Excerpt Thursday: WHITER PASTURES by Xina Marie Uhl

This week, we're pleased to welcome author Xina Marie Uhl with her latest release, WHITER PASTURES (Icebound series). Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story. Here's the blurb about the novelette.

A romantic novelette in the Icebound series, an ongoing collection of polar delights.

Behold dogsleds and penguins. Howling winds and cold, pitiless wastes. This is Antarctica, where the intrepid inhabitants of the frozen ends of the earth battle the terrain, and each other, to find love—in a past much like that of the  early 1900s. 

Reluctant spinster Florance Barton fled to the British Antarctic base to escape a scandalous love affair. Amidst the handful of other women there, Florance is the perfect chambermaid, meek, mild, and forgettable. No one has a clue that she’s also a novice spy. 

When handsome young Handy McHanagan arrives at the base, he sets everyone agog. He’s charming, artistic, and ... an accomplished gardener. His arrival may be a mistake on the part of naval command. Or is it something more sinister?

Killer seals and subzero ice storms and aren’t the only danger in Antarctica: a enemy spy is on the loose. Florance has been ordered to choose between queen and country and her heart. Because penguin is off the menu now—and murder is its replacement.

Get your copy:

Ebook (Amazon: Kindle Unlimited or $1.49 purchase price)
XC Publishing / ISBN-13: 978-1-930805-91-0 / 41 pages
Author website / Amazon book page / Goodreads book page

**An Excerpt from WHITER PASTURES**

A Novelette

Hope Bay, Antarctica, 1900

The coal pan in the bottom of the heater had jammed again. Florance had tried all of her usual fixes—shoving it in further and yanking it out quickly, shimmying it from side to side, and wedging the metal handle of her favorite scrub brush in it to pry it open—but nothing would work.

"Must you make such a racket, girl?" Electa's voice somehow managed to communicate boredom, disdain, and irritation all at once. She didn't bother looking up from her typewriter but continued to pluck the keys one by one, hunting and pecking for each as if she were a particularly choosy hen searching for the perfect piece of corn.

Florance gritted her teeth. Electa knew her name—Florance had informed her of it on at least three separate occasions—but she couldn't be bothered to call her anything other than girl. When she deigned to speak to her at all, that is.

It vexed Florance that people insisted upon referring to her as a girl when eternal spinsterhood was drawing ever nearer at twenty-nine years of age. Florance knew the reason for it, though. She was a rather quiet person, not a stupid one. The help always had to scurry hither and thither, seen but not heard, while the decent people carried on with the important work. The ability to be invisible was the very thing that had brought her to this frozen base to begin with, after all.

With a discordant screech, the coal pan slid free, unbalancing Florance so that she landed squarely on her bustle. Coal dust puffed up in a cloud around her. She sneezed. Electa rolled her kohl-lined, brilliantly blue eyes in exasperation.

"Sorry, Mum," Florance mumbled before she could stop herself. She was trying not to mewl so much. It's just that her mouth sometimes functioned apart from her intentions.

Florance patted coal dust off her once-white apron, tucked that frizzy errant piece of hair back into her bun, and slipped on her trusty leather gloves before hurrying outside to the coal bin.

A gale had ended late last night, and this morning was clear and eye-wateringly bright, as usual. The atmosphere down here seemed thinner and drier than back in dreary old England, and she had never quite gotten used to it. Workmen hauled cordage and secured lines while scientists checked the weather station for readings and polished and oiled the delicate motors, instruments, and generators that had to be maintained at all cost. At the coal bin, she swept aside the powdery white snow covering it with a few abrupt motions. Thank heavens it came easily, unlike in the dead of winter when it was often necessary to bring a sharp iron stake and a hammer to remove the solid glistening mass.

As she scooped coal out of the bin and into the pail, a bitch trotted by, three half-grown pups following in single file. Dunderwaffle must have left the kennel doors open again. This summation was supported by the sight of two male dogs snarling at one another mere yards away, hackles raised and eyes alight with malice. She had been in the line of fire of fighting mongrels once before and had suffered a nasty ankle bite as a result.

"Get!" she shouted. She lobbed several good-sized chunks of coal at them. The smaller of the two danced off, ears flattened against his skull. The other, a black husky with unsettling yellow eyes, stood his ground, looking directly at her with teeth bared. Refusing to give in to the impulse to shrink back, she shouted louder and stepped toward him. "Go away!"

His canines shone white and fierce in the sunlight, but he slunk back before turning and trotting away as if that had been his intention all along.

"Menace," she accused under her breath.

With an awkward swing, she hefted the heavy pail of coal and made her way back to the Commandant's office to finish loading the heater.

She had gone no more than a dozen yards when suddenly, the weight of the pail vanished.

"Let me help you with that, miss," said a warm, strong male voice.

"Oh!" Florance squeaked. "Why, thank you, sir."

A flash of white teeth and a cheerful grin. Lively brown eyes met hers.

"My pleasure, you can be sure." He gave a slight bow. "Handy McHanagan at your service."

Did she detect a bit of a brogue? Heavens alive! Her heart fluttered like a bird caught in a trap.

She nodded. "Miss Florance Barton. So pleased to make your acquaintance."

As they walked, she stole glances at him. Younger than her, most probably. A foot taller, at least. Thick, dark hair neatly combed back around a zigzagging side part, and underneath, a face that she found utterly, completely, transformatively gorgeous in all ways, amen. She tried to control her burgeoning excitement. He must have arrived on this morning's ship. Certainly, she would have recognized him otherwise.

On the steps of the administration building, he paused, looking out at the post as men scurried about hatless and in shirtsleeves. At twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit, she was practically sweating herself.

A vaguely troubled expression flattened his lips. "I was sure it would be different here."

"In what way, sir?"

His eyes flickered to hers, and he gave a rueful smile. "Greener."

She didn't understand for a moment. Out here, green was for tinned vegetables and putrefying wounds, nothing else. Then she realized what he meant.

"Goodness, not another one! No one told you that you were headed to Hope Bay and not Hope Cay?"

He expelled air from his nostrils as he shook his head.

"And that Hope Bay lay in Antarctica?"

"Australia . . . Antarctica. They sound a bit alike."

No, love, she thought, they most certainly don't.

"If it's any consolation, you're not the first to have made that same mistake."

"I'm afraid I need a bit more than consolation right now." He looked rather crestfallen about the whole situation.

Well, he certainly wouldn't find that inside the administrative building. Quite the opposite, instead. But she kept her opinions to herself. 

About the Author

Xina Marie Uhl spends her days laboring in obscurity as a freelance writer for educational projects and dreaming of ways to scrounge up enough cash to: 1. travel the world, and 2. add to her increasing menagerie of dogs, cats, and other creatures. The rest of the time she writes fantasy, romance, historical fiction, and humor. She is the author of fantasy novel Necropolis, a collection of fantasy short stories called The Ruling Elite and Other Stories (with Janet Loftis), A Fairy Tail and Out of the Bag, a collection of humorous fantasy stories, and finally The Cat’s Guide to Human Behavior, a humorous self-help manual for cats struggling to understand their humans.

You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, and WordPress, where she writes about historical research, writing, and whatever strikes her fancy. Join her occasional newsletter for character artwork, exclusive fiction, and up-to-date news on the release of her fantasy novel, The King’s Champion, and other projects.

Excerpt Thursday: NONE OF US THE SAME by Jeffrey K. Walker

This week, we're pleased to welcome author JEFFREY K. WALKER with his latest release, NONE OF US THE SAME (Sweet Wine of Youth, Volume 1). One lucky winner will receive a copy of the novel in Kindle format. Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the series. Here's the blurb about the novel.

Fiery Deirdre Brannigan had opinions on everything. She certainly hated the very idea of war in 1914. Childhood pals Jack Oakley and Will Parsons thought it a grand adventure with their friends. But the crushing weight of her guilty conscience pushes Deirdre to leave Ireland and land directly in the fray. Meanwhile the five friends from Newfoundland blithely enlist. After all, the war couldn’t possibly last very long… 

They learn quickly how wrong they are and each is torn apart by the carnage in France.

What began with enthusiastic dreams of parades and dances with handsome young soldiers turned into long days and nights in the hospital wards desperately trying to save lives. And for the good and decent young men in fine new uniforms aching to prove themselves worthy on the field of battle, the horrors of war quickly descended.

But it is also the war which brings them together. Deirdre’s path crosses with Jack and Will when they’re brought to her field hospital the first day of the slaughter on the Somme. Their lives part, their journeys forward fraught with physical and emotional scars tossing them through unexpected and often painful twists and turns. But somehow, a sliver of hope, love and redemption emerges. And their paths cross again in St. John’s.

When the guns finally fall silent, can Deirdre overcome her secret demons through a new life with battered Jack? Can shell-shocked Will confront his despotic father’s expectations to become the man his young family deserves?

**An Excerpt from NONE OF US THE SAME**

Chapter One — Deirdre

The old one in the last bed had riled them again. One of the trainees, impossibly young in a stiff white pinafore, stood pleading and wide-eyed. "I can't bathe Mr. Duffy again, Sister! He…he…touches his…his…nether parts when he sees me comin' with the towel and basin," said the girl, struggling out her careful words in unconcealed mortification. Only the good Lord Himself knew what the Daughters of Charity would make of this poor girl's conundrum. But Deirdre Brannigan was a lay nurse, not that it eased the suffering of the trainee standing before her burning with embarrassment.

"Fetch a friend or two who can hold his arms while you bathe him. 'Tis hard enough keeping everyone and everything clean without your delicate sensibilities aggravating the situation," Deirdre said with mild scolding, calm in the fretting storm.

“I've… I've tried that," the trainee said, two others vouching the truth of her timid protest with vigorous nods. "His… manhood still becomes… quite… tall… anyways. And he likewise leers at me in a most distressin' manner." An unsettling murmur rippled across the clustered trainees, tinged with an edge of mutiny. Deirdre knew she must nip this.

"Ladies," she began with deliberate sternness, as if she were not just a few years clear of training herself, "let us be mindful this is a charity hospital with a mission to care for the least fortunate of our Lord's children with kindness and understanding."  She sucked at her cheeks a little, checking a smile that rose from her unintentional imitation of Sister Mary Evangeline. Deirdre soldiered on, channeling the formidable matron. "If our Blessed Mother could bear the pain and sorrow of kneeling by the cross of her precious Son, I would hope and pray you can muster the strength to endure the sight of an addled old man's… nether part. Regardless of its height."  She stared down each trainee, ending with the complainant, who burst into loud sobs.

"Bridget, you're made of sterner stuff. Dry your eyes and blow your nose now." She handed her an immaculate handkerchief, speaking quietly and taking the poor girl aside. "Come along. I’d a few tricks from the sisters when I was a trainee myself. I'll entrust them to you, for use with present and future Mr. Duffys." She turned and gave a backward nod and scowl, signaling the stricken girl should follow and stop her sniffling.

As the two women approached Mr. Duffy's bedside, he was gleaming with lurid anticipation. Running a purple tongue over cracked lips, he reached under the bedclothes and rubbed himself with surprising vigor given his decrepitude. Deirdre, terse and businesslike, pulled his arms over the blanket. "These will remain in plain sight, Mr. Duffy, or I'll have the porters bathe you with lye and the dandy brush from the horses." He fell into an offended silence, shocked by her unexpected bluntness.

After pulling the nightshirt over his head, Deirdre commenced bathing the spent old man, his mind half gone from decades of drink, running a soapy sponge over the yellowed skin of his sunken chest and spindle arms. She handed over the sponge to Bridget for washing his other side. Half done, they pulled the sheet back over his chest, then folded it back from his lower body, leaving him exposed upon the bed. A crooked grin crept across the old man's toothless gob, his withered penis rising from the greasy grey pubic hair. Bridget gave a short gasp and began a turn that Deirdre froze with an icy glance. Drawing a wooden tongue depressor from the pocket of her apron, Deirdre bent it back and thwacked the old man's withered scrotum.

"Aggghhh! Y’are a right demon bitch, y'are! Damn ya to hell, woman!" the old man yelped. He curled on his side, both arms shoved between his legs.

Deirdre turned to Bridget and said, clear and even, "You can finish bathing Mr. Duffy now. He'll be giving no more trouble this day." Not taking her eyes from the old man, she handed the tongue depressor with dignified ceremony to Bridget and said, "I recommend liberal use until such time as he learns to act proper at bath time."

Bridget would share her secret with the others before the hour was out, so Deirdre hoped. She walked back down the double line of beds filled by broken men with a litany of illnesses. Some would soon be back to their poverty and filth. Others would pass to their reward here—perhaps tonight, maybe in a week or a month.

As she reached the day room, the door flew open and trainees flushed out in their identical uniforms, like schoolgirls off to summer holiday. Deirdre halted one by the arm and asked, "What's all the caterwaulin' here? You'll disturb the patients with your silliness."

"'Tis war! Have you not heard, Sister? We're to fight the Germans!" The girl's eyes were wide and wild with anticipation of parades and dances and handsome young soldiers in fine uniforms. She knew the girl had every reason to be thrilled, young as she was. She released her, the girl scampering down the corridor to join with her friends in their jubilation.

In the now deserted room, Deirdre could hear the bells of Dublin—Catholic, Protestant, no matter—commencing to sound. First just the one, probably St. Patrick’s, this side of the Liffey, a few blocks away. Then another, more distant than the first. Likely the Pro Cathedral off Sackville Street, the Catholics joining from the other side. Soon enough, every church in the city added its peal. Above the din, she could make out cheering, a crowd already gathering on St. Stephen's Green. Deirdre stared down from her window, scowling at the burgeoning celebration on the Green below. Speaking to no one, maybe everyone, she muttered into the antiseptic air, under the crescendo of bells.

"Those stupid, stupid old men. What have they gone and done to us now?”

Buy None of Us the Same at: http://amzn.to/2qvJSJm

Learn more about author Jeffrey K. Walker

Website: http://jeffreykwalker.com/ 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jeffreykwalker 
Instagram: https://instagram.com/jkwalker.author 
Twitter: @jkwalkerAuthor

Excerpt Thursday: SUMMERWODE by J Tullos Hennig

This week, we're pleased to welcome author J TULLOS HENNIG with SUMMERWODE, from the Books of the Wode series. One lucky winner will receive a copy of the novel in e-book format. Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the series. Here's the blurb about the novel.

The Summer King has come to the Wode...

Yet to which oath, head or heart, shall he hold?

Once known as the Templar assassin Guy de Gisbourne, dispossessed noble Gamelyn Boundys has come to Sherwood Forest with conflicted oaths. One is of duty: demanding he tame the forest’s druidic secrets and bring them back to his Templar Masters. The other oath is of heat and heart: given to the outlaw Robyn Hood, avatar of the Horned Lord, and the Maiden Marion, embodiment of the Lady Huntress. The three of them—Summerlord, Winter King, and Maiden of the Spring—are bound by yet another promise, that of fate: to wield the covenant of the Shire Wode and the power of the Ceugant, the magical trine of all worlds. In this last, also, is Gamelyn conflicted; spectres of sacrifice and death haunt him.

Uneasy oaths begin a collision course when not only Gamelyn, but Robyn and Marion are summoned to the siege of Nottingham by the Queen. Her promise is that Gamelyn will regain his noble family’s honour of Tickhill, and the outlaws of the Shire Wode will have a royal pardon.

But King Richard has returned to England, and the price of his mercy might well be more than any of them can afford...

**An Excerpt from SUMMERWODE**

Someone shouldered hard into him, nearly sending him sprawling. Quick as a ferret, Robyn recovered and danced sideways, hand to knife and a ready snarl upon his lips.

He faced a small brace of soldiers. The one who’d nearly plowed him over hadn’t so much as stopped, but his two companions recognized a threat when they saw it. Hands on sword hilts, one with yellow chevrons emblazoned on his tunic raised a mailed fist and a voice tinged of the shire as Robyn’s own. “Gerrout, bloody fool—!”

“Is there some problem?” Gamelyn appeared at Robyn’s right, voice soft, nearly too reasonable. Deceptive as always, were one not paying attention to the steel beneath the velvet—and most didn’t.

Robyn fingered his dagger into a better position.

These soldiers, however, eyed the red sigil upon Gamelyn’s gray cloak. “Your pardon, Brother Templar,” the one in yellow offered, with a conciliatory spread of hands. His companions muttered like apologies, ducking their heads: hounds threatened with the whip. One even crossed himself as they retreated.

Robyn watched them go rather stupidly, ears still heated, heart pounding. A hand snatched his sleeve and pulled him out of the main path, close by the roar and clang of a smith’s furnace; for a half breath Robyn almost went for Gamelyn, too, stifled it just in time.

The flame was at forging heat, and they were closer than was comfortable; that and the clang-ti-tink-clang of the smith’s hammer against iron and anvil struck Robyn back into his senses. Both hands were gripping his arms, now, and hard enough to make him wince. Robyn tossed the forelock from his eyes and let a smile curve his mouth, jerking his chin at Gamelyn’s tabard. “I keep forgettin’ how handy yon sign bides in a tussle.”

The disquiet knit upon those gilt brows melted. One arched, familiar vexation. “I can’t take you  anywhere, you daft pillock.”

“And here I thought I were taking you.”

“Hardly.” Gamelyn gave him a tiny shake, an unspoken You’re all right, then? and at Robyn’s shrug, released him. “We’ve too long been in the forest.”

Nay, hardly long enough by my reckoning. But Robyn followed, gritted teeth and muscles against the beckon and lure of sensation.

Gamelyn was right; what made up the purest of survival instincts in the forest could prove ruinous in this teeming, dangerous place. Even the silent, careful pace of a forest dweller would be nowt to the likes of these but the cant of a hesitant villein… easy prey to the road-filthy men who were still arriving, marking territory with swagger and weaponry.

It was a lesson hard-learned in boyhood, long since shucked away in his own place. But this now, here?

Aye, here. What villeins bided in the camp were blending into the scenery, busy at the drudge work. Not walking the muddy, main paths as broad-shouldered and accoutered—entitled—as nobleman in whose wake Robyn ambled. No question Gamelyn had the way of it; not just because of the cloak he wore, but the manner of his wearing it. People unconsciously gave way… and twisted a curious brow at the lanky fellow keeping pace with the Templar Knight: a proper wild man dressed in furs and leathers with a monster of a longbow strapped to his back.

One foot faltered and skittered sideways in a particularly wet patch; Robyn heaved his balance back and nearly ran into another soldier stinking of mud, blood, and balls. Again, Gamelyn had to yank him out of the way.

Bloody damn, but it was a sad case when he couldn’t even walk straight, and him proper sober!

“Robyn?”

And bloody damn but Gamelyn was sounding as Shall we wrap you in a wool basket, pet? as Will Scathelock! “Aye, but ’m fair enough to skelp you one, see if I waint.”

“Fine.” Gamelyn’s nose took a decided noble’s tilt. “I’ll just let the bastards knock you sideways next time, shall I?”

“You’re saying that like I’m all up for letting ’em knock me si—!” It rattled up into a yip as Gamelyn grabbed his arm and dragged him between two hobbled sumpters.

“I’m saying we’ve no room for pride!”

“Lessen it’s yours,  milord?”

“ Putain de…!” It was a barely stoppered growl between bared teeth, those green eyes gone to gilt… and bloody sodding damn but it stood every bit Robyn had to attention when Gamelyn transformed into dangerous, knife-edge Templar.

With the added mercy of blocking every other sensation, at that.

Abrupt exasperation filled Gamelyn’s gaze. Robyn’s lip twitched sideways, and he leaned in, head cocked. “So that’s the secret to doin’ battle, then. Haver away t’ noise by having a proper rod in your pouch and no way to ease it?”

Another Frank curse; even fouler, Robyn would warrant, the way it burst from between curled lips and gritted teeth. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve a price on your head to make any man here wealthy.”

“Ah, but your Master would see me safe.”

“Safe.” A snort. “That depends on which Master you mean.”

Robyn snorted back. “You and Marion both, thinkin’ that bloody Temple sorcerer more’n he is.” Robyn leaned closer. “I never forget what I am, even here. ’Tis you as ent believing in what you are—“”

“My lord Confanonier?”

Gamelyn lurched back as if he’d been caught with his hand down Robyn’s breeks. No such luck, Robyn mourned.

“Ah,” Gamelyn said, prim. “Stephen.”

“Commander sent me to find you.” Young Stephen was fair-haired, flushed, and rather buggy-eyed at finding his superior surrounded by a pair of horse’s arses.

And no doubt, given the look Gamelyn flicked his way, Robyn was being considered as a matched third of the pair.

But Stephen’s attention was fastened, not on Gamelyn, but Robyn. The lad tried to speak several times, then finally stammered out, “M-my lord, is that him? Robyn Hood?”

Gamelyn rolled his eyes, and Robyn started to laugh.

BUY LINKS:

DSP Publications 

Kobo 

Barnes & Noble 

Amazon 

E-books 1 & 2 in the series are currently on sale through most retailers until the 16 May release: GREENWODE is free, and SHIREWODE is $2.95!

About the Author

J Tullos Hennig has always possessed inveterate fascination in the myths and histories of other worlds and times. Despite having maintained a few professions in this world—equestrian, dancer, teacher, artist—Jen has never successfully managed to not be a writer. Ever.

Her most recent work is a darkly magical & award-winning historical fantasy series re-imagining the legends of Robin Hood, in which both pagan and queer viewpoints are given respectful voice.

Musings blog (You can subscribe to my newsletter at either the Musing blog or main site—you’ll receive the first and earliest notification on all updates and news, plus a gift: several short stories seldom seen in the wild.)

Bookbub

Goodreads

The Wode FacebookPage

JTH’s profile onFacebook

Excerpt Thursday: RETALIO (Roma Nova thriller series) by Alison Morton

This week, we're pleased to welcome our own Unusual Historicals contributor ALISON MORTON  with the final novel of her second trilogy within the Roma Nova series. The trilogy started with AURELIA which was followed by INSURRECTIO. And now RETALIO brings us the end game...

One lucky winner will receive an ebook in the format of their choice, which Alison has kindly provided. Join us again on Sunday for an interview with her to find out more about the story behind the series. Here's what RETALIO is about...

Early 1980s Vienna. Recovering from a near fatal shooting, Aurelia Mitela, ex-Praetorian and former foreign minister of Roma Nova, chafes at her enforced exile. She barely escaped from her nemesis, the charming and amoral Caius Tellus who grabbed power in Roma Nova, the only part of the Roman Empire to survive into the twentieth century.

Aurelia’s duty and passion fire her determination to take back her homeland and liberate its people. But Caius’s manipulations have isolated her from her fellow exiles, leaving her ostracised, powerless and vulnerable. But without their trust and support Aurelia knows she will never see Roma Nova again.

“A classic tale of resistance and resilience – the only regret is when the action stops.” – Douglas Jackson, author of Gaius Valerius Verrens series

 "An international thriller, full of intrigue and espionage, set against an imaginative retelling of a history that feels authentic and real. ...what an entertaining ride it is!" – Matthew Harffy, author of The Bernicia Chronicles

Available from:  Amazon     iBooks     Kobo   

**Excerpt from RETALIO - the third part of the AURELIA trilogy**

'Betrayal and collaboration used to lead automatically to a death sentence. You should be grateful this is the 1980s.’ She refused to look at me and instead jabbed her spoon into the coffee cup, almost scraping the glaze off as she rattled it round the tiny amount of liquid at the bottom.

‘Is that what you really think I’ve done, Maia Quirinia?’

‘I’m an accountant, Aurelia, used to looking at facts and figures. And the evidence against you adds up, if you’ll forgive the pun.’

 This was my childhood friend, my fellow minister, one of the inner circle I had trusted with my secrets, my failures as well as my successes. The person who’d comforted me when I was nearly raped as a fifteen-year-old, whose common sense gave me balance and whose life I’d saved on the dreadful night of fires.  She looked tired; her hair was neat, but she obviously hadn’t had it cut and shaped for weeks.

She’d draped her coat, pressed wool from a chain store, over the back of the chair and kept the acrylic scarf round her neck. That and the knitted gloves she would once have been embarrassed to give to a charity shop told me how hard things were for her. And it was probably the same for the rest of them. 

She glanced at the wall clock. Ten past eight on a freezing December morning in a Vienna backstreet. She wriggled on the hard wooden chair. The workman’s café, warm from the fug of cigarette smoke, wasn’t the most comfortable place to start the day. It was full of people arguing about the previous evening’s football and how much everything cost, and the whirr and clatter of the coffee machines and the snappy retorts of the server trying to get to all twelve tables at once; crowded enough to drown our words.

‘I have a job interview in twenty minutes.’ She stood up. ‘I’m sorry, more than you can imagine, but this is goodbye. If any of the others find out I’ve been meeting you, I’ll be proscribed as well.’

 She’d said it. That terrible word. Proscribed. Not that it meant much coming from a group of exiles stripped of authority, living on the edge of financial ruin, but it stung all the same.

*****

About the author

Alison Morton, writes the acclaimed Roma Nova thriller series featuring modern Praetorian heroines. She blends her deep love of Roman history with six years’ military service and a life of reading crime, adventure and thriller fiction.

The first five books have been awarded the BRAG Medallion. SUCCESSIO, AURELIA and INSURRECTIO were selected as Historical Novel Society’s Indie Editor’s Choices. AURELIA was a finalist in the 2016 HNS Indie Award. The sixth, RETALIO, is now out.

A ‘Roman nut’ since age 11, Alison has misspent decades clambering over Roman sites throughout Europe. She holds a MA History, blogs about Romans and writing. Now she continues to write, cultivates a Roman herb garden and drinks wine in France with her husband of 30 years.

Connect with Alison on her Roma Nova site: http://alison-morton.com

Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/AlisonMortonAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/alison_morton @alison_morton

Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5783095.Alison_Morton
Alison’s Amazon page: http://Author.to/AlisonMortonAmazon

Buying link for RETALIO (multiple retailers/formats):

http://alison-morton.com/books-2/retalio/where-to-buy-retalio/

Excerpt Thursday: HENRY – Book Three of The Tudor Trilogy by TONY RICHES

This week, we're pleased to welcome author TONY RICHES again with the final novel of his three-part Tudor Era series, Henry. One lucky winner will receive the novels in the series in Kindle format, which the author has kindly provided. Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the series. Here's the blurb about the novel.

The final book in the best-selling historical fiction Tudor Trilogy, this is the story, based on actual events, of Henry Tudor, who changes the history of England forever.

Bosworth 1485: After victory against King Richard III, Henry Tudor becomes King of England. Rebels and pretenders plot to seize his throne. The barons resent his plans to curb their power and he wonders who he can trust. He hopes to unite Lancaster and York through marriage to the beautiful Elizabeth of York.

With help from his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, he learns to keep a fragile peace. He chooses a Spanish Princess, Catherine of Aragon, as a wife for his son Prince Arthur. His daughters will marry the King of Scotland and the son of the Emperor of Rome. It seems his prayers are answered, then disaster strikes and Henry must ensure the future of the Tudors.

**Excerpt from HENRY – Book Three of The Tudor Trilogy**

New on Amazon UK  Amazon US and Amazon AU

April 1489

Reaching out with slender fingers, the latest gift from the King of Spain munched at the succulent grape as if it were an apple. Less than a foot high, with a long, thick tail, the monkey had brown fur except for a cap of black. It fixed Henry with a pleading stare and held out a hand for more.

He offered another grape, which it took and began to suck at the sweet juice. ‘Do you think it has too-knowing eyes?’ Henry smiled. ‘I feel it can read our thoughts.’

Elizabeth spoke in a hushed tone, as if frightened of alarming it. ‘Does it have a name?’

‘I thought to call him Rodrigo,’ Henry laughed at her surprised expression, ‘after our esteemed ambassador. I wonder if this little monkey has also been sent to spy on us?’

‘Will the ambassador not be... offended?’

‘He should take it as a compliment that I consider his name worthy for my new pet.’ Henry gave her a grin. ‘Others have given us presents of lions, yet I received a monkey as a gift from his master.’

‘You plan to keep it in our private apartments?’ Elizabeth frowned with concern as she watched Henry feed the creature another ripe grape.

‘It amuses me.’ He grinned at her discomfort.

Elizabeth studied the thin gold chain which ran from a leather collar around the monkey’s tiny neck to prevent it escaping. ‘It has sharp little teeth...’

‘I think Rodrigo is clever enough not to bite the hand that feeds him.’

‘The ambassador...’ Elizabeth lowered her voice so the ever-present servants could not overhear. ‘Has he made progress with his negotiations?’

Henry nodded. ‘It seems we’ve found a suitable princess for our son. I expect a considerable dowry—and if de Puebla’s word is to be relied on, Princess Catalina is a pretty girl and bright for her age.’

‘It must be difficult to be certain.’ Elizabeth looked doubtful. ‘I understand the princess is only four years old...’

‘Arthur is only two years old, yet you agree he’s as handsome as his father—and as quick-witted as his mother?’

Elizabeth smiled at the thought. ‘Of course, but then as you often remind me, he is a Tudor.’

‘Half Tudor, half prince of the House of York.’

‘And soon there might be another...’

Henry embraced her. ‘Elizabeth!’ He stared into her amber eyes. ‘You are with child again?’

‘God willing.’ She failed to prevent a giggle at his enthusiasm for the news.

‘I prayed for God’s blessing upon us yet it seemed to be tempting fate to ask for another child.’ His face became serious. ‘I haven’t forgotten the toll Arthur’s birth took on you.’

‘It is a small enough price to pay.’ A fleeting shadow drifted over her face, the fear of all parents, then the moment passed.

‘I will pray for your good health and that this time it goes easier for you. Now we must celebrate our growing family!’

About the Author

Tony Riches is a full time author of best-selling historical fiction. He lives in Pembrokeshire, West Wales and is a specialist in the fifteenth century, with a particular interest in the Wars of the Roses and the lives of the early Tudors. For more information about Tony’s other books please visit his website tonyriches.com and his popular blog, The Writing Desk and find him on Facebook and Twitter @tonyriches.