Book Title: On a Sword’s Edge
Series: The Swords of Scotland
Author: JR Tomlin
Publication Date: November 16th, 2024
Publisher: independently-published
Pages: 159
Genre: Historical Fiction / Scottish Historical Fiction
Any Triggers: Some fairly bloody fights.
https://thecoffeepotbookclub.blogspot.com/2024/09/blog-tour-on-a-swords-edge-by-j-r-tomlin.html
On a Sword’s Edge
by J R Tomlin
Scotland. 1263. The scent of rain mingles with the smoke of campfires as word spreads: the Norse are coming…
As tempers rise between King Alexander and the Norse King Haakon, at the center of it all is sixteen-year-old William Douglas, a squire in service to Sir John Stewart, Lord High Steward of Scotland.
When Haakon's fearsome fleet is espied approaching Scotland's shores, carrying the greatest invasion force the Norse have ever mustered, the dread of battle settles over the land. Summoned to Ayr Castle, William joins the Scottish forces in a desperate defense. Now tasked with serving his newly knighted brother, Hugh, William has little time to dwell on the fear – or thrill – of his first real taste of war.
And once the Norse's menacing line of ships finally touches shore, Scotland's fate may rest on more than noble titles and knightly deeds— it'll take the mettle of every soul on the ground for them to triumph.
Set against the wind-swept coast of medieval Scotland, On a Sword's Edge takes you right into the center of The Battle of Largs alongside a mere – yet fearless – squire.
Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/3R7l8D
Read an Excerpt
“Dinnae stand there staring like a dunderheid!” Nigell shouted.
I laughed and strode toward the two men, who were watching the horse being worked. The second, Sir Alan Wallace, was a head taller and stockier than Nigell’s spare build. But I was taller than either. As I neared them, they turned to greet me and smiled. I crossed my arms on the top rail of the paddock.
The horse had graceful form and goodly stature, with quivering ears, a high arched neck, and well-placed large eyes. The groom had it circling at a gentle, ambling pace.
After a brief silence, I started to ask if either had news of the Norse fleet and whether the negotiators King Alexander had sent to them in the Isles had convinced them to turn back. But Sir Alan called out for the groom to bring the mount to a trot, so I forgot. It stretched out as it sped up, its body seeming to float on top of its legs.
“Envy is a terrible sin,” I muttered. But that did not keep me from imagining riding such a courser, lance couched, charging into battle. My heart pounded at even the thought. One day, it would happen. I had spent my life training and dreaming of it.
Nigell scratched at the stubble he was trying to grow into a beard. “Aye, we can only hope ever to own a warhorse so fine.”
He called out to the groom that he had seen enough and to stable the animal. “Sir John will be waiting for my report. I can tell him this is as fine as the trader claimed. For once.” He wiggled his eyebrows because everyone knew that horse traders were terrible liars.
Sir Alan scowled. “Dinnae be suggesting I would bring His Lordship anything less.”
Nigell raised his hands. “It was a jest.”
“Well, hie you to your lord and dinnae make jests about my horse sense.” He shook his head as he watched Nigell stride across the bailey, then grinned. “Squires! Have to keep you lot in line. Now, come and help me look over the rest of the string I bought. Sir John wanted more rounceys besides the courser and, if you’re lucky, you might be given one of the better of the lot.”
The inside of the stable was dim but had a smell that was pleasant in its familiarity, an earthy scent of sweaty horses, dust and dirt and hay and grain overlaying the smell of leather, cold iron, and a whiff of horse piss. When I was a page, grooming had often been one of my chores, and it had been a welcome escape from carping because I had not run fast enough with a message to her ladyship or needed to work harder at my studies being taught to read by Father Filan.
We strolled in companionable silence for a while, patting noses thrust over the stall doors at us. They were a handsome lot, solid and sturdy, but one I noticed was remarkably handsome, bay coat aglisten, and wide-spaced intelligent eyes bright as it watched us.
Wondering if I might be given that one, I said, “Do you—” A signal horn blew.
Sir Alan strode to the stable door and stepped outside. I followed, and, from there, we could see the barbican and the portcullis being raised.
A score of men as dusty and weary-looking as their mounts rode through and dismounted. The royal lion rampant on the knight’s surcoat caused my eyes to widen.
The knight demanded to be taken to Sir John. “I am Willliam Douglas, His Lordship’s squire,” I said. “I will take you to him.”
My lord always retired to the solar to relax with Lady Jean before returning to the great hall for supper, so I knew where to find him. I knocked on the door and received gruff permission to enter, but Sir John stood when I ushered the dust-covered messenger in. He led his lady to the door with tight, controlled movements, and promised to rejoin her in the great hall for supper.
Sir John sat as he briskly told me to pour the man a cup of wine. Then he nodded for the messenger to proceed. The man took a gulp from the cup and cleared his throat, apologizing for it being clogged with dust.
As Sir John listened, he rested an elbow on the arm of his chair and grasped his chin in his hand, a finger across his lips. His head tilted, he never said a word, but his eyebrows scrunched together as he listened, wrinkling his forehead. His lips pressed into a hard line.
I stood stock still, my back to the wall as my lord expected of a squire. The Norse fleet had sailed out of the Orkney Isles toward Scotland. My heart was pounding. Would I be allowed to follow Sir John into battle, even though not his senior squire? Please, please let it be so, I silently pleaded, unsure who I was pleading to.
The messenger ended his message, saying, “His Grace will bring his army to muster with the levies at his own Ayr Castle. It is war.”
J. R. Tomlin is the author of more than twenty historical novels, set for the most part in Scotland. Her love of that nation is traced from the stories of King Robert the Bruce and the Good Sir James her grandmother read to her when she was small to hillwalking through the Cairngorms where the granite hills have a gorgeous red glow under the setting sun. Later, her writing was influenced by the work of authors such as Alexander Dumas, Victor Hugo, and of course, Sir Walter Scott.
When JR isn’t writing, she enjoys spending time hiking, playing with her Westie, and killing monsters in computer games. In addition to having lived in Scotland, she has traveled in the US, Europe and the Pacific Rim. She now lives in Oregon in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.
Website: https://www.jrtomlin.com
Twitter: https://x.com/TomlinJeanne
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Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/j-r-tomlin
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/jrtomlin
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