Blurb:
Henry Tudor demands the Scots Queen be brought
south, by force if necessary, to marry his son. Young Englishman Matho Spirston
accepts the challenge only to fall foul of the king's niece,
bold beauty Meg Douglas. She has her own problems with ambitious Lord Lennox. Her trickery forces Matho to use his wits and all his courage to survive in the brutal world of 16th century Scottish politics.
Observing them all is Marie de Guise, the Dowager Queen with a loyalty to France, struggling to protect her daughter's birthright amongst headstrong lords who think any one of them could rule the country better than a mere woman.
A bright, sparkling story with both drama and humour set in sixteenth century Scotland when life was an uncertain thing and death never far away.
Excerpt 1:
‘Spirston, you’ve dealt with forays of Scots across
the fells to steal a few cattle and sheep. You know men don’t always return
from a raid or a trod. This persuades me the pair of you may have a chance of
success. But don’t take this task lightly, either of you.’ He cast a warning
glance at his son. ‘It could cost you your lives.’
‘Aye.’ On a
wave of confidence, Matho flicked his fingers against Harry’s green velvet
sleeve. ‘You’d best get out of those fancy duds, Harry. They’ll give you away
in a trice. Splurge some money on a less gaudy set of clothes, man.’
‘Quite.’
Humour lit Wharton’s eyes. ‘I dare say Harry will be loath to shed his
favourite boots. He is ever light-hearted about too many things, Spirston. I’m
relying on you to talk sense into him.’
Matho’s
glance fell to the boots in question. While he had never begrudged Harry his
expensive clothes, his time at court nor his chantry school education, he
stared at the fine brown leather boots with red, turn-down cuffs embossed with
tiny gold flowers, and promised himself he would own a similar pair before the
year turned. Either that or he wouldn’t be worrying about boots at all.
Excerpt 2:
Meg Douglas braced her palms on the
cold stone windowsill high in the north-west tower and stared out to sea. A
mile away, Bass Rock heaved its white, guano-smeared sides out of the indigo
water and the usual coronet of seabirds circled its cliffs. Her gaze moved to
hills of Fife on the far side of the Forth estuary, where waves hitting the
shore threw up a faint haze and hid the beaches from sight.
With a hiss of exasperation, Meg banged the shutter
closed and turned back into the small chamber. Father’s summons to this ancient
Douglas stronghold had been unwelcome and badly timed. He must know Henry of
England had married for the sixth time in July, and a budding court jostled
round his new queen. By the time Meg rode south again, the plum positions would
have gone and she would face the simpering smiles of the favoured
ladies-in-waiting. She would have only King Henry’s erratic generosity to rely
upon for the coming year.
Father would not care. Thanks to King Henry’s gold,
Father was happily ensconced twenty-five miles from Edinburgh, and as busy as a
bee in clover encouraging the populace of Scotland to accept the marriage of
their infant Queen to England’s young Prince Edward. He could do it and
welcome. She would be polite, even charming, do his bidding and get back to
London as soon as possible. Scotland held nothing for her.
‘Margaret? Are ye ready? Daughter?’ Father’s bellow
echoed up the spiral stairs from three floors below.
On the long, uncomfortable ride north she had
received the unwelcome news that her father had re-married. At fifty-three, for
God’s sake, he had wed a girl of eighteen. No doubt the new Countess of Angus
would be waiting beyond the curve of the stair.
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