The Coffee Pot Book Club welcomes Dawn Empress: A Novel of Imperial Rome (The Theodosian Women, Book Two)

Book Title: Dawn Empress: A Novel of Imperial Rome

Series: The Theodosian Women, Book Two

Author: Faith L. Justice

Print/ebook Publication Date: 24th May 2020

Audiobook Publication date: 19th February 2021

Publisher: Raggedy Moon Books

Page Length: 354 pages

Audio Book Length: 12 hrs 41 min

Genre: Biographical Historical Fiction

Dawn Empress: A Novel of Imperial Rome

(The Theodosian Women, Book Two)

By Faith L. Justice

Audiobook narrated by Kathleen Li

As Rome reels under barbarian assaults, a young girl must step up.

After the Emperor’s unexpected death, ambitious men eye the Eastern Roman throne occupied by seven-year-old Theodosius II. His older sister Pulcheria faces a stark choice: she must find allies and take control of the Eastern court or doom the imperial children to a life of obscurity—or worse. Beloved by the people and respected by the Church, Pulcheria forges her own path to power. Can her piety and steely will protect her brother from military assassins, heretic bishops, scheming eunuchs and—most insidious of all—a beautiful, intelligent bride? Or will she lose all in the trying?

Dawn Empress tells the little-known and remarkable story of Pulcheria Augusta, 5th century Empress of Eastern Rome. Her accomplishments rival those of Elizabeth I and Catherine the Great as she sets the stage for the dawn of the Byzantine Empire. Don’t miss this “gripping tale” (Kirkus Reviews); a “deftly written and impressively entertaining historical novel” (Midwest Book Reviews). Historical Novel Reviews calls Dawn Empress an “outstanding novel…highly recommended” and awarded it the coveted Editor’s Choice.

***

An Excerpt From Chapter 11

Imperial Palace, November 415

“What do you think Pulcheria Augusta wants of us?” General Ardaburius asked his father-in-law as they strode into the palace. They made a sharp physical contrast: Ardaburius’ dark countenance and stocky body with Plinta’s fair features and tall stature. But they were closely aligned in military philosophy and bound by family ties. They were also close in age, his father-in-law being only a handful of years older. “Does she mean to strip us of our commands?”

“I think not. She could have done that by decree. This meeting feels different. I think she wants to see for herself if we of barbarian heritage have horns and hooves. It’s been fifteen years since that idiot Gainas rebelled against Arcadius and occupied Constantinople. He tarred me and all who share his Gothic heritage with treason and rebellion. I believe the Augusta is rethinking that policy. She has reordered the civil government to her satisfaction and I believe she turns her eyes on the military.”

Ardaburius nodded. “She would do well to put her best generals in the field with the Huns stirring up dust in the north and the Persians restless in the east. We have sat on the sidelines too long, while those of lesser talent moved ahead.”

Arriving at the imperial family’s personal quarters, they were relieved of their swords and knives by the guards. Ever since the incident involving General Lucius over seven years ago, no weapons of any kind were allowed in the emperor’s or Augusta’s presence, except for the imperial guards. Ardaburius understood the restriction but felt naked without his weapons. The guard opened an elaborately carved door onto an odd domestic scene.

The musky scent of incense pervaded the Augusta’s antechamber, tickling his nose. Ardaburius stifled a sneeze. He knew of Pulcheria’s pious ways but was unprepared for the monastic atmosphere of her personal space. There was little of comfort in the spare room; the only object of beauty, a personal altar and gold cross in a niche. The Augusta herself dressed in modest woolen clothes and wore the diadem over a linen hair covering as proof of her imperial identity. She sat on a plain chair, at a serviceable wooden table, dictating to a scribe. Two other girls, minus the diadem but similarly attired, sat on a divan, sewing and talking quietly. They must be the younger princesses, Ardaburius thought, watching them closely. They seemed at peace with their religious vocation, but he was glad his own daughter showed no such inclination. It seemed such a restricted life.

Ardaburius followed Plinta’s lead, making his obeisance before the young Augusta. She seemed innocuous, slender to the point of gauntness, plain of features except for the brown eyes, which sparkled with intelligence and something more. Curiosity? Ambition? It was not hard to believe she outmaneuvered Isidorus and his faction at the tender age of fifteen. The military had a tradition of young brilliant leaders going back to Alexander the Great. Had she been the eldest son showing such promise, no one would object. But…

“Generals, you may rise.” She nodded to servants who brought two folding camp chairs. “Please sit. You may speak freely in my sisters’ presence.” She indicated the two girls sewing. “They have little knowledge of war and politics but keep me company.”

Ardaburius now looked on the two younger princesses with some interest. It was unlikely they were there as chaperones. Was the Augusta grooming her sisters for a more active role?

The men seated themselves, accepted the offer of well-watered wine, and declined the offer of food. Ardaburius appreciated the light vintage from Southern Thrace but wished for something stronger. He was used to drinking his wine undiluted.

Once the niceties of hospitality were satisfied, Plinta bowed his head slightly and asked. “Augusta, we are honored you asked us to join you. How may we serve?”

“I hope you will serve me well.” The Augusta’s steady eyes speared each man.

Ardaburius straightened his shoulders. Good! He was anxious to be back in the first ranks after several years under suspicion because of his barbarian Alan heritage.

“You know I’m purging pagans and Jews from my brother’s government and the army,” Pulcheria continued.

“But only from positions of responsibility?” Plinta gave a sweeping gesture. “If you dismiss the non-Christian soldiers, you will cripple the army. Many worship Mithras. Most who are Christian follow Arius’ teachings.”

“An army of pagans and Arians. I sometimes curse the day Emperor Constantius sent those heretic priests of Arius to convert the barbarians. A few years delay and you all would be orthodox and save the empire much strife.” Pulcheria gave a sour smile. “You are a Goth, are you not? And your son-in-law an Alan? I assume you are Arian Christian, as well?”

“We come from those tribes and follow those beliefs, but we are Romans first. That is where our loyalty and duty lie.” Plinta frowned. “We have served the empire honorably…when allowed.”

“From what I hear, General, you are the best in the field and wasted in your current administrative duties.”

Plinta allowed a small smile. “I’m grateful for the praise and strive to live up to it.”

“I believe Anthemius erred in his caution these last several years. Your peoples have lived in the city peaceably for a full generation. I have faith in the civilizing influence of our dynastic city.” She raised an eyebrow. “And I am not so foolish as to cut the heart out of the army that protects my people. My Uncle Honorius made that mistake and has battled barbarians that Rome trained for the past eight years. Arians are still Christian, if unorthodox. We both believe Christ died for our sins.”

Smart girl, Ardaburius thought. I had feared you too bound to your orthodoxy to act with such pragmatism.

She turned to Ardaburius, as if reading his thoughts. “And you, General? Can you speak for yourself?”

“I have pledged my honor and my life to emperor and empire.” He bowed his head. “I will serve you faithfully in any capacity you command.”

“Good. These are your new assignments” She handed each of them a scroll, sealed with the emperor’s imprint. “Anatolius will command the Army in the East. You will each be given an army in the emperor’s presence. If you serve us well, there will be honors and rewards.” She looked directly at Plinta. “Possibly even a consulship.”

“There is no higher honor than guarding the city and the emperor.” Plinta bowed again.

“Thank you, Augusta. Your trust is all the honor I wish.” Ardaburius flashed a brief smile.

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Author Bio 

Faith L. Justice writes award-winning historical novels, short stories, and articles in Brooklyn, New York where she lives with her family and the requisite gaggle of cats. Her work has appeared in Salon.com, Writer’s Digest, The Copperfield Review, and many more publications. She is Chair of the New York City chapter of the Historical Novel Society, and Associate Editor for Space and Time Magazine. She co-founded a writer’s workshop many more years ago than she likes to admit. For fun, she digs in the dirt—her garden and various archaeological sites.

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Life in the Tudor court: A Minstrel’s Point of View by Karen Heenan

When I first started writing Songbird, far too many years ago, I didn’t know much about Tudor music—or the musicians, and the levels and hierarchies among them. What I did know was a fair amount about Henry VIII and his queens, and when I stumbled on the fact that Henry was such a music lover that he (at least) once bought a child to sing in the Chapel Royal choir, I knew I had to make something of it.

Things I learned while researching this book: there was more than one choir at the court of Henry VIII. There was the Chapel Royal choir, comprised of approximately two dozen men and boys. There was also the king’s private choir, which traveled with him on shorter progresses or when it was inconvenient to pack up the whole choir and take them along. Cardinal Wolsey also had an excellent choir, which Henry heard frequently enough that in 1518, he got jealous and stole a choirboy from him. This actually happened, and this character became Robin Lewis, who had a part in Songbird, and a whole book to himself in A Wider World.

Choristers didn’t just sing, though with multiple masses per day, that would have been enough to keep them busy. Many adult choristers played at least one instrument, and child choristers were persuaded to take up an instrument against the day when their voice changed and they might not be able to perform anymore. A child whose voice changed could continue on as a musician, in the hopes that his adult voice would be acceptable—either as a chorister or as a singer.

There were other musicians, as well, or I’d have never been able to find a place for my character, Bess, whose father sold her to the king. (I took the story of another child and reworked it to fit my purposes, but for readers of the book, Tom’s story is closest to what really happened).

Minstrels were more than just musicians, encompassing actors, acrobats, jugglers, storytellers, and dancers, all of which were welcome at Henry’s court, at all times. Having been confined to only two minstrels before he became Prince of Wales, Henry craved music. 

He was talented in his own right, and played multiple instruments, in addition to singing and composing music. It must have been difficult, to be a minstrel in the employ of such a man. That was actually a line I gave to William Cornysh, musician, composter, and Master of the Children of the Chapel Royal, when he first meets Bess and tells her of her new life at court.

“King Henry takes a keen interest,” Master Cornysh said. “His Majesty is more than competent on the lute and plays other instruments. He sings and writes music as well.” He raised a hand to smooth his thinning hair, then dropped it to the writing table, where it met and clasped his other hand. He looked at me earnestly. “In other words, if he were not a king, he would be a more than adequate minstrel. You must bear that in mind when performing. He knows your job as well as you ever shall.”

In addition to the minstrels, there was the King’s Music, a select group of the best musicians and singers at court, chosen to perform for the king. While they performed publicly in masques and court entertainments, and played in the gallery to entertain at court functions, they were also at the beck and call of their monarch, playing for the king and queen—and later, Anne Boleyn, when she gained access to the king’s resources—whenever the mood for music struck.

The Music traveled with the king, so they saw a good bit more of England than most court servants as the court relocated frequently so that palaces could be cleaned and freshened—and because Henry was home-improvement mad and always redoing his residences to make them match his own sense of grandeur. 

Henry did genuinely love music, but in addition to purchasing children, he acquired musicians in any way necessary, tempting them away from other monarchs with offers of money, prestige, and the lure of the exceptional instruments in the royal collection. The king with his bag of gold and an offer of unlimited employment would be difficult to resist.

It was a secure life, compared to some. A minstrel was unlikely to offend the king and lose their place, so as long as their talent continued to please, they would likely have a place at court for life.

As Bess says, at the end of Songbird, “What would we be without the court? We’re creatures of its making.”

Illustration 1: Minstrels at Hever Castle, Nikki Piggott, used with permission

Illustration 2: All Saints Church Choir, Wikipedia

Illustration 3: Hampton Court Palace Chapel, Wikimedia 

Songbird: The Tudor Court, Book I

By Karen Heenan

(Blurb) 

She has the voice of an angel...

But one false note could send her back to her old life of poverty.

After her father sells her to Henry VIII, ten-year-old Bess builds a new life as a royal minstrel, and earns the nickname "the king's songbird." 

She comes of age in the dangerous Tudor court, where the stakes are always high, and where politics, heartbreak, and disease threaten everyone from the king to the lowliest musician.

Her world has only one constant: Tom, her first and dearest friend. But when Bess intrigues with Anne Boleyn and strains against the restrictions of life at court, will she discover that the biggest risk of all is listening to her own stubborn heart?

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Narrated by Jennifer Summerfield

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Author Bio

Karen Heenan was born and raised in Philadelphia, PA. She fell in love with books and stories before she could read, and has wanted to write for nearly as long. After far too many years in a cubicle, she set herself free to follow her dreams—which include gardening, sewing, traveling and, of course, lots of writing.

She lives in Lansdowne, PA, not far from Philadelphia, with two cats and a very patient husband, and is always hard at work on her next book.

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The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tours present Thunder on the Moor by Andrea Matthews

  

Thunder on the Moor

 Thunder on the Moor - Book 1

Andrea Matthews

Publication Date: 30th October 2019

Publisher: Inez M. Foster

Page Length: 430 Pages

Genre: Historical Romance / Time-Travel

Blurb

 Maggie Armstrong grew up enchanted by her father’s tales of blood feuds and border raids. In fact, she could have easily fallen for the man portrayed in one particular image in his portrait collection. Yet when her father reveals he was himself an infamous Border reiver, she finds it a bit far-fetched—to say the least—especially when he announces his plans to return to his sixteenth century Scottish home with her in tow.

Suspecting it’s just his way of getting her to accompany him on yet another archaeological dig, Maggie agrees to the expedition, only to find herself transported four hundred and fifty years into the past. Though a bit disoriented at first, she discovers her father’s world to be every bit as exciting as his stories, particularly when she’s introduced to Ian Rutherford, the charming son of a neighboring laird. However, when her uncle announces her betrothal to Ian, Maggie’s twentieth-century sensibilities are outraged. She hardly even knows the man. But a refusal of his affections could ignite a blood feud.

Maggie’s worlds are colliding. Though she’s found the family she always wanted, the sixteenth century is a dangerous place. Betrayal, treachery, and a tragic murder have her questioning whether she should remain or try to make her way back to her own time.

To make matters worse, tensions escalate when she stumbles across Bonnie Will Foster, the dashing young man in her father’s portrait collection, only to learn he is a dreaded Englishman. But could he be the hero she’s always dreamed him to be? Or will his need for revenge against Ian shatter more than her heart?

Excerpt – Thunder on the Moor

They’d just crossed the Border when they stopped to water their horses. Maggie flopped down on the bank of a small burn and gave a weary yawn, but Alasdair stood erect, his eyes searching the fading darkness for any unusual movement. He may have only been sixteen years of age, but his demeanor made it clear he was already well aware of the dangers lurking beyond his own walls and had acquired a skill far beyond his years. With a sudden start, he grabbed Maggie’s arm, yanking her up sharply.

“We have to go . . . now!” But it was too late. Three slovenly looking men were upon them, their clothes torn and their long hair dirty and disheveled. “Broken men!” Alasdair whispered.

They were outlaws, men who no clan claimed as their own. Vicious men who gave allegiance to no one. Alasdair looked from one to the other, his sword held ready.  

“Stand firm, Maggie, and close behind me.”  

As if she might develop an urge to do anything else.

“Well, what have we here, laddie?” One of the men brushed the tip of his pike along Alasdair’s cheek.

“Two fine specimens of Scottish youth, I’d say.” The second man snickered, his voice cold and sinister as he came up beside Maggie. “And look, he’s set himself to protect his mistress.”

“Let’s see how fine a treasure he guards, eh.” The third one grabbed Maggie and pulled her to himself, causing all three creatures to cackle with laughter. 

“No!” Maggie screamed, forgetting everything her cousin had told her. A prisoner of her twentieth-century instincts, she lifted her knee and slammed the scoundrel in the groin, causing the stunned man to double over in pain.  

“Run, Maggie!” Alasdair yelled, his hand around her arm, tugging her from the outlaw’s grasp. 

For once, Maggie did just as she was told, sprinting away from the men. Her cousin followed close behind after slicing one of the villains across the face with his sword. She could hear his breath in the crisp night air, feel the gentle nudge of his hand against her shoulder. Then, all at once, he was gone.  

She stopped, frozen in her tracks, listening for any sign of their pursuers. But it all sounded so strange. No fire engines or car horns broke the silence, just the sound of nature . . . predawn’s nature.       

“Alasdair!” she whispered so low even the hushed tones of the breeze could be heard above her, but no answer came. What would she do? She dared not call out any louder for fear of her cries alerting the outlaws to her whereabouts. And she was no match for such men. Still, she needed to remain calm. It would do neither herself nor Alasdair any good if she panicked. Perhaps if she could make her way to the village. Someone there would be able to help her. Of course, that would mean she’d have to move.

Taking a deep breath, she inched her way forward, walking deeper into the forest, its moonlit path giving way to the blue-gray light of the approaching day. More than once, her heart nearly stopped when a twig snapped beneath her foot or a small creature scurried across the path. Breathless, her knees quivering beneath her linen petticoats, she closed her eyes and rested against the trunk of a large oak. The mist had grown heavy, and she could barely see what lay ahead, but she knew she had to move on, for she was determined to get help for her cousin.

It was all her fault, after all. If she hadn’t been so insistent on seeing Dylan, Alasdair would be safe at home, but now . . . She could hear harsh voices whispering off in the distance. What if they’d captured him? They would kill him for sure, just for the sport of it. 

Picking up her step, she continued down the moon-drenched path. Misty clouds danced before her, and their shadowy movements confused her senses, making it all the harder to stay on the narrow trail. Something wet crawled up her leg, but she held her breath to keep from screaming, for off in the distance she spied a shadow moving far too quickly to be the fog.

Knowing they might confront her again at any moment, she bent to pick up a stone, her hand trembling with such force she failed twice before securing a rather large one. 

“If ye ever be attacked, aim for the temple,” her father had instructed her. The memory of his steady voice calmed her enough to quell the nauseous ache in her stomach. She stood, lifting her chin in defiance. With her breath as still as a sleeping babe’s, she reached for a low-lying branch, hoping to get a better view. At least, she thought it was a branch until it grabbed her wrist and yanked her to the ground. A scream burst from her lips, and a strong hand covered her mouth, almost smothering her in the process. Squinting in the glow of a small, shuttered lantern, she made out a slender face. Behind him, sprawled unconscious on the soft moss-covered ground, lay Alasdair. 

Maggie’s eyes filled with fury as the man pressed his knee into her shoulder.  

“Be still, lass, elst I’ll break it in two,” he hissed. “I dinna wish to hurt ye, but I will if need be. I’m going to take me hand away now, aye.”

Though against her better judgment, Maggie did what she was told, her cousin’s words echoing deep within her consciousness. In truth, there remained little else she could do, given her current position. And at least this one didn’t reek of whisky, wet dogs, and urine. 

He turned his head to peer through the bushes, the faint light illuminating his features, and she bit her lip to keep from gasping. It was him: the young man in her father’s painting, the one she’d seen on the side of the road the day they’d arrived—the Foster lad.  

Alasdair groaned, and Foster turned back, holding his sword to her cousin’s throat.  

“Leave him alone, you thug.” Maggie couldn’t help herself. The words just seemed to pop out of her mouth. 

The young man smiled, the lantern light reflecting off those beautiful slate-blue eyes. “I told ye once, lass. I’m no’ of a mind to hurt ye, being ye do as I say. Now haud yer wheesht, would ye, elst ye’ll have the lot of them down on us.”

Maggie breathed a bit easier. Clearly, Mr. Foster, if indeed that was his name, didn’t belong to the band of broken men they’d just run into. And he didn’t seem inclined to rape her, though she still wasn’t sure about his intentions concerning her cousin.   

Alasdair stirred once more, but this time he opened his eyes. Spying the fair-haired young man who knelt over him, he gave a sudden start.  

“Calm yerself, Alasdair Armstrong,” Foster said. “I’ve nae intention of harming ye or yer lady, so long as ye speak true of yer reason for being here.”  

Maggie didn’t think it an unreasonable request, but much to her surprise, Alasdair spit in the young man’s face. Though the Englishman’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, he managed to retain his composure.  

“But for the lass, I’d run ye through here and now, Alasdair. Ye’re on Foster land, and I’d every right to do so.”

“Foster land!” Maggie gasped, unable to conceal her excitement.

“Aye, and what of it, lass?”      

The words had no sooner left his lips, than his body stiffened. His eyes grew wide, and his breath came in quick, shallow bursts.

At first, Maggie thought he’d taken a seizure of some sort, but when an obscure figure loomed above him, its identity lost in the shifting mist, she knew the young man’s reaction could mean only one thing. They’d been discovered.

This novel is available on #KindleUnlimited.

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Author Bio:

Andrea Matthews is the pseudonym for Inez Foster, a historian and librarian who loves to read and write and search around for her roots, genealogical speaking. In fact, it was while doing some genealogical research that she stumbled across the history of the Border reivers. The idea for her first novel came to mind almost at once, gradually growing into the Thunder on the Moor series. And the rest, as they say, is history…

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The Coffee Pot Book Club Tour presents Two Fatherlands (A Reschen Valley Novel Part 4) By Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

 Book Title: Two Fatherlands 

Series: The Reschen Valley Series (Part 4)

Author: Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

Publication Date: April 13, 2021

Publisher: Inktreks/Lucyk-Berger

Page Length: 636 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction (WW2)

Two Fatherlands 

(A Reschen Valley Novel Part 4)

By Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

It's a dangerous time to be a dissident...

1938. Northern Italy. Since saving Angelo Grimani's life 18 years earlier, Katharina is grappling with how their lives have since been entwined. Construction on the Reschen Lake reservoir begins and the Reschen Valley community is torn apart into two fronts - those who want to stay no matter what comes, and those who hold out hope that Hitler will bring Tyrol back into the fold.

Back in Bolzano, Angelo finds one fascist politician who may have the power to help Katharina and her community, but there is a group of corrupt players eager to have a piece of him. When they realise that Angelo and Katharina are joining forces, they turn to a strategy of conquering and dividing to weaken both the community and Angelo's efforts.

Meanwhile, the daughter Angelo shares with Katharina - Annamarie - has fled to Austria to pursue her acting career but the past she is running away from lands her directly into the arms of a new adversary: the Nazis. She goes as far as Berlin, and as far as Goebbels, to pursue her dreams, only to realise that Germany is darker than any place she's been before.

Angelo puts aside his prejudices and seeks alliances with old enemies; Katharina finds ingenious ways to preserve what is left of her community, and Annamarie wrests herself from the black forces of Nazism with plans to return home. But when Hitler and Mussolini present the Tyroleans with “The Option”, the residents are forced to choose between Italian and German nationhood with no guarantee that they will be able to stay in Tyrol at all!

Out of the ruins of war, will they be able to find their way back to one another and pick up the pieces?

This blockbuster finale will keep readers glued to the pages. Early readers are calling it, "...engrossing", "...enlightening" and "...both a heartbreaking and uplifting end to this incredible series!"

Buy Links: 

Universal Link:  Amazon: Barnes and Noble: Indigo: Kobo: iBooks: Mondadori: Angus & Robertson: 

Author Bio 

Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger is an American author living in Austria. Her focus is on historical fiction. She has been a managing editor for a magazine publishing house, has worked as an editor, and has won several awards for her travel narrative, flash fiction and short stories. She lives with her husband in a “Grizzly Adams” hut in the Alps, just as she’d always dreamt she would when she was a child.

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Introducing The Heron by Jean M. Roberts

The Heron 

By Jean M. Roberts

The past calls to those who dare to listen…

An invitation arrives; Abbey Coote, Professor of American Studies, has won an extended stay in an historic B&B, Pine Tree House. The timing is perfect. Abbey is recovering from an accident which left her abusive boyfriend dead and her with little memory of the event.

But her idyllic respite soon takes a terrifying turn. While exploring the house, Abbey comes face to face with Mary Foss, a woman dead for 350 years. Through a time/mind interface, Abbey experiences the horrors of Mary’s life, living at the edge of the civilized world in the 1690’s New England.

As Abbey faces her worst fears, she struggles to free them both from the past.

An Excerpt from The Heron

The automatic doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss; Abbey glided into a glorious New England afternoon. She lifted her face to a cloudless sky and inhaled, filling her lungs. There was a familiar briny tang to the air, not unlike the Gulf Coast, but the temperature was cool perfection. She trailed Jeremiah a short distance to a discreet black Mercedes sedan, thankful it was not a flashy stretch limo. The engine purred to life, and before she knew it they exited the compact airport and headed west. From the back seat, she caught glimpses of trees and water through the tinted glass. Her driver hummed a melodic tune under his breath. 

As the car sped across a large bridge, Jeremiah pointed to the left. “That’s Maine, just over the river. The Piscataqua. On the right, smack in the middle of the river, lies Goat Island. The finger of land that juts into Little Bay is Fox Point, named by the original settlers.” His eyes caught hers in the rear-view mirror. “We have to drive into the town of Durham to cross the Oyster River and head back in this direction.” 

Abbey nodded, half-listening to his commentary on the unfolding landscape. Traffic was light. They soon crossed a smaller bridge and turned onto a narrow tree-lined road. “Do you mind if I open the window?”

“No, go right ahead.” 

Abbey lowered the glass halfway; the sharp scent of pine teased her nose. She rested her head against the seat and smiled in pleasure. The vehicle slowed, veering onto a gravel drive. A quarter-mile later, the car burst free of the trees and rolled to a stop some distance from a range of buildings. 

“I thought you’d like to see the house from this vantage point.” Jeremiah exited the auto and opened her door. She refused his hand as she clambered out, excited for her first view. Her jaw dropped in amazement as she beheld the rambling building. It was austere and elegant, and she fell in love on sight. 

Jeremiah moved to her side. “Do you like it?”

She glanced over at him, surprised by the pride that wreathed his handsome face. “It’s fantastic.” It occurred to her; he was not just a driver. His pleased look piqued her curiosity. “Do you work here?”

He nodded in the affirmative. “Yes. I’m the chauffeur, chef, handyman and tour guide, rolled into one.”

“Humph. Good to know.” Abbey stifled a wicked grin and turned to give the house her full attention. The sun, on its western descent, bathed the gray, weathered timbers in a warm light which glinted off the water in the distance. The website photos failed to do the place justice. Two chimney stacks rose from opposite ends of the house with a third stack rising from the center. The home appeared to have evolved over the centuries. Abbey watched a curtain twitch in an upstairs diamond-paned window. She glimpsed a pretty face, framed by white-blond hair, another guest perhaps.

Jeremiah stood beside her and pointed at the house. “Do you see the box-shaped portion of the house in the middle? That’s the original family home with its central chimney stack.” Two gabled additions flanked either side with a small gabled porch added to the entrance. He pivoted his arm. “To the right is a modern garage and staff house. A barn stood here centuries ago; it burned in a fire. Over there is the summer kitchen, now a store room slash garden shed. The funky building on your left is the privy, built circa 1750.”

“A privy, what fun.” Abbey sniggered like a naughty schoolgirl. “When did you get indoor plumbing?”

“Who said we have?” Jeremiah replied, straight-faced, as they walked towards the entrance.

Abbey, her eyes fixated on the sprawling house, stumbled on an unseen pothole but caught herself before she fell. God, how embarrassing. As she raised her head, the scene before her wavered. The wings of the house melted away, leaving the original small wooden box standing alone. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney, climbing high into the deep blue sky. A strangled cry issued from her mouth. What the hell!

“Dr. Coote. Are you okay?” Abbey’s eyes flew over to her chauffeur, his face concerned. His hand hovered over her shoulder as if unsure if he should touch her. She blinked and shook her head; the world returned to normal. “Ah, yeah. Just a dizzy spell.” 

Marking it down to an overactive imagination, Abbey brushed off the incident and turned her attention to the view. Day lilies, in bloom, lined the walls of the outbuildings. Bright yellow flowers, bobbing in the warm breeze, softened their edges. The principal house stood unadorned as if it shunned unnecessary decorations, preferring its own stark elegance. 

As they approached the entrance, the front door opened, and a diminutive woman hurried outside, shielding her eyes from the glittering sun. A smile lit her face. “Doctor Coote, Welcome to Pine Tree House. I am Miriam Foss.”

Abbey edged forward and shook her hand. “Hello, Miriam. I’m thrilled to be here, but please, call me Abbey. This place is spectacular. I can’t wait to see the interior.” 

Her host moved aside and waved Abbey forward. She stepped across a thick slate slab, noting the ancient oak door with hand-wrought metal fixtures. A shiver of anticipation zipped up her spine as she crossed the threshold. The entrance hall was utilitarian, the well-worn floor the same gray material. A vintage coat rack occupied most of the gloomy space. Her jaw dropped as she entered the first room. “It’s like a time machine has transported me into the past. This is amazing.”

Miriam glowed at the praise; house proud. She paused next to the enormous hearth that filled an inside wall. “This is the oldest portion of the building, a first-period colonial house, constructed in 1658. A family of ten lived here.” She pointed up at the low-beamed ceiling, stained from centuries of smoke. “In its original state, it had a loft for storage and sleeping, the full second story came two decades later.” 

Abbey, admiring the antique furniture, ran a finger across a gleaming sideboard. A pewter vase held yellow and white wildflowers and lent a pop of vibrant color to the shadowy space. “Authentic?”

“It’s English, produced circa 1650. I won it at auction three years ago.” Her host moved to the center of the room, hands resting on a Windsor chair. “This beauty is American made, best guess around 1725. Would you care to see the rest of the house?”

 “I’d love to.” 

Miriam glanced back towards the entrance where Jeremiah waited with quiet patience. “Jeremiah, would you deliver Dr. Coote’s luggage to her suite, please?” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” He turned and disappeared. Abbey heard his footsteps recede as he climbed an unseen staircase. She followed Miriam, who entered the adjoining room, a mirror image in size and shape to the hall. Miriam flipped a hidden switch to illuminate the sunless chamber with recessed lights.

“This is the parlor. Here the family would display pewter dishes, silver cups, candlesticks and their finest linens. The parents slept here in the best bed, hung with the richest fabrics.”

With a tentative hand, Abbey reached out to touch the beautiful paneled wall. The tips of her fingers grazed the mellow pine boards. At once, the room darkened, only the flickering firelight illuminated the space. There was no fire. She shivered as a ribbon of icy air enveloped her. Abbey searched the gloom for her host. The sound of weeping filled the space; her spine crawled with dread. As Abbey’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, a woman appeared, her features obscured, crouched in the corner near the hearth. Bare-headed, her blond hair clung to her sweat-soaked face. Clad in a thin linen shift, a puddle of blood spread out around her bare feet. The hair on Abbey’s arms rose, her entire body tingled. She reared back in shocked surprise and sucked in her breath. Jesus Christ, what is happening?

Buy Links: Amazon UK • Amazon US

Author Bio: Jean M. Roberts

With a passion for history, author Jean M. Roberts is on a mission to bring the past to life. She is the author of three novels, WEAVE A WEB OF WITCHCRAFT, BLOOD IN THE VALLEY and THE HERON. After graduating from the University of St. Thomas, Jean served in the United States Air Force, she has worked as a Nurse Administrator and is currently writing full-time. She lives in Texas with her husband.

Connect with Jean: Website • Twitter • Instagram • Facebook

Paul Walker in promoting his fabulous audio book: State of Treason

 State of Treason

 Book 1, William Constable Spy Thrillers

Paul Walker

Narrator: Edward Gist

Publication Date: February 2021

Publisher: Audible Studios

Page Length: 317 pages

Genre: Historical Fiction

London, 1578

William Constable is a scholar of mathematics, astrology and practices as a physician. He receives an unexpected summons to the Queen’s spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham in the middle of the night. He fears for his life when he spies the tortured body of an old friend in the palace precincts.

His meeting with Walsingham takes an unexpected turn when he is charged to assist a renowned Puritan, John Foxe, in uncovering the secrets of a mysterious cabinet containing an astrological chart and coded message. Together, these claim Elizabeth has a hidden, illegitimate child (an “unknowing maid”) who will be declared to the masses and serve as the focus for an invasion.

Constable is swept up in the chase to uncover the identity of the plotters, unaware that he is also under suspicion. He schemes to gain the confidence of the adventurer John Hawkins and a rich merchant. Pressured into taking a role as court physician to pick up unguarded comments from nobles and others, he has become a reluctant intelligencer for Walsingham.

Do the stars and cipher speak true, or is there some other malign intent in the complex web of scheming?

Constable must race to unravel the threads of political manoeuvring for power before a new-found love and perhaps his own life are forfeit.

Buy Links:

Amazon 

Audio: Amazon UK • Amazon US  

This book can be read for free with #KindleUnlimited subscription. 

Author Bio:

Paul Walker is married and lives in a village 30 miles north of London. Having worked in universities and run his own business, he is now a full-time writer of fiction and part-time director of an education trust. His writing in a garden shed is regularly disrupted by children and a growing number of grandchildren and dogs.

Paul writes historical fiction. He inherited his love of British history and historical fiction from his mother, who was an avid member of Richard III Society. The William Constable series of historical thrillers is based around real characters and events in the late sixteenth century. The first three books in the series are State of Treason; A Necessary Killing; and The Queen’s Devil. He promises more will follow.

Website • Twitter • Facebook

The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour hosts Pied Piper by Keith Stuart,

 

Book Title: Pied Piper

Author: Keith Stuart

Publication Date: 1st March 2021

Publisher: LMP- Len Maynard Publishing

Page Length: 176 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction / WWII

Author Bio

Keith Stuart (Wadsworth) taught English for 36 years in Hertfordshire schools, the county in which he was born and has lived most of his life. Married with two sons, sport, music and, especially when he retired after sixteen years as a headteacher, travel, have been his passions. Apart from his own reading, reading and guiding students in their writing; composing assemblies; writing reports, discussion and analysis papers, left him with a declared intention to write a book. Pied Piper is ‘it’.  Starting life as a warm-up exercise at the Creative Writing Class he joined in Letchworth, it grew into this debut novel.

Pied Piper

By Keith Stuart

In September 1939 the British Government launched Operation Pied Piper. To protect them from the perils of German bombing raids, in three days millions of city children were evacuated - separated from their parents.

 This story tells of two families: one whose children leave London and the other which takes them in. We share the ups and downs of their lives, their dramas and tragedies, their stoicism and their optimism. But. unlike many other stories and images about this time, this one unfolds mainly through the eyes of Tom, the father whose children set off, to who knew where, with just a small case and gas mask to see them on their way

 This novel is free to read with #KindleUnlimited subscription.

 Amazon UK: Amazon US: Amazon CA: Amazon AU: 

 

Tony Riches has a New Release in his Elizabethan series!

 

ESSEX - Tudor Rebel

Book two of the Elizabethan Series

New from Tony Riches, Author of the best-selling Tudor Trilogy

Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, is one of the most intriguing men of the Elizabethan period. Tall and handsome, he soon becomes a ‘favourite’ at court, so close to the queen many wonder if they are lovers.

The truth is far more complex, as each has what the other yearns for. Robert Devereux longs for recognition, wealth and influence. His flamboyant naïveté amuses the ageing Queen Elizabeth, like the son she never had, and his vitality makes her feel young.

Robert Devereux’s remarkable true story continues the epic tale of the rise of the Tudors, which began with the best-selling Tudor trilogy and concludes with the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. 

Buy Links Amazon US Amazon UK

Tony Riches is a full-time UK author of best-selling Tudor historical fiction. He lives in Pembrokeshire, West Wales and is a specialist in the history of the Wars of the Roses and the lives of the early Tudors. Tony’s other published historical fiction novels include: Owen – Book One Of The Tudor Trilogy, Jasper – Book Two Of The Tudor Trilogy, Henry – Book Three Of The Tudor Trilogy, Mary – Tudor Princess, Brandon – Tudor Knight and The Secret Diary Of Eleanor Cobham. For more information about Tony’s books please visit his website tonyriches.com and his blog, The Writing Desk and find him on  Facebook and Twitter @tonyriches

As Part of The Coffee Pot Book Blog Tour I am delighted to host Virginia Crow and her book, The Year We Lived

 Book Title: The Year We Lived

Author: Virginia Crow

Publication Date: 10th April 2021

Publisher: Crowvus

Page Length: approx. 118,000 words – approx. 350 pages

Genre: Historical Fiction

The Year We Lived

 Virginia Crow

(Blurb)

It is 1074, 8 years after the fateful Battle of Hastings. Lord Henry De Bois is determined to find the secret community of Robert, an Anglo-Saxon thane. Despite his fervour, all his attempts are met with failure.

When he captures Robert’s young sister, Edith, events are set in motion, affecting everyone involved. Edith is forced into a terrible world of cruelty and deceit, but finds friendship there too.

Will Robert ever learn why Henry hates him so much? Will Edith’s new-found friendships be enough to save her from De Bois? And who is the mysterious stranger in the reedbed who can disappear at will?

A gripping historical fiction with an astonishing twist!

Buy Links:

Amazon UK • Amazon US • Amazon CA • Amazon AU • Barnes and Noble • Waterstones • Kobo • Smashwords • Crowvus

Author Bio:

Virginia Crow grew up in Orkney, using the breath-taking scenery to fuel her imagination and the writing fire within her. Her favourite genres to write are fantasy and historical fiction, sometimes mixing the two together such as her newly-published book "Caledon". She enjoys swashbuckling stories such as the Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas and is still waiting for a screen adaption that lives up to the book!

When she's not writing, Virginia is usually to be found teaching music, and obtained her MLitt in "History of the Highlands and Islands" last year. She believes wholeheartedly in the power of music, especially as a tool of inspiration. She also helps out with the John O'Groats Book Festival which is celebrating its 3rd year this April.

She now lives in the far flung corner of Scotland, soaking in inspiration from the rugged cliffs and miles of sandy beaches. She loves cheese, music and films, but hates mushrooms.

Social Media Links:

Website • Twitter • Facebook • Instagram • Publisher • BookBub • Amazon Author Page • Goodreads

The Coffee Pot Book Blog Tour spotlighting Toni Mount's latest release, The Colour of Evil

 

Book Title: The Colour of Evil

Series: The Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mysteries

Author: Toni Mount

Publication Date: 25 March 2021

Publisher: Madeglobal.com

Page Length: 334 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction / Mystery

The Colour of Evil

Toni Mount

(Blurb)

‘The Colour of Evil’

Every Londoner has money worries, and talented artist and some-time sleuth, Seb Foxley, is no exception.

When fellow craftsmen with debts to pay are found dead in the most horrid circumstances, fears escalate. Only Seb can solve the puzzles that baffle the authorities.

Seb’s wayward elder brother, Jude, returns unannounced from Italy with a child-bride upon his arm. Shock turns to dismay when life becomes more complicated and troubles multiply.

From counterfeit coins to deadly darkness in London's worst corners. From mysterious thefts to attacks of murderous intent, Seb finds himself embroiled at every turn. With a royal commission to fulfil and heartache to resolve, can our hero win through against the odds? 

Share Seb Foxley’s latest adventures in the filthy streets of medieval London, join in the Midsummer festivities and meet his fellow citizens, both the respectable and the villainous.

 Excerpt from The Colour of Evil

Mallard Court in Grace Church Street (pp. 64-67)

The vintner, Clement Mallard, lived in a grand place further up Grace Church Street, opposite the Leadenhall. Guy Linton’s premises had impressed me but this establishment was close kin to Crosby Place, where the Duke of Gloucester resided when in London. I recalled that it had also been built for a wealthy merchant, the grocer John Crosby. Clement Mallard could likewise afford a similar fine house, with its grand gated entrance into a paved courtyard and marble steps leading up to the great hall beyond. It was as well that I be familiar with Crosby Place, else I may have felt intimidated by Mallard Court.

I followed Guy – apparently we were upon such terms now that the use of first-names was permitted – up the steps, into the hall. I remained somewhat behind him, posing as his humble assistant. Thus was I laden like a pack-horse, carrying the offending portrait and a good deal of artist’s paraphernalia besides my own scrip. I disliked this subterfuge more with each passing minute. 

‘You’re late, Linton,’ Mallard growled by way of greeting. ‘And who’s this?’ The vintner waved his hand vaguely in my direction, frowning. ‘I don’t want anybody coming here, uninvited. You know that.’

‘Ignore him, Master Mallard. He’s only my assistant. I needed help, carrying my stuff, is all.’ Thus, Linton introduced me. ‘Set up the easel, brushes and pigments there, by the fireplace,’ he instructed me, ‘And then sit out of the way, behind my line of sight, and keep silent. Don’t disturb me at my work.’

I made no answer. The reply that sprang to mind was not of a suitably servile nature but I did as bidden. I sat just behind and to the left of Guy, such that I might view the sitter from the same angle, taking out my charcoal and cheap papers ready pinned to my drawing board in such wise as not to attract the vintner’s eye. I had commenced my first sketch afore Guy had even settled the half-painted portrait upon the easel and dipped his brush.

The subject had little to recommend it. A true likeness would not be one that any but the blind could possibly take pleasure in gazing at. I should not want it hung upon my wall. That expression would turn ale sour and set children wailing. In truth, the physical features were of common proportions – not as Guy had painted them – and naught out of the ordinary, topped by thinning grey hair. But the eyes held such malevolence as I had ne’er espied in any other. If the eyes be the windows of the soul, as we be told, then this one must surely be beyond saving, belonging to Satan already. I was hard pressed not to cross myself. Suspicious brows were drawn low over these twin pools of darkness, as though to keep their secrets hidden. Even as I drew them, I shivered. Creating their likeness chilled me. 

The skin had an unhealthy, jaundiced hue – Guy had painted that aright; it was not wholly caused by light reflecting from the golden curtains – and lay upon the bones beneath like a creased bed sheet. Every line bore the mark of ill-humour. These were not the characterful wrinkles of old age but the deep-scoured imprints of malice and spite. It was hard to gauge this sitter’s age at all but the gnarled fingers, contorted by swollen joints, suggested three score years, or thereabouts, at least. 

But, as Master Collop used to instruct: I drew what I saw; five minutes of worthwhile observation giving birth to a few lines of exactitude. In a short space, I had the sketches required of the sitter and tucked my board away in my scrip, out of sight, glad to turn my eyes to more pleasing views.

The parlour at Mallard Court was well appointed. A gilded ceiling looked to be well constructed and I noted the carving on the beams of what I first thought to be a skein of geese in flight. But no. Of course, they were ducks: mallards, a play upon the vintner’s name. The fireplace was surrounded by a carven mantle and here, too, images of ducks outnumbered all else. I had ne’er considered these birds to be evil creatures. My son loved to watch them swimming on the water of the Horse Pool and they gave me pleasure also, admiring the iridescent plumage of the drakes, their determined waddling gait upon land. Yet these ducks looked to thirst for blood. I turned away to gaze out the window. I was becoming over-fanciful, imagining such foolish things as ill-intentioned ducks.     

When Guy breathed a heavy sigh and turned to me, holding out his brushes, indicating that I – being but his lowly assistant – should clean them, the vintner pushed out of his cushioned chair.  

‘Show me the portrait,’ he demanded. ‘I have waited long enough to see your handiwork, Linton. I will see it – now!’

‘No, no, Master Mallard.’ Guy threw a cloth over the portrait, despite the likelihood that the last strokes of egg tempera were yet wet. ‘’Tis ill-luck to see it in its unfinished state.’

‘Who says so?’

‘’Tis a well-known fact, I assure you. Isn’t that right?’ Guy looked at me, his desperation clear.

‘I have heard it said,’ was all I would offer in support.

‘Next time, it will be finished, master, then you can view it as you wish. I promise you.’

Master Mallard muttered to himself, glaring at Guy.

‘Next time, then, and woebetide you, Linton, if it’s not finished. I’ve wasted enough time on this damned porterate business. I have more important matters to attend to.’ With that, he stomped out of the parlour, leaving us to clear and tidy away the materials and equipment. We had not been offered so much as a cup of water and the chamber had grown stuffy and over-warm as the afternoon sun poured through the glazed windows. In truth, with the need for subterfuge ended, I stood back and watched Guy pack up his things. Every craftsman has his own way of it, I told my conscience; better if he does it himself. Indeed, he ‘tidied’ his things much in the manner of his workshop – that is to say, in careless wise, with no thought to ensuring his brush-ends would dry in goodly shape nor securing his pigment pots to preserve the precious powders. E’en so, I helped him carry his stuff back down Grace Church Street to his house where he had manners enough to offer me ale. 

Praise for Colour of Evil:

Samantha Willcoxson, author & historian: “Toni Mount is simply brilliant. If you love CJ Sansom’s Matthew Shardlake – and I do – you will love Toni’s Sebastian Foxley. From learning how a 15th century scrivener created illuminated manuscripts to venturing within the dank tunnels beneath the Tower of London, Toni is an artist who completely immerses the reader in another time and place and always leaves one eager for the next book.”

Stephanie Churchill, author of historical fiction and epic fantasy:“Leave it to Seb to unravel another international spiderweb of intrigue, betrayal, murder, and deceit. Our flawed, loveable hero has done it again. And at the end of it all, his future is looking brighter than ever. I cannot wait to find out what happens to him next!”

Sharon Bennet Connoly, author and medieval historian: “A beautifully crafted mystery that brings the dark, dangerous streets of medieval London to life. Toni Mount is a magician with words, weaving a captivating story in wonderful prose. The Colour of Evil is, to put it simply, a pleasure to read.” 

Kathryn Warner, medieval historian and author of numerous books about the fourteenth century, including biographies of Edward II and Isabella of France: “The ninth instalment of Toni Mount's popular Seb Foxley series is sure to delight Seb's many fans. Mount puts her deep knowledge of late medieval England to good use once again, and takes us on another exciting adventure, this time with Seb's older brother Jude, returned from Italy, in tow. Mount's detailed world-building, as always, brings fifteenth-century London to life.” 

Buy Links:

Available to read FREE with Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon UK: Amazon US: Amazon CA: Amazon AU: Amazon IT: Barnes and Noble: Waterstones: 

Author Bio: Toni Mount

Toni Mount earned her Master’s Degree by completing original research into a unique 15th-century medical manuscript. She is the author of several successful non-fiction books including the number one bestseller, Everyday Life in Medieval England, which reflects her detailed knowledge in the lives of ordinary people in the Middle Ages. Toni’s enthusiastic understanding of the period allows her to create accurate, atmospheric settings and realistic characters for her Sebastian Foxley medieval murder mysteries. Toni’s first career was as a scientist and this brings an extra dimension to her novels. It also led to her new biography of Sir Isaac Newton. She writes regularly for both The Richard III Society and The Tudor Society and is a major contributor of online courses to MedievalCourses.com. As well as writing, Toni teaches history to adults, coordinates a creative writing group and is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association.

Social Media Links:

Website:  Website: Twitter:  Facebook:  Instagram: Amazon Author Page: Goodreads:  Fantastic Fiction: