This award-winning fantasy historical trilogy is now in its third and final printing, in both ebook and print. Available with all new covers, it will be featured in a month-long promotion beginning October 12 and ending November 12. There will be a drawing for a $25 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift certificate. If you have not previously purchased this series or want it in print, this is your chance. Winner of numerous prestigious awards, with consistent 5-star reviews, it is the history of a world as seen through the eyes of heroes and the women who loved them. Intense and dramatic, set in a world at war, it is not your average romance. If this is the kind of series you like, don't miss it.
Have you ever wanted to host a blog tour on your page or blog? Well, here is an opportunity with some benefits. Silver Dagger Tours will feature my historical fantasy romance trilogy, The Chronicles of Alcinia, in the next month. If you'd like to be a part of it, sign up here:
Now available in print and ebook, individually or all three volumes. This is the third printing of this winner of multiple awards and five-star reviews. If dramatic fantasy historical romance is your preference and you have not previously purchased or want it in print, don't miss The Chronicles of Alcinia.
In the year 70 A.D., the Roman Emperor, Vespasian, has left his son, Titus, in charge of laying siege to Jewish rebels in the city of Jerusalem. Among his troops is a young half-Roman/half-Celt, Domenicus Acturius. When the siege is over and Domi is forced to choose between honoring the living and the dead, which will he choose?
This ancient breed native to Ireland is now being perpetuated at Kylemore Abbey in Ireland. When travel restrictions are eased, if you're of a mind to go, I highly recommend this spot. And do not miss their cafeteria! LOL.
Brehon Law is the body of ancient native Irish law which was generally operational in Gaelic areas until the completion of the English conquest of Ireland in the early 17th century.
Some amusing excerpts from the ancient law:
Whoever comes to your door you must feed him and care for him with no questions asked.
It is illegal to give somebody food that has been found with a dead mouse or weasel.
A layman may drink six pints of ale with his dinner but a monk my drink only three pints. This is so he will not be intoxicated when prayer-time arrives.
This week I'd like to bring you another, chronological excerpt from my short story, Legend of M'Rith. This fantasy romance can be found in DCL Publications' Enchanted Fairy Tales.
Set in Ireland in 1844, M'Ruth's tale is one of loss and love as half fairie/half elf M'Rith is abandoned by the other fae. Left near a human village, M'Rith has spent her long years alone, unseen, until she witnesses something shocking.
* * * *
"Her kitten companion had not returned from whatever
morning task occupied her, so M’Rith the faerie began her daily journey alone. Jays screamed a warning...silly birds, as though
she would hurt them...while deer only bounded a short space
away, leading little male fawns with their orderly rows of spots
and their haphazardly-spotted sisters. A skunk returning from
nightly rounds passed her near the stream, heading for a
homecoming drink. The industrious little creature, bright eyes
fixed on the ground, barely spared her a glance. He couldn’t; he
was too nearsighted. Still, even faeries gave a wide berth to
skunks searching for provender.
The sun waxed more powerful as she went, causing a fine
sheen of dampness beneath her gown. It was the price she paid
for growing large, to feel some discomforts as mortals did.
Pausing, she drank cool water from the stream before entering
woodlands bordering the fields where humans grew sturdy crops
of oats and barley. But they were not yet edible. Fruit trees were
not bearing yet, either, and M’Rith reluctantly conceded she
would need whatever food the villagers had left her that day.
Their encroachment upon lands her kind had once inhabited
could not be stopped. Forced to subsist on their superstitious
offerings, she never willingly let them see her, but drifted along
byways and cart paths like a puff of smoke or a vagrant spring
breeze, shielded by a glamour.
The ground was wet on the bottom slopes of the fields,
where some tree limbs had been brought down by the weight of
water on their almost fully-sprung leaves. She touched the trees gently to convey a healing. They were silent friends, affording
shelter and edible nuts, and she hated to see them wounded in the
course of natural happenings. Seeing them sawed down and made
into dwellings was worse. She did not mind that humans took
straw for thatch, nor was the burning of dead wood too painful.
They could not conjure a spell to warm themselves, after all. But
the murder of living trees...oh, that was hard. Thinking of it
always put her into a state of discomfort.
The slow tolling of their church bell set her teeth on edge.
The religious ones were no friends to her, apparently viewing her
as a challenger to their version of the divine being. Her steps
slowed and dragged as she approached the village through a tree
line offering partial concealment in the unlikely event anyone
could see her. That had happened only a handful of times in a
hundred years.
The preoccupied humans would be no threat that day. She
could see people walking by ones and pairs and small groups in
the direction of the building with the bell, but it was not their
usual day to go there. Something felt amiss. They were quiet and
wore dark clothing heavier than needed.
Tiptoeing parallel to their street, scarlet-clad feet barely
touching the ground, M’Rith slipped along behind houses, among
gardens and bright clouds of feeding butterflies which parted
graciously for her passage. Insatiably curious, she was attracted
by the sight of so many people going to the same place. Rarely was there anything interesting to watch. As a rule, they were dull
creatures consumed with toil.
Her lips drew back slightly when she saw the man
wearing a white collar emerge from the bell building. Many
people were friendly to the Fair Folk, but not that one. She
paused to watch from behind a venerable old apple tree where
she had often taken fruit—only the windfall or the requisite three
apples set out by a human seeking a favor. She never robbed.
M’Rith had done no injury to any human, though she could.
The collared man was speaking to a younger man. M’Rith
shuddered at the sight of that one, too. He was the blacksmith,
possessor of iron, which could mortally wound her. She had
seldom seen him, only his wife who left her many good things in
hope of having a child. M’Rith had sprinkled her path with faerie
dust because of it and eventually seen that the woman was
increasing. There should be a child by now, but the blacksmith
was alone. The collar man put a hand on his shoulder, then took
him into the bell building. All the others followed, silently. The
doors of the building closed and the village was deserted.
Yes, things felt distinctly odd. But it was a good time to
look for breakfast.
There were juicy pickings that day. Beside doors and in
gardens she found bread and jam and eggs, milk, honey in the
comb, even some mead. There were small cakes, rare treats with
delicious sweet icing, and round cookies of ground nuts with flour and precious sugar. It was unprecedented—a banquet. Only
a few dogs left on chains challenged her and they were easily
avoided. M’Rith had brought a wrap to carry food, but she hadn’t
enough room for everything, so she ate as much as she could
stuff in her cheeks and tried stuffing the rest elsewhere—in her
gown, in her wrap knotted round her neck, anywhere.
Consumed by a haze of gluttony, she was startled by the
pealing of the bell a little while later. She jumped, casting her
eyes about, but no one was there. Not a single soul. Curtains of
homespun and lace fluttered in the breeze through open windows,
their owners nowhere to be seen.
The bell didn’t usually ring after the humans had gone
inside their building. Now it rang a handful of times, not the long
call it uttered on the customary day. When it ceased, birds
resumed chirping. The sun shone warmly and rainwater left over
from the night pattered from trees onto eager grass nearly
growing before her eyes. Though things looked normal, she felt
an undercurrent, enormous and implacable. And then, suddenly,
she understood.
The doors of the bell building opened with a groan.
Several men emerged, a large box carefully balanced on their
shoulders, while the collar man and the blacksmith followed
closely. Behind them, what looked like everyone living in that
village followed, from the oldest granny to babes in arms. Taking
careful, constrained steps, they turned not in the direction of the houses, but the other way. Chilled, M’Rith realized they were
going to the place of dead humans, which her kind avoided. They
barely understood death.
Many people behind the two men were weeping,
stumbling as if their legs would barely support them. M’Rith
paused to watch, because she had the strongest feeling the
blacksmith’s wife lay inside that suffocating box, and her child
with her. M’Rith knew the women did not always survive their
confinements. Men had spoken of it in the fields, sometimes,
with a quiet and terrible grief.
“Return to your beginning, human lady,” she
murmured—a warm whisper on the breeze, floating and then
forgotten, like a rose petal.
Her pleasure in the brilliant day spoiled, she retreated
from that place of sadness as quickly as faerie feet could take her."
In 1840s Ireland, the encroachment of humans has driven most Fae creatures to the isolated West, except for M'Rith. Half fairie, half elf, never fully accepted by either, she has been left in the green East by her Queen Mother with only the promise of a mortal lover to console her. Yet years have gone by without her mother's prophecy being fulfilled, until M'Rith has simply learned to live unseen, in an uneasy truce with her human neighbors.
Kieran, the village blacksmith, has lost his wife and unborn child to an untimely death. He alone, of all the humans, appears able to see M'Rith, yet he is a worker of iron which can mortally injure the Fae. Can this be the lover her mother promised?
Ireland, 1844
There were touches of her everywhere, like ghostly
fingerprints: jellies and jams neatly put by in the larder, sheets
and clothes smelling of her scented soap, pine floors scrubbed
nearly white, simple furniture made rich with a polish of bees’
wax and fragrant oils. In his house, Kieran had every comfort but
her presence. Eventually, he had to leave.
His feet took him by rote to the pub. The only other
choice was his forge, where there was not another cobweb to
sweep or a thing to put away. Like his house, it was in perfect
order. But without his wife to broaden the focus of his life,
rapidly narrowing to a thin tunnel of possibilities, Kieran saw no
other choices. House, pub or forge. Forge. Pub. House. It all
came down to the same thing in the end. She wasn’t there.
Silas, the owner, looked from behind his bar as the
creaking door announced his now-frequent patron. “Ale?”
“If you please.” It was all Kieran drank, even in his grief.
Silas came round the bar to one of the boards spread across
empty barrels where Kieran had taken a bench. Crinkled porkrinds sat in a crock, beckoning customers to increase their thirst,
but Kieran didn’t touch them.
“I cannot believe the weather has held fair an entire
fortnight,” the older man remarked, putting down a mug of rich,
creamy ale. It was a thing to remark in Ireland, where it always
rained.
“Aye.” No one had gotten much more than that out of
Kieran in two weeks, but Silas had enough steam for both of
them.
“’Tis the work of the Fair Folk.”
Kieran smiled sourly. “Don’t let Father Donnelly hear.”
Silas only lay one finger alongside his nose, aconspiratorial grin shining through his handlebar mustache. “He
won’t from me if he doesn’t from you.”
“No chance of that.” No, no chance at all. His wife had
believed in the faeries, even if he did not. Kieran stared moodily
into his drink while dust motes sparkled in sunlight streaming
through two high windows above Silas’s stout door.
Raised in their village, never more than ten miles from it,
Brighid had been a simple woman. She had believed in the Fair
Folk, even going so far as to allege they were responsible for her
conceiving their long awaited child—the child that killed her.
Kieran knew that was nonsense. It was only that such things had
been important to her, so in her honor he put out food from her
funeral feast. Everyone did. Surely it was no business of the priest’s if an extra bit of milk was set down for the cat that day or
a couple of cakes were behind the privy. And although Kieran
was sure it only resulted in a few fat dogs, it was true that the
days had stretched cloudless and balmy. He was beginning to feel
lonely for a spot of rain.
“I think we have their protection,” Silas went on. “D’ye
know how many trees came down on buildings in Loughderry
during that last storm? And here nothing more than branches.
They’ll be weeks cleaning the muddy mess from their flood.
We’re no farther from the river than they are. I tell you, it’s
uncanny. They lost most of their sheep to the bloat and we
weren’t out a single one. Good Lord, even our vegetables are
twice the size of theirs! They say you could club a man with our
carrots.”
“Or take his head off with a cabbage.” Kieran nodded.
“I’ve heard it, too. The truth is their soil is leached out.”
“Well, there may be something to that. I wouldn’t like to
be planting taties all the time. At least we have cabbages to clout
with.” Kieran didn’t respond. To someone who knew him well,
as Silas did, it was obvious that he had lost weight and was
looking poorly. “You might work a little less,” Silas counseled
gently.
Kieran gave him a startled look. “And do what?”
“Go and fish, man! The days are getting longer. The boys
and I are about to set up some bowls on the green of an evening—for practice, like—and then take it on the road with
those Loughderry lads. See if they can keep up with their blarney,
free ale to the winners. Which will be us.” As if thoughts of ale
prompted him, Silas took Kieran’s mug to refill. “You can be our
score keeper if you’re not of a mind to bowl.” Rounding the bar,
he lowered it on the boards. “Don’t stay in your cottage with her
ghost.”
“Their ghosts.”
Silas blanched. “Aye. ‘Tis what I meant to say, Kieran.
Sorry.”
Kieran waved a dismissive hand. The villagers had not
known the babe nine months in his wife’s womb. She had been a
stranger to them, but not to him though she had never drawn a
breath. Fair as a rose she would have been, if she had breathed.
But how could she, when her mother could not? And so his baby
daughter rested now in her mother’s arms. In the ground.
Silently, he put down two coins and stood.
“Don’t you want the rest of your ale?”
Kieran just shook his head. “Put it out for the faeries. We
could use some rain.”
* * * *
For more of this story, join me here at the Celtic Rose for additional installments of "Legend of M'Rith." This and two other short stories by Lynn Hubbard and Jae El Foster are available for purchase in "Enchanted Fairy Tales." Purchase it here at:
Follow a family saga back through the centuries, all holders of a magical brooch whose origins are hidden in the mists of time and Irish legend...
Book #1 - FREE!
It started in 1846, with Legacy of Hunger. Valentia left her home in the United States to travel to Ireland. She traveled in search of her grandmother's family and a mystical brooch she'd heard tales of since childhood. A brooch which haunted her dreams....
Then, in 1800, Esme and Eithne were twins, ripped from their childhood home. Esme chose to stay in Ireland when her parents emigrated to America, and lived with her Traveler husband, Sean. Eithne married a local land-owner, but that would never be enough for her... see the rest in Legacy of Truth.
In 1746, Eamonn and Katy fell in love, but she was forced to marry a man not of her choosing. Her father sold her to a horse trader, and she had to come up with clever ways to escape brutality. Read their love story in Legacy of Luck.
Going back to the 12th century, Orlagh is a Seer to her chief in Misfortune of Vision, and has been for over forty years. However, when her visions only show death and war, he refuses to believe her prophecies, forcing her into a quest in the middle of winter to prove herself.
When Orlagh was a young girl in Misfortune of Song, she fell madly in love with a charming bard, but her grandfather, Maelan, is displeased with her choice of a man with no honor. She defies him and escapes, only to find her lover isn't what she imagined.
Maelan's childhood was full of pain and danger, as his grandmother, Etain, tried to shield her husband's abuses. Instead, she must escape in Misfortune of Time, finding a place of safety for herself and abandoning Maelan.
In the 6th century, Conall had vowed to his father to take care of Lainn, his little sister. Her studies with the druids and ability to sing to the birds made her a delightful child. But when their step-father grew cruel, they had to escape to another world in Age of Saints.
In Age of Secrets, Fingin had no friends or family, but when he rescued a half-drowned wolfhound from the river, Bran became his closest friend. Together they embarked on a quest for a mysterious woman into the land of Faerie.
Now, in the final installment of this epic family saga, Cliodhna must make a decision between her own family and her duties in another realm. Age of Druids, and the revelation of the origin of the Druid's Brooch, is due out later this year.
An excerpt from Age of Druids:
Clíodhna’s baby’s screech stabbed through her skull, making her want to abandon Aileran and escape into blessed silence. She wished to be somewhere in the forest, on a hill, surrounded by buzzing bees and yellow flowers. Perhaps flying over the rolling hills with a flock of starlings.
Her brief idyll crashed when another scream broke through. She sighed and picked him up, rocking him against her shoulder while stirring the iron pot. She cast an eye for her middle child, Donn, who helped a lot, but tended to wander off and get into trouble. She found no sign of him, but someone yelled at the horses outside. He must be doing farm chores.
Aileran cuddled into her shoulder, let out a wet burp, and promptly fell asleep, a warm weight against her neck. His hand curled around a hank of her black hair, pulling just enough to make her wince. At the same time, his adorable smile invoked her own. Despite her frustration, she loved her baby boy. It had been a dozen winters since her womb had quickened, but she’d been glad of the new child after so many winters, especially after losing one daughter at birth.
Clíodhna glanced out the window of the large roundhouse. She glimpsed Donn, unharnessing the plow with practiced hands. Though he counted but fourteen winters, he needed to be the man of the house since his father disappeared.
The baby fussed again, whimpering in his sleep. She rocked him, still stirring the stew in the pot. They’d only a few meals of dried lamb left from the autumn harvest, but still had plenty of onions and turnips, as well as chives and garlic. At least Oisinne left them a workable farm before he disappeared. She used to sell small wooden carvings she’d made, but who found time for such frivolity now?
The odor of char caught her attention, and she cursed as she tried to swivel the pot off the fire. She needed to add more water before it scorched. Baby still in hand, she bent to the bucket, trying to lift it without waking the child. She failed.
His screams shot right through her ears, a physical pain that made her drop the bucket. The water splashed on the flagstone floor.
“Son of a diseased donkey!”
“Clíodhna! Such language!”
She whirled to see Ita, a blond woman from the village, standing in the doorway, her hand upon her heart.
“Sorry, Ita. Can you help me for a moment? I need about five extra hands.”
“I can see that. Here, let me take the wee one.” She reached out to take Aileran, who yanked on Clíodhna’s hair so hard it brought tears to her eyes.
She tried to be patient with her son. “Let go, Aileran, there’s a good babe.”
Hello, friends. I'm so excited to be apart of The Celtic Rose today to share my debut novel with you.
Eris's sister is missing, and Magic is definitely to
blame! Eris knows only Magic can bring her back, but even as a Light Magic
born, is she strong enough to save her sister?
Knox is cursed to spend his days as a corpse and his
nights trying to find the prophesized girl who can break the curse. If he can't
find her by his 20th birthday, he'll stay dead forever.
Eris and Knox will discover there are scarier things in their
path other than curses and half-truths. If the Queen of the Underworld has her
way, everything and everyone will die. The only thing standing in her way is
the curse breaker, and Eris will have to choose between saving herself or
everyone she loves.
Excerpt:
The Queen paced in front of her blood-red throne. After so many years, she was finally going to meet the thief who had stolen her amulet. And when she did, she was going to slowly sever every one of their limbs, one by one, before feeding their soul to Madame. The thought made her smile a wicked smile. That would teach them to steal from the Queen of the Underworld. Stupid humans were always trying to prolong their lives in the most feeble ways. Tonics, magic, deals. Death was something that could never be avoided entirely, but they didn’t seem to think that universal rule applied to any of them.
Three more months and her amulet would call to her like it always did when she could get free of this place, and then she would have her revenge. Whoever they were, they had been granted twenty years that did not belong to them, and she would make sure they paid for that stolen time. That was part of her job, after all, not that she was complaining.
“I apologize for being late, your Majesty.” Madame hurried in, a little out of breath.
The Queen turned and stared at a slightly disheveled Madame. Normally her long hair was braided and wrapped elaborately around her head, causing her to look like a long-lost ancient queen from the human world.
“We can discuss that in a moment. I called you here because I have a proposition for you.”
“I am but your humble servant, your Majesty.” Madame feigned humility they both knew she did not possess.
The Queen rolled her eyes and continued. “If you can find the insect that stole my amulet before three months are up, I will give you a special treat.”
“I will find the human. I will make it suffer.” Madame smiled.
“No. You will not touch a hair on its head. Bring it to me, and I will deal with it.” Madame looked disappointed but nodded.
The body of a girl suddenly appeared in the air in front of them, along with one of her servants. Madame examined the girl for a moment, but then seemed to lose interest once she realized the girl was neither alive nor dead. The Queen walked over and swept the girl’s long black hair back enough to see her face. She scrunched up her nose at the young girl’s beauty.
Snapping her fingers again brought new servants running.
“Take her and put her with the rest of the cursed.”
The women gently plucked the girl from the air. The Queen wondered how many bodies lay waiting in the limbo between life and death. Not that she would forgive the vermin that had stolen her amulet, but she would enjoy watching the human be tortured by all the souls it had trapped prematurely in the Underworld. Eternity would not be long enough for all the lives that heartless human had taken trying to break the curse that came with stealing something born from the Underworld’s power. Since the human had not been able to break it thus far, she continued to collect bodies stuck in the in-between, their lives connected to the cursed one’s. When that insect finally died, so would all of those souls, and she would have a lovely new collection of pets.
The Queen smiled to herself as she watched one of the servants wrap her arms around the girl’s legs while the other wove her arms around the girl’s back. Slowly they carried her out, leaving the Queen to her thoughts again.
In the year 70 A.D., the Roman Emperor, Vespasian, has left his son, Titus, in charge of laying siege to Jewish rebels in the city of Jerusalem.
Among those sent there are Tribune Marcus Acurius and his son, Domenicus. Adopted in Britannia to become Marcus’s successor, Domi knows that he is half Roman and half Celt. He has given his allegiance to Marcus, but he still hears the singing of his Druid ancestors in his bones.
When the siege is over and he is forced to choose between honoring the living and the dead, which will he choose?
The first 5-star review for Warlord is up on Amazon: "I have been a fan of Ms. Newman's stories for a while, and this one doesn't disappoint. Ganina has been sold by her warlord father to a man old enough to be her grandfather and when he dies, his other wives want to kill the younger, prettier wife. Senec, son of the deceased chieftain, claims her as his. I felt for Ganina because she never gets to make her own choices, but she learns to be a survivor, so she isn't weak. Senec is a complicated character. He is a warlord and doesn't show emotions, but his actions speak for him. Ms. Newman's words are magical, and her storytelling is captivating. Highly recommended!" A limited number of pdf copies are available. If you would like one, leave an email in the comments. It's first come, first served as long as they last! If you prefer to purchase in print, here is a link:
She has no
choice but to give him her body. The only question is whether she dares to give
him her heart.
When the
beleaguered citizens of the capitol city of Thelona are swept by plague in the
absence of their ruling class, who have fled it en masse, desperation finally
pushes them to take to the streets. With their city burning, the Lords of
Thelona have no choice but to shoulder the burden of responsibility. In the
absence of their Highest, they turn to Caius, Scion of the House of Bardin. He
has unwittingly placed himself in the path of his ruler’s ambitions and also
endangered his human slave, Lela. What will become of the House of Bardin?
Please join me today at All the Ups and Downs to see excerpts from my nonfiction book, Rescued. Most of my writing adventures have happened in the company of the many dogs and cats I have fostered and adopted, and it all began with one little dog. This is her story. Enter to win a $15 Amazon/BN GC. All the Ups and Downshttps://alltheupsandowns.blogspot.com/…/virtual-book-tour-a…
