I am excited to be hosting the blog tour for Sword Brethren by Jon Byrne

 

Sword Brethren 
By Jon Byrne

1242. After being wounded in the Battle on the Ice, Richard Fitz Simon becomes a prisoner of Prince Alexander Nevsky of Novgorod. Alexander, intrigued by his captive’s story, instructs his scholar to assist Richard in writing about his life.

Richard’s chronicle begins in 1203, when his training to be a knight is disrupted by treachery. He is forced to flee England for Lübeck, where he begins work for a greedy salt merchant. After an illicit love affair, his new life is thrown into turmoil, and he joins the Livonian Brothers of the Sword as they embark on imposing the will of God on the pagans of the eastern Baltic. Here, he must reconcile with his new life of prayer, danger and duty – despite his own religious doubts, with as many enemies within the fortified commandery as the wilderness outside. However, when their small outpost in Riga is threatened by a large pagan army, Richard is compelled to make a crucial decision and fight like never before.

Excerpt

We moved slowly into the village, following Sighard, pushing through the cluster of wooden huts and outhouses. The Lett auxiliaries were in the village as well, and I saw one pulling a cow by a rope while another herded two terrified sheep away. A building was burning to our left and the flames were vivid in the grey half-light of the morning. On the ground lay the corpse of a man. I paused for a moment looking at him, strangely both repulsed and attracted by the scene. My view was interrupted as three Letts stalked past, heading towards a thatched hut behind another house. They had drawn swords and at least one had blood on his blade, arousing my curiosity, and I watched them kick in the door of the hut and disappear inside. 

The rest of my comrades had passed further into the village, apart from Otto who waited with a quizzical look on his face. ‘Why are you so slow, Richard?’ he called to me. Behind him, I saw that Gerhard had stopped as well.

A moment later, I heard a scream coming from the same hut and I dashed towards the sound, drawing my sword. I burst through the doorway and saw the three Letts standing over a woman who was sprawled on the earthen floor, whilst a small boy stood crying in the corner. It was obvious what the three men intended. I shouted and shoved the nearest man away, knocking him to the ground, before swinging my sword in an arc to drive the other two back. The man I had knocked to the ground came to his feet brandishing his own sword and he snarled something in his language before pausing as Otto appeared in the hut’s doorway with Gerhard just behind. 

‘Get out!’ I screamed at the men pointing to the door. Whether they understood my words I don’t know, but they understood my gesture. They pushed past Otto and Gerhard and disappeared back outside. 

‘Are you hurt?’ I said to the woman, but of course she couldn’t understand. She looked at me with eyes filled with terror. The small boy, probably no more than five or six, ran to her and she swept him up in her arms, clutching him tightly to her chest. What more could I say? I shrugged and headed for the door, followed by my two comrades. I would like to have stayed longer to guarantee her protection, but there was no chance of that. We would be missed.

‘What happened?’ Gerhard asked. ‘Who were those men?’

‘Bad men.’ I strode down the road to return to the other sergeants. Thoughts of watching Henkel rape the shepherd girl on the way back from Lüneburg came into my mind and when I looked at Otto, I could see he was thinking the same.

In the open space in the middle of the village, our forces were gathering. Wenno was directing groups of brothers and he dispatched Rudolf with a dozen other mounted knights to finish securing the village. This time we had caught the enemy unawares and there were prisoners; a group of approximately twenty, mainly old men, women and children, knelt in a huddle guarded by several sergeants. 

One of Theodoric’s priests berated them for their sins, but I doubted any of them understood a word. Most of the other sergeants in our group were listening to the Master’s instructions.

‘When we attack the fort, I want the sergeants with crossbows to sweep their ramparts with bolts. It is not necessary to kill everyone, but keep their heads down so we can assault the walls. The Letts have ladders to get over the stockade. Kill only those that put up any resistance. Remember we want souls to convert to God’s will.’ 

We pushed through the rest of the village towards the river, through a stand of linden to the open ground that had been cleared of trees around the enemy’s fort. The stockade was on a shallow hill. Though it wasn’t much higher than a man, it would still be a challenge to assault, with arrows, spears and rocks raining down. It was also surrounded by a flooded ditch, with a rickety-looking wooden bridge leading to the entrance overlooked by a timber gatehouse with a fighting platform above. We lined up, unshouldering our crossbows, but I could already see the Livs in disarray and the gates to the fort were not even closed yet. Streams of people were still fleeing the village for the dubious security of the fort, but there were armed men behind the parapet and a few arrows whistled past our ears.

Leading the majority of the mounted knights, Wenno saw his opportunity in the chaos and charged forward. We loaded our crossbows and began firing bolts at the defenders on the walls. In front of the gates everything was in pandemonium as the knights rode across the bridge through the people still seeking safety. Three Livs were desperately trying to push the gate shut, but they weren’t quick enough and the first knights, Wenno among them, were already in the entrance, slashing at the defenders in their path.

‘Stop watching the gate and keep firing!’ Sighard shouted.

A Liv defender leaned out from the top of the fighting platform above the gatehouse and threw a spear that hit one of the knight-brothers in the back, toppling him from his saddle. I pointed my crossbow at him and pulled the trigger, but the bolt missed, hitting the wood-shingle roof that protected the defenders. The gateway was narrow and the fighting was intense and, although I couldn’t see from where I stood, I assumed the defenders were rushing men to repel our incursion. More knights were stuck on the wooden bridge, unable to get past and join the battle and making easy targets for the Livs in the gatehouse and on the walls. Wenno and the men with him were in trouble. Their momentum had been checked. The Master blocked an axe with his shield, stabbing his sword into the chest of his attacker, but there were too many people in the gateway and the knights couldn’t punch through. Another knight-brother was struck by a spear and fell from his horse.

Reconstruction of a small Livonian fort.

We carried on firing our crossbows but there were only a couple of Livs still behind the parapet. A group of Letts ran forward with two ladders, and Sighard drew his sword, shouting at us to follow him. I dropped my crossbow and picked up my shield, drawing my own sword and charging after Sighard, who was already running towards the ditch and the ladders that were being thrust against the palisade.

By the time I had crossed the flooded ditch and clambered up the hill to the base of the stockade, I was breathing heavily, my lungs burning. Behind me, the other sergeants were splashing through the water, but Sighard had already reached the bottom of one ladder. He said something to the Letts, elbowing them out of the way as he began climbing, closely followed by me and Uli, the sly boy who shared my tent in Riga. No missiles were aimed at us and a few seconds later we were over the top.

To my surprise, the walkway was empty of any enemy, only one corpse with a crossbow bolt protruding from his forehead. The interior of the fort was a jumble of wooden buildings around a yard and I looked down at the melee in the gateway, where most of the Livs were fighting. I heard a shout from the gatehouse and an arrow thudded into the wood crenellation next to me.

Universal Ebook Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/boVKlV 

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sword-brethren-jon-byrne/1146519606?ean=2940184429601

Waterstones: https://www.waterstones.com/book/sword-brethren/jon-byrne/9781835740798

Jon Byrne

Jon Byrne, originally from London, now lives with his German family by a lake in Bavaria with stunning views of the Alps. As well as writing, he works as a translator for a local IT company and occasionally as a lumberjack. 

He has always been fascinated by history and has studied the Medieval world for over twenty years, building up a comprehensive library of books. In his research, he has travelled to all of the locations mentioned in the book (East Anglia, Bremen, Lübeck, Latvia, etc). 

Sword Brethren (formerly Brothers of the Sword) made it to the shortlist of the Yeovil Literary Prize 2022 and the longlist of the prestigious Grindstone International Novel Prize 2022. It is the first book in The Northern Crusader Chronicles.

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Tour Schedule

I am excited to be hosting the blog tour for Death of a Princess by R.N. Morris #HistoricalFiction #CrimeFiction #Russia #Mystery #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @rnmorris @cathiedunn

Death of a Princess 
By R.N. Morris

Summer 1880.

Lipetsk, a spa town in Russia.

The elderly and cantankerous Princess Belskaya suffers a violent reaction while taking a mud bath at the famous Lipetsk Sanatorium. Soon after, she dies.

Dr Roldugin, the medical director of the sanatorium, is at a loss to explain the sudden and shocking death.

He points the finger at Anna Zhdanova, a medical assistant who was supervising the princess’s treatment.

Suspicion also falls on the princess’s nephew Belsky, who appears far from grief-stricken at his aunt’s death.

Meanwhile, investigating magistrate Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky arrives in Lipetsk from St Petersburg, seeking treatment after a nervous breakdown.

Against his better judgement, Virginsky is drawn in to the investigation. But is he getting closer to the truth or walking straight into a deadly trap?

Excerpt

Dr Roldugin turned down the corners of his smile and faced Babkin with sudden gravity and what he hoped was a man-to-man frankness. ‘Sergey Ilyich, I want to assure you that the treatment we are proposing for your wife has been scientifically proven to be highly effective in alleviating her condition. Studies conducted at the Institute for Experimental Medicine in St Petersburg…’

‘If I understand you correctly, you intend to submerge her in a bath of mud?’ Babkin spoke in a grating voice, a kind of low growl that seemed to resonate somewhere in his chest. The effect on his wife was to set her trembling, like a flower blown by a powerful blast of wind.

‘That’s correct.’

‘And this treatment, it is the same treatment you give to everyone who comes to the sanatorium?’

Roldugin held up his palms in protest. ‘Sir, that is not entirely fair…’

‘No matter what’s wrong with them?’

‘We offer a range of therapies, which are tailored specifically to each individual patient.’

‘I would be very interested to know more about the chemical composition of the mud which you use here.’

’Yes, yes, of course. I am more than happy to give you the analytical reports which have been completed by experts. However, I should say they are rather technical in nature. I fear a layman may find the language difficult to understand.’

‘I’m not a layman. I was until recently Professor of Chemistry at Moscow University. I retired last year, to spend more time with my wife while…’ Babkin’s words faded away but the sense was clear. While she is still alive…

‘Ah, you did not… that is to say, there is no mention… I did not know.’

‘You did not know what?’

Roldugin knew how Babkin’s students must have felt to be hauled over the coals by their intimidating professor. ‘You do not use your academic title any more?’

‘As I said, I am retired, so… someone else is Professor of Chemistry now.’

‘I see. Well, I will ensure that the relevant documents are delivered to your room as soon as possible. You are both staying here at the sanatorium, I understand?’

Babkin issued a slow nod, his gaze once more darting towards the wall of certificates.

Roldugin launched into a desperate bid to keep his attention. ‘I would just like to say a few general words about our approach here. It is, I think you will find, a modern approach to treatment techniques, in line with the very latest theories and understanding. If I may put it this way, the basis of our approach is, in the most general terms, an understanding that human health is a harmonious combination of physical, mental and psychological health. To achieve a balance between these components it is important to know that each of the above aspects provides the maximum effect only in combination with the others.’

Babkin stared him down with a contemptuous glare. ‘Waffle.’

Roldugin felt the colour rush into his cheeks. 

Kira Ivanovna let out a distressed whimper. She averted her gaze as if a wave of shame had crashed into the side of her head. ‘Sergey Ilyich,’ she murmured. ‘Please!’

Babkin pursed his lips. Roldugin would not say that the man’s expression softened but he had the definite sense of his relenting. ‘My wife has faith in your…’ Babkin broke off, unable to supply an appropriate word for the services Roldugin provided. He waved one hand vaguely. ‘And I suppose it can do no harm, even if it does not actively do good.’

Kira Ivanovna bristled with indignation on Roldugin’s behalf. It seemed that she was not quite the meek little mouse he had taken her for. A mouse angry that her nest had been disturbed, perhaps. ‘Now now, Sergey Ilyich, you are not to say that! You saw with your own eyes the wonderful transformation that our dear friend Nataliya Mikhailovna experienced after her stay in Dr Roldugin’s sanatorium.’

Roldugin gave a small bow of appreciation. He vaguely remembered the woman Kira Ivanovna was referring to.

‘Before she came here she was a martyr to her lumbago. She could barely walk, bent over like a cripple she was. Her back had been plaguing her for years. After two weeks in the sanatorium, she was able to throw away her cane and stand up straight. Why I believe she could even dance the polka, had the opportunity arisen. It reminds me of the lame man in the Bible. “Pick up your mat and walk!” our saviour said.  Well, Dr Roldugin went one better. “Throw away your cane and dance the polka!”’

‘Did you see her dance the polka?’ demanded the ever-factual Babkin.

‘Tsh, tsh! Don’t be wilful! That’s not the point. The point is she was like a new woman. Not only could she have danced the polka if she’d wanted to, her youth was restored to her. The years simply dropped away.’

‘But my dear, you do not have lumbago.’ A wintry sadness came into Babkin’s eyes. It evidently pained him to point this out but he was not able to prevent himself.

Roldugin looked down at the papers on his desk. He knew very well what was wrong with Kira Ivanovna and that the mud of Lipetsk would not be able to cure it. Still, that was not to say that it would do no good at all. Roldugin was a trained scientist, as at least some of the certificates behind him testified. He did not believe in miracles. But he did believe in the healing power of the human mind.

Kira Ivanovna’s own body had created the disease from which she was suffering. It was not inconceivable that it could be persuaded to destroy it. And the famous mud of Lipetsk would serve to promote in her a state of tranquillity and openness, conducive to self-healing.

Science did not yet understand how such processes worked. And so the ignorant hailed them as miracles, while men such as Babkin dismissed them as moonshine. It needed someone like Roldugin, a rational visionary, you might say, to steer a path through the middle.

Perhaps one day he would undertake a PhD on this very subject and add another certificate to the wall. If he could effect a reversal in Kira Ivanovna’s condition - if he could give her just six months’ more of life than her doctors in Moscow predicted - he would have the basis for his doctoral paper right there.

His reflections were cut short. Somewhere, a woman was screaming.

The sound was so out of place that at first Roldugin did not believe in it. He adjusted his smile and bowed pleasantly to the Babkins, as if he were trying to remember what they were talking about. The couple met his flustered attempts to smooth things over with startled confusion.

The screaming wouldn’t stop. It came in regular waves. They did not sound to him like screams of pain. Rather screams of panic, of horror, even.

‘What’s that?’ demanded Babkin tensely.

Roldugin couldn’t ignore the sound any longer. ‘If you will excuse me… I will be right back.’

He left the bewildered couple and dashed out into the corridor, slamming his office door behind him. As abruptly as it had begun, the screaming stopped. An eerie silence took its place, before the slap of footsteps broke in.

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/mvOpq8 

This title is available to read on #KindleUnlimited.

R.N. Morris

Roger (R.N) Morris is the author of 18 books, including a quartet of historical crime novels set in St Petersburg featuring Porfiry Petrovich, the investigating magistrate from Dostoevsky’s great novel Crime and Punishment. These were followed by the Silas Quinn series set in London in 1914. He has been shortlisted for the CWA Duncan Lawrie Gold Dagger and the CWA Historical Dagger.

A former advertising copywriter, Roger has written the libretto for an opera, modern retellings of Frankenstein and Macbeth for French school children. He’s also a scriptwriter for an award winning audio producer, working on true crime and history podcasts including The Curious History of your Home.

His work has been published in 16 countries. 

Married with two grown-up children, Roger lives in Chichester where he keeps an eye out for seagulls.

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Tour Schedule

I am exciting to be hosting the blog tour for Ghost Encounters: The Lingering Spirits of North Devon by Helen Hollick with Kathy Hollick #GhostEncounters #Ghosts #NorthDevon #FriendlyGhosts #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @HelenHollick @cathiedunn

Ghost Encounters: 

The Lingering Spirits of North Devon
By Helen Hollick with Kathy Hollick

Everyone assumes that ghosts are hostile. Actually, most of them are not.

You either believe in ghosts or you don’t. It depends on whether you’ve encountered something supernatural or not. But when you share a home with several companionable spirits, or discover benign ghosts in public places who appear as real as any living person, scepticism is abandoned and the myth that ghosts are to be feared is realised as nonsense.

It is a matter for individual consideration whether you believe in ghosts or not, but for those who have the gift to see, hear or be aware of people from the past, meeting with them in today’s environment can generate a connection to years gone by. Kathy and Helen Hollick have come across several such departed souls in and around North Devon and at their 18th-century home, which they share with several ‘past residents’.

In GHOST ENCOUNTERS: The Lingering Spirits Of North Devon, mother and daughter share their personal experiences, dispelling the belief that spirits are to be feared.

Ghost Encounters will fascinate all who enjoy this beautiful region of rural South-West England, as well as interest those who wish to discover more about its history... and a few of its ghosts.

(Includes a bonus of two short stories and photographs connected to North Devon)

Cover design: Avalon Graphics

Cover artwork: Chris Collingwood

Universal Buy Link: https://mybook.to/GhostEncounters

This title will be available to read on #KindleUnlimited.

meet the authors

Helen Hollick

Known for her captivating storytelling and rich attention to historical detail, Helen might not see ghosts herself, but her nautical adventure series, and some of her short stories, skilfully blend the past with the supernatural, inviting readers to step into worlds where the boundaries between the living and the dead blur. 

In addition to her historical fiction, Helen has written several short stories, further exploring themes of historical adventure or the supernatural with her signature style. Whether dealing with the echoes of the past or the weight of lost souls, her stories are as compelling as they are convincing. Through her work, she invites readers into a world where the past never truly lets us go.

Helen started writing as a teenager, but after discovering a passion for history, was published in the UK with her Arthurian Pendragon’s Banner Trilogy and two Anglo-Saxon novels about the events that led to the 1066 Battle of Hastings, one of which, The Forever Queen (USA title – A Hollow Crown in the UK) became a USA Today best-seller. Her Sea Witch Voyages are nautical-based adventures inspired by the Golden Age of Piracy. She also writes the Jan Christopher cosy mystery series set during the 1970s, and based around her, sometimes hilarious, years of working as a North London library assistant.

Helen, husband Ron and daughter Kathy moved from London to Devon in January 2013 after a Lottery win on the opening night of the London Olympics, 2012. She spends her time glowering at the overgrown garden and orchard, fending off the geese, helping with the horses and, when she gets a moment, writing the next book...

Website • Twitter • Facebook • Bluesky • Amazon Author Page • Goodreads • Blog: supporting authors & their books • Monthly ‘newsletter’: Thoughts from a Devonshire Farmhouse. 

Kathy Hollick

Diagnosed as severely dyslexic when she was ten, Helen pulled Kathy out of school at fifteen to concentrate on everything equine.

When not encountering friendly ghosts, Kathy's passion is horses and mental well-being. She started riding at the age of three, had her own Welsh pony at thirteen, and discovered showjumping soon after. Kathy now runs her own Taw River Equine Events, and coaches riders of any age or experience, specialising in positive mindset and overcoming confidence issues via her Centre10 accreditation and Emotional Freedom Technique training. EFT, or ‘tapping’, uses the body’s pressure points to aid calm relaxation and to promote gentle healing around emotional, mental or physical issues.

Kathy lives with her farmer partner, Andrew, in their flat adjoining the main farmhouse. She regularly competes at affiliated British Showjumping, and rides side-saddle (‘aside’) when she has the opportunity. She produces her own horses, several from home-bred foals.

She also has a fun diploma in Dragons and Dragon Energy, which was something amusing to study during the Covid lockdown.

Website • FacebookNorth Devon - Taw River Equine Events 

Tour Schedule

I am exciting to be hosting the blog tour for The Fires of Gallipoli by Barney Campbell #TheFiresOfGallipoli #HistoricalFiction #WWI #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @eandtbooks @cathiedunn

The Fires of Gallipoli 

By Barney Campbell

The Fires of Gallipoli is a heartbreaking portrayal of friendship forged in the trenches of the First World War.

 

‘In this vivid and engaging novel of war and friendship, Barney Campbell shows us once again that he is a natural writer. This is a novel of men at arms of the highest quality.’ 

~ Alexander McCall Smith

Edward Salter is a shy, reserved lawyer whose life is transformed by the outbreak of war in 1914. On his way to fight in the Gallipoli campaign, he befriends the charming and quietly courageous Theodore Thorne. Together they face the carnage and slaughter, stripped bare to their souls by the hellscape and only sustained by each other and the moments of quiet they catch together.

Thorne becomes the crutch whom Edward relies on throughout the war. When their precious leave from the frontline coincides, Theo invites Edward to his late parents’ idyllic estate in Northamptonshire. Here Edward meets Thorne’s sister Miranda and becomes entranced by her.

Edward escapes the broiling, fetid charnel-house of Gallipoli to work on the staff of Lord Kitchener, then on to the Western Front and post-war espionage in Constantinople. An odd coolness has descended between Edward and Theo. Can their connection and friendship survive the overwhelming sense of loss at the end of the war when everything around them is corrupted and destroyed?

 

The Fires of Gallipoli is a heartbreaking, sweeping portrayal of friendship and its fragility at the very limits of humanity.

Excerpt

Everywhere was screaming and vicious, animal grunting. Edward seemed for a moment to have been put there artificially, a spectator to some alien carnage, enclosed entirely by the night and cut off from everything outside. He had no idea who else was alive, where Rossi was, if the battalion understood what was happening, on how wide a frontage the Turkish assault was. Then there was a gap in the flares going up and for ten seconds the trench seethed in complete darkness, no one knowing what on earth they were shooting or hacking at before another one came up and the sickly light resumed.

Edward could hear Thorne’s voice through the din. ‘Keep at it, men! Keep at it! Man the line, man the line, stand to, stand to!’ he screamed, shoving men up to the firestep. He reached down to one prostrate figure, shouting, ‘Get up, man, get up there or I’ll kill you myself,’ and then, realising he was dead, dropped him to the floor.

Edward started to follow his lead, realising that the immediate danger was over and the first Turkish attack had withered. Now they had to ensure a second one wouldn’t get nearly as close. He peered over the parapet, the first time he had dared to do so, seeing the yellow lights of the dropping flares swirling in the interplay with the darkness. In the trench the screams of the fight started to give way to shouts of military order, instructions being barked, ammunition being called for.

And then the Turks came again.

The night passed. It passed in hideous technicolour, it passed in clinical, anodyne black and white. It passed in unearthly screams, tense silence, tears of grief and primal howls. It passed in calm commands, stentorian bellows and soft whispers into ears urging the dying to go well. Tracers bouncing off rocks faded like shooting stars into the sky and over Achi Baba. Bullets flew, sometimes dully into sandbags and sometimes ricocheting angrily off metal or bone. Shrieks of artillery covered first a Turkish withdrawal and then set the foundations for a new attack at midnight, throwing earth up in great plumes, bursting eardrums and shredding nerves.

Splintered images heaped up in Edward’s brain, his blinks a camera shutter that burned the scenes onto his mind. A Turk thrown bodily in the air by a shell to land, impaled, on a barbed wire post. Marks appearing down the line, his arm hanging shredded by his side, to tell Edward matter-of-factly that Rossi had been killed, shot in the chest, in the first wave of the assault, before he, in turn, collapsed. Baffle on the firestep firing round after round into each new wave. A wounded Turk on the floor of the trench striking a grenade as Cradley tried to stem the bleeding from his chest, its blast riddling him with metal slivers as he died in blinded screams some glacial minutes later. Thorne walking up the line with his revolver, encouraging the men on. Haynes-Mattingly white and in shock after taking a bullet in the calf and his hand livid with a burn from the barrel of a Turkish rifle which he had grabbed to push away from him before shooting his attacker. He would be out for weeks with those wounds, Edward thought dispassionately.

The fighting finally ceased at around three o’clock. At the arrival of the grainy half-light before dawn, the true scale of the night was laid bare for them all to see: dead men looking as though they were sleeping and those left alive moving as if they were dead.

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/4XkEq6 

Barney Campbell

Barney Campbell, author of The Fires of Gallipoli, was brought up in the Scottish Borders and studied Classics at university. He then joined the British Army where he commanded soldiers on a tour of Helmand Province, Afghanistan at the height of the war there.

That experience inspired him to write his first novel Rain, a novel about the war, which was published by Michael Joseph in 2015. The Times called it ‘the greatest book about the experience of soldiering since Robert Graves’s First World War classic Goodbye To All That’.

Barney has walked the length of the Iron Curtain, from Szczecin in Poland to Trieste in Italy. He currently works and lives in London.

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Tour Schedule

I am exciting to be hosting the blog tour The Many Lives & Loves of Hazel Lavery by Lois Cahall #HistoricalFiction #BiographicalFiction #WomenInHistory #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @LoCahall @cathiedunn

The Many Lives & Loves of Hazel Lavery
By Lois Cahall

In the heart of tumultuous times, amidst the grandeur of Victorian opulence, there existed an American socialite whose influence altered the course of the Anglo-Irish treaty:

Lady Hazel Lavery

Boston-born Hazel ascended from her Irish roots to become the quintessential Society Queen of Chicago, and later London, where she lived a delicate dance between two worlds: one with her esteemed husband, Sir John Lavery, a portrait artist to royalty, and the other with Michael Collins, the daring Irish rebel whose fiery spirit ignited her heart. Together, they formed a love triangle that echoed through the corridors of power at 10 Downing Street, London.

Hazel's wit and charm touched on the lives of the who's-who of England including Winston Churchill, George Bernard Shaw and Evelyn Waugh. The image of her memorable face graced the Irish note for close to half-a-century.

Excerpt

On October the 11th, the Irish Political representatives met the British delegation at a massive round table that included Lloyd George, Lord Birkenhead, Winston Churchill, Austen Chamberlain, Sir Worthington, Sir Gordon Hewart, and Sir Hamar Greenwood.

Because they’d met in past days over the many dinners, teas, and talks of the weather that I’d taken such care to host, it seemed a silent camaraderie existed between the men. Michael later told me that when Lloyd George waved the gents to their seats, they instead stood to shake hands and greet each other, saying what a lovely time they had at my house.

Michael’s days became a vicious round of Mass with me, negotiations at Downing Street and then tea or late supper at my home.

Following morning service, we exited the church shaking hands with the priest who wished us a blessed day. As we moved from the Oratory, I chose small talk as the autumn leaves rustled around our ankles in colors of gold and brown. “It’s due to a lack of sunshine and much precipitation,” I explained, “London just doesn’t deliver the tones of orange and red the way they might in Chicago.”

“Not to sound cliché,” said Michael, running his hand through his bangs, “but we have to stop meeting like this.”

“Why?” I asked, with a sudden flirtatious tone, as we hastened to a row of parked bicycles.

“They’ll think you’re a double spy and shoot ye!”

“Oh Michael, you’ve been watching too many movies at the picture palace.”

“And all this time I thought I had you fooled that I was the head of the IRA, but instead I’ve been enjoying matinees at the picture house,” he said with sarcasm as he headed toward a row of bicycles. He removed his bike from the rack.

“Shall we cycle together?” I asked.

“Are ye riding on my handlebars?”

“No, I’ve my own bicycle. Just over there,” I said, pointing with a giggle, and then securing a pin in my furry-plumed velvet hat.

“Where?” he asked, confused.

I pointed to the side of the church where a Roadster lady’s safety bicycle stood, having bought it a few days prior to impress him. “It’s your mode of transport, so now it is mine.”

“Bloody brilliant!” he said, sounding sarcastically English, hopping on his bike, and circling effortlessly around me. “Let’s make a go of it!”

Moving to my bicycle, I lifted the hem of my dress and attempted to mount the step-through frame while grabbing onto its very upright handlebars. As I began to pedal, my feet ready to engage the coaster brakes, I jerked the bike frame left and right, more crooked by the moment, until all balance was utterly lost.

“I can see they taught you cycling in that American boarding school,” he chuckled. “Right up there with French and Latin lessons.”

“No, they didn’t,” I snapped. “I taught myself, thank you very much.” Forcing the bicycle left and right, my jerky movements were hideous. I attempted to keep my dress hem from the chain. 

“You’re pathetic, yeah?” he joked.

“Pathetic, no. I beg your pardon.”

“Pardoned, indeed,” he chuckled. “And note that I’m working on my ‘ye’ and ‘yer’s’ but it’s hard to break a habit.”

“Good on you!” I stood up straight, juggling the weight of the bicycle straddled between my legs. Michael guffawed. “Michael, you asked me if I possessed a bicycle. Which I do. You didn’t ask me if I could ride it.”

“Ha! Yer taking the piss out of me!”

“What on earth?!”

“Oh, sorry. Irish, slang. For being comical, yeah?”

“Yeah, nothing. If you want to give me a riding lesson...”

“I’d love to give you a riding lesson,” he said, suggesting more than a bike ride.

The moment hung in the air, and my senses scrambled, turning my complexion into a deep rose blush from neck to my forehead.

“I’ll manage just fine,” I said, again trying to coordinate the pedals with the handlebars and practically crashing onto the curb.

Michael cringed. “Look, Lass, don’t be stubborn. If I don’t help ye, you’ll have an accident with that nearby lamppost.”

“Fine.” At that I stopped and straddled the bicycle beside him.

“I’m glad to see you here every morning, Lady Hazel,” he said.

“You make me happy and frankly I don’t recall the last time I laughed so hard or laughed at all.”

“Well, I’m glad to provide comedy at my foolish expense,” I said, patting down the ruffles on my dress into place.

He winked at me. “Shall I walk you and your bicycle home, and then I’ll come back to fetch mine?”

“Yes, that would be quite chivalrous,” I said, flustered and gathering my composure.

He took my arm with one hand, escorting me from my bicycle, then taking the handlebars with the other. As we walked toward Thurloe Square, a traditional garden square in South Kensington and only moments from my house, he stopped to take in the foliage, smelling the air.

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Lois Cahall

Lois Cahall began her writing career as a columnist for Cape Cod newspapers and local periodicals, including Cape Cod Life. She spent a decade writing for national magazines (Conde Nast/Hearst). Her articles have been published in Cosmo Girl, Seventeen, SELF, Marie Claire, Redbook, Ladies Home Journal, Reader’s Digest, Men’s Journal, and Bon Appetit. In the UK she wrote for RED, GQ, Psychologies, and for The Times. In addition, Lois wrote profiles for The Palm Beach Post. 

Lois’s first novel, Plan C: Just in Case, was a #1 bestseller in the UK, where it remained in the top three fiction for the year before selling into foreign translation markets. In July of 2014, her novel hit #1 on the Nook “Daily Deal” in America. Her second novel, Court of the Myrtles, was hailed as “Tuesdays with Morrie on estrogen” by Ladies Home Journal. Her latest novel, The Many Lives of Hazel Lavery, is a work of bio-fiction (January 2025) 

Lois is the former Creative Director of Development for JPE/James (Jim) Patterson Entertainment. She credits her friend, Jim, the world’s most successful bestselling author, with teaching her the importance of children’s love of reading. As a result, she founded the Palm Beach Book Festival in 2015, an annual event bringing in NYT bestselling and celebrity authors. The event is for book lovers, nurturing the written word for the children and adults of southern Florida. 

In 2024 Lois also founded The Cape Cod Book Festival, an annual autumn event that promises to be a new cultural footprint in Massachusetts. It will be for locals and ‘washashores’ alike – a magical place where charitably minded readers can rub elbows with great writers and thinkers.  

Lois divides her life between New York and Cape Cod, although her spiritual home is London. But most importantly, Lois can do the Hula Hoop for an hour non-stop and clear a Thanksgiving table in just under ten minutes.

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I am exciting to be hosting the blog tour for Murder on West Lake by I. M. Foster #HistoricalMystery #CozyMystery #RomanticMystery #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @IMFosterMystery @cathiedunn

 

Murder on West Lake

By I. M. Foster

A scream shattered the tranquil air, echoing off the ice-covered lake, and Daniel's heart froze. He knew that voice all too well.

After a pleasant afternoon of ice skating on the frozen waters of West Lake, local librarian Kathleen Brissedon stumbles across a gruesome sight in the nearby gazebo. It only takes a moment for her beau, assistant coroner Doctor Daniel O'Halleran, to determine that the victim was murdered.

To protect Kathleen from the ghastly sight of the man’s slashed throat, Daniel insists she return home while he examines the body further. Though the immediate cause of death appears obvious, he fears the subsequent autopsy will uncover more questions than answers, and it's clear that he has his work cut out for him if he's going to find the person responsible.

Kathleen has no intention of remaining demurely at home, not when there's a murder to solve. Slipping back to the scene, she conducts her own investigation. Though her discoveries prove interesting, Daniel is too concerned about her safety to stifle his annoyance, especially after the killer makes a second attempt closer to home. But as the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place and Daniel starts closing in on the truth, the killer sets their sights on him.

With the danger increasing, Kathleen intent on assisting in the investigation, and his family descending on Patchogue to spend the Christmas holidays, Daniel has his hands full. 

Will he and Kathleen be able to put their heads together and discover who is behind the attacks, or will the killer continue to plague the tranquil South Shore village unhindered?

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/mlO8vq

This title is available to read on #KindleUnlimited.

I. M. Foster

I. M. Foster is the pen name author Inez Foster uses to write her South Shore Mystery series, set on Edwardian Long Island. Inez also writes historical romances under the pseudonym Andrea Matthews and has so far published two series in that genre: the Thunder on the Moor series, a time-travel romance set on the 16th century Anglo-Scottish Borders, and the Cross of Ciaran series, which follows the adventures of a fifth century Celt who finds himself in love with a twentieth-century archaeologist.

Inez is a historian and librarian, who loves to read and write and search around for her roots, genealogically speaking. She has a BA in History and an MLS in Library Science and enjoys doing the research almost as much as she does the actual writing of the story. In fact, many of her ideas come to her while doing casual research or digging into her family history. Inez is a member of the Long Island Romance Writers, the Historical Novel Society, and Sisters in Crime.

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I am exciting to be hosting the blog tour for Lalji’s Nairobi by Nitin Nanji HistoricalFiction #AfricanHistoricalFiction #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @cathiedunn

Lalji’s Nairobi

By Nitin Nanji

British Gujarat, 1905.

Despairing of the social injustices and crippling taxes under the British Raj, Lalji, 19, flees to British East Africa hoping to build a better life using his natural business skills and acumen. But he soon finds unexpected dangers in his new home- turbulent politics and war with German East Africa- as well as some surprising opportunities. A combination of luck, coincidence, and his flair for commerce lead to early success. 

Then, just as he is at his most vulnerable, a new threat emerges from where he least expects: from within his own family. 

Can Lalji beat overwhelming odds to fulfill his hopes and ambitions?

A story about survival, faith, ability, humanity, and a deep desire to succeed.

Excerpt

Janki could not contain her excitement and as soon as she reached home, she opened the small package from Lalji. She gasped so loudly that her Aunt Lalbai in the next bedroom heard and rushed in.

“What happened, Janki?” she asked urgently.

Janki was overjoyed at seeing a pair of silver payals (anklets), which she held across one palm, looking at the detail of the intricate design. Lalbai’s eyes lit up and she gasped, “Waah, what beautiful payals. The silver is so beautiful. Put them on, let us see what they look like,” making space for Janki to sit on the floor. 

Both struggled to fasten the soft metal, carefully placing the small hooks into their delicate clasps. As soon as they were on, Janki jumped up, held her dress shin high and stared at her ankles, taking small steps then long ones to get the tiny bells to jingle. With each step her joy multiplied and she was grinning more and more, with sounds of admiration from her aunt in the background.

Lalji had acquired the pair of payals (anklets) thanks to Mohan and his four partners. They were all in Mohan’s shop one day when Arjun Jetha called. He was a travelling soni from Surat in Gujarat who frequented Nairobi annually to sell his latest designs. Nairobi had yet to get a soni shop although Mombasa boasted four. Mohan was contemplating buying something for his sister and was looking at some gold bangles. He asked Lalji if he would like to buy something for his future wife and Lalji declined. He had never bought any jewellery in his life. The only jewellery he had ever touched was his mother’s bridal ornaments.

Lalji’s lack of interest made Nizar and Bhasker go over and take a closer look. Bhasker asked the soni if he would show them something for a young bride-to-be. Arjun Jetha opened his metal trunk and from somewhere in the depths brought out a cloth bag and loosened the strings. He put a red piece of velvet on the counter and brought out a few pairs of silver payals. None of them recognised what they were, so Arjun Jetha demonstrated how they were worn and showed the workmanship. He held up and shook them to produce the soft sounds of the tiny bells. 

On everyone’s insistence Lalji had a look and was about to walk away when he noticed one pair of interest. It had its little bells hanging from three tiny spheres, arranged in a triangle. He remembered Janki’s ankle tattoo of three dots. He touched the anklet and wondered how it might look on Janki’s ankle. The others noticed and Bhasker immediately volunteered, “I think this will be an ideal gift for your future wife.”

A chorus of agreement followed from the others and Lalji bought the anklets with cheering from all.

*The ebook will be free to download on Kindle from February 4th – 8th, 2025*

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/mgoPW6 

This title is available to read on #Kindle Unlimited.

Nitin Nanji

Historical novelist of Indian parentage, born and raised in Kenya, educated in England, writing about India and East Africa under the British Empire.

Nitin has come to writing his debut novel after retiring as a doctor. Born in Kenya before its independence he came to England at the age of fifteen. His parentage is Indian, his grandfather having moved during the British Raj from Gujarat in India to Colonial East Africa as an economic migrant.

'Lalji's Nairobi' is set in the early part of the last century, inspired by the stories of Indian migrants who settled in East Africa. A 'rags to riches' story of the experiences of Lalji as a determined young businessman who grapples with the challenges of living in the new colony.

Within the backdrop of a racist administration, Nitin immerses the reader into the times and norms of colonial society and shows how Lalji achieves rapid success despite difficult odds, leading a team of four compatriots from his village.

The novel is well-researched and retains the undertones of the era. Nitin's intimate knowledge of the three cultures of the colony (British, Indian, and African) succeeds in making this an enjoyable and authentic read.

'Lalji's Nairobi' is now an award-winning novel that recently won acclaim from the prestigious New Generation Indie Book Awards as a 'Finalist'. It also earned Five Stars and the 'Highly Recommended' award of excellence from The Historical Fiction Company, which has recently also awarded the book with a silver medal in the Blixen Africa Category.

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