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Spotlight on The Herald’s Heart

My review of The Herald’s Heart: A gem for lovers of the medieval

In The Herald’s Heart, Rue Allen has given us a medieval novel that is out of the ordinary, with an unusual plot, strongly drawn characters, and gothic overtones, including a mad anchoress and a haunting.

Three people are out for revenge — or is it justice? — for the crimes of one man, and him an untouchable feudal lord. Their plots conflict: the hero and heroine, in particular, can’t both achieve their goals. A win for one is a loss for the other. 

The hero is a King’s herald, sent on a mission to call the lord to account. He has his own reasons for relishing the king’s work. The heroine is a great lady and heiress brought low and reduced to scraping a living amongst people who regard her as mad. 

I found the hero’s insistence on continuing to call the heroine a liar long after her main claim was proven to be annoying, but his eventual capitulation and grovelling were satisfying.

More would give away plot points you really ought to read for yourself, but I can’t resist telling you that the murder weapon might just be the most unusual one I’ve ever heard of, and depended on intimate knowledge of the victim and his own co-operation.

Rue tells us about her book

Jude, thank you so much for the opportunity to share The Herald’s Heart with your followers. Please allow me to explain a little bit about the inspiration for The Herald’s Heart. At the time I was drafting this story, identity theft was a major news story (yes, the book is that old). I knew that proving one’s identity in the middle ages was difficult, if not nearly impossible. It was the job of the royal heralds to visit every noble household, verify identies, record any changes, and if it was important, accept copies of the records about the local yeoman population. A herald was essentially a census taker, and the information was used for the same purposes as a present day census: to assign taxes, to draft soldiers and sailors, and maintain identies.

Imagine, if you will, having to rely on the hand written record of a man, who may no longer be alive, to verify that Sir So-and-so of Somewhere in England actually was the person he claims to be. What happened when two claimants to a title appeared whom no one had ever seen before? No wonder medieval kings and queens required that their nobles show up at the royal court on a regular basis.

When the royal summons was ignored, as it was in The Herald’s Heart, the king (or queen) would dispatch a herald to record the truth of things and perhaps carry a message to the delinquent noble that his royal master was not pleased. Appearance at court alone would prevent any dire consequences.

You’ll note that I just said the herald might carry a message. That was in some respects their major job, especially in time of war. But The Herald’s Heart is inspired by the census taking aspect of a herald’s work. I had  a wonderful time writing this story and pray you will enjoy it when you read The Herald’s Heart. Please leave a comment letting me know if the story interests you or not.

The Herald’s Heart is available for pre-order now through this Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/bowW2A. The book is set for general release on September 2, 2019. If you would like to know more about The Herald’s Heart, you may find an excerpt here https://www.rueallyn.com/hh-excerpts-and-links/

Blurb:  

As one of King Edward I’s heralds, Sir Talon Du Quereste imagined he would someday settle on a quiet little estate, marry a gently bred damsel, and raise a flock of children. The wife of his daydreams was a woman who could enhance his standing with his peers, and certainly not an overly adventurous, impulsive, argumentative woman of dubious background.

When her family is murdered, Lady Larkin Rosham lost more than everyone she loved—she lost her name, her identity and her voice. She’s finally recovered her ability to speak, but no one believes her claim to be Lady Larkin. She is determined to regain her name and her heritage, but Sir Talon Du Quereste guards the way to the proof she needs. She must discover how to get past him without risking her heart.

Meet Rue Allyn

Award winning author, Rue Allyn, learned story telling at her grandfather’s knee. (Well it was really more like on his knee—I was two.) She’s been weaving her own tales ever since. She has worked as an instructor, mother, sailor, clerk, sales associate, and painter, along with a variety of other types of employment. She has lived and traveled in places all over the globe from Keflavik Iceland (I did not care much for the long nights of winter.) and Fairbanks Alaska to Panama City, Panama and the streets of London England to a large number of places in between. Now that her two sons have left the nest, Rue and her husband of more than four decades (Try living with the same person for more than forty years—that’s a true adventure.) have retired and moved south.

When not writing, enjoying the nearby beach or working jigsaw puzzles and singing along with her playlist, Rue travels the world and surfs the internet in search of background material and inspiration for her next heart melting romance. She loves to hear from readers, and you may contact her at Rue@RueAllyn.com. She can’t wait to hear from you.

What Rue likes best about the belles is their can-do spirit. “This group isn’t afraid to try anything the publishing world can dish out. The only other place I’ve found such completely supportive energy is with my fellow sisters-in-arms, both active duty and not.”

Social Media Links:

FB– https://www.facebook.com/RueAllynAuthor/

Twitter– https://twitter.com/RueAllyn

RAmblin’ Author Notes, blog— https://www.rueallyn.com/blog/

Amazon– https://www.amazon.com/Rue-Allyn/e/B00AUBF3NI

Email– Rue@RueAllyn.com

Goodreads– https://www.amazon.com/Rue-Allyn/e/B00AUBF3NI

Pinterest– https://www.pinterest.com/RueAllyn/

Author pic: See attached.

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Tea with a tohunga

Tuhoto Ariki, Tohunga who predicted disaster before the Tarawera eruption

The old  man waiting in Eleanor’s parlour was unlike anyone she had seen. Old? The man was ancient. He had ignored the chairs scattered around the room, and sat on the hearth rug before the fire, but he looked around as she entered the room.

“Tuhoto Ariki?” she asked, unsure of how to pronounce the unfamiliar name that had appeared in her appointment diary.

He gave a smile of considerable sweetness, distorted though it was by the tattoos that covered his face. His return greeting was in a fluid and musical language that she did not know, but whatever alchemy presented people from other times and places in her parlour also translated their words, so that her ears heard a foreign tongue, but her brain understood the meaning.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am he, and this is a strange dream. Am I in the land of Queen Victoria? Perhaps you are she?”

Eleanor took a seat on the chair closest to the old man. “Our queen is Queen Charlotte, the wife of King George. I am the Duchess of Haverford. May I ask where you come from, and what year?”

She could make nothing of his answer. He spoke of a canoe, a mountain, a river. He talked about the generations since that ancestral canoe first arrived, but none of the names he mentioned translated into anything Eleanor could understand. In return, she told him a little of the United Kingdom in her time, but that got them no further.

They were interrupted by the procession of maids, bringing the makings for tea and plates of refreshment. Tuhoto Ariki accepted tea, asking for sugar but refusing the milk.

“I am trapped in my house by the ash from the taniwha’s fire,” he explained. “My throat is parched, back in my life. I like your pretty room better, though it is cold, Duchess of Haverford.”

“Trapped in your house?” Eleanor queried.

“I warned them, the foolish young men. You are greedy, I told them, and the gods are angry. You take too many visitors to the sacred places. ‘The visitors make us rich,’ they said. ‘The carvings in Hinemihi, our meeting house, have gold coins for eyes.'” He shook his head. “They did not listen. Even when the phantom canoe came, they did not listen.”

Eleanor leaned forward. “Tell me about the phantom canoe.”

“They appeared out of nowhere. A canoe the like of which has not been seen on the lake in half of my lifetime. They were dressed for a funeral, chiefly spirits who paddled a short distance and faded away like mist. ‘We shall be overwhelmed’, I warned the villages, but no one listened to me. Then the taniwha under the mountain awoke and the sky split apart with its fire. Who knows how many will survive? Te Wairoa, the village of the meeting house with the golden eyes, is buried and me with it.” He took another great gulp of his tea, and then faded away like the phantom canoe, leaving nothing behind but a cup and saucer tumbling from the air to land on the hearth rug.

Tuhoto Ariki is an historical figure. The events of which he speaks, culminating in the eruption of Mount Tarawera, form the background for my story Forged in Fire, in the Belles’ collection Never Too Late and my own collection of New Zealand based stories, Hearts in the Land of Ferns, Love Tales from New Zealand.

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Tension on WIP Wednesday

Tension is an important part of a story. If we’re not on the edge of our seat wondering how it’s all going to turn out, we might as well be painting our nails or watching the grass grow.

This week, I’m inviting you to share a passage where you ratchet up the tension. It might be dramatic tension, romantic tension, suspenseful tension, comedic tension–your choice. Mine is from To Wed a Proper Lady, and is set in the aftermath of a duel between my hero’s brother and his loathsome cousin.

“Good shooting, brother,” James said, clapping Drew on the shoulder.

“Idiot would have been fine if he hadn’t moved,” Drew grumbled. Weasel had shot before the final count and missed. When Drew had taken his turn, he had announced his intention of removing Weasel’s watch fob from the chain that drooped across his waist, and ordered the man to stand still.

At the other end of the field, Weasel was carrying on as if death were imminent. His second, the Marquis of Aldridge, after a brief examination, gave the Winderfield men a thumbs up before leaving Weasel to the ministrations of the doctor. Aldridge was now giving orders to the servants by the carriage that had brought him and Weasel to the duelling grounds.

“Breakfast?” James suggested.

“Good idea,” Drew said. “Let’s collect Yousef and…”

As if his name had conjured him up, their father’s lieutenant appeared from the trees and stalked towards them. Something about his posture brought James to full alert, and Drew sensed it too, stiffening beside him.

“Trouble?” James asked, as soon as Yousef was close enough.

“An assassin in the woods, armed with a pistol like these.” He gestured to the gun that Drew had replaced in its case until he had time to clean it. “You were not meant to walk from this field, Andraos Bey.”

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Tea with a love letter

The Duchess of Haverford took tea in her rooms this quiet Monday afternoon. She was alone for once; even the maid who brought the tray sent off back to the servants’ hall. Her life was such a bustle, and for the most part, that was how she liked it, but just for once, it was nice to have an afternoon to herself. No meetings. No entertainments to attend or offer. Not even any family members–her current companion had gone to visit her mother for her afternoon off, Aldridge was about his own business, Frances was at lessons, and Jessica and Matilda had been invited on an outing with Felicity Belvoir.

As to Haverford, who knew where he was? But he would not disturb her here. He had not come to her rooms since Jonathan had brought Frances to join her nursery–the little girl a greater gift than her son could ever know. The scandal of the child’s existence was a secret Haverford needed to keep from his royal cousins, and she had been able to use her knowledge of that secret to secure her wards’ future under Haverford’s reluctant and anonymous protection, and her own freedom from his intimate attentions.

It had been an unpleasant negotiation, determined on her part and rancorous on his–not that he much wanted his aging wife, but he resented having his will forced. In return for his agreement, she had promised to continue as his political hostess, and to maintain the myth of a perfect Society marriage.

Why was she spoiling a perfectly good afternoon thinking about His Grace? She came up here to explore quite different memories.

Putting down her tea, she fetched the little box of keepsakes from the back of a cupboard. The fan her long dead brother had given her before her first ball. A small bundle of musical scores, that recalled pleasant evenings in her all too brief Season. Aldridge’s cloth rabbit. She had retrieved it when Haverford had ordered it destroyed, saying his son was a future duke and should not be coddled. Aldridge had been eight months’ old. A pair of Jonathan’s bootees. She had knitted them with her own hands, and there had been a cap to match. A rose, faded and dry, that she had pulled from a bouquet James had sent her, to wear in her hair. It still bore a faint scent of the perfume he had delighted in as they danced that night.

And the letter. It was one of several she had kept; most of them brief notes about nothing in particular. ‘I saw these and thought of you’, on a card with a bouquet of sweet spring flowers. ‘Save me a dance at the Mitford’s tonight?’ ‘I saw you in the Park. You rode like a goddess.’ They did not have to be signed. They were all from James, and short because they had to be passed to her in secret. “I’m not throwing you away on a third son, Eleanor Creydon. Winderfield is a fribble; a useless pup. Haverford wants you, and I’ve accepted him.”

James was back in England, a widower, father of six sons, heir to a dying duke. “Take that, Father,” Eleanor thought. “The third son will be duke, and his sons after him.”

He had attended the ball she was at the night before last. Eleanor had looked up when the room fell silent, and there he stood on the stairs, surrounded by members of his family, whom she barely noticed. James looked wonderful. More than thirty years had passed, and no person on earth would call him a fribble or useless now. He had been a king somewhere in Central Asia, and wore his authority like an invisible garment. And he was still as handsome as he had been in his twenties.

She caught herself sighing over the man like a silly gosling. She was a married woman, and he was a virtuous man who had, by all accounts, deeply loved his wife. Besides, women did not age as well as men, as the whole world knew. She no longer had the slender waist of a maiden, her hair was beginning to grey, and her face showed the lines her mother swore she would avoid if she never smiled, laughed, frowned, or showed any other emotion. Of course, she had not followed her mother’s instruction, but those who had were no less lined than Eleanor, as far as she could see.

Gads! She was prevaricating. She had come here to reread James’s last letter; the one that had broken her heart; the one she had ignored, leaving her to a lifetime of regret.

Stealing herself, she opened it.

My dearest, dearest love

My father is in it, too. He says that Haverford is to have you, as soon as he has recovered from his wounds.

I wish I had never challenged the duke, or that I had shot to kill. I meant only to defend your honour; to show he could not speak of you as if you were his possession. Even a husband should hesitate to show such disrepect to the woman he has promised to cherish above all others, and so I told him. ‘You are not even her betrothed,’ I told him, ‘and the last man on earth to deserve her’. I am very sorry, Eleanor. I lost my temper, when I should have been thinking of the best way to press my case with your father.

Now, the devil is in it, my father insists that I must flee the country. He says Haverford will have me arrested for shooting him, and Father won’t lift a finger to stop him.

Come with me, Eleanor. I promise I can look after you. The ship my father has organised leaves in two days, but I have a friend who can get me away tomorrow night. I promise I can look after you. I’ve sold the little estate my mother left me, so I have funds. We will go to the Continent. I can find work, I know I can, and we will be together. I know it won’t be what you are used to or what you deserve, but I love you, and you love me. Is that not worth fleeing for?

Meet me by the oak near the back gate of your garden as soon as the house is quiet tomorrow evening. I will be there from 8 of the evening and will wait until 2 hours after midnight. We have to be on the ship in time to sail with the dawn, and by the time your household wakes, we shall be gone down the river, and out to sea.

Come with me, my love.

Yours forever

James

 

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The art of reading reviews

Okay. I confess. I’ve been reading reviews of my books again. People are always advising authors not to do it, but I always do. My books tend to get good ratings, but not everyone loves them. I’m good with that. I write the books I like to read, which means a large cast of characters, lots of everyday life, convoluted plots, serious and dark complications, nasty villains, and nice heroes and heroines.

A good review is a great morale boost, especially on the days that the plot elves go on strike, the weather is lousy, I’ve eaten something that disagreed with me, I haven’t had enough sleep, I’ve taken a dislike to both my current protagonists, and I have a deadline looming and too much to do between now and then.

Good reviews are not just ones that say the book is marvelous; that’s nice, of course, but what I love to read is why the reader thought so. Even a low rating can be rewarding to read, if I come away thinking, ‘yes, I see where they’re coming from’. I can either learn from it or agree to disagree, but at least I know!

Mostly, reviews of any kind are one person’s opinion, and they’re entitled to it. We don’t all enjoy the same things. I’m okay with that. In fact, a review only upsets me for two reasons.

Reason one, I’ve done something stupid and now that it is pointed out to me it’s really obvious, even though no one in the whole development process–from my first readers, through the beta readers and editor, to the proofreader and ARC readers–has noticed. That has happened a couple of times, and I hate it. The mistake in the title of one of my key repeating characters. Aaaargh! I’ve had to come up with a complicated backstory to fix it.

Reason two, the reader castigates me for getting the research wrong when I didn’t. I hate that. I do try hard to get things right, and it rubs me the wrong way when a lofty reviewer informs other readers that my book is unbelievable because ‘a woman back then wouldn’t have [insert the independent action of your choice]’/’the writer should have done some basic research into [almost anything that the reviewer has a prejudice about–one review was a lecture on church tithing based on modern, but not Regency, practices]’.

But what can you do? The facts are the facts, but I can’t change people who base their facts on opinion.

I’m writing a couple of reviews at the moment. I don’t, usually, mostly because I don’t have time. I’m never tempted to spend that time writing a review of a book that I rate as three star or less, because I’m not about to spoil another writer’s day, and it is, after all, only my opinion.

I do, occasionally, write four and five star reviews. And when I do, I post them on my website as well as in the usual places. I like to do it, because reviews matter to authors, and I feel I should do my bit. When I can.

What do you think? Should authors review other authors’ books?

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Someone to talk to on WIP Wednesday

Michael Hauge calls them reflection characters–those people we invent whose role in the story is to listen to the hero or the heroine, and occasionally (by what they do or what they say) point them in the right direction. This saves lots of pages where our protagonists talk to themselves, so the readers can hear what we need them to know while still keeping secrets from their romantic interest. Then the meeting with said romantic interest doesn’t have to devolve into him sitting staring at her thinking about whether to tell her the estate is bankrupt, while she sews studiously away thinking about whether he will turn her out on her ear when he knows that she has been supporting her wicked brother out of the housekeeping. Give them each a reflection character, and they can get these thoughts off their respective chests, and increase the tension when they spend the evening not talking about it.

So, give me a passage of conversation with a reflection character. My excerpt is from my newest draft, and my reflection character is a little different. He doesn’t exist, except as a memory in my hero’s mind.

“Stedham was looking for a home; a purpose,” Max told Sebastian. The lieutenant had tried being a steward on an estate, and moved on. He had worked for a while in a lawyer’s office, and a few months more as secretary to a Member of Parliament. The last address the sister had for him was a vicarage, and Max was heading there now.

“He hasn’t been able to settle since he returned from the wars” she had told Max.

Her husband’s estimation was harsher. “He cannot stick to anything. Some of them are like that. They need the adventure, the thrills, and they’re no use in ordinary life. He should join up again.”

Max didn’t agree. “Stedham was a good soldier, but he wasn’t made for that life. Not really,” he told the man, but he might as well have talked to the wall.

“You don’t know him like we do,” the brother-in-law said.

“That man wants his wife to himself,” Sebastian commented. “I know jealousy when I see it.”

Max thought the ghost might be right. Sebastian usually was right about the darker emotions. “Stedham needs a place to belong, but that isn’t it.” Stedham could hardly have missed the lack of welcome. Was that why he stopped writing to his sister? But he’d only stayed with the pair for the first two months after arriving home from France in 1814. He’d continued to write faithfully, week after week, until a few months ago.

“No one belongs,” Sebastian argued. “Belonging is an illusion, and the ones you love most are the ones who most hurt you.”

Max ignored the oblique reference to Sebastian’s death. “That’s the village.” From this elevation, it and the surrounding fields were spread below like a patchwork made by a thrifty housewife from a hundred different scraps. The church, its steeple foreshortened by his perspective, sat at one end of the cluster of houses, the last building on the village street. At the other end was an inn, strategically placed on the junction with the road he was travelling. He could see glimpses of its curves, snaking down the hill before it straightened, leapt a river, and straightened to run past the village street and on into the distance.

 

 

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Tea with Sally

The Duchess of Winshire’s beloved James had added a conservatory onto his townhouse as a wedding present for his new wife. Even a decade later, Eleanor felt warm at the thought. No. A decade did not decrease her appreciation of her husband. Rather, it made it richer and deeper. The conservatory was just one of many ways he showed his deep love for the companion of his old age. Her lips curved in amusement. Not as old as all that! Bed sports with a generous man she adored, and who adored her in return had been a revelation to the former Duchess of Haverford. Neither her children nor his appreciated the passion between the couple, and they tried to be considerate, but really! They were married, after all.

Today, the conservatory was a play house for two of her favourite people. The little Marquess of Abersham, not quite four years old, was a godson–almost an honorary grandson, since his father had been a close friend of Eleanor’s own son for most of his life. Lady Sarah Grenford, that son’s daughter, was almost a year younger, but imperiously certain of her right to rule of the child-sized tea table where the two children entertained an assortment of dolls, stuffed toys, wooden animal and tin soldiers to afternoon tea.

Eleanor had refused a seat on the tiny chairs in favour of an adult-sized chair pulled close to one side of the table, but she accepted the tiny porcelain cup Sally handed her, filled with coloured lemonade.

“Now you must hand Grandmama the custard squares, David,” Sally commanded, and Abersham obeyed, carefully carrying the plate around the table balanced on both palms. He bowed as he offered it, and it tilted, the contents threatening to slip off before he slapped a hand over the top of them.

“I saved them, Aunt Eleanor,” he told her proudly, lifting a sticky hand to allow her to select from the offerings, the custard slightly squashed under cracked icing.

“You crushed them, silly,” his sternest auditor pronounced.

“I’m not silly,” the young lord protested. Then, clearly feeling that honour must be restored, he stalked towards Sally waving his custard-covered palm in threat.

“Abersham, your manners, please,” Eleanor reminded him. “And Sally, ladies never call other people ‘silly’. You have hurt your friend’s feelings.”

Sally’s eyes widened and she turned to Abersham, all contrition. “I did not mean to, David. Here!” She picked up a linen napkin. “Let me wipe your hand clean.”

Abersham grinned, and licked his palm. “All clean,” he said, “and it tastes good.”

Eleanor thought about reprimanding the child again, but he had nurses and parents for that and, after all, he would not still be licking his palm at dinner parties when he was twenty. Let him learn kindness now and manners later.

Both were the eldest children of dukes, which meant they were more indulged than was good for them, but they both had sweet natures, and were dearly loved. And they had one another as the best of friends. What would the future bring them, she wondered, as she used a spoon to select the undamaged edges of her custard square.

 

 

 

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Spotlight on Never Kiss a Toad

The epilogue to this novel has been posted on Wattpad. We’ve reached the end. Time to go back to the beginning and edit it into something shorter and more concise, but we’re delighted with the reaction we’re getting to the current lo-o-o-ong draft.

Epic love story… Good you did not hurry through to the climax,😉 now the afterglow is going to be brighter, and the afterthoughts sweeter,☺ this is not a story we shall forget in a hurry. Thank you for sharing it with us.

WOW!
That’s the only word for this amazing journey of Sally & David. I absolutely loved this novel. ❤️❤️
Thank you to both the authors for sharing this with us. 🙂

Nice, eh? And Wattpad followers will be pleased to know that we’ve written the first scene of the story of what happens next for Maddox and Gills.

To read the book go to my profile or Mari’s on Wattpad (or wait about 18 months).

https://www.wattpad.com/user/JudeKnight
https://www.wattpad.com/user/marianagabrielle

Here’s the blurb:
David “Toad” Northope, heir to the Duke of Wellbridge and rogue in the mold of his infamous father, knows Lady Sarah “Sal” Grenford, daughter of the once-profligate Duke of Haverford, will always hold his heart. But when the two teens are caught in bed together by their horrified parents, he is sent away to finish school on the Continent, and she is thrown into the depths of her first London Season.

Can two reformed rakes keep their children from making the same mistakes they did? The dukes decide keeping them apart will do the trick, so as the children reach their majority, Toad is put to work at sea, learning to manage his mother’s shipping concern, and Sal is taken to the other side of the world, as far from him as possible. How will Toad and Sal’s love withstand long years of separation, not to mention nasty lies, vicious rumors, attractive other suitors, and well-meaning parents who threaten to destroy their future before it has begun?

(Toad, by the way, is the son of Mari’s Regency hero Nick, the Duke of Wellbridge, and Sally’s father is our own Marquis of Aldridge, now the Duke of Haverford.)