To contact us Click HERE Read the interview and try to win Tanya Anne Crosby's Lyon's Gift, great historical fiction novel set in Scotland in the Middle Ages. Fill in the rafflecopter form below this post and ... good luck!
Welcome to FLY HIGH, Tanya. I’m really glad you accepted to answer some questions about you, your writingand your latest releases.- First of all, you write romances. Does thatmean you are a very romantic person inreal life? I don’t know … let me ask myhusband! He says, “Yes!” But I’m pretty sure that was a loaded question. Iwould have to say I am an eternal romantic. I believe everything in thisuniverse comes down to love – nothing is bigger. I also think it’s important toappreciate life’s beauty—the way a leaf flows from a tree in fall and the waymy dog looks at me at 7 a.m. – waiting eagerly for me to open my eyes. Romance,to me, is about sensing every little moment in life and soaking it in. As a writer, I want to be able to share what I see with you. - What is your secret “ingredient” to make a scenevery romantic?I rarely focus on the physical aspect of intimacy. Forme, it’s all about what’s going on inside the character’s head and heart andhow the moment relates to their surroundings. I also think personal growth isvery sexy, and it’s important to me as a storyteller to show you those moments,big and small, that become a characters catharsis. - What about you as a reader? What’s /are yourfavourite genre/s and authors?They say a writer often writes the genre they love,but I love any and all that give me a window into the human soul. Some of myvery favorite writers don’t write anything at all like I do – Charlotte Brontë,Laura Kinsale, Pamela Morsi, Anita Mills, Shakespeare, Cormac McCarthy and myhusband (he’s a writer too! And I fell in love with him through his poems!) - Do you have aspecial routine while writing? Not so much! Ijust have to have music. I need to be comfy, and usually that means getting thedogs settled (used to be the kids until they were grown) and then finding aquiet spot to lose myself in the story. If I can’t lose myself then I know thereader won’t either. - You’ve just published your most successful novels, The MacKinnon’s Bride and Happily Ever Afteras e-books. What do you think about therevolution e-publications have brought to the market and to our reading habits?The e-revolution(and it truly is one!) has allowed me to revisit old characters and give eachbook a new edit. Each has benefited from my growth as a writer. It’s alsoallowing me to reconnect with readers in a whole new way and, frankly, to fallin love with my old characters all over again. I’m grateful for thatopportunity. - When writinghistorical fiction how hard do you work on historical accuracy? Do you think itan indispensabile element to write that kind of fiction?I do (and did)lots of research for each book because I believe the setting has to be acharacter in itself. I LOVE learning about other time periods, cultures, etc.That was half the fun of doing a book for me, but, that said, I’m not bove taking some license for the story—as longas it doesn’t suspend disbelief for the reader. That’s the key, I think. But toknow how to break the rules, you have to know the rules to begin with, right? - How would youpresent both books to our readers in about 50 words? (50 for each book of course)All of mystories are about wounded souls who first heal themselves through the power oflove – not by the other person. I believe, strongly, that we must be happy andwhole on our own before we can love and be loved by another. So there you go,that encompasses both stories! The MacKinnon’s Bride is a Scottish Medieval,rife with mystery, underlined with angst, but fun and light-hearted on thesurface (you have to be able to laugh!). Happily Ever After is a sexy, funnyseafaring adventure with a heroine who emerges from a cocoon to discoverherself, life and true love. - Where do you find inspiration for yourgorgeous heroes?My husband! - Have you got a favourite literaryhero/heroine you are very fond of?Heroes: EdwardFairfax Rochester and maybe the Mad Hatter (specifically Johnny Depp’s version)On the flipside, Jane Eyre, of course, and Alice—I love Jane’s ability to persevere,forgive and love and Alice, well, she has that “muchness” I hope we all haveand never lose. - What are you up at the moment, Tanya? Writing/ going to release a new book? Can you tell us about it/them?Currently, I’mworking on a contemporary suspense—the second of three books for Kensington.VERY different stories for me. The first is due out in March 2013. It’s aboutthree sisters, the healing of their family and a secret as dark as the blackwaters of Charleston.But now that I’mrevisiting my old books, I find visions of past characters dancing in my head.I do see a historical again in my very near future. That’s all for now. Thanks for being my guest and answering myquestions. Good luck with everything you are doing. The book Distrustful of men and feigning madness, in truth Meghan is cunning as a fox--and far too loyal to her clan to be swayed by her arrogant captor's honeyed words and virile charms. She will make the Lyon pay dearly for the "gift" he has so brazenly stolen--even as her own traitorous heart begs her to surrender gladly to the one great love that can heal an injured land. The authorTanya Anne Crosby has written seventeen novels, all of which have graced numerous bestseller lists including the New York Times and USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. A five-time nominee for an RT Career Achievement Award, she lives with her husband, two dogs and two cats in North Michigan. Author site : http://tanyaannecrosby.com/ Giveaway details Tanya is giving away 2 signed paperback copies of Lyon’s Gift, the second book of the Highland Brides series (there are four). The contest is open world wide and ends 12 November. Use the rafflecopter form below. There are up to 6 chances for you to win the book! Other Links:Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tanyaannecrosbyTwitter: https://twitter.com/TanyaAnneCrosbyMacKinnon’s Bride:Amazon: http://amzn.com/B009SAHT16B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mackinnons-bride-tanya-a-crosby/1012422850?ean=2940015491081Happily Ever After:Amazon: http://amzn.com/B009SBSY4QB&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/happily-ever-after-tanya-a-crosby/1003605653?ean=2940015491654
To contact us Click HERE London Labour and the London Poor is a remarkable work of Victorian journalism by Henry Mayhew, Dickens's contemporary and like Dickens celebrating his bicentenary this year (both were born in 1812). Mayhew observed, documented, interviewed, described hundreds of poor people living in the abyss which was London in the 1840s-50s for a series of articles published in the Morning Chronicle. Those articles were later on compiled into book form (1851 in 3 volumes, 1861 a fourth Extra Volume was added). As a fond reader of Victorian literature, yesterday I was in Rome, at Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, for the presentation of the first Italian translation of Mayhew's work by Mauro Cotone: Il lavoro e i poveri nella Londra Vittoriana. The Italian version of the work is a selection of 138 articles out of the many hundreds Mayhew wrote. Mauro Cotone selected them obtaining a significant wide range of typical figures from the crowd inhabiting London slums: beggars, street entertainers, mudlarks, prostitutes, labourers and thieves. A great portion of those destitute beings had no fixed place of work nor a fixed abode, they lived in the slum alleys and streets where Mayhew meet them. The caricatures full of pathos we find in Charles Dickens's pages become sketches of real people in these articles, people telling about themselves in authentic first-person accounts and objectively described by a professional reporter.
mudlark
Mauro Cotone's selection is a thorough work presenting a very rich variety of characters from London underworld with great care for the translation, not only of Mayhew's journalistic prose but also of Victorian poor people's slang, and with the addition of a great deal of information to support readers unfamiliar with the reality and history of the Victorian Age. If you open the book random and read the story chance proposes you, you'll be taken away into a dark, desperate world, as compelling as Dickens's, but without his grand eloquence, emphasis or hyperboles. This work is an incredible data bank completing academic studies of the Victorian Age, a useful supplement to studies of Victorian literature, a wonderful source for historical fiction writers.It may also suggest stimulating contrasting analysis with works focusing on 19th century London - like Dickens's novels, Marx & Engels's essays or Jack London's People of the Abyss (1903) - or it can be read following the thread of the social and economical transformations of the age. Last but not least, this survey can bring forth important reflections and analogies with the appalling underworld of a 21st century megalopolis. Back to the future? Henry Mayhew's work is available on amazon.com (various formats, various editions)Mauro Cotone's translation is available on line as an e-book or paperback
To contact us Click HERE Maria, thanks forinviting me to reach out to your readers on Fly High. Flying high is whatwriting historical fiction is all about! I'm happy to tella little about my most recent release, TheQueen's Gamble. It's Book #4 in my "Thornleigh" series whichfollows a rising middle-class family through three tumultuous Tudor reigns. And there's agiveaway! It's open to the US and Canada, and the winner will receive a signed copyof The Queen's Gamble. Take your chances in the rafflecopter form below and good luck! The contest will be closed on November 16th. Synopsis Young Queen Elizabeth I’s path to the throne has been a perilous one,and already she faces a dangerous crisis. French troops have landed in Scotlandto quell a rebel Protestant army, and Elizabeth fears once they are entrenchedon the border, they will invade England. Isabel Thornleigh has returned to London from the New World with herSpanish husband, Carlos Valverde, and their young son. Ever the queen’s loyalservant, Isabel is recruited to smuggle money to the Scottish rebels. YetElizabeth’s trust only goes so far—Isabel’s son will be the queen’s pamperedhostage until she completes her mission. Matters grow worse when Isabel’s husband is engaged as military advisorto the French, putting the couple on opposite sides in a deadly cold war.
"Starts strong and doesn’t letup." - Publishers Weekly
"Memorable characters...lushhistorical detail, fascinating intrigues and court drama. History and romancemerge, loyalty and passions run high...readers are riveted to the pages of[Kyle's] highly addictive novels." - RT Reviews "Action-packedadventure that expertly blends fiction with history ... a pulsating story ofvalor and greed, love and passion, and the tremendous cost of loyalty." - Publishers Weekly blog
"Riveting, adventurous fiction ...superb!" - The Historical Novels Review "Editor's Choice" AboutBarbara Kyle Barbara Kyleis the author of the acclaimed Tudor-era “Thornleigh” novels The Queen’s Gamble, The Queen’s Captive, TheKing’s Daughter and The Queen’s Lady,all published internationally, and of the contemporary thrillers Entrapped and The Experiment. Over 400,000 copies of her books have beensold. Before becoming an author Barbara enjoyed a twenty-year acting career intelevision, film, and stage productions in Canada and the U.S. Her upcoming novel, Blood Between Queens,will be released in April 2013.
For moreinformation - and to sign up to receive Barbara's newsletters - visit www.barbarakyle.com.
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Read an excerpt THE QUEEN’S GAMBLEBy Barbara Kyle Chapter 1: “Execution Dock”December 1559 Isabel Valverde was coming home. Thebrief, terrible letter from her brother had brought her across five thousandmiles of ocean, from the New World to the Old, and during the long voyage shethought she had prepared herself for the worst. But now that London lay justbeyond the next bend of the River Thames, she dreaded what awaited her. The notknowing – that was the hardest. Would she find her mother still a prisonerawaiting execution? Horrifying though that was, Isabel could at least hope tosee her one last time. Or had her mother already been hanged?The ship was Spanish, the San Juan Bautista, the cabinsnug and warm, its elegant teak panelling a cocoon that almost muffled thebrutal beat of England’s winter rain on the deck above. Isabel stood by theberth, buttoning her cloak, steeling herself. The captain had said they wereless than an hour from London’s customs wharf and she would soon have toprepare to disembark. Everything was packed; three trunks sat waiting by theopen door, and behind her she could hear her servant, sixteen-year-old Pedro,closing the lid of the fourth and last one. She listened to the rain’s faintdrumbeat, knowing that she heard it in a way the Spanish passengers could not –heard it as a call, connecting her to her past, to her family’s roots. TheSpaniards would not understand. England meant nothing to them other than amarket for their goods, and she had to admit it was a backward place comparedto the magnificence of their empire. The gold and silver of the New Worldflowed back to the Old like a river with the treasure fleets that sailed twicea year from Peru and Mexico, making Philip of Spain the richest and mostpowerful monarch in Europe. Isabel felt the tug of both worlds, for a part ofher lived in each, her young self in the Old, her adult self in the New. Shehad left England at twenty with her Spanish husband and almost nothing else,but he had done well in Peru, and after five years among its wealthy Spaniards,Isabel was one of them. Money, shethought. It’s how the world turns. Can it turn Mother’s fate? She had clungto that hope for the voyage, and now, listening to the English rain, she wasseized by a panicky need to have the gold in her hands. She heard her servantclicking a key into the lock of the last trunk. She whirled around.“Pedro, my gold,” she said. Shegrabbed his arm to stop him turning the key. “Where is it?” He looked at her, puzzled. “Señora?”“The gold I set aside. In the blueleather pouch.” She snatched the ring of keys from him and unlocked the trunk.She rummaged among her gowns, searching for the pouch. The soft silks andvelvets slid through her hands. She dug down into the layers of linen smocksand stockings and night-dresses. No pouch. Abandoning the rucked-up clothes,she unlocked another trunk and pawed through her husband’s things, his doubletsand breeches and capes and boots. The pouch was not here either. “Open thatone,” she said, tossing the keys to Pedro. “We have to find it.” She went tothe brocade satchel that lay at the foot of the berth and flipped its claspsand dug inside.“Señora, it’s not in there. Justpapers.”“Look for it!” she ordered.He flinched at her tone, and she feltlike a tyrant. Not for the first time. He was a Peruvian with the small buildof his Indian people which made him look more like a child than a lad ofsixteen. He had the placid nature of his people, too, and a deference toauthority that had been bred into his ancestors by the rigid Inca culture. Whenthe Spaniards had invaded thirty years ago they had exploited that deference,easily making the Indians their slaves and themselves rich. Isabel hatedslavery. Pedro was her servant, but a free person nonetheless. English justicesaid so. But his docile ways sometimes sparked her impatience, goading her totake the tone of his Spanish overlords, and when she did so she hated herself. “Take out everything,” she told him,less sharply. “Look at the bottom.” “Si, Señora,” he said, obeying.His native tongue was Quechua.Isabel’s was English. Neither of them knew the other’s language. They spoke inSpanish. She was rummaging through papers inthe satchel, a frustrating search since everything had been repacked when they hadleft Seville. That had been the destination of their long voyage, since onlySpanish and Portuguese ships sailed to and from the New World. Other Europeanswere forbidden to trade there by a treaty between those countries, sanctionedby the pope. After two days in the port Isabel had booked passage on the firstship for London. “And hurry,” she told Pedro. Thecaptain had made it clear they were nearing the quay. But she would not leavethe ship until she found the money. In Seville they had assured her that herSpanish maravedis would be accepted as legal tender in England. Gold was gold,after all. She upended the satchel, dumping out papers and scrolls. No bluepouch. She went back to the third trunk where Pedro was trying not to disturbits contents as he searched, and she nudged him aside and groped through thingshelter-skelter. She was on her knees, pulling out her son’s toys from thebottom – a wooden caterpillar on wheels, a red row boat, a yellow tin top forspinning – when the light from the open doorway darkened. “Isabel?” her husband said. “What areyou doing?”Carlos stood in the doorway, frowningat the open trunks with their spilled-out jumble of gowns, smocks, capes, andboots. Raindrops beaded his close-cropped hair that stood up like boarbristles, and rain glistened on his black leather doublet. No jewel-studdedfinery for Carlos, though it was so fashionable with his Spanish peers in Peru.He stuck to the plain clothes of his years as a soldier on the battlefields ofEurope. For a moment Isabel remembered how frightened she had been of him thefirst time she had seen him. He had broken a man’s neck with his hands. Twistedhis head. She could still hear the snap.Carlos had saved her life. “Isabel?” he said again. “I need my gold,” she blurted. And theninstantly felt how irrational her behaviour must look. The pouch held a merefraction of Carlos’s wealth, and he didn’t begrudge her any of it, had alwaysbeen content to let her manage their funds, even at the beginning when they’d hadso little. But the money in the pouch would be a fortune for any jailer. Abribe for her mother’s life. “Now?” Carlos asked. His puzzled looksoftened to one of sympathy. “All the money is in the ebony chest. Up on deck.”She saw that he pitied her, and itbrought reality crashing in. She sat back on her heels, rocked by the certaintythat the hope she had been clinging to was a fantasy. If her mother was notalready dead, she soon would be. Adam’s letter had been brief but clear. Hermother had committed murder. No amount of gold could alter her sentence.Carlos said gently, “Come up ondeck.”“The rain—““It’s stopped.”“Really? You’re wet.”Again, the look of sympathy. “Youneed some air.” She needed more than that. She neededthe strength to face whatever they were going to find, and to help her poorfather. This would be killing him. For the hundredth time she asked herself,how had it happened? How had her parents sunk so low? She took a steadying breath and gotto her feet. “Yes, let’s go up.” She turned to Pedro. “Pack the trunks again,”she said, and then added as an apology to him, “Please. There’s time.” The pounding rain had stopped, butonly as if to catch its breath, and now came back to pester them as wind-drivendrizzle. When the ship had sailed into the estuary they had finally escaped theviolent Channel winds, but spiteful gusts still followed like a beaten foerefusing to give up. Isabel winced at the cold drizzle on her face as she andCarlos walked arm-in-arm past sailors readying the ship to dock. Some coiledthe heavy rope hawsers while others climbed the netting of the foremast shroudsto shorten sail. Everything – spars and shrouds and sails – dripped with rain.Seagulls screamed, scavenging in the ship’s wake.A dozen or so passengers huddled inthe lee of the sterncastle deck, their faces pale after the rough crossing fromSeville. Isabel felt sorry for them but was secretly glad that she neversuffered that misery on the water. Since the time she could walk she had oftenspent days at a stretch on her father’s ships. A few of the men, whetherhardier or just more curious, stood at the starboard railing to take in thesights as the north riverbank slipped by. Isabel and Carlos joined them, andshe gave a nod to an elderly Spanish priest. She had spoken to him briefly whenthey had boarded in Seville, a neat and quiet man who was bringing a gift ofbooks to his friend Alvarez de Quadra, Bishop of Aquila, the Spanish Ambassadorin London. Isabel had brought something for the Bishop, too. Not books, butnews from Peru. She looked out at the riverbank andfelt a tug of emotion. England, once her home, lay close enough almost totouch. Yet she knew the priest and his fellow Spanish gentry must find thesight dreary. Farmhouses squatted in soaked fields. Hammers clanged from rough-hewnboatbuilding sheds. Riverside taverns hulked under the gray rain. Atop one, aweathervane creaked as it veered from east to west, then back again in theerratic gusts. In the chill, Isabel shivered. She looked at Carlos and almostsmiled, remembering what he used to say about England: How can a country be so cold and wet at the same time? She thoughtof their home in sunny Trujillo, its earthy heat, its vivid colors, and in thedistance its mountain peaks. The two countries could hardly be more different. “All right?” he asked. He had seenher shiver.He didn’t have to come, she thought.Her family’s troubles were her woes, not his, and there was pressing businessto keep him home where his silver mine alone took half his waking hours. Shewished he hadn’t bought that mine. They didn’t need the money, and the overseerdrove the Indian workers like slaves. But she knew it meant a great deal toCarlos to be accepted as one of the mining fraternity of Lima. It made hergrateful that he had insisted on voyaging here with her. Neither of them hadwanted to be apart. She tightened her arm hooked around his, and answered,“Better now.”They were passing the grimy littlevillage of Wapping where the reek of decayed fish rose from the sailors’alehouses and victualing haunts hunkered around the river stairs, when a soundcame from some men at the railing, a low grunt. Isabel looked out at the muddyshoreline and saw what was transfixing them. A gibbet stood in the mud, andfrom it hung a man’s corpse. This was Execution Dock.She felt her every muscle tense. Thecorpse’s skin had turned to the color of the mud. Will Mother look like that? She forced herself not to make a sound,but Carlos wrapped his arm around her shoulder with a squeeze, and she knew shehad failed to mask her horror. She turned her face into his chest. “Pirate,” he muttered, holding herclose. She looked up at him. How did heknow? “Short rope,” he said.She looked again at the hanged man.English law reserved this special agony for pirates. With a short rope the dropfrom the scaffold was not enough to break the victim’s neck, so he suffered aslow death from it strangling him. When his limbs jerked in death throes thepeople called it the Marshal’s Dance, because prisoners were brought here fromLondon’s Marshalsea Prison. As a final mark of contempt, the authorities didnot cut down a pirate’s corpse right away but left him until three successivetides had washed over his head. English law held pirates to be the worst evilin an evil world.But all Isabel could think of was hermother hanging by her neck from such a gibbet. She felt sick, and looked up atCarlos. “I don’t think I can do this.”“Yes, you can. I know you.” He addedsoberly, “Whatever it is, we’ll do it together.”She loved him for that.A flash of red on deck caught hereye. A little boy in a red cap running for his mother. It made Isabel think ofher son. She said to Carlos, “Where’s Nicolas?”He shrugged. Then suggested, “WithPedro?”She jerked out of his embrace. “No. Ithought he was with you.”She saw a flicker of concern in hiseyes. Their little boy was only four. He said, “Where did you last see him?”“Climbing a cannon blind by themizzenmast. The bosun’s mate pulled him down and cuffed his ear, which thelittle scamp deserved. I told him to find you and stay with you while I helpedPedro pack.” Behave yourself, Nico,she had said. No more climbing. We’realmost there. They both scanned the gunnels wheresix small demi-cannons sat. A merchant ship needed defences, but the armamentswere minimal, and a glance told them that Nicolas wasn’t near the cannons.Panic lurched in Isabel. He climbed upone and fell overboard. “We’ll find him,” Carlos said calmly.“You take the topsides, I’ll search the lower decks.”She hurried past sailors and elbowedaround passengers, looking in every nook, her eyes flicking along the gunnels, constantlyimagining her son’s small body tumbling into the frigid gray waves. My fault.I should have kept him by me.He was nowhere on deck. She was sureof it. She hurried down the companionway to the orlop deck, ignoring Carlos’sinstructions. She was heading toward a victuals storeroom, almost out of breathfrom her hurry and her fear, when she heard it. A dull thump, thump, thump. It came from the behind the closed door acrossfrom the storeroom. The carpenter’s cabin. She threw open the door.The carpenter, a lanky man, was bentover a table pushing a planning tool that left in its wake a wood shavingcurled like a wave. He was saying something about football but he stoppedmid-sentence when he saw Isabel, and the wood wave drifted to the floor. Therebeside him was Nicolas, bouncing his green rubber ball, thump, thump, thump.Isabel was so relieved she wanted tobox her son’s ears for the fright he’d caused her. Instead, she swept him intoher arms. “Your boy, ma’am?” the carpenterasked. “He was telling me about rubber trees.”Nicolas wriggled free of Isabel’sembrace and dropped to his hands and knees to rescue his ball rolling under thetable. “I told him they grow as tall as Lima Cathedral,” he said, proud of hisknowledge. He popped back up with the ball. “Mama, can you believe it? Thisgentleman has never seen a rubber tree.”“I’d like to, though, lad,” the mansaid. “That’s the bounciest ball I ever beheld.”Without a thought, Nicolas offered itup to him with a smile. “Here. I have another.”Isabel saw her son’s eyes shine withthe gift of giving. Her heart swelled. She was glad she hadn’t boxed his ears. The San Juan Bautista approached the customs quay and Londonloomed. Dozens of oceangoing ships of all nationalities were moored in thePool, their progress limited by London Bridge. The hundreds of masts bobbed inthe choppy water like an undulating forest. The overcast sky had hastened thedusk, and a few torches already flickered at the Southwark end of the bridge,the city’s only viaduct and one of its three great landmarks. The first candlesglimmered in windows of the merchants’ houses and shops that crammed thebridge, some of the buildings rising three and four stories. Beyond the bridge,to the west, was the second great landmark, St. Paul’s, thrusting its spire,the tallest in Europe, into the leaden sky. On the north shore, just before thebridge, stood the third landmark, the centuries-old Tower. Once a royal palace,always a fort, and often a prison, it was a forbidding precinct of severalstone towers behind stone walls. Church bells clanged from the far northernreaches of the city, and a homey smell of burning charcoal drifted above thereek of fish and dung.Isabel’s heart beat faster as shetook it in. The last time she had seen all this, five years ago, the city hadbeen under attack by the small rebel army of Sir Thomas Wyatt, who had reachedthe walls of London at Ludgate. She had pledged herself to help Wyatt, yet inthe end she had helped to close the gate against him. She had done it to saveher father’s life, but at what cost! Wyatt’s men had been cut down. The awfulmoment haunted her still. Carlos had told her afterwards that the rebels’defeat had been inevitable whatever her actions, but Isabel was not convinced.Who could say what might have happened if the gate had been kept open?She shook off the memory. That daywas past, and London lay before her now in all its gritty glory. She felt aflicker of the awe she had felt as a young girl, coming here with her fatherfrom their home in Colchester, a day’s ride away, and being swept up in theexcitement of the brash, brawling capital.The rain had finally stopped, and inthe dusk the customs wharf swarmed with every kind of Londoner out to make apenny or a pound. Lightermen shouted for passengers, offering to ferry theminto the city in wherries and tilt boats. Pie sellers hawked mince pies andrabbit pastries. Merchants’ agents haggled. Pickpockets silently slipped amongthe prospects, and whores lounged, their lips rouged, their eyes keen. Itstartled Isabel to hear English again. Her Spanish was not the best, butspeaking it had become second nature, its mellifluous sound a pleasure. Thesehard Anglo-Saxon voices on the quay jarred her. Not roughly, though. More likebeing jostled awake. The sound of home. The customs agents took their time,but finally Isabel and Carlos were free to disembark. They left Pedro on thequay to watch their belongings, and made their way with their son through thecrowd toward Thames Street, where, at the corner of Mark Lane, there werestalls with horses for hire. Their destination was Colchester, and Isabelwanted to get there quickly. Sickening though her task was, it would be agonyto draw it out. She had to get to Colchester jail.Carlos swung Nicolas up onto hisshoulders, and Nicolas laughed, pointing at a dog that had snatched a pie froma man’s hand. It eased Isabel’s heart. Her son was seeing everything with achild’s happy innocence. And why not? He had never met his grandparents. Ahead of them the elderly priest fromthe ship was making his way through the crowd, when a well dressed man who waspassing spat at the priest’s back. His spittle missed, and the oblivious priestcarried on, but Isabel was shocked. At their stopover in Seville she had heardabout the changes in England since the death several months ago of the CatholicQueen Mary. Her half-sister, Princess Elizabeth, who was Isabel’s age, hadascended the throne and immediately declared the realm Protestant. Isabel knewof the country’s anti-Catholic bent, but to spit at a harmless priest? Afterthe urbanity of Spanish Peru she found such behaviorrevolting. They reached the horse stalls andCarlos swung Nicolas off his shoulders and began examining the mounts, runninga hand over withers, inspecting hooves. As a former captain of cavalry, Carlosknew horses. Nicolas trotted after him as they moved among the animals. “Papa,look at this one. It’s got silver dots!”“A bay silver dapple. An Arab.”“Like in the desert!”The two of them disappeared among thehorses, Nico chattering on.“Isabel?” a female voice asked.She turned. A woman finely dressed ingreen and gold velvet was peering at her as though searching her face forclues. She was heavily pregnant, though not young, her hair touched with grayat the temples under a pearl-studded velvet hat. “Isabel Valverde?” she asked.“Yes. Yes, I’m Isabel. May I ask—““I am Frances. Adam’s wife.”Isabel was stunned. Her brother hadsaid nothing in his letter about being married. But then, he had said nothingabout anything except the dreadfulnews. “You didn’t know?” Frances said. Sheseemed very nervous. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, I don’t know how much Adam toldyou. About . . . the family.”Isabel’s stomach tightened. Herthroat seemed to close up. “My mother. Is she . . .?” She couldn’t get the words out. Alive or dead? Suddenly, she didn’t wantto ask. Wanted to keep on hoping. “How did you know?” she said instead. “Aboutour arrival.”“Oh, the ship’s boat came ahead withthe passenger list. So we heard. We’ve been keeping a lookout for you forages.”“Have you?” It made sense. Adam’sletter, dated months before she had received it, had been slow on its longjourney across the Atlantic to Panama, then on a packhorse train across to thePacific, then onto another ship down to Lima. She and Carlos had taken passagefrom Lima as soon as she had read the news, but their journey here had takenmonths. “Oh, dear, it’s so hard to know whereto begin,” Frances said, her pale blue eyes blinking, her anxiety plain. “Thereis so much you don’t know.” Isabel was certain now that her mother laydead in her grave. She felt the strength sucked out of her. She didn’t trusther legs to hold her up. “I’m sorry,” Frances said, offeringher hand as though she saw how unsteady Isabel was. “This is a saddisappointment for you. You see, your parents . . . your mother. Well, shecouldn’t be here to meet you.”“She’s dead.”“What?”“They hanged her.”“Hanged? Goodness, no!” she cried inhorror. “Is that what you—? Oh dear, no, I assure you she is well. She and yourfather both hurried here, eager to meet you. We all stood right on this spotand watched your ship come in. But then, just half an hour ago, a message camefrom Whitehall Palace. They were both called away. Your mother and father aredining at the palace with the Queen.”
To contact us Click HERE Because I'm grown-up and getting older? Because life is totally different? Please, let me get my glimpse of paradise! If romance is the form of escapism which makes me happy, let me smile in bliss or bite my nails (yes! I still do that when nervously watching/reading something which gets me excited or anxious), let me foolishly talk with the screen/page and encourage my heroes or menace their antagonists, let me giggle in joy or grunt in disappointment. It was some time I didn't get so enthusiastic for something. So, thanks a lot BBC1! What am I blabbing about? The new series, THE PARADISE, just ended about an hour ago which was a lovely gift for my poor, bored heart. Its story and its characters won me over, my interest grew little by little, till exploding during episode 6 (if you saw it, YKWIM!)I know many of you haven't been able to see this series yet, so I'm not telling you much, I don't want to spoil your journey through this great story. But, since it has just finished, and I am still trying to calm down, could I at least say a little? No spoilers, I promise. Just this ...
I will miss Mr Moray saying in his peculiar accent, " ... my little champion" or simply "Denise!". I will miss his rare smiles and his dangerous mixture of sweetness and self-confidence, his exotic look. My admiration for this character reminds me something. Do you remember another brooding handsome employer who caught my heart years ago? Never been replaced, actually. He is still my best favourite. Did I ever tell you about him? Maybe once or twice. Well, I know, Moray is not as tall as him, then he prefers neck-ties while the other cravats. Young Moray is quite vain in his bizarre, fashionable, colourful clothes and works in a different field but, like the other one, he is a successful self - made man with his charms, who takes great care of his employees. And I appreciate this. By the way, they are both called John ! Any clue? Mr Moray has a shadow in his past and a world of promises forward. Let's see what comes for him next. Lots of troubles, I guess, since The Paradise scriptwriters will have to design an entire second series and will have to find enough twists and turns to make it successful and not too foreseeable. I am definitely looking forward to it!
I will also miss Denise, the country girl with her blend of naivety and bluntness, cuteness and intelligence, endevour and strength. In episode 1, she had told she was not interested in marrying Mr Moray but in becoming like him, that is she wanted to become a successful woman . In episode 7 she said she wanted to leave her mark in the world as Mr Moray had done. And she did it, she made it! She left her mark in our hearts. In mine, at least. I love her charachter, she is a model 19th century literary heroine to me. I will miss also all the other characters: Mr Dudley (handsome man!) whom I hope will show us more of himself in series 2, being not only as Moray's best friend and wing man; Edmund Lovett, Denise's uncle, and Miss Audrey who have taught us that it is never too late; Mr Jonas and his disquieting Dickensian look; Pauline, Clara and Sam with little Arthur and all their stories.
I can't say I'll miss the Glendennings, father and daughter, but , honestly , what will a good story be without a poisonous antagonist for the heroine? So, what terrible events will Katherine Glendenning's hate for Denise bring to the new episodes? I'm rather scared, after seeing the devilish look in her eyes in this last episode! We will miss The Paradise and its glamour, its colours, its departments full of life and chattering, its colourful windows and its special offers, won't we?Do you like me wonder if the man who made The Paradise successful will win his battle to keep it for himself? Or if he will call his "little champion" by any other name? I won't ask for more. I won't say more. Except for ... well done, everyone in the cast: Emun Elliottas John Moray, Joanna Vanderhamas Denise Lovett, Elaine Cassidyas Katherine Glendenning, Sarah Lancashireas Miss Audrey, Matthew McNultyas Dudley, Peter Wightas Edmund Lovett, Denise' uncle, David Haymanas Jonas, Stephen Wightas Sam, Sonya Cassidy as Clara, Ruby Bentallas Pauline, Finn Burridge as Arthur, Patrick Malahideas Lord Glendenning. And thanks again and a lot, BBC1, for letting us go on dreaming and believing in fairy-tales. From time to time, at least. Perfect Christmas gift for costume drama fans? The Paradise DVD! For classic litereture readers? The Ladies Paradise by Emile Zola. Think about it! Read a passage from the original novel by Emile Zola, on which the series was based. Denise has just arrived in Paris (London in BBC series) and is going for her job interview at the Paradise:
To contact us Click HERE I've been watching quite a bit of great period drama recently nothwistanding my very little spare time. Downton Abbey series 3 and The Paradise ended, what we've got left is ... DVDs and satellite TV. My first recommendation is a brilliant TV movie you now find on DVD, The Scapegoat (2012), first broadcast in September on ITV. Based of Daphne Du Maurier novel, this is a great adaptation, thrilling suspence from beginning to end, dark humour, unexpected twists, stellar cast, amazing performances, awesome locations and costumes. In 1952 schoolmaster John Standing meets the aristocratic Johnny Spence,his exact double. After a night of drinking John wakes with a hang-over to find that Spence has disappeared,leaving him to substitute for him. John finds he has 'inherited' a country house with a bed-ridden,drug-addicted mother,put-upon wife Frances,scornful sister Blanche,little daughter Mary Lou and two mistresses,one married to his brother Paul. After unsuccessfully trying to explain the situation and make his escape John settles into his new identity,surprising himself with his capability as he helps his mother off the drugs,turns round the family's ailing glass-making business and gives much-needed affection to Frances,an heiress,whose death would make her widower extremely rich. Then Johnny Spence reappears and it becomes clear why he has used John as a scapegoat,to provide an alibi for a crime he intends to commit. This leads to a showdown between the two doubles,from which only one can remain triumphant.
The cast Acclaimed star of hit US series Brothers and Sisters MATTHEW RHYS plays the double roles of John Standing and Johnny Spence with award winning British actress EILEEN ATKINS (Upstairs Downstairs, Cranford) playing his mother Lady Spence.They are joined by SHERIDAN SMITH (The Accused, Gavin & Stacey, the forthcoming Mrs Biggs), JOHDI MAY (The Jury, Emma, Strike Back), ANDREW SCOTT (Sherlock, The Hour, Band of Brothers), ALICE ORR EWING (Atonement), RICHARD RIDINGS (Fat Friends, Common As Muck) and a very special appearance from acclaimed French star of stage and screen SYLVIE TESTUD (La Vie en Rose, The Vanishing Point). Epic 8-part saga, World Without End is on Italian Sky 1 these days. Following the success of The Pillars of The Earth, and based on Ken Follet's novel, World Without End has surpassed my expectations. I started watching the series only because of some familiar faces and without reading the book first. I don't know exactly why, but all the people I know who had read it, had suggested me to avoid it: it was not worth reading according to them, the sequel of The Pillars of the Earth was not as remarkable as the first book. What I can say, instead, is that I like its TV adaptation even more than the previous series based on The Pillars. Stunning photography, impressive settings, good actors and lots of twists and turns. Well, I can't say "unexpected" twists and turns, since many are rather foreseeable but, anyway, the series is fast paced and intriguing. The familiar faces mentioned above? Peter Firth (Spooks, South Riding), Rupert Evans (North and South, Fingersmith, Emma), Blake Ritson (Mansfield Park, Emma, Upstairs Downstairs), Tom Weston - Jones (Spooks series 10) The plot (from the official site)
Rupert Evans as devilish Prior Godwyn
A paid assassin is sent to murder a king. A mysterious knight flees to the countryside, hotly pursued by the Queen's men. Two teenagers witness an incident in the woods that will change the course of a nation.In the thriving town of Kingsbridge, the latest marketplace gossip is the strange circumstances of the King's death. The civil war is over, Kingsbridge's economy is robust and merchant coffers are full.All is well in Kingsbridge until the two noble young men bring their wounded knight to the Priory to be doctored. Sir Thomas Langley surprises all by buying his sanctuary in the Church as a humble monk using a dowry from the Queen. What could he possibly have on Queen Isabella to warrant such support?
Peter Firth as ambition-driven Sir Roland
Without warning, Kingsbridge seems suddenly under siege. The Queen's ardent supporter, Sir Roland, marches in and usurps the Earldom of neighboring Shiring, condemning the reigning lord to death as a traitor. Roland's list of men, who supported the old King against Her Majesty is long – and they will all hang. The rest must pay dearly in taxes to support her claim to the French Crown - marking the beginning of the 100 Year War.Caris, a visionary young woman, struggles to rise above the suffering and oppression in order to lead her people out of the dark times. In order to save Kingsbridge, Caris, along with her lover Merthin and Sir Thomas Langley, build a community that stands up to The Crown and The Church. Their courage inspires a nation and throughout Europe commoners and peasants stand up for their rights and revolt against their oppressors - a new age emerges.
Tom Weston-Jones as Merthin and Charlotte Riley as Caris
The castBen Chaplin Sir Thomas Langley, Charlotte Riley Caris, Nora von Waldstätten Gwenda, Oliver Jackson-Cohen Ralph, Rupert Evans Godwyn, Tom Weston-Jones Merthin, Tom Cullen Wulfric, Blake Ritson Edward III, Cynthia Nixon Petranilla, Aure Atika Queen Isabella, Miranda Richardson Mother Cecilia, Peter Firth Sir Roland. The DVD and Blu-ray The mini-series is from Ridley Scott's Scott Free Productions, and co-produced by Germany's Tandem Communications. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment will bring this new 8-episode program home to Blu-ray Disc ($75.99 SRP) and DVD ($65.99 SRP) on December 4th. Both 2-disc sets will also include a Featurette, "The Making Of Ken Follett's World Without End." The episodes themselves have a chess theme, being named "Knight," "King," "Prior," "Check," "Pawns," "Rook," "Queen" and "Checkmate." Packaging for the Blu-ray and DVD versions are shown at Amazon.com where you can pre-order them. CLICK HERE
To contact us Click HERE Maria, thanks forinviting me to reach out to your readers on Fly High. Flying high is whatwriting historical fiction is all about! I'm happy to tella little about my most recent release, TheQueen's Gamble. It's Book #4 in my "Thornleigh" series whichfollows a rising middle-class family through three tumultuous Tudor reigns. And there's agiveaway! It's open to the US and Canada, and the winner will receive a signed copyof The Queen's Gamble. Take your chances in the rafflecopter form below and good luck! The contest will be closed on November 16th. Synopsis Young Queen Elizabeth I’s path to the throne has been a perilous one,and already she faces a dangerous crisis. French troops have landed in Scotlandto quell a rebel Protestant army, and Elizabeth fears once they are entrenchedon the border, they will invade England. Isabel Thornleigh has returned to London from the New World with herSpanish husband, Carlos Valverde, and their young son. Ever the queen’s loyalservant, Isabel is recruited to smuggle money to the Scottish rebels. YetElizabeth’s trust only goes so far—Isabel’s son will be the queen’s pamperedhostage until she completes her mission. Matters grow worse when Isabel’s husband is engaged as military advisorto the French, putting the couple on opposite sides in a deadly cold war.
"Starts strong and doesn’t letup." - Publishers Weekly
"Memorable characters...lushhistorical detail, fascinating intrigues and court drama. History and romancemerge, loyalty and passions run high...readers are riveted to the pages of[Kyle's] highly addictive novels." - RT Reviews "Action-packedadventure that expertly blends fiction with history ... a pulsating story ofvalor and greed, love and passion, and the tremendous cost of loyalty." - Publishers Weekly blog
"Riveting, adventurous fiction ...superb!" - The Historical Novels Review "Editor's Choice" AboutBarbara Kyle Barbara Kyleis the author of the acclaimed Tudor-era “Thornleigh” novels The Queen’s Gamble, The Queen’s Captive, TheKing’s Daughter and The Queen’s Lady,all published internationally, and of the contemporary thrillers Entrapped and The Experiment. Over 400,000 copies of her books have beensold. Before becoming an author Barbara enjoyed a twenty-year acting career intelevision, film, and stage productions in Canada and the U.S. Her upcoming novel, Blood Between Queens,will be released in April 2013.
For moreinformation - and to sign up to receive Barbara's newsletters - visit www.barbarakyle.com.
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Read an excerpt THE QUEEN’S GAMBLEBy Barbara Kyle Chapter 1: “Execution Dock”December 1559 Isabel Valverde was coming home. Thebrief, terrible letter from her brother had brought her across five thousandmiles of ocean, from the New World to the Old, and during the long voyage shethought she had prepared herself for the worst. But now that London lay justbeyond the next bend of the River Thames, she dreaded what awaited her. The notknowing – that was the hardest. Would she find her mother still a prisonerawaiting execution? Horrifying though that was, Isabel could at least hope tosee her one last time. Or had her mother already been hanged?The ship was Spanish, the San Juan Bautista, the cabinsnug and warm, its elegant teak panelling a cocoon that almost muffled thebrutal beat of England’s winter rain on the deck above. Isabel stood by theberth, buttoning her cloak, steeling herself. The captain had said they wereless than an hour from London’s customs wharf and she would soon have toprepare to disembark. Everything was packed; three trunks sat waiting by theopen door, and behind her she could hear her servant, sixteen-year-old Pedro,closing the lid of the fourth and last one. She listened to the rain’s faintdrumbeat, knowing that she heard it in a way the Spanish passengers could not –heard it as a call, connecting her to her past, to her family’s roots. TheSpaniards would not understand. England meant nothing to them other than amarket for their goods, and she had to admit it was a backward place comparedto the magnificence of their empire. The gold and silver of the New Worldflowed back to the Old like a river with the treasure fleets that sailed twicea year from Peru and Mexico, making Philip of Spain the richest and mostpowerful monarch in Europe. Isabel felt the tug of both worlds, for a part ofher lived in each, her young self in the Old, her adult self in the New. Shehad left England at twenty with her Spanish husband and almost nothing else,but he had done well in Peru, and after five years among its wealthy Spaniards,Isabel was one of them. Money, shethought. It’s how the world turns. Can it turn Mother’s fate? She had clungto that hope for the voyage, and now, listening to the English rain, she wasseized by a panicky need to have the gold in her hands. She heard her servantclicking a key into the lock of the last trunk. She whirled around.“Pedro, my gold,” she said. Shegrabbed his arm to stop him turning the key. “Where is it?” He looked at her, puzzled. “Señora?”“The gold I set aside. In the blueleather pouch.” She snatched the ring of keys from him and unlocked the trunk.She rummaged among her gowns, searching for the pouch. The soft silks andvelvets slid through her hands. She dug down into the layers of linen smocksand stockings and night-dresses. No pouch. Abandoning the rucked-up clothes,she unlocked another trunk and pawed through her husband’s things, his doubletsand breeches and capes and boots. The pouch was not here either. “Open thatone,” she said, tossing the keys to Pedro. “We have to find it.” She went tothe brocade satchel that lay at the foot of the berth and flipped its claspsand dug inside.“Señora, it’s not in there. Justpapers.”“Look for it!” she ordered.He flinched at her tone, and she feltlike a tyrant. Not for the first time. He was a Peruvian with the small buildof his Indian people which made him look more like a child than a lad ofsixteen. He had the placid nature of his people, too, and a deference toauthority that had been bred into his ancestors by the rigid Inca culture. Whenthe Spaniards had invaded thirty years ago they had exploited that deference,easily making the Indians their slaves and themselves rich. Isabel hatedslavery. Pedro was her servant, but a free person nonetheless. English justicesaid so. But his docile ways sometimes sparked her impatience, goading her totake the tone of his Spanish overlords, and when she did so she hated herself. “Take out everything,” she told him,less sharply. “Look at the bottom.” “Si, Señora,” he said, obeying.His native tongue was Quechua.Isabel’s was English. Neither of them knew the other’s language. They spoke inSpanish. She was rummaging through papers inthe satchel, a frustrating search since everything had been repacked when they hadleft Seville. That had been the destination of their long voyage, since onlySpanish and Portuguese ships sailed to and from the New World. Other Europeanswere forbidden to trade there by a treaty between those countries, sanctionedby the pope. After two days in the port Isabel had booked passage on the firstship for London. “And hurry,” she told Pedro. Thecaptain had made it clear they were nearing the quay. But she would not leavethe ship until she found the money. In Seville they had assured her that herSpanish maravedis would be accepted as legal tender in England. Gold was gold,after all. She upended the satchel, dumping out papers and scrolls. No bluepouch. She went back to the third trunk where Pedro was trying not to disturbits contents as he searched, and she nudged him aside and groped through thingshelter-skelter. She was on her knees, pulling out her son’s toys from thebottom – a wooden caterpillar on wheels, a red row boat, a yellow tin top forspinning – when the light from the open doorway darkened. “Isabel?” her husband said. “What areyou doing?”Carlos stood in the doorway, frowningat the open trunks with their spilled-out jumble of gowns, smocks, capes, andboots. Raindrops beaded his close-cropped hair that stood up like boarbristles, and rain glistened on his black leather doublet. No jewel-studdedfinery for Carlos, though it was so fashionable with his Spanish peers in Peru.He stuck to the plain clothes of his years as a soldier on the battlefields ofEurope. For a moment Isabel remembered how frightened she had been of him thefirst time she had seen him. He had broken a man’s neck with his hands. Twistedhis head. She could still hear the snap.Carlos had saved her life. “Isabel?” he said again. “I need my gold,” she blurted. And theninstantly felt how irrational her behaviour must look. The pouch held a merefraction of Carlos’s wealth, and he didn’t begrudge her any of it, had alwaysbeen content to let her manage their funds, even at the beginning when they’d hadso little. But the money in the pouch would be a fortune for any jailer. Abribe for her mother’s life. “Now?” Carlos asked. His puzzled looksoftened to one of sympathy. “All the money is in the ebony chest. Up on deck.”She saw that he pitied her, and itbrought reality crashing in. She sat back on her heels, rocked by the certaintythat the hope she had been clinging to was a fantasy. If her mother was notalready dead, she soon would be. Adam’s letter had been brief but clear. Hermother had committed murder. No amount of gold could alter her sentence.Carlos said gently, “Come up ondeck.”“The rain—““It’s stopped.”“Really? You’re wet.”Again, the look of sympathy. “Youneed some air.” She needed more than that. She neededthe strength to face whatever they were going to find, and to help her poorfather. This would be killing him. For the hundredth time she asked herself,how had it happened? How had her parents sunk so low? She took a steadying breath and gotto her feet. “Yes, let’s go up.” She turned to Pedro. “Pack the trunks again,”she said, and then added as an apology to him, “Please. There’s time.” The pounding rain had stopped, butonly as if to catch its breath, and now came back to pester them as wind-drivendrizzle. When the ship had sailed into the estuary they had finally escaped theviolent Channel winds, but spiteful gusts still followed like a beaten foerefusing to give up. Isabel winced at the cold drizzle on her face as she andCarlos walked arm-in-arm past sailors readying the ship to dock. Some coiledthe heavy rope hawsers while others climbed the netting of the foremast shroudsto shorten sail. Everything – spars and shrouds and sails – dripped with rain.Seagulls screamed, scavenging in the ship’s wake.A dozen or so passengers huddled inthe lee of the sterncastle deck, their faces pale after the rough crossing fromSeville. Isabel felt sorry for them but was secretly glad that she neversuffered that misery on the water. Since the time she could walk she had oftenspent days at a stretch on her father’s ships. A few of the men, whetherhardier or just more curious, stood at the starboard railing to take in thesights as the north riverbank slipped by. Isabel and Carlos joined them, andshe gave a nod to an elderly Spanish priest. She had spoken to him briefly whenthey had boarded in Seville, a neat and quiet man who was bringing a gift ofbooks to his friend Alvarez de Quadra, Bishop of Aquila, the Spanish Ambassadorin London. Isabel had brought something for the Bishop, too. Not books, butnews from Peru. She looked out at the riverbank andfelt a tug of emotion. England, once her home, lay close enough almost totouch. Yet she knew the priest and his fellow Spanish gentry must find thesight dreary. Farmhouses squatted in soaked fields. Hammers clanged from rough-hewnboatbuilding sheds. Riverside taverns hulked under the gray rain. Atop one, aweathervane creaked as it veered from east to west, then back again in theerratic gusts. In the chill, Isabel shivered. She looked at Carlos and almostsmiled, remembering what he used to say about England: How can a country be so cold and wet at the same time? She thoughtof their home in sunny Trujillo, its earthy heat, its vivid colors, and in thedistance its mountain peaks. The two countries could hardly be more different. “All right?” he asked. He had seenher shiver.He didn’t have to come, she thought.Her family’s troubles were her woes, not his, and there was pressing businessto keep him home where his silver mine alone took half his waking hours. Shewished he hadn’t bought that mine. They didn’t need the money, and the overseerdrove the Indian workers like slaves. But she knew it meant a great deal toCarlos to be accepted as one of the mining fraternity of Lima. It made hergrateful that he had insisted on voyaging here with her. Neither of them hadwanted to be apart. She tightened her arm hooked around his, and answered,“Better now.”They were passing the grimy littlevillage of Wapping where the reek of decayed fish rose from the sailors’alehouses and victualing haunts hunkered around the river stairs, when a soundcame from some men at the railing, a low grunt. Isabel looked out at the muddyshoreline and saw what was transfixing them. A gibbet stood in the mud, andfrom it hung a man’s corpse. This was Execution Dock.She felt her every muscle tense. Thecorpse’s skin had turned to the color of the mud. Will Mother look like that? She forced herself not to make a sound,but Carlos wrapped his arm around her shoulder with a squeeze, and she knew shehad failed to mask her horror. She turned her face into his chest. “Pirate,” he muttered, holding herclose. She looked up at him. How did heknow? “Short rope,” he said.She looked again at the hanged man.English law reserved this special agony for pirates. With a short rope the dropfrom the scaffold was not enough to break the victim’s neck, so he suffered aslow death from it strangling him. When his limbs jerked in death throes thepeople called it the Marshal’s Dance, because prisoners were brought here fromLondon’s Marshalsea Prison. As a final mark of contempt, the authorities didnot cut down a pirate’s corpse right away but left him until three successivetides had washed over his head. English law held pirates to be the worst evilin an evil world.But all Isabel could think of was hermother hanging by her neck from such a gibbet. She felt sick, and looked up atCarlos. “I don’t think I can do this.”“Yes, you can. I know you.” He addedsoberly, “Whatever it is, we’ll do it together.”She loved him for that.A flash of red on deck caught hereye. A little boy in a red cap running for his mother. It made Isabel think ofher son. She said to Carlos, “Where’s Nicolas?”He shrugged. Then suggested, “WithPedro?”She jerked out of his embrace. “No. Ithought he was with you.”She saw a flicker of concern in hiseyes. Their little boy was only four. He said, “Where did you last see him?”“Climbing a cannon blind by themizzenmast. The bosun’s mate pulled him down and cuffed his ear, which thelittle scamp deserved. I told him to find you and stay with you while I helpedPedro pack.” Behave yourself, Nico,she had said. No more climbing. We’realmost there. They both scanned the gunnels wheresix small demi-cannons sat. A merchant ship needed defences, but the armamentswere minimal, and a glance told them that Nicolas wasn’t near the cannons.Panic lurched in Isabel. He climbed upone and fell overboard. “We’ll find him,” Carlos said calmly.“You take the topsides, I’ll search the lower decks.”She hurried past sailors and elbowedaround passengers, looking in every nook, her eyes flicking along the gunnels, constantlyimagining her son’s small body tumbling into the frigid gray waves. My fault.I should have kept him by me.He was nowhere on deck. She was sureof it. She hurried down the companionway to the orlop deck, ignoring Carlos’sinstructions. She was heading toward a victuals storeroom, almost out of breathfrom her hurry and her fear, when she heard it. A dull thump, thump, thump. It came from the behind the closed door acrossfrom the storeroom. The carpenter’s cabin. She threw open the door.The carpenter, a lanky man, was bentover a table pushing a planning tool that left in its wake a wood shavingcurled like a wave. He was saying something about football but he stoppedmid-sentence when he saw Isabel, and the wood wave drifted to the floor. Therebeside him was Nicolas, bouncing his green rubber ball, thump, thump, thump.Isabel was so relieved she wanted tobox her son’s ears for the fright he’d caused her. Instead, she swept him intoher arms. “Your boy, ma’am?” the carpenterasked. “He was telling me about rubber trees.”Nicolas wriggled free of Isabel’sembrace and dropped to his hands and knees to rescue his ball rolling under thetable. “I told him they grow as tall as Lima Cathedral,” he said, proud of hisknowledge. He popped back up with the ball. “Mama, can you believe it? Thisgentleman has never seen a rubber tree.”“I’d like to, though, lad,” the mansaid. “That’s the bounciest ball I ever beheld.”Without a thought, Nicolas offered itup to him with a smile. “Here. I have another.”Isabel saw her son’s eyes shine withthe gift of giving. Her heart swelled. She was glad she hadn’t boxed his ears. The San Juan Bautista approached the customs quay and Londonloomed. Dozens of oceangoing ships of all nationalities were moored in thePool, their progress limited by London Bridge. The hundreds of masts bobbed inthe choppy water like an undulating forest. The overcast sky had hastened thedusk, and a few torches already flickered at the Southwark end of the bridge,the city’s only viaduct and one of its three great landmarks. The first candlesglimmered in windows of the merchants’ houses and shops that crammed thebridge, some of the buildings rising three and four stories. Beyond the bridge,to the west, was the second great landmark, St. Paul’s, thrusting its spire,the tallest in Europe, into the leaden sky. On the north shore, just before thebridge, stood the third landmark, the centuries-old Tower. Once a royal palace,always a fort, and often a prison, it was a forbidding precinct of severalstone towers behind stone walls. Church bells clanged from the far northernreaches of the city, and a homey smell of burning charcoal drifted above thereek of fish and dung.Isabel’s heart beat faster as shetook it in. The last time she had seen all this, five years ago, the city hadbeen under attack by the small rebel army of Sir Thomas Wyatt, who had reachedthe walls of London at Ludgate. She had pledged herself to help Wyatt, yet inthe end she had helped to close the gate against him. She had done it to saveher father’s life, but at what cost! Wyatt’s men had been cut down. The awfulmoment haunted her still. Carlos had told her afterwards that the rebels’defeat had been inevitable whatever her actions, but Isabel was not convinced.Who could say what might have happened if the gate had been kept open?She shook off the memory. That daywas past, and London lay before her now in all its gritty glory. She felt aflicker of the awe she had felt as a young girl, coming here with her fatherfrom their home in Colchester, a day’s ride away, and being swept up in theexcitement of the brash, brawling capital.The rain had finally stopped, and inthe dusk the customs wharf swarmed with every kind of Londoner out to make apenny or a pound. Lightermen shouted for passengers, offering to ferry theminto the city in wherries and tilt boats. Pie sellers hawked mince pies andrabbit pastries. Merchants’ agents haggled. Pickpockets silently slipped amongthe prospects, and whores lounged, their lips rouged, their eyes keen. Itstartled Isabel to hear English again. Her Spanish was not the best, butspeaking it had become second nature, its mellifluous sound a pleasure. Thesehard Anglo-Saxon voices on the quay jarred her. Not roughly, though. More likebeing jostled awake. The sound of home. The customs agents took their time,but finally Isabel and Carlos were free to disembark. They left Pedro on thequay to watch their belongings, and made their way with their son through thecrowd toward Thames Street, where, at the corner of Mark Lane, there werestalls with horses for hire. Their destination was Colchester, and Isabelwanted to get there quickly. Sickening though her task was, it would be agonyto draw it out. She had to get to Colchester jail.Carlos swung Nicolas up onto hisshoulders, and Nicolas laughed, pointing at a dog that had snatched a pie froma man’s hand. It eased Isabel’s heart. Her son was seeing everything with achild’s happy innocence. And why not? He had never met his grandparents. Ahead of them the elderly priest fromthe ship was making his way through the crowd, when a well dressed man who waspassing spat at the priest’s back. His spittle missed, and the oblivious priestcarried on, but Isabel was shocked. At their stopover in Seville she had heardabout the changes in England since the death several months ago of the CatholicQueen Mary. Her half-sister, Princess Elizabeth, who was Isabel’s age, hadascended the throne and immediately declared the realm Protestant. Isabel knewof the country’s anti-Catholic bent, but to spit at a harmless priest? Afterthe urbanity of Spanish Peru she found such behaviorrevolting. They reached the horse stalls andCarlos swung Nicolas off his shoulders and began examining the mounts, runninga hand over withers, inspecting hooves. As a former captain of cavalry, Carlosknew horses. Nicolas trotted after him as they moved among the animals. “Papa,look at this one. It’s got silver dots!”“A bay silver dapple. An Arab.”“Like in the desert!”The two of them disappeared among thehorses, Nico chattering on.“Isabel?” a female voice asked.She turned. A woman finely dressed ingreen and gold velvet was peering at her as though searching her face forclues. She was heavily pregnant, though not young, her hair touched with grayat the temples under a pearl-studded velvet hat. “Isabel Valverde?” she asked.“Yes. Yes, I’m Isabel. May I ask—““I am Frances. Adam’s wife.”Isabel was stunned. Her brother hadsaid nothing in his letter about being married. But then, he had said nothingabout anything except the dreadfulnews. “You didn’t know?” Frances said. Sheseemed very nervous. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, I don’t know how much Adam toldyou. About . . . the family.”Isabel’s stomach tightened. Herthroat seemed to close up. “My mother. Is she . . .?” She couldn’t get the words out. Alive or dead? Suddenly, she didn’t wantto ask. Wanted to keep on hoping. “How did you know?” she said instead. “Aboutour arrival.”“Oh, the ship’s boat came ahead withthe passenger list. So we heard. We’ve been keeping a lookout for you forages.”“Have you?” It made sense. Adam’sletter, dated months before she had received it, had been slow on its longjourney across the Atlantic to Panama, then on a packhorse train across to thePacific, then onto another ship down to Lima. She and Carlos had taken passagefrom Lima as soon as she had read the news, but their journey here had takenmonths. “Oh, dear, it’s so hard to know whereto begin,” Frances said, her pale blue eyes blinking, her anxiety plain. “Thereis so much you don’t know.” Isabel was certain now that her mother laydead in her grave. She felt the strength sucked out of her. She didn’t trusther legs to hold her up. “I’m sorry,” Frances said, offeringher hand as though she saw how unsteady Isabel was. “This is a saddisappointment for you. You see, your parents . . . your mother. Well, shecouldn’t be here to meet you.”“She’s dead.”“What?”“They hanged her.”“Hanged? Goodness, no!” she cried inhorror. “Is that what you—? Oh dear, no, I assure you she is well. She and yourfather both hurried here, eager to meet you. We all stood right on this spotand watched your ship come in. But then, just half an hour ago, a message camefrom Whitehall Palace. They were both called away. Your mother and father aredining at the palace with the Queen.”
Welcome to FLY HIGH, Tanya. I’m really glad you accepted to answer some questions about you, your writingand your latest releases.- First of all, you write romances. Does thatmean you are a very romantic person inreal life?
- You’ve just published your most successful novels, The MacKinnon’s Bride and Happily Ever After as e-books. What do you think about therevolution e-publications have brought to the market and to our reading habits?
The book
London Labour and the London Poor is a remarkable work of Victorian journalism by Henry Mayhew, Dickens's contemporary and like Dickens celebrating his bicentenary this year (both were born in 1812). Mayhew observed, documented, interviewed, described hundreds of poor people living in the abyss which was London in the 1840s-50s for a series of articles published in the Morning Chronicle. Those articles were later on compiled into book form (1851 in 3 volumes, 1861 a fourth Extra Volume was added). 
Because I'm grown-up and getting older? Because life is totally different? Please, let me get my glimpse of paradise! If romance is the form of escapism which makes me happy, let me smile in bliss or bite my nails (yes! I still do that when nervously watching/reading something which gets me excited or anxious), let me foolishly talk with the screen/page and encourage my heroes or menace their antagonists, let me giggle in joy or grunt in disappointment. It was some time I didn't get so enthusiastic for something. So, thanks a lot BBC1! 
Denise had not dared before to venture into the silk hall; its high glazed ceiling, sumptuous counters, and church-like atmosphere frightened her. Then, when she had at last gone in, to escape the grinning salesmen in the linen department, she had stumbled straight into Mouret’s display; and though she was scared, the woman in her was aroused, her cheeks suddenly flushed, and she forgot herself as she gazed at the blazing conflagration of silks.
I've been watching quite a bit of great period drama recently nothwistanding my very little spare time. Downton Abbey series 3 and The Paradise ended, what we've got left is ... DVDs and satellite TV. My first recommendation is a brilliant TV movie you now find on DVD, The Scapegoat (2012), first broadcast in September on ITV. Based of Daphne Du Maurier novel, this is a great adaptation, thrilling suspence from beginning to end, dark humour, unexpected twists, stellar cast, amazing performances, awesome locations and costumes.
