at court, and for the first time in my life, I find myself with more suitors than I can handle. Tom Wyatt is a gentleman and a poet, whom I have known since childhood. Despite his handsome face, he moves me little. Not like Harry.
 When I am with Harry Percy, the blood runs faster in my veins and my very soul seems to tremble with delight. It is not something I have felt before … unless I count those fleeting moments I spent today in the presence of the king.

If you would like to READ MORE I am giving away one FREE signed paperback copy of The Kiss of the Concubine. Just comment on the blog below and share or tweet the link you followed to get here and your name will go into a draw. The winner will be announced on Sunday 24th May.
The Kiss of the Concubine is available on Kindle, Paperback and on Audible mybook.to/tkoc2

Blog Tour - The Road to Liberation

As part of The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour I am delighted to present:The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWIIA CollectionBy Marion Kummerow, Marina Osipova, Rachel Wesson, JJ Toner, Ellie Midwood, and Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger.
Riveting stories dedicated to celebrating the end of WWII.

From USA Today, international bestselling and award-winning authors comes a collection filled with courage, betrayal, hardships and, ultimately, victory over some of the most oppressive rulers the world has ever encountered.
By 1944, the Axis powers are fiercely holding on to their quickly shrinking territories.
The stakes are high—on both sides:
Liberators and oppressors face off in the final battles between good and evil. Only personal bravery and self-sacrifice will tip the scales when the world needs it most.
Read about a small child finding unexpected friends amidst the cruelty of the concentration camps, an Auschwitz survivor working to capture a senior member of the SS, the revolt of a domestic servant hunted by the enemy, a young Jewish girl in a desperate plan to escape the Gestapo, the chaos that confused underground resistance fighters in the Soviet Union, and the difficult lives of a British family made up of displaced children…
2020 marks 75 years since the world celebrated the end of WWII. These books will transport you across countries and continents during the final days, revealing the high price of freedom—and why it is still so necessary to “never forget”.

Stolen Childhood by Marion Kummerow
The Aftermath by Ellie Midwood
When's Mummy coming? by Rachel Wesson
Too Many Wolves in the Local Woods by Marina Osipova
Liberation Berlin by JJ Toner
Magda’s Mark by Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger




An Excerpt from JJ Toner, “Liberation Berlin”
Anton Tannhäuser was in a hurry. His troop leader, Ludwig, had sent him back to the hall to fetch the troop flag. Dressed in the black shorts and tan shirt of his Deutsches Jungvolk uniform, he charged down Spandauer Chaussee, weaving his way around and between the women and children on the footpath.

Without warning, an old man appeared from the crowd swinging a stiff leg right in Anton’s path. There was nothing he could do to avoid the collision, which seemed to happen in slow motion. His shins hit the old man’s leg and he shot forward, striking his knees and shoulder on the concrete slabs.

Even as he fell, Anton was aware that the old man’s leg was not made of flesh and bone. It was false, and hard as rock. His only thought as he fell was for the safety of the troop flag, which he released from his grasp.

Anton looked back in time to see the old man with the false leg spinning like a top onto the road into the path of a black police car. The car swerved and braked and screeched to a halt, inches from the man’s head. He had been carrying a bag of vegetables and these were now scattered and flying across the road.

Anton struggled to his feet, waving off the efforts of a couple of women trying to give him a helping hand. The pains in his knees and shoulder were excruciating, but he refused to cry. Both knees were red and bleeding.

The car doors flew open. Two policemen in green Schupo uniforms jumped out. One of them bent down to haul the man to his feet. The other man glowered down at him, shouting, “What are you doing? Do you want to get yourself killed? You could have caused an accident.”

The old man was clearly dazed. Weighed down by his false leg, his first attempt to get to his feet failed. The first policeman hauled him up, while the man braced his false leg against a tram rail to provide leverage. The second policeman made no move to help, standing back with one hand on the butt of the pistol on his hip.

Once the old man was upright again, he swung his leg onto the pavement. The policemen got back into their car, the doors slammed, and they continued on their way.

The women and children collected the scattered vegetables and put them into the old man’s bag.

Anton glared at him. “Dummkopf! Why don’t you watch where you’re going, old man?”

“I’m sorry, Herr Tannhäuser.” The man pointed to his leg. “I can’t move as fast as I used to.”

He knows my name!

“That leg is a danger to the public. You need to be more careful where you put it.” Anton snarled at him. “And how do you know my name?”

“You live in Kaiser Wilhelm 2,” said the old man. “I live in the same block.”

Anton took a moment to absorb that information. He had no recollection of a man with a wooden leg living in the block. Surely, he would have noticed. “Where in the block?”

“I live on the ground floor,” said the man. “I’m sorry about what happened. Will you be all right?”

Someone handed Anton his flagpole.

“People like you are a menace,” he said. “Don’t you know that every citizen of the Fatherland must make a positive contribution? What value are you to the Reich?”

Several of the women blanched at these words, as they should. He may have been only twelve years old, but, as a member of the Hitler Youth, he held power and influence well above his years.

The old man’s face flushed red. “I served my country for three years in the Low Countries, in France, and at the Eastern front.” He pointed to his leg. “I sacrificed more than most for my country.”

“Many sacrificed more,” Anton shouted back.

“What are you saying?”

“You survived. Many good Germans lost their lives.”

“Better not let the Gestapo hear you say that.” The old man turned his back and continued on his way, swinging his leg in that strange rhythm of his.

That riposte worried Anton. Had he said something the Gestapo would disapprove of? No one could deny that many Germans had been killed, but was it treasonous to say so in public? He wasn’t sure.

Anton shouted after him, “Yes, limp away, old man. And keep that leg out of public places where it can’t cause any more damage.”


***
While Frau Tannhäuser tended to Anton’s injured knee, he told her what had happened. “He stuck his wooden leg out in front of me, tripped me up. I could have been seriously injured…”

His mother made sympathetic clucking sounds.

“… I can’t understand why the Wehrmacht would consider it a good idea to prop up an old soldier like that, give him a false leg and send him home. What good is he to anyone with only one leg?”

Anton’s father sucked on his empty pipe. “That’s Hans Klein. He has an iron leg. He keeps a plot in the Schrebergärten, I believe. Grows vegetables.”

“Are there no able-bodied people to do that?” said Anton, snorting. “Some woman, perhaps?”

The two adults exchanged a despairing glance, but said nothing.

“I’m going to have to report the incident to Ludwig. Look at my uniform. He has ruined it. I will be required to explain that.”

“It’s nothing but a little dirt from the ground. Take off your shirt and I’ll wash it for you,” said his mother. “I wouldn’t say anything. You fell—”

“I didn’t fall, Mutter. I told you, the old man tripped me with his iron leg.” He took off his shirt and handed it to her.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” she said.

“It was a deliberate act. I believe he may be an enemy of the Reich, a member of the subversive resistance.”

“I don’t think so,” said his father. “An old decommissioned soldier with only one leg working for the Resistance? How likely is that? You must have been running.”

“I was on an important errand.”

“Well there you are, then. You were rushing to complete your important work and you fell. No need to mention what you fell over.”

“It’s my duty to put in a full report. He could be a communist.”

His father shrugged, sucking hard on his dry pipe. “So you’ll say you fell over an old communist’s peg-leg? How do you think Ludwig and the troop will react to that?”

Anton shrugged.

“They will laugh at you.” His father shook spittle from his pipe into the fireplace.

His mother made more clucking sounds. “Do you have to do that?”

Anton thought about what his father had said for a few moments. “What about the damage to my knee? I will have to explain that.”

“You were running. You fell. You hurt your knee—”

“And my elbow.”

“And your elbow. No need to say anything about the old man or his leg.”

***
Later that night, Anton’s parents lay in bed in the dark.

“He used to be such a nice child,” she whispered. “Remember how he loved animals? How many sick birds did he rescue? And that squirrel…”

“He’s still the same boy.”

“You really think so? His whole world is filled with Führer worship, now. I wish he’d never joined the Jungvolk. They have turned his mind. I’m afraid we’ve lost him.”

Herr Tannhäuser was silent for a long time. Then he said, “He will come back to us after…”

“After the war, you mean? Do you really think so?”

“Yes. Once the Nazis have been defeated, he will see how wrong they were. We will get our son back. I’m certain of it.”

She lay silent for a while. Then she whispered, “He frightens me.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened about.”

“You hear terrible stories. Other parents have been betrayed by their sons.”

“He would never betray us. Not Anton.”

“You don’t know that. His mind is full of crazy Nazi ideas.”

“Yes, but what have we ever said against the Reich or the Führer?”

She turned onto her side, facing away from her husband. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”


Buy Links:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Road-Liberation-Trials-Triumphs-WWII-ebook/dp/B083SH7VJQ

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Road-Liberation-Trials-Triumphs-WWII-ebook/dp/B083SH7VJQ

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/Road-Liberation-Trials-Triumphs-WWII-ebook/dp/B083SH7VJQ


Author Bio:

Marion Kummerow:

Marion Kummerow was born and raised in Germany, before she set out to "discover the world" and lived in various countries. In 1999 she returned to Germany and settled down in Munich where she's now living with her family.

After dipping her toes with non-fiction books, she finally tackled the project dear to her heart. UNRELENTING is the story about her grandparents, who belonged to the German resistance and fought against the Nazi regime. It's a book about resilience, love and the courage to stand up and do the right thing.

Marina Osipova:

Marina Osipova was born in East Germany into a military family and grew up in Russia where she graduated from the Moscow State Institute of History and Archives. She also has a diploma as a German language translator from the Moscow State Institute of Foreign Languages. In Russia, she worked first in a scientific-technical institute as a translator then in a Government Ministry in the office of international relations, later for some Austrian firms. For seventeen years, she lived in the United States where she worked in a law firm. Eventually, she found her home in Austria. She is an award-winning author and a member of the Historical Novel Society.

Rachel Wesson:

Rachel Wesson is Irish born and bred. Drawn to reading from an early age, she started writing for publication a few years back. When she is not writing, Rachel likes to spend her time reading and playing with her three kids. Living in Dublin there are plenty of things to do, although the cowboys and Indians of her books rarely make an appearance. To chat with Rachel connect with her on Facebook - authorrachelwesson. To check out her newest releases sign up to her mailing list.

JJ Toner:

My background is in Mathematics and computing, but I have been writing full time since 2005. I write short stories and novels. My novels include the bestselling WW2 spy story 'The Black Orchestra', and its three sequels, 'The Wings of the Eagle', 'A Postcard from Hamburg', and 'The Gingerbread Spy'.
Many of my short stories have been published in mainstream magazines. Check out 'EGGS and Other Stories' - a collection of satirical SF stories. I was born in a cabbage patch in Ireland, and I still live here with my first wife, although a significant part of our extended family lives in Australia.

Ellie Midwood:

Ellie Midwood is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning historical fiction author. She owes her interest in the history of the Second World War to her grandfather, Junior Sergeant in the 2nd Guards Tank Army of the First Belorussian Front, who began telling her about his experiences on the frontline when she was a young girl. Growing up, her interest in history only deepened and transformed from reading about the war to writing about it. After obtaining her BA in Linguistics, Ellie decided to make writing her full-time career and began working on her first full-length historical novel, "The Girl from Berlin." Ellie is continuously enriching her library with new research material and feeds her passion for WWII and Holocaust history by collecting rare memorabilia and documents.

In her free time, Ellie is a health-obsessed yoga enthusiast, neat freak, adventurer, Nazi Germany history expert, polyglot, philosopher, a proud Jew, and a doggie mama. Ellie lives in New York with her fiancé and their Chihuahua named Shark Bait.

Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger:

Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger was born in Minnesota in 1969 and grew up in the culture-rich neighborhood of "Nordeast" Minneapolis. She started her writing career with short stories, travel narratives, worked as a journalist and then as a managing editor for a magazine publisher before jumping the editor's desk and pursuing her dreams of writing and traveling. In 2000, she moved to western Austria and established her own communications training company. In 2005, she self-published a historical narrative based on her relatives' personal histories and experiences in Ukraine during WWII. She has won several awards for her short stories and now primarily writes historical fiction. During a trip into northern Italy over the Reschen Pass, she stood on the edge of Reschen Lake and desperately wanted to understand how a 15th-century church tower ends up sticking out of the water. What stories were lying beneath? Some eight years later, she launched the "Reschen Valley" series with five books and a novella releasing between 2018 and 2021.

For more on Chrystyna, dive in at inktreks(dot)com.

Welcoming Mercedes Rochelle to the page!

I am excited to welcome Mercedes Rochelle to my blog with news of The King’s Retribution: Book 2 of The Plantagenet Legacy. I thoroughly enjoyed A King Under Seige and The King's Retribution is on my tbr list!




If you read A KING UNDER SIEGE, you might remember that we left off just as Richard declared his majority at age 22. He was able to rise above the humiliation inflicted on him during the Merciless Parliament, but the fear that it could happen again haunted him the rest of his life. Ten years was a long time to wait before taking revenge on your enemies, but King Richard II was a patient man. Hiding his antagonism toward the Lords Appellant, once he felt strong enough to wreak his revenge he was swift and merciless. Alas for Richard, he went too far, and in his eagerness to protect his crown Richard underestimated the very man who would take it from him: Henry Bolingbroke.
Here is an excerpt to whet your appetite:
 Funeral of Robert de Vere

There was another matter weighing heavily on Richard's mind. Sparing no expense, the king had brought Robert de Vere's embalmed body back from Belgium. Exactly three years after his beloved friend had been killed in a boar hunt, Richard put him to rest in his family crypt at Colne Priory, in Essex. He staged an elaborate funeral, though many of the great lords were conspicuously absent. The Lords Appellant—with the exception of Mowbray—harbored rancor toward Robert de Vere that extended far beyond his death. Richard's uncles chose to ignore the king's eccentric loyalty toward a declared traitor. Even Thomas Arundel, his own chancellor, had sent his apologies. There was no mistaking the disrespect: the king noted the absence of every one of them. 
On a late November evening, services began just at the cusp of twilight. Church bells tolled and swirling black clouds threatened rain. Two by two the funeral procession wended its way through the narrow streets of Earl's Colne, spaced perfectly in a seemingly endless column. Each man wore a black robe with a black hood drawn forward to cover his face. Every one of them carried a torch with a tiny shield bearing de Vere's arms below each flame. The torches cast a soft glow as the mourners walked past silent citizens lining the street. Finally the Archbishop of Canterbury and six other bishops brought up the end of the cavalcade, swinging incense burners that filled the air with sweet-smelling smoke. Their appearance signaled the presence of the king, also robed in black, though instead of a hood he wore a gold crown. He was followed by five knights: his nephew Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent, his cousin Edward Earl of Rutland, his half-brother John Holland, Earl of Huntingdon, Thomas de Mowbray Earl of Nottingham, and John de Montacute Earl of Salisbury. These five supporters of the king were worthy of note; they were destined to be among his closest advisors and friends, carefully marshaled to help support his throne. Never again would Richard be accused of elevating unworthy favorites; only earls and dukes would grace his inner chamber.
The silent participants filed into the church where the cypress coffin lay on its bier next to an open grave in the floor near the altar. A row of candles on tall iron stands threw a circle of light onto the deceased. An unseen choir, placed behind a curtain, filled the space with soft tones. 
As the king entered the church the tolling ceased. He took his place in a stall topped by a crown and listened while Archbishop Courtney began the services, echoed by his bishops. The Matins for the Dead were followed by Nocturnes and Lauds. Then there was the Prayer for Absolution and the Celebration of the Mass. The candles had burnt to a nub and the air of the church was cold before Richard was finally able to approach the funeral bier. 
With an expression of tenderness, Richard looked down on his dear friend. The king had paid for the best embalmer in Brittany, and Robert seemed to be sleeping before him, his face betraying no evidence of his violent death. The king gazed at Robert for a long time, toying with a sapphire ring on his own hand. Blinking rapidly, Richard drew off the ring and lifted Robert's wrist, pushing the band gently onto his friend's finger. He bent over the coffin and whispered something for Robert's ears alone.
"Mine eyes have longed to see your face," he said. "I will never forget you, nor will I rest until we are avenged on those who drove you from my side. Fear not, dear Robert. My resolve is firm and I would have you rest in peace."
Although everyone nearby strained to hear what Richard said, no one—even his closest friends—could decipher the words. But it didn't take a great leap of faith to guess the meaning of his gestures. Richard's enemies would later dismiss the legend that had grown from Robert de Vere's funeral services, but those who witnessed it were never able to shake a sense of foreboding. 
All the king lacked was a pair of wings to complete the picture of an avenging angel.


You can find the books here: Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/Kings-Retribution-Book-Plantagenet-Legacy-ebook/dp/B085ZGL7SK
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kings-Retribution-Book-Plantagenet-Legacy-ebook/dp/B085ZGL7SK/


Mercedes Rochelle

Born in St. Louis MO with a degree from University of Missouri, Mercedes Rochelle learned about living history as a re-enactor and has been enamored with historical fiction ever since. A move to New York to do research and two careers ensued, but writing fiction remains her primary vocation. She lives in Sergeantsville, NJ with her husband in a log home they had built themselves.

If you'd like to connect with Mercedes here are her social media links: Website • Blog • Facebook • Twitter