Word had come that day. The truce was to become full peace and the Havuma Clan had agreed the terms.

There was not enough time to make the preparations, but when Snooji made her way to the door of the set, she realised that no preparations would have helped her anyway. The warrior guarding the door let her pass and then she stood with her Captain to meet the delegation.

The Lord of the Havuma’s was young – as young as herself, but then this war had taken many of the older warriors. His fur was sleek and his face striped with a beautiful symmetrical white.

“I, Jooku, Lord of the Havuma, come to fulfil the honour of my Clan and to bind the peace by marriage.”

Snooji stepped forward and held out her paws in the traditional gesture of peace and welcome, then moved them to her heart as the same tradition required.

“I, Snooji, Lady of the Yaruplo welcome you as my third husband.”

It was a slow way to expand her Empire, but it was proving remarkably effective.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Art by Robert Lee Beers

An extract from Searching for Gertrude by D.E. Haggerty

Growing up in Germany in the 1930s, Rudolf falls in love with the girl next door. He doesn’t care what religion Gertrude practices but the Nazis do. 

Gertrude continued to cry and hiccup in his arms. With his right hand, he smoothed her blonde curls while shushing her and murmuring nonsensical words into her ear. When her breaths became less erratic, he loosened his arms from around her before grabbing her hand and tugging her towards her parents. Avi and Rosa Liebster stood at the top of the stairs leading into their townhouse and watched them approach. 

Rudolf didn’t bother greeting them. “What’s going on?” 

Avi Liebster turned sad eyes on him. “Rudolf, my son, we can’t stay. You know this. Deep in your heart, you know this.” 

Words escaped him. He couldn’t lie to the man who he had always known would be his father-in-law. There wasn’t a moment of his life in which he didn’t know Gertrude would be his wife. Until now. Now, she was leaving. Without him. No, not without him. “I’ll come with you.” He turned to rush down the stairs intent on packing up his life. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

“You know that’s not possible.” The hand on his shoulder squeezed before dropping away. “Stay. Get an education. Become the man you are meant to become. You and Gertrude have time. When the time is right, you can join us.”

“Gertrude can stay with my family until …” His words petered out. Avi shook his head. He tried to implore Rosa with his eyes, but she turned away. “We can get married. She’ll be safe with me.” His desperate plea was met with silence.   

“Rudolf!” The sound of his father’s voice startled him.  

“Go,” Avi whispered. 

He turned to Gertrude. “I…” Words failed him. What could he possibly say to make things better? His eyes stung, and he took a deep breath before trying again. “I’ll come for you.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. “No matter what. I’ll find you, and we’ll be reunited.” 

She flung herself at him, and he caught her in his arms. Sobs wracked her body with such force, he could barely hold on. He tightened his arms around her and leaned against the wrought iron handrail of the stairs to steady himself. He took a deep breath and brought her honeysuckle smell into his lungs. 

“Rudolf.” His father’s voice came to him from one step below him. He turned to his father and watched as he nodded to the man standing behind him. 

“It’s time,” Avi Liebster whispered the words before gently untangling his daughter from Rudolf’s arms. His arms felt empty as Gertrude was pulled from him. Would they ever feel anything but empty from this moment forward?

D.E. Haggerty in her own words

I grew-up reading everything I could get my grubby hands on, from my mom’s Harlequin romances, to Nancy Drew, to Little Women. When I wasn’t flipping pages in a library book, I was penning horrendous poems, writing songs no one should ever sing, or drafting stories which have thankfully been destroyed. College and a stint in the U.S. Army came along, robbing me of free time to write and read, although on the odd occasion I did manage to sneak a book into my rucksack between rolled up socks, MRIs, t-shirts, and cold weather gear. After surviving the army experience, I went back to school and got my law degree. I jumped ship and joined the hubby in the Netherlands before the graduation ceremony could even begin. A few years into my legal career, I was exhausted, fed up, and just plain done. I quit my job and sat down to write a manuscript, which I promptly hid in the attic after returning to the law. But being a lawyer really wasn’t my thing, so I quit (again!) and went off to Germany to start a B&B. Turns out being a B&B owner wasn’t my thing either. I polished off that manuscript languishing in the attic before following the husband to Istanbul where I decided to give the whole writer-thing a go. But ten years was too many to stay away from my adopted home. I packed up again and moved to The Hague where I’m currently working on my next book. I hope I’ll always be working on my next book. 

Searching for Gertrude is my twelfth book

A Bite of... D.E. Haggerty

Question 1: Sweet or savoury? When you are heading for that midnight snack are you looking for cake or cheese? Tell us your secret craving

Oh gosh, can I choose both? I love a glass of wine with some cheese (the Netherlands, where I live, makes awesome cheese), but I also won’t pass up chocolate. Covered milk chocolate Oreos and peanut butter cups won’t survive more than seconds on the shelves in my pantry. 

Question 2: If you had to choose the three people whose influence on your life and writing was greatest, who would they be? One author. One inspirational person. One person who just loves the heck out of you.

Author: Janet Evanovich is my choice for writer who had the greatest influence on my writing. I write funny murder mysteries (amongst other things), and her writing is just fun as all get out, but there’s mystery and suspense as well. She combines the three with perfection. I’m still striving for just okay (and not trite!) when mixing the three.  

Inspirational person: Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The Supreme Court justice is my legal hero. Every time she writes a dissenting opinion, I’m inspired by her strength to do the right thing despite political pressure or the pressure to conform. She’s my hero! 

One person who loves the heck out of me: This is an easy one – my husband. He is super supportive of my writing to the point that he told me to quit working and just write full-time. Gotta love that! He’s also a beta reader and cover designer as well as shoulder to cry on when nasty reviews come in. I love the heck out of him, too!

Question 3: What achievement are you most proud of? And what makes you cringe just thinking about it?

Every time I’ve finished writing a novel, I’ve been amazingly proud. It may not seem like much of an achievement, but I’m terrified each time I begin a new novel – convinced I won’t be able to finish it or the plot holes will be the size of a planet or the characters will refuse to talk to me.   

I cringe when I think of the first novel I published. I haven’t looked at it for a while, but the writing is pretty cringe-worthy. I keep claiming I’m going to take it off the shelves – maybe it’s time I do. 

You can find D.E. Haggerty on Goodreads and Twitter. 'Searching For Gertrude' and her other books can be found on Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble and Kobo.

 

The meal was excellent, and everyone ate rather too much. When they were sitting with coffee in front of them, Anna smiled at her brother.
“Happy Danny Boy?”
“Oh yeah. Happy little sis?”
“Double yeah.”
Sam got up and stretched.
“I’ll clear up here.”
“Thanks babe.'”
Sam began clearing the table. When Paul would have got up to help he waved him back down.
“Sit. I’ve got this. It’s not like there’s a lot to do.”

Anna took her shopping list and headed for the larder, by the time she got back the dishwasher was loaded and working, and Sam was just wiping down the work tops.
“Where’s Bonnie?” she said a bit fretfully.
Sam pointed to the big basket in front of the Aga, where Bonnie was fast asleep with all four feet in the air.
“She’s fine love. Must have sneaked in while we were eating. I think she’s had such an exciting day she’s knackered.”
“Yes. You are right. She’s just exhausted.”
As if she knew they were talking about her, the dog rolled over in her basket and wagged her tail before going back to sleep.
“See love. She’s fine. Did I see you making yet another shopping list?”
“Yes. This morning, I only got enough stuff for today. And Paul eats as much as a Cracksman. So I’ll need to hit Waitrose as soon as it opens its doors in the morning. Now I think we need to take Danny and Paul on at poker. They owe me a million quid from last time.”
“Umm. Anna. I’m crap at poker.”
“Never mind love. I’m good enough for both of us.”

And she was, even with Sam’s absolute ineptitude they won so much pretend money that by bedtime Danny was threatening to sell Paul to the white slavers.
“Why is it you selling me?”
“Because you are much prettier than me.”
“True. I sometimes wonder how I fell for such a ugly bugger. But I did, so that’s how it is. Now let’s hit the hay. Goodnight Anna. Goodnight Sam.”

They left the room hand in hand and Anna got up from her chair. Sam grasped her wrist gently and pulled her onto his lap. He kissed the end of her nose. Relaxing against his hard chest Anna gave vent to a tiny sigh.
“Out with it, love.”
“It’s silly…”
“Silly or not. Tell me.”
“I’ve been so happy all evening. But just now I came out in gooseflesh all over. In her better moments, my mother would have told me someone was walking over my grave.”
“Not silly. Just one of those things. I sometimes get it with patients. Then, deep inside me I know they aren’t going to make it. I still give them the best there is. But I know. It’s one of those things that defies explanation, although most doctors have a whiff of it.”
“Oh Sam. That must be weird. And frightening.”
“Weird, yes. Frightening, no. You learn to deal. Now stop worrying. Agreed?”
She rubbed her face in his shirt.
“Agreed. And I’ll admit to feeling a lot better because you didn’t pooh pooh my attack of the weirds. Thanks love. Now I reckon it’s time Bonnie went out for her wee.”
“It is. Come on Bon Bon. Let’s go look for some cats.”

Bonnie got up and followed Sam into the garden where she did a quick check for intruders before retiring to her chosen toilet spot in the middle of the shrubbery. When they got back into the kitchen, Anna had finished clearing up from the card party so they ascended the stairs together. Just as they got into their bedroom, Sam’s phone bleeped.

“Shit. I hope that isn’t work. I’ve had just about a skinful. Oh. It’s a text from Rod. He and Jim have been at a clay pigeon shoot somewhere in the Cotswolds. They want to come see me on their way home tomorrow. Suggest a pub lunch.”
Anna laughed.
“Now there’s a coincidence. Say that’ll be fine, and let them be surprised to find me here. I’ll cook a big roast dinner and we can invite them to your ‘birthday’ party while they are here.”
Sam’s face crinkled into his happiest grin.
“What an excellent notion. I shall send a mildly pissed text now.”
He busied himself for a few minutes then grinned again.
“How’s this sound. Good. Fine. CU morning. Not before 11. Am pissed. Will sleep late”‘
Anna chuckled. “Unexceptionable, I’m sure. And so welcoming…”
Sam sent the message and gave his intended a pained look.
“Anna we’re blokes. We don’t do ‘gosh I can’t wait to see you’ messages. Rod will understand exactly what I want him to understand.”
His phone beeped again.
“There,” he said, “CU 11. Alkie bastard.”
Anna laughed out loud.
“Okay. I know when I’m beaten. Man love is beyond me.”
“So I would hope. And it ain’t man love – that’s currently residing in the green bedroom. It’s man friendship. Now I need to sleep.”
Anna dropped a kiss on his head.
“Me too.”
“Talking of man love, where will the boys go in the camper?” Sam asked idly as he sat on the edge of the bed removing his socks.
“Scotland. Specifically Speyside. Salmon fishing. Up to their knackers in freezing water. Some friends of theirs own a pub with fishing rights. They’ll be able to park the camper in the pub car park, and they’ll have a wonderful time.”
Naked by this time, Sam climbed into bed and held the duvet up for Anna to crawl in next to him.
“Mad,” he said. “I promise you nice and warm for our honeymoon.”
“Good. I might have had to kill you if you made me leave Bonnie for anything less.”

Jane Jago

They say cycling’s a good thing to do,
It helps with your fitness. That’s true
But the thing they don’t say
Is the very next day
Your bum will be red, black and blue

©️ Jane Jago

 

The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook in ebook format, is on sale this week. Only £1.99 until June 26th then £2.99 June 27th-29th. 

 

A teaser…

Some half an hour later they emerged, with the decanus ruefully rubbing his stubble obviously caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

“Right you lot,” he bellowed, “Domina Julia is here to witness band practice.”

Half of the Praetorians collected instruments and ‘tuned up’. When he judged them ready, Gallus pulled a baton out of his boot and counted them in. Julia winced as soon as they started playing. They were abysmal. Even those  who managed to start together soon lost each other in the maelstrom of bum notes and desperation. 

Julia lasted less than five minutes. She waved a hand for silence and slowly, slowly the dreadful cacophony stopped.

“Oh merda,” she muttered, “I expected bad but this is in a whole new dimension.” Catching sight of Edbert leaning against the door jamb she quirked an imperious finger. “There’s a brown leather folder on the desk in the librarium, would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”

The blond giant snapped a salute.

Gallus looked truly apologetic.

“We’ve not had too much time for practicing, what with the work your man has kept us doing.”

She gave him her nicest smile.

“Not your fault, decanus. Let’s just see what we can salvage shall we?” She gave the band a scathing look. “Okay. We’ve seen what you can’t do. Let’s try and ascertain what you can…”

There was quite a lot of foot shuffling and she laughed, not unkindly.

“Right. Will anybody who can actually read music move over here please.” Three men stepped forward and she smiled at them. “Now.  Do we have any singers?”

Nobody moved, but Gallus grunted.

“Marcus, Aurelius, Crestor, and Alexios, front and centre please!” Gallus put his hand up by his mouth as if hiding his words from the men and said in a stage whisper: “They used to be a barber’s shop quartet.”

Four men came forwards expressions apprehensive and more than a bit embarrassed. Julia couldn’t help laughing internally at the look on their faces, but she said nothing to them.

“Finally, is there anybody who plays an instrument outside of the band?”

The same men who had admitted to the ability to read music, reluctantly lifted their hands. Julia looked a question.

“Penny whistle, domina.”

“Pipes of Bacchus, domina.”

“Standing harp, domina.”

Julia beamed at them. Edbert had been hanging back, but now he came forward with the folder Julia had requested. She thanked him with a smile. 

“Okay, have a look at this.”

She handed out sheets and the men looked in some trepidation. After a few minutes study they looked a lot happier. 

“It’s pretty and it’s simple,” Gallus said, “what is it?”

Julia showed him her teeth.

“It’s one of the Celtic folk airs you lot are supposed to be here learning. This folder is full of them. Most written by my husband’s ancestor who was a famous bard.”

After handing over the sheet music, Edbert had disappeared. He returned now with a large standing harp held tenderly in his big hands. He put it down in front of the confessed harpist.

“Domina Julia’s own harp. Treat it with care.” 

The youngster looked petrified, and Julia took pity on him.

“I can’t play the thing.”

Then he touched the strings tenderly and a waterfall of gentle notes leapt from his fingertips. He bent his head, suddenly oblivious to everything but the music. Julia smiled, and began to sing a simple little tune. He picked it up quickly and was soon playing along with her. The other two ‘unauthorised’ players, having collected their own instruments, joined in. 

For a while, the singers just looked bashful, then one fine tenor voice joined in. He stumbled over pronunciation but soon lost his fear, and then his friends joined in, pitching their harmonies around his lead. Julia smiled as the whole piece lifted and swelled, musicians and singers together. It was actually bloody good.

Even the non-musical Praetorians clapped enthusiastically when the song ran down and Gallus gave a satisfied nod.

“We need to practice. A lot. But…”

Get your copy now!

Today our amble took us to the tops
Where yellow gorse like honey spikes the air
Below, the grumbling tractors tend their crops
Up here the land is quiet, wide and bare
And no one walks this pitted granite street
Except we two beneath a hazy sky
It almost seems that ours are the first feet
And, looking outwards, ours are the first eyes
The turf, now coarse and springy, bears no sound
Until a calling kestrel silence splinters
A sudden breeze comes spinning round and round
An echo of the killing wind of winter 

©️JJ 2018

If you tuned in expecting advice from Moons, you are out of luck this week. Instead, you’ve got me again, Jacintha Farquhar, hag of this parish.

All right you load of miserable excuses for human beings who fancy yourself the next Stephen King, pin back your lugholes and be prepared to learn. You are all very keen on writing epic battles and knights in shining armour and all that crap, but I’m willing to bet there isn’t a one of you has ever actually even seen a fight leave alone dirtied your precious pinkies by being involved in that most working class of pastimes that is a bloody good bundle.

 

Life Lessons for Writers – Two: Fisticuffs

Okay then. Here’s the deal. This week’s lesson is entitled fisticuffs and is intended to give you at least the vestige of an idea about what happens when adult human beings set out to beat the crap out of each other.

First things first. If you want to really understand your knights in shining and their trusty steeds, join a re-enactment society. Get your feet stomped on by something that feels like Mummy’s best le Creuset Marmite, crawl around in mud and snot and tears for a while, watch as the bloke on the horse breaks every bone in his body when he hits the ground from a height of seventeen hands. Then go rewrite your crappy medieval fight. Similarly, should you be romanticising the English Civil War, go join the Sealed Knot and enjoy the delights of a pre-dawn melee on a frozen moor. I’m sure those of you living in the colonies have something similar recreating your own local battles. Want an idea of modern or futuristic combat? Try laser-tag or go paintballing.

The more mundane sort of present-day scuffling is a little more problematic to become personally involved in. For two reasons.

One: there is the potential to get hurt quite badly (and should some middle-class twat turn up and randomly start throwing punches, everybody will forget their grievances with each other and unite to beat the living crap out of him or her).

Two: the real possibility of getting arrested exists.

For the above reasons I have chosen not to suggest you seek personal involvement. Instead, I’ll let you learn from my experience and debunk some of the popular and misguided myths that pepper the writing of the fight virgin.

1. It is extremely difficult to knock somebody out with one punch. And should you manage to do so the chances of having inflicted serious and life-threatening injury are very high.
2. It is almost impossible to punch someone and cause sufficient pain so that your opponent will admit defeat. This is because most people in fights are seriously impaired by drink or drugs and have had their pain threshold raised to somewhere in the stratosphere
3. If you knock somebody down, don’t be thinking that makes them not dangerous. Nine times out of ten they will get up. Fucking furious. If you should ever manage to put an opponent on the floor the only sensible action is to leg it.
4. Please do not ever think that any sense of chivalry can be found in a Saturday Night Special. When they are in the moment, men will hit, men, women, OAPs, cats, dogs, toddlers, their own mothers. You have been warned.
5. Nobody. But nobody walks out of a mass punch-up with their hair/make-up immaculate and their clothes in apple pie order. It. Does. Not. Happen. Participants (even those accounted victorious) will be dirty, bruised, smeared with blood and mucus, and, in the case of the female of the species, inevitably missing one shoe (almost always the left).

 

So, there we have it Jacintha’s guide to the grim realities of physical combat. Read, learn, inwardly digest and get your fucking act together. Now you have no excuse to get it wrong so go and rewrite that last fight scene and leave me to my prosecco.

Next week: Moons will be back so you can get more of his drivel on how to write a book.

 

Jacintha Farquar, reluctant mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join his Facebook Group but please don’t because if you do he’ll be gloating for weeks!

Puma, meanwhile, sat on my lap and regarded the steaming pool doubtfully.
‘Is it nice in there?’
‘I think so.’
‘Why not you in there then?’
‘Because I’m talking to you.’
She thought about this for a moment.
‘Mother can swim?’
‘I can.’
‘Is it a hard learn?’
‘No. It’s easy. Even easier when you are an imp with no wings to get in the way.’
She thought about that for a moment.
‘You hold my hand?’
‘Better than that, you can ride on my back if you like.’
She beamed and clasped her hands in delight.
‘Please Mother.’
I put a jacket on her and shucked off my garment and sandals. Sitting on the edge of the pool I beckoned her to climb on my back. When she was securely wedged between my folded wings I stood up and dived into the pool. Puma shrieked with delight as we hit the water, and when she found I was a much better swimmer than Aascko she was almost unbelievably smug. After a few laps she leaned forwards and spoke in my ear.
‘Puma try now?’
‘You can. Just slip off my back into the water and see how it feels.’
She slid into the warm silky water and rolled onto her back.
‘Feels nice.’
‘It does. Now roll over and see if you can swim to Owlet and Tiger.’
She eyed me apprehensively but rolled over obediently and kicked her legs. Of course the jacket kept her afloat, and she moved slowly towards her brothers.
‘I swimming’ she shouted exultantly ‘Puma swimming.’
Tiger and Owlet very kindly gave her a round of applause, and Silver joined in the general hilarity by smacking her tiny hands against the water and yakking in happy baby talk.

Excerpt from Aaspa's Eyes by Jane Jago.

 

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is free from 20 - 23 June in the first of our Dai and Julia Midsummer Mystery offers.

Action replay.
Same arena.
Twenty-four hours later.
This time, though, there were two bodies.

One was another British contestant, Tam Docca ‘Fly Boy’, from the Valentia Game team, but it was the second corpse lying as if awaiting funeral rites that had Dai’s fullest attention. Quintillas Publius Luca – son of a Roman Senator and a proper one at that, from proper Rome – not one of those who sat in Augusta Treverorum, giving themselves airs.
Trev, as Dai and most Britons thought of it, was the capital of Prefecture Galliae, home to the man who ruled Britannia and much of the Northern and Western parts of the continent as well. It was one of the four original Prefectures, each governed by its own Caesar, established by the Divine Diocletian under his sole rule as God-Emperor of a new Roman Empire.
According to the information Dai was getting, Luca was not supposed to even be in the province. There were media images which showed him in some small provincial town, identified as Lutetia in Gallia Lugdunensis, sipping cocktails on a terrace overlooking a river, with his gorgeous patrician bride of a year, one Marcella Tullia Junius. The same article claimed Luca was away from Rome on a long-term project to regenerate and oversee the family’s estates in Gallia.
“You would think,” Bryn observed dryly, “that after last night they would have kept a watch. Security cameras all down still and I bet no one saw a thing, just like before. That’ll put a sour look on the face of that jobsworth Flavia.”
Dai shot his decanus a look.
“Shut up, Bryn, you spado. I’m thinking.”
The decanus chuckled.
“It ain’t often I can get the Bard to swear,” he remarked happily. “Let’s see if I can shake a few more curses out of those pure Celtic lips. You know they’ll sic a Roman on us? This is too big for us local yokels.”
“Yeah. Just as long as it isn’t Titillicus…”
“Oh, course you won’t have heard. Titillicus is no longer a factor. He got in a ruck with the Tribune, who sent him home to his mammy.”
“In disgrace?”
“Nah. In a body bag. Seems he pulled a knife.”
“Moron. But what was the row about?”
“As if you couldn’t guess.”
“He didn’t?”
“Yep. The Tribune’s wife under the very eyes of the family lares.”
Dai grinned viciously. He had never liked working with Titillicus, the kind of Roman who assumed he ruled the Province and owned every provincial he encountered. Surely whoever they sent from Trev HQ would have to be better than that?

Snag whilst the snagging is FREE!

I sit in the remains of the house as the winds howl by. It is shelter, but the calm days are few now so there is little chance to find food. All that grows is usually flattened before it fruits by giant hail or these cursed winds.

There was a time I laughed at those who spoke of ‘man-made climate change’. I mean, who would believe that anything we did could really impact something as huge as this planet? Besides, God gave us this world to use so nothing wrong with doing so.
Them scientists with their fancy words, no one really listened – and even those who believed never did anything much about it that I ever saw.

I still remember that big TV debate when they were saying that all the energy in the atmosphere was what was making the high winds and the warming that melted the ice off the poles. All them poor people having their homes just flooded away, that were so sad. But I didn’t blame them other countries for shooting all those millions of refugees. I mean, you couldn’t take in that many people could you?

And here in the UK, when I were a kid, we never had winds like this. ‘Extreme’ weather meant we got a few feet of snow some winters. We used to talk about the weather and complain at a bit of rain.

I miss those days.

Still, I don’t think them scientists were right though – I just think God hates us all.

E.M. Swift-Hook