Deborah Macgillivray's Blog, page 21

Inspiration - Summoning Thunder

Original 1950s postcard for The Windmill 









Where Inspiration is Found  or How to Summon Thunder
by
Deborah Macgillivray



I leave pieces of myself in my contemporary paranormal romances. In The Invasion of Falgannon Isle and now Riding the Thunder I draw heavily on memories of growing up, of places and people that touched me in some form. Most of these people and many spots are now long gone, though they still live in those shining memories dear to me. In The Invasion of Falgannon Isle, it was the Scots and their wonderful humor, the ability to accept there’s more to this world than just what we see, their ability to laugh at any situation. Not just at, but with. I took those wonderful memories and spun a fantasy that created an imaginary isle with 213 bachelors and with only three unmarried women―two were gay and the remaining one was a woman the males couldn't court because of an ancient curse! It’s a Brigadoonish romp that came straight from my heart.

When I moved to the second book in the series, I wanted to do something fresh, not a carbon copy of the first book, so I looked to the other half of my roots―Kentucky. One reader who recently read Riding the Thunder said she loved the book so much she wished there really was a place called The Windmill. Well, in truth there was. There actually was once upon a time a small restaurant with that name on Lexington Pike, that was about halfway between Lexington and Nicholasville. Long ago, the suburban sprawl of Lexington saw the distance between the massive college town and the small southern community fade. My parents were separated, then later divorced; Father lived in Britain, while my mum lived in Kentucky. I stayed with her during the school year, but holidays and summers I spent in England and Scotland. Sadly, my parents still cared about each other, so it was too painful for them to face each other when they ‘handed me over’, so for a week or two I was sent to stay with Mum’s step-sister, until I was collected by the other parent. I always enjoyed those stays.

I got to see the beautiful horse farms in the bluegrass area. I enjoyed the small town pace, where everyone knew each other, where eccentrics and oddballs were relished, much in the same manner the Scots did. These out of way places have their own pace, and it touched my imagination. So, yes, the Windmill did exist. A horse farm was across the road from it. It had a Wurlitzer that tended to play the wrong tunes at times. There was a swim club, a motel and a Drive-in. And there was even a young man nicknamed Oo-it!

Over the years, I visited the area less and less. It hurt to see the city sprawl, the giant Lexington pushing closer and closer, until finally consuming the tiny town of Nicholasville. All its special flavor, its quirkiness was lost. Only those images, those seeds lived in my mind. I wanted to capture that timeless feeling, so thus my stage was set for Jago Mershan and Asha Montgomerie.

My stories always evolve with the questions of who and why. I see a scene in my head, such as the opening of Chapter One. I saw Jago sitting at the bar, waiting, and drinking a beer.
Who is he? Why is he there? Whom is he waiting for? Why is he waiting? He’s waiting for Asha naturally. Then when Asha enters, it’s more questions. Where did she just come from? I knew who she was basically, since she was the little sister of the heroine in the first book in the series, but the questions then moved me to defining Asha and her quirky world.

Cats seem to wander into my stories, so I wasn't surprised the nameless cat appeared and took up with Jago. I kept trying to name the black cat, only he defied being named, so that became a part of the story as well.
As for the tune Tell Laura I Love Her―the song was very popular when I was a child and it seemed play endlessly on the Jukebox at the real Windmill Restaurant. Everything is so sharp in my mind. I recall the beautiful Wurlitzer, the wallet changers on the walls by each booth, the way the sun came through the plate glass windows that ran across the front. The Drive-in showing Vincent Price movies, the scent of baby oil and chlorine from the swim club, the smells, the diner’s chatter, the Kentucky River, Lock 8, all of these elements created vivid memories within me that lived and were nurtured within my heart.

The one day, Riding the Thunder was born.






Available in Tradesize Print and Kindle
#ParanomalRomance #KentuckyRomance #ContemporaryRomance #TheWIndmillKY #BobbyBorisPickett

8th Annual Authors Fair

authorsfair.com  April 14, 2018 Over 75 authors all in one spot! #8thAnnualAuthorsFair #AuthorsShowcase #BookSignings

Ever want to escape to a Scottish Isle? Come to Falgannon Isle

An advertisement running on an Internet website for Falgannon Isle at 
www.isleoflove.co.uk

Ladies, are you tired of the bustle of life, the stress of big city living?  Tired of men who only want one-night-stands and leave you with “the fuzzy end of the lollipop and a tube of toothpaste all squished out?”  Fed up with traffic jams, MCI calling you at 8:00 a.m. and long checkout lines at the grocery?  Sick of noise pollution?  Smog?  Do you dream of romance in your life―more importantly, a special man wishing matrimony?
If so, consider a vacation to Falgannon Isle…a wee bit of heaven in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland, where magic is present and the past is not so distant.  The air is clean and sweet.  There are few cars so no traffic jams.  The pace is relaxed, the scenery majestic.  The climate is mild since the isle is in the Gulf Stream, and the summer twilight lasts forever…ideal for long romantic walks.  There are white beaches with tidal pools for swimming, lovely green hillocks to wander and explore.  An ancient castle, a stone ring and ancient Pictish ruins dot the hillsides.  I cannot imagine a more romantic place on earth or one more breathtakingly beautiful that stirs the soul… spellbinds the heart! Ah, but you say, all the gorgeous landscape is fine, but how can there be romance if you don’t have someone with whom you can share it?  Well, Ladies, listen up!  Falgannon Isle has 213 braw Scots lads eager to find a bride.  You see there’s a shortage of marriageable age women on the isle.  Yes, over two hundred males, ages  18-47, and all most anxious to make your acquaintance!


And the best part―you don’t have to do a thing other than fill out this application and submit your picture.  If you’re chosen you’ll receive airfare, lodging and expenses to reach our remote little isle.  You’ll have two weeks to explore the ruins, walk on the sands in the gloaming…and maybe find that special man waiting for you to fill his heart.
If you don’t like our isle and think this isn't the life for you, well you've had a free vacation.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say.  However, I am betting there is a handsome Islander who can convince you to stay forever.
So come for the vacation of a lifetime…stay for love…
Find incentives by clicking on our Bachelor Registry and see the hundreds of fine Scots lads impatient to welcome you to our island.
Address queries to B.A. MontgomerieFalgannon Isle, Scotland


Read on Kindle $1.99
#ParanormalRomance #ScottishContemporaryRomance
  

RavenHawke, Book Two of Dragons of Challon™ excerpt

RavenHawke
Dragons of Challon ™ Book Two 

Lovers in a Dream . . .
. . . Damian St. Giles has awoken with a sore head from too much drink before; only imbibing in Pictish Mead proves to be a different experience. Once he comes to, he finds himself naked and leg-shackled to a bed post, and no idea where he is or how he got there. When the flame-haired beauty comes to him in the moonlight, he hardly knows if she is real, or a fantasy born of his deepest desires.
Be Careful What You Wish For . . .
Lady Aithinne Ogilvie has an urgent need to get with child to protect her lands from the greedy King Edward. So she sends forth her brothers to fetch her a man—one to do the deed. Instead of finding some common serf, they abduct the cousin of the feared Black Dragon—Julian Challon! Now, she has more troubles than she can handle. She knows she must treat this handsome stranger as little more than a stud. Yet, she cannot deny the instant bond between them—one that speaks to her heart.


“Like a bard of old, Macgillivray spins a tale of myth and magic, sexual tension and classic captive/captor romance.” —The Romantic Times
“Deborah Macgillivray enchants romance fans and Medieval enthusiasts alike. As readers, watching this series unfold in the Dragons of Challon and the Ogilvie figures, we see the birth of a Medieval legend being created in today's world.” — Medieval Book Reviews




A scream split the storm-darkened landscape.  He turned the corner, hand going to the hilt of his sword.  His eyes looked out over the wall trying to see where the call of distress came from.  Only silence greeted him.  Just as he began to wonder if he dreamt it, the plaintive squeal suddenly rose again.
Only this time, his mind experienced some sort of slippage.  He had heard the same screams before.  Only when?  Where?
One of the guards on regular patrol came around the opposite corner.  He nodded in deference.  “Good eve, my lord.  ’Tis only the Peacocks.  Fool birds sound like a woman being strangled.”
Damian finally spied the ridiculous peafowl streaking across the pale after the peahen.  As he stood watching, the landscape from this angle evoked a familiar chord within him.  The soldier moved on, but Damian paid little heed as he pinpointed how the scenery was different, why this should seem so memorable when he had never seen it before.  Feeling as if it were part of a dream, he spun around and looked upward behind him.  The North Tower dominated the fortress, a giant sentinel of the glen.  Anyone approaching Lyonglen could be easily spotted from up there.
He leaned his hips back against the crenellations, then stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles.  His right hand rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated the tower.
Not sure why he felt compelled to it, he pushed off the wall and started into the fortress as lightning cracked, followed by the deep roll of thunder.
His mood almost summoning the storm to break overhead.
Rounding the turn of the first floor, he hesitated at the stairs curving upward.  Damian was unsure what drew him.  Nothing familiar about the winding staircase.  Nothing causing that echo in his memory as the view from outside had.  Urgency to see the tower drew him forward, propelled him to take the stairs two at a time.
At the pinnacle he came to a stop, facing the long hallway that ended in the huge black-oak door.  Closed.  His hand on the latch, he could almost envision the room in his mind’s eye.  Without bothering to knock, he shoved it open.
Mixed emotions filled him as he stood, his eyes taking in the richly furnished room.  A fire burned lowly in the huge fireplace, with bearskin rugs before it and again on the floor by the bed.  The large wood-canopied bed had plaid curtains of red, which were tied back, long drapes nearly covering the heavy, ornate bedposts.  A wolf-pelt cover was folded cross the foot of the thick mattress.  A bed fit for a king.  The sense of disquiet rising, he leaned against the post, trying to isolate images crowding in on his mind.  This room seemed so familiar, yet different.
Going to the large fireplace, he plucked a long straw from the broom propped there and lit the tip from the flames of the peat fire.  He walked back to the table by bedside, and used the straw on the wick of the candles.  Once there was more light, he studied the bed more closely.  Her bed.
On impulse he knelt by the foot post, running his fingers over the base.  A shiver crawled up his spine as he felt the gashes in the wood.  Marks gouged all around the circular post.
“One thing for certain, I am not dreaming these.”


http://amazon.com/RavenHawke-Dragons-Challon-Deborah-Macgillivray/dp/1973921154Available in Kindle and Library Quality Print#ScottishRomance #MedievalRomance #HistoricalRomance

Burns Night -- Ode to a Scottish Poet

Every January 25th, Scotland and Scots all over the world come together to celebrate the life of the national poet, Robert Burns.  There are many Burns Night Celebrations throughout Scotland, and you now see them spreading through the USA.  You haven’t been to one?  Well, like on St. Paddy’s Day and the wearing of the Green, everyone has a wee bit of Irish in them?  You might say the same about Burns Night.  So, reach down and find that thread of Scots heritage in your background and get thee to the nearest Burns Night.  You won’t regret it.

Burns Nights begins with The Piping In The Guests .  A piper is positioned to welcome incoming guests, and he plays until the high table is ready to be seated.  (If there is no high table set up, then it’s when all the tables are filled and the evening is ready to be called to order.)  The evening is called to order by the Captain, Chair or Host, and he warmly welcomes all to the gathering.  Next, he outlines what will happen in the evening ahead and in what order.

The Piping In The Haggis kicks off the celebration.  All guests normally stand as the Haggis is carried in on an ornate silver platter—the piper leads, then comes the Haggis bearer, the chef and the person who will provide the address to the Haggis.  A whisky-bearer comes at the end and moves through the gathering to ensure all glasses are filled for the toast.  Guests clap in time to the music, until the procession finally reaches the head table.  The music ends and everyone is seated again, and is silent in anticipation of the address to a Haggis. 


The honored reader holds the crowd’s attention as he offers an entertaining rendition of Burns’ ode to the dish.  He will hold his knife or sgian dubh , poised above the Haggis.  On cue ( His Knife see Rustic-labour dight) he cuts the casing lengthwise, making sure to allow the meaty dish inside the casing to spill out.  

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
       Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
       As lang 's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
       In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
       Like amber bead. 

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
       Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
       Warm-reekin, rich!



Next comes The Toast to the Haggis .  The reader prompts the guests to join in, giving their toasts.  Then, it’s time to serve the main course, generally with tatties and neeps (potatoes and turnips).  When the meal is served to all, the people partake of the traditional Scottish fare.  Background music is played.  Wine or ale are served liberally with the dinner.  Some add a dash of whisky sauce on the Haggis, which true Scots know means whisky neat!  lol





After the meal, it's time for connoisseurs to taste and compare notes on the wonderful selection of malts served by the generous Chair.  Each Single Malt has its own distinct taste and smell, and no two are alike.  The proper way to drink whisky is to put two fingers into an on the rocks glass, and then add a few drops of water.  This releases the bouquet of the malt and increases the flavor.  (For those wondering what a dram of whisky is, it’s a bit more than a shot glass.)

Haggis, Neeps and Tatties - Traditional Burns Night Menu


Haggis - Ingredients

1 sheep's stomach cleaned and thoroughly scalded, turned inside out, and
   soaked overnight in cold salted water
1 Heart and Lungs of one lamb
1 pound of beef trimmings, fat and lean
2 large onions, finely chopped
8 oz oatmeal
1 tbsp salt
1 tsp ground black pepper
1 tsp ground dried coriander
1 tsp mace
1 tsp nutmeg
water, enough to cook the haggis
stock from lungs and trimmings

Step-by-Step

1.  Wash the lungs, heart and liver.  Place in large pan of cold water with the  meat trimmings and bring to the boil. Cook for about 2 hours.  When cooked, strain off the stock and set the stock aside.
2.  Mince the lungs, heart and trimmings.
3.  Put the minced mixture in a bowl and add the finely chopped onions, oatmeal  and seasoning.  Mix well and add enough stock to moisten the mixture.  It should have a soft crumbly consistency.
4. Spoon the mixture into the sheep's stomach, so it's just over half full.  Sew up  the stomach with strong thread and prick a couple of times so it doesn't explode  while cooking.
5. Put the haggis in a pan of boiling water (enough to cover it).  Cook for 3 hours  without a lid.  Keep adding more water to keep it covered.
6. To serve, cut open the haggis and spoon out the filling.



Tatties and Neeps
1 1/4 lb potatoes (peeled and chopped in cubes)
1 1/4 lb turnips (peeled, chopped in cubes)
1 pinch nutmeg
4 tablespoons milk
4 tablespoons butter
Sea salt and pepper to taste

For the Potatoes:  Place the potatoes in a large saucepan, cover with cold water, add a pinch of salt, cover the pan with a lid.  Bring the potatoes to the boil, reduce to a simmer and cook until tender (approximately 20 minutes). Drain the potatoes and keep to one side.  Add half of the butter and half the milk to the pan the potatoes were cooked in.  Melt the butter and warm the milk, add  the cooked potatoes and mash.  Add the nutmeg and stir well to create a smooth, creamy mash.

For the Turnips:  Place the turnips in a large saucepan, cover with cold water, add a pinch of salt, cover the pan with a lid.  Bring the turnips to the boil, reduce to a simmer and cook until tender (approximately 20 minutes).

Drain the turnips and keep to one side.  Add half of the butter and half the milk to the pan the turnips were cooked in.  Melt the butter and warm the milk, add the cooked turnips and mash until smooth and creamy

To Serve:   Once cooked remove the haggis from the water.
Place on a serving dish and cut it open with scissors or a knife
and serve with the tatties and neeps alongside.  And to drink,
a wee dram of Scotch whisky would be traditional.


As the evening becomes mellow and the meal is done, it is time for  The First Entertainment.   Generally, this is a singer or musicians who will perform Burns’ songs.  If a singer isn't provided, you will get someone reciting poems by Burns.

My Luve is Like a Red Red Rose;
Rantin', Rovin' Robin;
John Anderson, my jo;
Ae Fond Kiss, and Then We Sever. 

After the singers or poetry recitation, the keynote speaker takes the stage, and delivers a talk on who Robert Burns was, speaking of his literary genius, his politics, his personal achievements, and disappointments in life.  He explains why Burns is so rooted in Scottish nationalism.  The speaker‘s bard ability is very important to paint the full picture of who the man was, why his memory is so enduring.  The speaker concludes with a heart-felt toast “To the immortal memory of Robert Burns!”


The evening’ s The Second Entertainment is introduced—more songs or poems to round out Burns’ extensive works.  Once that is done, you come to The Toast to the Lassies.  A more  lighthearted part of the evening.  The toast is offered to praise women and their roles in the world today, but it should be done with quotations from Burns’ works—and hopefully in a positive tone.  This can be a general toast to females, or more specific to those females in attendance.

The Final Entertainment for the evening comprises more songs and poems of Burns, sometimes with dancers.  Upon conclusion, it’s time for the women



to get a wee dram of revenge in their chance to give The Reply to the Toast to the Lassies, as the females have a turn to address males with Burns’ quotes.  Generally, there is a wee bit more bite to the chosen quotes.


As the evening draws to close, the Host thanks everyone for coming and sharing the festivities.  He closes the proceeding by inviting guests to stand and sign Auld Lang Syne.

A Restless Knight - excerpt - Book One of the Dragons of Challon™

Dragons of Challon  ™ Book One
Unease rose in Julian as he felt almost alone in the strange fog.  A foreboding?  Guillaume either sensed Julian’s warrior disquiet or shared it for he stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.  Glancing over to check on Destain where he sat in the chair, his eyes were drawn past his brother.

Damian stood off to the side, talking with four strangers.  Having accepted the oath of every villein and serf of Glen Shane and Kinmarch, Julian knew they were not of his holding.  He blinked twice for the small group was more than passing odd.  One, obviously of Norse descent––judging by the white blonde hair––stood a head taller than any man present.  He was not someone you would ever forget.  Clearly a warrior, he took up a position of deference and protector behind the three younger, slighter men.  Dressed too fine to be anything but high born, all three were the exact image of the other, same pale red hair and narrow faces…triplets.  Not something you saw often.  In earnest conversation with his cousin, the middle one offered Damian a horn of drink.

Julian had not partaken of the mead being offered, for fearing losing his head around Tamlyn.  Mayhap, the herbs the priest tossed upon the fire affected him similar to the mind-bending potions oft used in the Holy Land.  Yet, after he blinked thrice trying to rid the strange image, the trio remained with their pet giant.

Suddenly, a feral war-scream split the night’s revelry, jerking Julian’s attention back to the balefire.  A man soared over the flames of the sunken fire and through the smoke, making it appear as if he materialized from the blue fog.  Clad in doeskin breeches, molded to his body by the lacing of leather thongs up to his mid-thigh, he wore nothing else, though upon his head was a half-mask with antlers of a large buck. 

The man-stag executed several high leaps, kicking gracefully to fly through the air, then spinning from leap to leap, until he came to a stop before Julian.  Oddly, he stood perfectly still, barely more than an arm’s length away.  Vivid lavender eyes glowed behind the animal mask, locking with Julian.  Then, with a magician’s pass, he extended his hand.  Held between his thumb and first finger was a single fresh-picked violet.  Julian glanced down at the purple flower, a shade similar to the eyes of the masked man, unsure of the significance.  Julian sensed this was a test––that he was supposed to take it.  So he did.

“Your first gift as Lord of the Glen.”  Malcolm materialized, once again, just behind Julian’s shoulder.  “On the first violets of spring, one may maketh a wish and it shall come true.  Wish carefully, my lord.  What will you wish for?”

Julian warily lifted the flower to his nose.  There was no scent.  The delicacy belied the endurance of the plant.

What should he wish for?  Images of Tamlyn rose in his mind, of him touching her, her scent, her heat.  He wanted to plant his seed within her body, for them to create a son.  That need, that hunger, was crippling.

“Wish, Lord Challon.  It shall be so.”  The stag-man said with a small half-smile, touched with a hint of wickedness.  Then, he spun in a circle and vaulted away from Julian.
He continued to leap, capering around the bonfire with a vertiginous force, the jumps rising higher and higher, almost gathering power from the bluish smoke.  His bare chest glistened with sweat.  His arms flung open and closed with each revolution; his head snapped about as he spotted his turns to keep from getting dizzy.  Julian saw with each rotation, the lavender eyes fixed on him.  Again and again.
So absorbed by the athletic display, Julian failed to notice four men stepping out of the shadows.  Unlike the leaper, they were dressed in the green garb of hunters.

They began a hypnotic mime of the four hunters chasing the male stag, pursuing, spinning and leaping through the smoke.  The hunters drew closer, closer, miming shooting arrows at the man-stag from bows.  Finally, the man-stag was brought down from the invisible arrows.  He staggered and fell to the ground, representing death.  So bound by the performers, the crowd groaned in agonized empathy, as the male-stag suffered death-throws.  The four hunters bent down, each taking a leg or arm, and in solemn respect made a full tour about the balefire.  The blue smoke grew thicker, until it swallowed the hunters and their fallen prey, whilst the pipes wailed in a dirge.  Then, a lone skirl of the bagpipes tore through the hush, as suddenly, a man leaped through the flames to the exaltations of the people of the clan. 

            Malcolm explained, “The stag has been reborn––the young Highlander now be Lord of the Forest.”  No longer clothed in the leathern chausses or wearing the animal mask, he was dressed in a plaide of black and green.  He carried an ornate claymore, the sword nearly as long as the man’s height.  Instead of performing the high leaps and spins, he moved in fluid motion, demonstrating the skill of a man and the Highland great-sword being one.  He slashed the air and parried with power, force and control as Julian had never seen, turning the weapon into an extension of his body.

Before, Julian had sneered at the Scots’ claymore as too long and clumsy.  He now saw the fluid swings, thrust and parries meant for offense and defense were anything but cumbersome.  With a magical skill, the warrior almost seemed carried by the drums, pipes and flutes.  The magnificent sword seemed a part of the warrior, his artistry one Julian envied.  Mesmerized, he watched and memorized the sinuous, elegant movements of the young, muscular Scotsman, and knew on the morrow he would seek him out to learn this mastery.

The volume of the melody slowed and lowered, stilling until it was only two pipers playing a low haunting refrain.  A whispered hush descended over the whole gathering.  Everyone held their collective breaths while all focus left the braw Highlander, and shifted to the opposite side of the hill.

Then, Julian saw what drew them.

In long robes and bearing torches, two men approached from the south entrance to the tòrr, solemnly promenading down the long avenue of trees, in front of a figure covered completely in a net of spun gold.  Two female attendants trailed in her wake––Raven and Rowanne––each holding a corner of the gold netting train.  The procession had the feel of a mock wedding march.  The veiled figure came to a stop, as the robed escorts stepped to the side. 

Taking hold of the veil, she drew her arms out before her and then raised them skyward.  She stayed in that position, in supplication, then slowly allowed the net to slide back revealing Tamlyn, standing there in the flickering torchlight.  She wore a kirtle of gold, spun from Highland magic, molding over her curvaceous body, with splits up to both her thighs.  The heavy golden torque was about her neck.  A chaplet of apple blooms crowned her unbound, honey-colored hair, which fell in waves down to her hips.  Wide gold cuff surrounded her wrists, and reflected the torchlight.  The only thing on her bare arms.

A Pictish Princess conjured from the Scottish mists.



Two tin pipes played a slow, haunting tune as Tamlyn rose up on her bare toes.  She swayed, rocking to the accent of the drum, the heavy, throbbing beat of the bodhrán, providing cadence for the wanton roll of her hips.  When the music swelled, the bagpipes joined in.  Her body undulated in a dance so carnal, so profane, that a crippling wave of lust seized Julian’s whole being.  Flames of desire roared through him.  The pain tripled as Tamlyn began her dance, circling the fire, her lithe.  Her sensual movements gained force, matching the power of the melody, as she kicked her legs out, spun, arched and leaped.  She flung the net about, trailing behind her so it appeared she had wings.

Julian stared.  Awestruck.  Entranced.  The pounding of his heart echoed the bodhrán; his blood thickening until the drum set the rhythm of his heart.  She held him spellbound, breathless.  He was unable to take his eyes from her as she danced on air, lifted by the strange music.  A music that had a life all its own.

The tall Highlander stepped back into the light, swinging the claymore again.  Tamlyn spun around him, and almost in pantomime he followed her, his circle turning inside of hers until they finally came face-to-face.  The music lowered as the pair slowly began to move in unison, the sword and the net symbolically working as counterpoints in the blatantly sexual dance.  Tension of the watchers rose, the crowd drinking in the wantonness exuded by the athletic pair.  The very air was laden, thrummed with the erotic heat conjured by the earthy man and woman.  The dancing drew them closer, Tamlyn’s body arching toward the Highlander, each feeding off the radiant sexuality of the other.  Voices here and there began to hum the music, adding to the potent brew of this magical spell.

A fine sheen of perspiration coated Tamlyn’s golden skin.  She glowed with an inner light.

And the force with which Julian wanted her nearly drove him to his knees.

Julian’s possessiveness howled.  No man should dare dance in such a manner with his lady.  He took a step toward them, but Guillaume grabbed his arm to stay him.  Shaking his head, his brother silently saying, do not interfere.

Once again, the music lowered, and three other couples entered the circle of light, their sinuous movements mimicking Tamlyn and the Highlander.  All eight pranced around the fire, swaying, almost touching at times, only to have the females twirl away playfully, taunting the males to follow their lead.  Three more pairs joined the mating dance―for Julian could call it nothing else––provoking the whole crowd to feast off the high intensity of sexual emotion created by the enthralling dancers.

They revolved around and around the fire, yet almost seemed a part of it.  The whole scene binding his senses.

Julian could only see Tamlyn.

The other dancers were vague, faceless figures, mere shadows moving about Tamlyn’s golden presence.  He burned for her.  Jealousy ripped through him with talons every time the Highlander accidentally brushed his arm against hers.  Each time Tamlyn looked into the man’s eyes.  Julian would have marched over, claimed the woman that was his.  Only, Guillaume’s cautioning hold bid him not to interfere.  Emotions were so violent within him it nearly saw him nauseous, kept only at bay by the overpowering lust, lust so ravenous he never felt the like before.

Each time the pairs circled, three more joined the swaying and spinning, until they numbered three circles of thirteen couples.  They wove, first the men around the women, then the females circling the males.  Teasing.  Luring.

And it was slowly killing Julian.

The music rose, driving the dancers onward.  Then, it would fall again and slow as the couples drew closer together.

Rage and lust surged through him to the point of blindness.  He flung Guillaume’s hand away and stalked into the circle of blue light.


https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B073G1X22J/ref=series_rw_dp_sw   Available in Kindle and Library Quality Print
#ScottishRomance #MedievalRomance #HistoricalRomance

The Selkie's Daughter - Excerpt from One Christmas Knight Anthology

Magic can happen at Yuletide if only you can believe…
Sir Rhys de Valyer, on his way to Scotland to join his liege, Julian Challon, becomes lost in a blinding snowstorm. But this is only the start of his troubles. In a brutal ambush, he and his men are attacked and left for dead. Rhys only escapes the horrible fate due to his trusted steed, who manages to drag him away from the battle. Fearing death’s approach, he never expects a beautiful snow angel to come to his rescue.
After being cast out by her family for being the bastard child of a Selkie, Annys Bràigheach has made her life in the sanctuary of Rowenwood Forest, far away from the world. In spite of her acceptance of the solitary life, her heart still yearns for more. To her surprise, after making a Yuletide wish, she discovers a handsome knight, clinging desperately to his horse, half-frozen with two arrows piercing his body. Her healing skills may save him, but can she reach his heart? 


A humming floated through Rhys’ mind; the soothing melody wrapped around him and cocooned him with a warm sense of security.  Lulled by the feeling, he wanted to cling to that serene state, but he was drawn to discover the source of the tune.  He slowly opened his eyes to see a woman sitting by hearthside, a long-haired black cat curled up and sleeping beside her legs.  Her pale brown hair was in a single braid that hung over her left shoulder and down to her waist.
An aura of innocence and beauty surrounded her, the vision so perfect that it hurt Rhys to breathe.
  Intent upon her task, she crumbled dried herbs, flaking them into a mortar and then grinding them with the wooden pestle.  The scene was so eerily similar to the dream he had before he passed out in the snow that a shiver crawled over his skin.  In that fantasy he had not reached out to the woman, had failed to grasp the secret wish held in his heart.  Fate had given him another chance.  No fool, he would not make the same mistake.  With no hesitation, he lifted his left hand to her.
The perfect tranquility was shattered as mind-numbing pain racked his body.
The excruciating throbbing summoned images of the attack to fill his head.  Getting lost in the blinding snow and unable to locate shelter.  Quarrels flying at them from every direction, coming out of the blanket of falling snow.  Were his men alive?  Had anyone besides him escaped?  The only thing he knew at this point:  Spirit had saved his life.
Sensing he was awake, the woman’s head jerked in his direction.  She put aside the wooden bowl, and came to him.  “I let you rest and warm while I prepared a poultice of woad.  The arrows have to come out or your blood will taint.  You were in luck’s embrace, saving you from losing a lot of blood.”
“I left them in.  They plug the wound.”  Talking was an effort.  He stifled a groan as he tried to shift to ease the ache in his side.
“The snow and cold also helped.  Your blood was thick from freezing.  You bleed less.  Only, you are warming and the arrows need to come out.  The woad will staunch the blood once I pull the arrows out.”
“Bolts…they were from crossbows.”
She gave a small shrug with one shoulder.  “I am no’ learned with weapons and such.  There is a difference?”
“An arrow is shot by a man with a common bow or longbow.  It takes skill.  A bolt comes from a crossbow.  ‘Tis used for closer attacks.  No training is needed to wield it.  Even a common serf can bring down a knight.  A coward’s weapon.”
“You were attacked?”
Rhys gave a faint nod.  “I do not know by how many.  We were lost…must have taken the wrong…branch in the road.  The blinding storm came from nowhere.  I had ridden ahead…trying to find shelter.  ‘Twas impossible to see more than a few arms’ lengths ahead.  Suddenly, we heard some sort of scream or yell, and then quarrels were loosed from every direction.”
Worried, her head looked to the door.  “Then there are others still out there?”
“I doubt it.  My men fell.  They valiantly tried to rally, but in the snow ‘twas total confusion.  I took the bolts and could not stay in the saddle.  As I lay there, barely conscious, I could hear the enemy going to each man…making certain the wounded were dead.  No one left alive to carry tales.  ‘Twas naught but murdered they did.  I was missed because their leader grew afeared of being near the grove of some witch and wanted to be away.”
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Rhys.  Rhys de Valyer.”
Her dark brows lifted over warm brown eyes.  “You are Welsh?”
“My mother was.  My father is Norman.  I am knight to Julian Challon…serving at his honour Torqmond in England.  I train destriers for my lord.”
“Ah, that explains that fine steed of yours.  Mayhap ‘tis your Welsh blood.  ‘Tis spake your countrymen have a fae way with the beasties.”
“Challon sent for me to come north…join him at his new holding Glenrogha.”
“Hagatha spoke of it though I have never been there.  A holding of one of the daughters of Hadrian MacShane.”
“And what is your name?  Or shall I just call you Angel?”
She huffed a small laugh.  “Silly mooncalf nonsense.  I am called Annys.”
“Annys,” he tested how the name sounded on his lips.  “A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.” “Do no waste your breath with such thoughts.  I have a kind heart and will try to help you.  ‘Tis no need to sing praise to secure my aid.”
Rhys was surprised.  She was not playing coy, but truly seemed to think he offered tribute to win her care.  “Has no one ever told you how pretty you are?”
Sadness filled her brown eyes, but she smiled trying to hide the reaction.  “Such things do not fill the grain bins, pick apples, or stack the shed full of peat block.”
“’Tis not mindless to give offer of heartfelt words of value.”
She shrugged off his insistence by ignoring him.  “Rhys de Valyer, I need to get you out of the mail and your clothing so I can get at the wounds.”
Rhys asked with unease, “Is there anyone to aid you?”  
“Nay, I am alone.”
He was stunned.  This woman lived all alone and so far from any traveled path?  “How do you survive?”
“I lived here with my friend Hagatha since I was ten and two.  She took me in.  We planted our crops.  Sometimes people came for needs––they would do work for her, or pay her with a goat or a cow to prepare all the herbs needed for large fortresses.  In the summers, I cut peats to keep us warm in the winter.”
“A hard life for someone as lovely as you.”
Shocked by his words, she lowered her eyes to her lap.  “’Tis no need for flattery, Rhys de Valyer.”
“Have you ever extracted an arrow from a man before?”
She shook her head no.  “Not many men come into the grove.  They feared Hagatha, believed she was a witch.”
Rhys started to laugh, but stopped because it caused the wounds to ache more.  “And was she?”
  “I suppose some might call her that.  She was learned in herbs and worts, what it took to make a heart calm, or help with someone’s miseries.  People oft fear what they do no’ ken.”
He teased, “Tell me, are you a witch as well?”
She blinked once hard, as if he had backhanded her.  “I suppose there are those who will name me one.  Others likely say worse.”
“Why is that?”  Rhys wanted to know everything about her, why this gentle woman was hidden away in these dark woods.  It made no sense.  A man would fight for this woman, protect her, shelter her…love her.  
It was clear she struggled to put distance between them.  “Makes little difference what I be…you are saddled with me.  I shall do my best to treat the wounds.  Can you sit up?  I will help you.  I know ‘tis painful, but I must remove the arrows––bolts.  ‘Tis best to take off the mail, jack and your shirt.”
With her support, Rhys managed to sit up and guide her to undoing the arming points in the heavy hauberk.  The boiled leather jack came off next.  Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his spine, and not from being close to the fire.  The pain from his wounds throbbed, growing more agonizing with each movement that he had to fight not to black out.
“I needs must slice the shirt off that shoulder.”  When he nodded, she cut the drawstring, then carefully used the sharp knife to rend the material apart until she reached where the damn staff stuck out.  “You are starting to bleed now that your body warms.”
Rhys watched her face.  It distracted his mind from the discomfort.  His eyes traced the curve of her cheek, the stubborn chin, and graceful neck.  And lower.  Her body was thin, evidence of her hard life and perhaps not enough food at times, but her curves were womanly, her breasts were full.  Her living out here alone––if she was telling the truth––saw her vulnerable to anyone with evil intent.  If men such as those who had slaughtered his riders on the road, without regard to who they were or what they were doing in the area, found her, he shuddered to think what harm they would do to a woman with no way to defend herself.
He lifted his hand to the wound in the shoulder and pressed about the end of the shaft to determine the shape of the point.  The arrowhead felt blunt and not tipped bodkin or broadhead.  The others offered more penetration.  While not as piercing, the blunt tip delivered more shock to the target.  Why the pain had traveled through his body with such a blinding agony when they hit.  As providence would have it, the flat end would make extraction easier.  
He took her hand, intending to let her feel what she was dealing with, but she jumped, startled that he had touched her.  “’Tis all right, Annys.  I merely want you to feel the end of the bolt.”  Pulling her fingers to his shoulders, he moved her tips about the end of the shaft.  “Feel its shape?  It will leave a bigger hole, but it didn’t go as deep because ‘tis dull on the end.  Unfortunately, when you pull the shaft out, the point will likely come off and remain embedded.  You will have to enlarge the wound and dig it out.  Can you do that?  I am not sure I can stay awake through the pain to do it myself.”
The color drained from her face.  “I will do what you need.”

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Excerpt from "Arrow To The Heart" from One Winter Knight

ARROW TO THE HEART 
Fletcher St. Giles has always felt alone. But being a bastard rarely troubles his mind…until Lady Geljon Seacrest comes to the mighty fortress of Coinnleir Wood. Though Geljon is betrothed to another, she vexes him at every turn, following him like a shadow. With little to offer a woman of her station, Fletcher keeps his distance. Only, denied love becomes an arrow to the heart. 

In the season of Yuletide, all things are possible…and even wishes of the heart can be granted. 


Fletcher stood watching the moody weather.  Off and on all day it had rained, alternating with soggy big snowflakes in the mix.  As the gloaming embraced the hills ringing Coinnleir Wood, Mother Earth had summoned up a storm to match his pensive emotions.  A torrent of rain so hard you could not see out into the bailey, now shifted to freezing rain and snow, to where it appeared a waterfall of white ran off the edge of the castle.
He stood, enjoying being alone, away from the noise and ribaldry of the Great Hall.  As he had his whole life, he felt the outsider.  The castle workers and soldiery, whilst polite and welcoming since his coming to Coinnleir Wood, made it known they considered him part of Damian’s world, and not one of them.  
  Oddly, they little seemed to care he was English, nor that he was a bastard.  Few missed the meaning of the bar sinister upon his shield.  They treated him with respect and deference, but not in friendship.  On the other hand, he felt ill-at-ease with his position above the salt.  Damian made it clear to the serfs and his men they were to view Fletcher as his brother, and reinforced that impression at each opportunity.  It was clear Damian worked to keep the men’s minds to accept Fletcher’s command, and discourage a bond of friendship.  
  Thus, after a meal, when the people broke into groups for evening talk, to jest or listen to the bard, the comradery, which he was not a part of, left him restless.  ‘Twas fine, he had little need of such closeness of fellowship.  He preferred the quietude of his own company, or now that Eiry was his, the time alone with the horse.  Even so, it was hard to find such moments whilst living in a fortress.  Someone was always coming or going.
Now, Geljon trailed after him and refused to stop.  The corner of his mouth tugged up reluctantly, summoning her image in his mind.
“I would give a coin for your thoughts, but I dunna think I have even a silver penny.”
Fletcher turned to find Geljon, standing just paces away.  For a heartbeat he thought her a vision, conjured from his yearnings.  He had not heard the door open or close.  She wore a brown mantle, the hood edged with grey wolf’s fur, covered her head.  Surely, she was naught more than a figment of his deep and growing love for her?  He blinked thrice before believing she was truly there.
It alarmed him that he had allowed anyone to approach without his awareness.  Such laxness could see a knife shoved into his back.  Mayhap, at ten and a score years he had grown weary of war and fighting.
“I will not remind you ‘tis unwise for you to be out here with me.  Methinks you a simpleton or hard of hearing.”  In spite of coming out here to find that peace of silence that made him at one with himself, he was oddly pleased she had come.
“Truly?  You believe such of me?”  She came to stand beside him.  “I hear you, Fletcher.  I just dunna obey you.  You are not my lord husband.”
His lower jaw set against his upper teeth, nearly grinding.  “Nor ever will be, eh?  Your betrothed arrives on the morrow, I hear.”
“I hear the same.”  She spoke of the messenger that arrived with the noontide meal, bringing word that David Leslie and his party would reach Coinnleir Wood by the gloaming on the following day.  Geljon’s hand took hold of the edge of the mantle, and began rocking from side-to-side.  “Or perchance the Lady of Winter sends this strengthening storm to block the passes into Glen Shane.”
Fletcher turned to look at her, trying to judge her mood.  She seemed calm, mayhap touched with a bit of mischief.  “You do not seem upset that possibility might come to pass.”
Her rocking continued.  “I have told you I accept my lot.  That does no’ mean I am the simpleton you might think me, nor does accepting mean embracing.”  Her hazel eyes stared out into the storm, though there was little to see.  “I met the Leslie Tanist this October past.”
Something dark and hot unfurled in the pit of his stomach.  “And?”
“Aye.  We traveled to the Leslie stronghold of Glendower for the Samhaine festival.”  She gave a playful grin.  “Are you no’ going to ask me what he is like?”
Her playful spirit both intrigued and irritated him in the same breath.  “’Tis not a driving concern.”  Yet, in a perverse way it was.  He did not want to put a face to the man who would spend his life with Geljon.  Jealousy was a burning, breathing demon within his mind.  He did not want to see them together, building a future.  Most especial––he wanted no clear images of them.  When he closed his eyes at night and sought to find sleep, he didn’t want sharp visions of Leslie kissing her, holding her . . .touching her.  It would be much easier to see in his mind’s eye a faceless being.  Somehow, it would make it less real, see it easier to live with the fact he could never be that man.
“You will see him––if he comes on the morrow.”  A faint frown bracketed her small mouth.  “He is not as tall as you.  Scots seldom have the long legs you Sasunnach do.  And typically, he has the red hair that comes from blood of old Dálriada.  Women would say he was handsome.  His men seem to like him.  But. . .”  Her words faltered.
Some thread in her voice caused him concern.  He reached out and took hold of her upper arms and turned her to face him.  “What is it, lass?”
Geljon gave him a faint smile.  Her lower lip quivered betraying the effort.  “I wish I knew.  I think if I could have told my áithair why I did no’ wish to marry Leslie he might have listened to my fears.  Instead, when I could offer nothing he said it was only my maidenly fears, and said ‘tis what happens when a woman waits too late to marry.”
Fletcher was hurting inside, yet he put those jumbled feelings aside, because he sensed how troubled she was.  “Mayhap your sire is right.”
She shook her head, lowering her vision and leaned into him.  His hands tried to keep her a step away, concern for her, but more frightened if he permitted her to take that last step he would be lost, no control over his deep need for this woman.  She glanced up to meet his eyes.  “I ken this to be a lie.  I would not hesitate to lie with you, Fletcher St. Giles.  I would give myself willingly, asking aught in return.”
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Excerpt from "Marriage Made in Hell" from One Yuletide Knight anthology

Essence of the game is deception... When her half-sister refuses to marry the powerful earl of Hellborne, Greyson de Verre, Lesslyn de Sancerre sees the chance to have a life, a home and a husband of her own, so she agrees to take her sister's place.  Her sister, in turn, is off to elope with the man she has fallen in love with.  Everything appears fated in this pact the two women seal.  What seemed like a logical solution at the time soon becomes a battle to keep ahead of the lies.  Lesslyn quickly learns plots and schemes are easily concocted, but realities arising from the falsehoods are a different matter altogether.  Especially, when she is quickly falling in love with Greyson de Verre...her husband to be. 
Commanded to wed by royal decree... When Edward Plantagenet demands you must marry, you have little options...or do you?  King Edward has commanded that the earl of Hellborne must marry the heiress of Sancerre.  After all a bargain is a bargain—even if the earl views the coming marriage with disdain.  Only, the enigmatic lord of Hellborne needs must wed on Yuletide...so wed he shall...no matter what.    Even if it is a Marriage Made in Hell. . .


William, head of the guard, pulled his mount alongside hers.  “My lady, I wonder—should we not call halt and shelter up ahead in that stand of pines?  The limbs will provide a break against the snowfall and the wind.  The needles will be dry and full of pine sap so we can start a fire to warm you.”
She knew William spoke the rightness of the situation.  Howbeit, as tired and cold as she was, she pondered if stopping were a good idea.  “I admit I am chilled.  Only, wouldst not the pause delay meeting up with the earl as arranged?  How far are we from Hellborne?”
William frowned.  “In this weather?  I cannot say for certain.  The earl sent word he would meet us on this road and escort us the rest of the way.  Howbeit, what if he is of the same mind and has held up and shelters against this storm?  Also to consider—we have to fear brigands seeing us as exposed to attack.”
“Surely, none wouldst dare to attack a cadre bound for Hellborne?” she opined.  “I assume men feared the earl too much for such an affront.”  
William’s mouth compressed before he answered.  Disapproval molded his face.  “In this land I suppose three men are feared above all others:  Julian Challon, Redam Maignart— and the third being the earl of Hellborne, Greyson de Verre.  How they travel through life creates enemies, my lady.  Men willing to risk much—or with naught left to lose—-might seek to settle a score.  They mayhap could also be lured by the notion of gaining a fat purse for a ransom.  These are troubled times.  One cannot be too careful."
Laughter bubbled forth from Lesslyn before she could stop it.  “Ransom?  For me?  I fear no man wouldst bother.”
William gave her a soft smile.  “You fail to see your value, my lady.”
Lesslyn was surprised by his words, so much so she was unsure how to respond.  Men never paid her much mind when she stood in the shadow of her golden sister.  Surely, a colorful kirtle and mantle did not magically transform the brown wren?  
She had no chance to give a response as screams split the air.  They seemed to come from all directions at once.  Her guards were turning every which way, heads whipping around, trying to locate from where the threat would come.  The hushed landscape suddenly saw movement as men ran from the shelter of the trees and shrubs on both sides.  
William called for more riders to move up before them.  Poor Ena pulled her hood up and huddled in the corner of the wain, hoping to make herself as small a target as possible.
Snatching up the rein on her horse, William dragged the animal under low hanging boughs of the tall trees.  Pulling back a limb on one he motioned for her to ride into the space between two close pines.  “Stay here.  I will return for you when all is clear,” he barked, before leaving her hidden in the shadows.
The limbs dipped low from the weight of the heavy wet snow, so she had to lean forward over her horse’s neck to try and see what was happening.  Shouts and cries echoed all around the road.  Horses from her cadre flew by as the men, with swords drawn, clashed with horsemen now coming down the trail.  Enemies on foot rushed forward, trying to drag the mounted knights from their destriers.  Having only the narrow view of what was ensuing, she had no way to tell how many men were attacking them, or under whose banner they fought.
Something went flying past her head.  Startled, she gasped as she turned to see an arrow lodged in the tree trunk, still vibrating.  Shaken, unsure what to do, she watched as bodies were falling to the snow-covered ground.  Horses reared, fighting, screaming as they lashed out with teeth and hooves.  
Swords clanged as they crashed together.  The stomach-churning sounds of men dying in agony.Lesslyn wanted to put her hands over her ears to blot out the too real nightmare.  Never had she been exposed to any sort of fighting before, leaving her unprepared for facing an all out battle, the ugliness of men sliced half open by the swing of a sword, or hear the sickening sound as arrows found purchase and lodged in a chest.  She hated staying hidden, yet knew she risked harm should she venture out.  The palfrey was getting nervous, the scent of blood spooking it, causing the beast to shift from hoof-to-hoof.  She patted its neck, trying to calm the fidgeting.  Her mind remained frozen, unable to decide what she needed to do.
One man in ragged clothes, directly in front of her, yelled out to be heard above the din, “Riders coming!”  He and the others afoot fled as horsemen came in from the north.  
Her hands trembled, but she struggled not to convey her fear to the animal.  It was getting harder to keep it calm as men shouted in fear, in agony. 
A straggler, running down the roadway, jerked up short in the face of the oncoming cavalry.  In panic he looked around.  He turned and came crashing through the tree limbs.  Eyes wild, blood flowed from the side of his face, down his neck, and into the edge of the boiled jack.  He seemed shocked to find her hiding there.  He raised his sword.
“Get off the horse!  Now!” he demanded, reaching out for the bridle.  Stupidly, he jerked on the leather lead.  “Get down, wench!  The Devil hisself comes!” 
Too startled to think, let alone move, she sat on the palfrey and gaped.  She looked about to see if any of her guard were close to call for help.  Again, he yanked on the tether.  The horse started a deep throated rumble and backed up three steps.  Lesslyn grabbed the high, square cantle, in effort not to lose her seat in the sidesaddle.  Her right hand went to her waist, and she removed the dagger from the small sheath.  Like everything else in life, it was up to her to protect herself.
The half-crazed man reached up to drag her from the horse.  Lesslyn did not hesitate, but drove the knife into his lower arm.  His howl blended together with her scream as he refused to let go.  The mare bounced on its front hooves, and then took off.  The instant the animal hit bowing limbs, he ducked down to fly under them.  She could not get low enough.  A thigh-sized bough caught her in the head, sending her backward and out of the saddle.
Lesslyn hit the ground hard, knocking the air from her lungs.  She lay there, struggling to draw a breath and finding it impossible.  Worse, the pain in her head was nearly blinding her vision.  She frantically struggled to focus.  Only, she could not move, no matter how fear drove her.
“You stupid, bitch!” the man snarled.
She blinked and her sight began to come into focus, enough so she could see the savage warrior had his sword drawn back and was ready to kill her.
Lesslyn lay there in the snow, the sounds of battle receding to mute.  The snow was falling heavily.  Big fluffy flakes hit her face.  
And she was going to die.  
She almost laughed at the injustice of it all.  To finally stop being a shadow—a brown wren—and reach out for a life with both hands, only to end up dying on the road to Hellborne.
She saw the sword start to descend, and closed her eyes

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Celebration of Twelfth Night

The Twelve Days of Christmas Song?  Well, there were twelve nights, too!  Twelfth Night is the last night of the twelve days of celebrations, an end to the Yuletide season.  Customs and traditions vary—even the date the celebration can take place is disputed.  Some say the celebration takes place on January fifth—the last day of the Medieval Yuletide festivals.  Others dictate that it’s the day after.  If you count Christmas itself, then Twelfth Night celebration would fall on the fifth.  Other sources argue that you start counting on the day after Christmas so it’s the sixth.   

My family always counted Christmas day, so we celebrated on the fifth.  Mum always swore January fifth was the January Thaw.  You often had cold weather before, and certainly would after, but on the fifth the world seemed to take a deep breath and mark the halfway point in winter.  From that time, you begin counting how many days until spring.  Every year, she would always bring up the January Thaw.  I would laugh, but every year January fifth it would warm up.  I think this year is the only time I cannot recall that holding true.

So how does one celebrate with a Twelfth Night party? 
In a book written in 1923—Dennison’s Christmas Book—he speaks that there should be a king and queen, chosen by cutting a cake.  The Twelfth Night Cake (sometimes called a King Cake ).  Likely where fruit cake got its origins.  The cake has a bean and a pea baked into it.  A man who find the bean in his slice of cake becomes the King for the Night , whilst the woman finding the pea takes her place as his Queen.  You can see a similar celebration in my novel A Restless Knight , where they choose the King and Queen of May Day.   They baked rings in the cake, and whomever found the rings were the king and queen and ruled over the land, not just for a night, but for the whole coming year.  

Once the royal couple is chosen, they are given crowns, scepters and cloaks—the more ornate the costumes of regalia, the better.  Then, they are enthroned and rule over the night’s festivities and feasting.  There were games, charades, dancing and singing carols.  And did I mention there was feasting?  Delicious foods—Manchet Bread, fruit preserves, soft cheeses, roast pork and venison, potage, sugared nutmeats, and cakes, puddings and mince pies, all washed down by copious tankards of ale, mead, mulled cider or wine.

Manchet Bread

Mince Pie
Some say the celebration evolved from the Roman Saturnalia festival, that marked the onset of the winter solstice.  I think they go back even older, as you see many of these themes echoed over and over throughout countries all over Europe.  James Fraser’s The Golden Bough is an excellent book that investigated the commonality of such ancient beliefs and traditions.  No matter the subtle changes, these customs originated in Pagan fertility rites, the circle of life, death and rebirth being the focus of their lives.  The rebirth of the sun, bringing the spring and crops, was not just a time of celebration, but the desperate hope for an abundant harvest in the coming year.  To our ancient ancestors, crops meant the difference between life and death.

During the 17th and 18th Centuries these festivals were common place, and involved Mummers and Minstrels, singers, musicians, actors and dancers would roam the streets of villages, visiting homes unannounced to beg for treats and drinks. Often they wore grotesque masks.  Some believe encouraged by the Church to make fun of ancient Pagan deities.  


Whatever the origins, it was quickly absorbed and made of regular part of the street entertainment, which now includes Morris Dancing and Sword Dancing.


Meanwhile, in the castles and estate houses of society's upper crust, dancing remained an important part of the holiday in the form of formal balls.  Often, the performers would go to the castle and beg to perform.  The lady of the castle would pass out treats, and alms to the poor as well.

Personally, I think Twelfth Night is a wonderful celebration that needs to make a comeback