Christmas Giveaway!

It is Christmas! and I am happy to offer two paperback copies of Sisters of Arden, hot off the presses. All you need do is comment below on why you'd like to be one of the winners and your name will be entered into a draw. Please share on social media.

Arden Priory has remained unchanged for almost four hundred years. When a nameless child is abandoned at the gatehouse door, the nuns take her in and raise her as one of their own.

As Henry VIII’s second queen dies on the scaffold, the embittered King strikes out, and unprecedented change sweeps across the country. The bells of the great abbeys fall silent, the church and the very foundation of the realm begins to crack.

Determined to preserve their way of life, novitiate nuns Margery and Grace join a pilgrimage thirty thousand strong to lead the heretic king back to grace.

Sisters of Arden is a story of valour, virtue and veritas.

Excerpt from Sisters of Arden

1537 - Yorkshire

We run, heads down through the darkness, away from the cries of our dying friends and the sickening thud of their falling bodies.

Ducking through a garden gate, I cast about for a hay store or a tangle of bushes that might conceal us. Grabbing her wrist, I pull Frances into a briar patch, the thorns snagging and tearing at our robes and limbs. As we crouch in the dark, she trembles and wipes her wet cheeks on my sleeve. I can just distinguish her bone-white face and the stark terror in her eyes, and I am sickened with guilt that I have led her to this. Her life is now forfeit to my mistaken conviction that simple folk can make a difference.

I grope for God in the faithless void of my mind, begging that the king’s men grow tired of the hunt and ride away, back to their warm hearths, their laden tables, and their fragrant, sinful wives. Frances’ teeth begin to rattle, her breath faltering as her courage dwindles. I give her a gentle shake and put a warning finger against her lips, beseeching her to be silent, to be brave for just a little longer.

As the stealthy hooves draw closer to our hiding place, we hold our breath, sinking deeper into the undergrowth when he halts just a little way above our heads. The dank aroma of rotting vegetation rises; the tang of frost tickles my nose and pinches my toes. Frances trembles so violently it is indistinguishable from the juddering of my own body. I fumble for prayer, nausea washing over me as I fail to recall a single one.

 A creak of harness as the rider shifts in his saddle. I cannot see him but when the horse snorts, in my mind’s eye his breath mists the darkness, rising wraith-like in the night. I can feel the rake of the man’s gaze as he searches, seeking out our hiding place. My lungs strain fit to burst, my chest is aching, and I am ready to relinquish my freedom for just one blessed breath. The horse stirs, turns and moves away, and we fill our lungs with fresh damp air. We clutch hands as the vague hope of escape returns.

Then noise erupts with a harsh yelp. A hound is loosed and, with a furious growl, it crashes through the hedge. As I fall backward, I glimpse a lolling tongue, and yellow eyes stare briefly into mine; cold, murderous eyes. Frances’ scream shatters the night as the jaws clamp down upon her wrist.

“Let go! Let go!” I strike out with my bare feet, feeling the crack of bony ribs beneath a silken coat. The hound yelps but holds on fast, screaming aloud as I kick out again, hammering his head with my heels. The air fills with a confusion of hooves, screaming women, and triumphant male laughter as they lay hands upon us. As they drag me to my feet, Frances gives a loud unintelligible sound that breaks my heart.

“Please,” I beg, as my hands are wrenched behind me and roughly held. “We are nuns from Arden. My sister has done nothing. Take me, but … let Sister Frances go – she ... she doesn’t understand.”

A white dagger of agony flashes through my skull as my captor clouts me around the ear. My head rings and my vision blurs. Through a fog of pain, I realise they are hauling Frances from the ground, dragging us both rudely forward.

“Hold them,” the man on the horse orders, and their grip tightens as he slides from his saddle, hawks and spits on the ragged skirts of my habit before slowly unfurling a rope from his belt.

 The knots are tight about my wrists; my hands are numb. I cry out as the horse jolts forward and, tethered to the saddle, all we can do is follow him. Agonisingly, we retrace our route back the way we have come, through the hamlets and homesteads that earlier offered us shelter.

Our cause is lost. Our peaceful mission to bring England back to the true church has failed; doomed by the promises of a false king. In the lightening dawn, the slack-limbed, sightless bodies of those who aided us sway as we pass. The voiceless, lifeless men, women and children who dared to share our questioning of the king’s wisdom gape blindly at our passing.

 We will join them soon; our useless lives cut short, our fruitless existence ended in ignominy.

My throat grows tight. How have we come to this?

Paperback will be available on Amazon very soon. Also available on kindle

Merry Christmas Everybody!

mybook.to/sistersofarden
www.judithmarnopp.com
author.to/juditharnoppbooks

The Joy of Book Fairs

Christoph Fischer and Me 

I attended my first book fair on Saturday. I have been to Christmas Fairs before and I attend Raglan Castle’s annual Tudor Weekend in the summer where I sell lots of books and meet readers and re-enactors but this was my first proper venture into the world of Book Fairs.

I am a very shy person. I thought I might feel like an amateur. I thought it might be ‘clicky’ or my elaborate Tudor style table layout wouldn’t be appropriate for this type of event. Happily, I was wrong. It was a lovely day.

I had only met two of the other authors previously, and a handful were as yet unseen Facebook contacts; the rest were strangers. I don’t usually like strangers. But now, after Saturday’s book fair, they are friends. More than one confessed to also being nervous and uncertain of what was expected, and this sharing of confidence made me realise that other authors are nothing to be afraid of. They are just ordinary people with stories to share.

We were all brought together by the tireless efforts of Christoph Fischer, a prolific author himself, who provides unflagging support of his fellows. The moment we arrived and began to set up our tables a sort of camaraderie emerged. We helped carry boxes, borrowed tablecloths, admired one another’s posters, peeped between the covers of each other’s books. With so much in common, I knew right away it was going to be a good day.

There were talks. I kicked off with a talk about Tudor portraits. After having made comprehensive prompt notes to help me along, I then forgot my reading glasses and couldn’t read a word. I need not have worried. I realised I would just have to ‘wing it’ and the audience was patient and brilliantly supportive. They offered up intelligent, interesting questions for me to answer about the Tudors. In fact, in the end we ran over the allotted time and some of them joined me at my book table afterwards to continue the discussion.

There were workshops from Judith Barrow (author of the Patterns Trilogy) and Sharon Tregenza who writes children’s fiction. Wendy Steele, author of what she describes as 'fantasy with a dollop of magic,' gave a talk on Fantasy and Magical Realism. Carol Lovekin read from her new release Ghostbird, and Julie McGowan read from Don’t Pass Me By. I was delighted to meet Thorne Moore, whose atmospheric books I really enjoy. At the table near mine was Rebecca Bryn. The evening before I’d started reading her book, The Silence of the Stones, although I’d no idea she would be attending.

There were many, many more authors present, too many to mention in detail but the fair provided something for everyone, all literary tastes catered for.

A steady stream of visitors kept the day interesting. I had many stimulating conversations, gained some news readers and met readers who have been following me since my early days. For me, the most thrilling person to come to my stall and buy my books was a young girl. I don’t know her name but she was no more than twelve, and she reminded me of myself at that age. When her mother handed her the books she purchased, she clutched them to her chest and spoke shyly but with great passion of her love of history. It is always nice to meet a kindred spirit. I told her I’d begun writing when I was her age and hope she went away encouraged to begin to write her own.

To boost our flagging energy local food outlet Iechyd da kept us topped up with tea and coffee and some rather delicious cake. We could not have done without them.

This morning I learned that the Llandeilo Book Fair was so successful, another has been booked for 10^th December 2016 – hope to see you there.

www.juditharnopp.com

author.to/juditharnoppbooks