Author of Saxon historical fiction and non-fiction, 20th-century historical mysteries, and Norse-inspired historical romantasy. Book reviewer and blog host.
The blog tour for Lords of Iron has finished. A huge thank you to all the hosts. Here’s what they had to say about Lordsof Iron #newrelease #MenOfIron #WarriorsOfIron #LordsofIron #histfic
Watch the little video I made to showcase the reviews from the fabulous reviewers. Thank you to them all. I know the majority have been with me since Men of Iron, and it’s amazing to realise how invested they’ve become in my characters. (The music is very dramatic).
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I’m welcoming Jill Bray, and her historical mystery, A Brotherly Devotion, to the blog with an extract #blogtour #historicalmystery @rararesources @JillBray67
Katherine found it difficult to believe that, in a short space of time, her whole world had changed once again. She had known the facts and the evidence that was put against Lord Fitzwarren, but she hadn’t given much thought as to how it would end. It was only yesterday that she had started to suspect him, and then earlier today, when she had journeyed with her father to speak with Edward; she had known for certain that he was the one who had so viciously murdered Brother Clement.
The banquet in the hall now felt quite surreal. She looked around at the rest of the guests, who had gone back to feasting and drinking at their tables, as though nothing had just happened. Yet, for her, everything had changed once more. Just a couple of days ago, she had been expecting to run away with Alexander in order to avoid marrying Lord Fitzwarren; and, up until yesterday, she had intended to keep to that plan. She had come to terms with having to give up everything; to lose contact with her sister and to disobey her father, in order to be with the man she loved. After sitting back down at the table next to her sister, she felt quite light-headed and reached out to pour herself a goblet of wine. She needed to consider, just what she was going to do next.
“Well, that wasn’t what I expected!” Angharad exclaimed, leaning over to her sister. “You knew, didn’t you?” She questioned Katherine.
“Not everything, and not finally until earlier today,” she admitted. “But even then, I couldn’t tell you. I hope you understand. Father needed to keep everything quiet, so that Lord Fitzwarren wouldn’t get to know.”
“This explains why you have been so distant. I still can’t believe that the man you were due to marry was a murderer. That’s quite a revelation.” Angharad leaned back in her chair. “So, why did it happen here tonight, at the banquet?”
“We went to Lord Fitzwarren’s manor earlier today to get Edward to safety and for father to arrest Lord Fitzwarren; but he wasn’t there,” Katherine told her. “Father didn’t want to raise any suspicion. And, as he knew Lord Fitzwarren would be here tonight, he agreed with Sir Robert that this evening would be a good opportunity to present the case against him.”
“Did father know before then, that Lord Fitzwarren had killed the monk?”
Katherine thought about it carefully. “He had spoken with Peter Beaumont and found out about Lord Fitzwarren’s sister, so I think he had his suspicions. But he had no proof, and that was the main thing.” Katherine took a drink of wine and relaxed back into her chair with a sigh of relief. “None of us were certain, until yesterday when I met Edward, and he showed me the dagger. Up until then, it was just a story father had been told by Peter Beaumont, who was a close friend of Hughs. One about how William’s devotion to his sister had been so consuming; and how she had taken her own life rather than live without the man she loved. That man was Hugh de Glanville, who became Brother Clement when he took Holy Orders. In Lord Williams eyes, the church took away his adored sister and then denied her a burial in consecrated ground. His grief and anger must have festered away inside him ever since her death and become sort of twisted. Then last week, and quite by chance; he came upon the man who had been the cause of all his sadness.” She took another sip of wine before continuing. “It was an accidental encounter as, from what father has told me, I don’t believe Brother Clement left the walls of the Abbey much. Lord Fitzwarren must have thought it was divine intervention, and he was being given a chance to mete out his own kind of justice.”
“So, he killed him?” Angharad stared at her.
“Yes, in order to avenge his sister.” Then, Katherine added more thoughtfully. “Such was his devotion to her.”
“And to think you were so nearly his wife.”
YORK 1224: On a hot July night, Brother Clement is savagely murdered when returning from administering to Lady Maud de Mowbray.
Simon de Hale, Sheriff of Yorkshire, is in his office when Abbot Robert visits to inform him of the murder, and request that he take responsibility for investigating the killing.
Simon is unsure whether the murder is a crime against the Abbey, or if it is a more personal matter against the monk.
Commencing their investigation, Simon and his deputy, Adam, ride out to see Lady Maud de Mowbray at Overton – the last person to see Brother Clement alive. When they encounter her son, Roger de Mowbray, they both take an instant dislike to him.
Lady Mowbray reveals to Simon that she intends to leave her money to the Abbey, and Simon can see this being a motive for the monk’s murder, if her son was aware of this.
The investigation gathers pace and a murder weapon is found.
A banquet is held at the castle to honour the Royal Justice – during which, one of the guests is exposed as the murderer and apprehended. But that will not be the end of the story for Simon and his family.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Brotherly-Devotion-Murder-Most-Foul-ebook/dp/B0FH16K5F8/
https://www.amazon.com/Brotherly-Devotion-Murder-Most-Foul-ebook/dp/B0FH16K5F8/
Jill lives on the Island of Guernsey now, but is originally from Yorkshire. She has a love of early medieval history which led her to study the subject at Huddersfield College in the 1980’s. Working in Leeds at the time, meant that she had access to the Yorkshire Archaeological Society on their late night opening and following research, she wondered what the lives of the people she read about were actually like. This started a love of writing historical fiction, but her initial stories were never sent to a publisher. Life and work then intervened and writing was put to one side. It was only following a workshop held by the Guernsey Literary Festival in 2024 on writing historical fiction, that her love of writing was reignited. Her first novel ‘A Brotherly Devotion’ was published in July 2025.
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I’m delighted to welcome Carol Anne Dobson and her book, Storks in a Blue Sky, to the blog with an excerpt.
He was introduced plainly as Jean Luc de Delacroix, a member of the Royal Society, whose studies were following in the path already trodden by Mark Catesby. She was aware of a ripple of anticipation going through the audience, which had become so numerous that people were having to stand at the back. She realised it was now too late to escape and sat in resignation, angry at her own recklessness.
His voice was strong and clear and, in spite of her agitation, she felt herself drawn almost hypnotically into the world he was describing; his years of travelling distilled into an eagle’s eye view of a vast, river- scored land, lake-jewelled and mountain-ridged. A tree-quilted countryside; spruce, firs and pines, dark green against glittering ice and snow; woods of sweet gum, cedar, red oak, maple and walnut; red, white and black mangroves sinuously emerging from brackish, southern swamps; and everywhere embroidered with flowers, whose very names were colour-rich; black eyed Susans, purple fringed orchids and golden rod.
She saw flocks of passenger pigeons, so numerous they blackened the sky, blotting out the sun, making oak tree boughs break under their weight. She saw the wood bison in the Appalachian forests and felt the earth shudder beneath migrating herds of caribou. Exotically plumed birds flew around her and she marvelled at the Carolina parakeet and the pintera, a wood pecker with a beak like ivory. Rattlesnakes, copperheads, water moccasins, scorpions and tarantulas made her shiver, and the sing-song quality of native words like ‘Cherokee,’ ‘Okeechobee’ and ‘Pahayokee,’ all added to the beauty and strangeness of the picture in her mind. He spoke quickly, almost without pausing for breath, often looking in her direction, and she noticed that his clothes appeared to have taken on a life of their own. His cravat was askew, his coat hung oddly, his hair had escaped from its tie and was hanging, dark and thick, onto his broad shoulders. She felt an over-riding urge to straighten his garments and present him, perfectly attired, to this gathering of sombrely dressed men, every one of whom was
wearing the customary wig.
“And now may I show various specimens of plants to you from the New World, and one very special creature,” he concluded his talk and watched as footmen carried in plants in tubs of earth and a small crate.
“Can I ask how many men died in your travels? Was it a very dangerous undertaking?” a man enquired.
“We did have to take many risks in the wilderness, it’s true, but no one died as a result. Two men were killed in battle and another man died from the smallpox.”
At the suggestion that he and his men had been engaged in fighting, she noticed that the room grew quiet. She could feel the hostility directed towards him that she had encountered at the Vinnicombe’s and suddenly understood her naivety. He had been fighting on the wrong side, she realised. He was partly French and had been fighting against the English. She was
horrified and her spirit was almost at one with the general sentiment in the room. He, however, completely ignored any undercurrent in the gathering and walked over to her.
“Madam, I hope I have entertained you. May I now reveal my surprise.”
He held out his arm and she was forced to accompany him to the wooden crate. He carefully opened the side and she looked in amazement at the largest spider she had ever seen. Its eyes were protruding, its segmented legs were long and hairy and it could only be described as indescribably ugly.
Speechless, she stared at the monster, which was about the size of a sparrow.
“Do you like it?” he asked, smiling like a father at his new-born child. “I thought you might.”
“Yes,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes off the fascinating creature. People crowded round, jostling and pushing. Gasps of astonishment could be heard, followed by a hushed silence.
She had a vision of Miss Vinnicombe and the snake, and in a moment of premonition knew exactly what was going to happen. The next second, several ladies, and one gentleman, screamed so piercingly that the windows rattled. Pandemonium ensued. Handkerchiefs were frantically flapped to give air to the hysterically affected ones and in all the commotion she saw the black boy sidle up to the crate, then poke its occupant with a jewelled pin he
extracted from his turban.
“No!” she shrieked, but it was too late, as the spider was propelled out of his home and landed awkwardly on the floor. People dashed out of its way, opening a path for it, somewhat in the manner of Moses and the Red Sea. Jean Luc lunged forwards, but it skittered sideways through peoples’ legs, making a clattering noise as it ran over the wood floor.
She had never seen a room in such an uproar and she looked crossly at the black child, who had taken refuge behind his master. The obese lady had fallen to the ground and lay twitching, her canary-yellow stomach protruding like a mountain, high above the rest of her body.
She ran to the door as that had seemed to be the direction in which the spider had been heading. The air was cool and fresh on her face and she gulped it in gratefully. A quick scrabbling movement of black by the sheep pen attracted her attention and she thought she could see the spider. Then, to her amazement, one of the blond horsemen who had accompanied them and who was standing by the wicker fence, gave a strong kick with his booted foot and sent the object flying among the sheep.
She ran up to him. “What have you done!” she screamed, beside herself with anger.
“How dare you!”
He looked insolently down at her and she realised that Jean Luc de Delacroix might well be the only person in his entourage who was happy to travel with snakes, spiders and raccoons. His iron-grey eyes looked familiar. His strong, large body blocked her view of the sheep pen and it suddenly came to her that she was looking at a younger version of Heinrich Scheyer. Her fear of him made her wary of challenging the man any further. She pushed past and with a complete disregard for her silk dress, plunged into the mud-caked, evil smelling flock of sheep who scattered in panic and huddled against the far side of the pen.
In the earthen space now left bare, she could see the forlorn, trampled on body of the spider. It was clearly dead. Its legs were twisted oddly and it had lost an eye. She picked it up, cradling it in her hand and left the enclosure, glaring at the Alsatian soldier as she did so.
A historical romance played out between the wild coast and moors of North Devon and the mountains and river-crossed plain of Alsace.
The beautiful, red-haired Sarah Durrant is an uneducated servant who takes the place of her mistress when she suddenly dies at Lynmouth as they are travelling across the remote wilderness of 18th century Exmoor. Her origins are a mystery. She only knows she is illegitimate and possesses a gold locket which contains a miniature of a woman who resembles her.
North Devon at first proves a sanctuary from the violence of her past but then the French aristocrat, Jean Luc de Delacroix, a soldier and a scientist, arrives from the New World; the local activities of smuggling and wrecking surface; her life becomes a tangle of love, deception and fear.
This title is available to read on #KindleUnlimited
Carol Anne Dobson is a qualified teacher and librarian with a B.A. in English, French and Russian. She has lived in Devon for most of her life, and North Devon provides the setting for much of Storks in a Blue Sky.
Alsace in France came to be a second home when her daughter lived there for six years and it is this Germanic region of France which also features in the novel.
In 2009 Storks in a Blue Sky won the David St John Thomas Fiction Award.
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I’m delighted to welcome Lisajoy Sachs and her book, Bright One, Book 1 in the Bright One Series, to the blog with an excerpt.
“You must remember this,” Yosef continued, his voice low and steady, his eyes holding theirs. “History doesn’t begin or end with one moment. It’s like a slow avalanche, with pressure building over time until it all comes crashing down. And when you look at the world around you now, with the current events happening right here in our town, look at the posters, the speeches, the violence that’s creeping into everyday life here in Romania… we can feel the ground shifting again. Even though it is a different time, it holds the same tensions.”
When desperate choices mean the difference between life and death.
Inspired by true events, Bright One tells the story of Jetti Finkelthal, Lisajoy Sachs’ great-grandmother. In Czernowitz, Romania, this young Jewish mother is forced to face impossible choices as the world begins to collapse around her. As antisemitism tightens its grip and war edges ever closer, Jetti holds fast to her daughter, Berta, with the fragile belief that love and courage might still carve a way through the darkness.
Heartened by her grandmother Berta’s letters, photographs, and family oral histories, Sachs revives a story both intimate and universal—stitched with the fabric of daily life, the pull of memory, and the quiet heroism of women who refused to yield to despair. Told with vivid, sensory detail, the novel unfolds as if you are walking beside the characters, witnessing what they see and sharing in what they feel.
Through Jetti’s resilience and sacrifices, Bright One reveals the enduring strength of family ties and the shadow of trauma that lingers across generations. It is a story of survival, of loss, and of the unbreakable connection between mother and child.
For readers captivated by historical fiction that lingers long after the final page, Bright One offers a profoundly human portrait of love tested by history’s darkest hours.
Lisajoy Sachs is a dedicated writer and advocate for the preservation of history and culture through storytelling. Born and raised on Long Island and in the Catskills Mountain region of New York, Lisajoy’s early years were shaped by the picturesque landscapes of mountains and the sea. Growing up, she embraced her family’s deep connection to community and tradition.
Her professional journey is as dynamic as her personal interests. With a diverse career spanning Fine Arts, Interior Design, Metal Smithing, Lapidary, and the craft beer and hospitality industries, she has cultivated a deep and varied understanding of her many fields of interest.
Ms. Sachs holds several prestigious degrees and certifications, including a Master’s Degree in Fine Arts from the City University of New York, a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Alfred University, and an Accredited Jewelry Professional (AJP) certification from the Gemological Institute of America. She is also a graduate of the Hop and Brew School at Yakima Chief Hops and holds a CiceroneCertified Beer Server© credential, underscoring her expertise and passion for the craft beer industry.
As a writer, Lisajoy’s work spans a variety of themes, from beer culture and community engagement to her most prized projects in historical fiction. Her writing reflects a profound appreciation for history, particularly focusing on how personal stories intertwine with larger cultural narratives. She has published multiple articles celebrating the craft beer industry’s ability to foster diversity and unity and continues to explore new ways to inspire her readers through her storytelling.
A deep passion for history, coupled with a fascination with family ancestry and vivid storytelling, is reflected in Lisajoy’s creative projects. Her fiction often delves into richly detailed settings and explores characters navigating the complexities of their times. Whether writing about the harrowing journey of her family in pre-WWII Europe or capturing the resilience of individuals in the face of change, Lisajoy brings depth, authenticity, and emotional resonance to her narratives.
Outside of her professional life, Lisajoy is an avid cyclist and skier, often traveling in her camper van with her partner and standard poodle Hops exploring new adventures. She has recently relocated to the Catskills Mountains, a decision influenced by her desire to embrace a balanced, family and community-focused lifestyle.
Lisajoy’s dedication to her craft, her community, and her passions makes her a multifaceted creative force. Through her writing and professional endeavors, she continues to bridge the gap between history, culture, and the shared human experience.
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Fellow writers, lets minimise the stress around getting those words on the page #writingadvice
As a writer, I’m often asked ‘what’s the one piece of advice you’d give,’ and similar questions. As I evolve as a writer, this does change, but I’ve long been working out ‘how’ I write, and what I need to ‘write’ and now I’ve discovered something else that I also think is valuable advice. To be a writer, you first must write, but that brings with it all kind of pressure. So, for the last two years, I’ve been actively ‘minimising’ the pressure to write. So, what do I mean, and how have I done it?
For the last five years (since people started to comment on how much I wrote), I’ve been keeping more active records of how and when I write. It allowed me to discover that I write in concerted bursts of about 20 minutes to an hour, and in that time, I write 1000 words (I like to write in chunks). I might then carry on writing, or I might stop for a bit. But, I now know I can write 1000 words in a minimum of 20 minutes (actually, I can be a bit quicker than that as my typing skills improve), and so, to hit my target of at least 2000 words on a writing day, I need only set aside a single hour to accomplish that goal (which is not a lot of time).
I find this knowledge incredibly empowering. I can plan my day, set aside the required time, and give myself the space to be creative. (This process does also include a few other things – I need the correct environment as well – music, a quiet house, no external annoyances – the summer months when everyone’s mowing their lawns at all hours of the day are very frustrating).
What’s changed throughout 2024 and 2025 is that I’ve purposefully started to split my projects up. I no longer start a project, write it all, edit it, reread it, send it to my editor (or to my beta readers), I write in the morning, and in the afternoon, I edit a different project, and not necessarily the one I wrote before the one I’m now writing.
Now I know I’m a developmental writer, working out the kinks in my story at every level of editing, I’m embracing those processes just as much as the creative elements of writing. I actually find, (if not the structural edits), the copyedits and proofread stages quite relaxing. (As a messy panster, the structural edits are still a bit of a slog). I’m enjoying the process of crafting the messy thoughts that spill from my mind when I’m in the writing ‘zone’ into the novel I want it to be. I don’t worry if I can’t remember the name of something, or if I need to research something in more detail (unless it will fundamentally change the story), I write with ? and highlighted sections, and I know these are the bits I need to work on when the flood of words has stopped, and the initial draft is complete. And this is also the process when I often add the incidentals – I can’t remember what all my characters look like but I know how they ‘sound’ when I write them. I have a spreadsheet and use it to add the other tangible features.
In this way, I’ve minimalised the writing process, and very much feel as though I have control over that element of my writing. (I’ve also changed my line spacing on Word to 1.15, just enough to give my eyes a bit of a rest, and work in a document formatted with Vellum after the initial drafts – again, changing the environment a little bit to make it more pleasurable for my eyes). I’m still a writer, and I’m still developing my craft, but for me, I’m never going to write a beautifully ‘clean’ first draft. It’s going to be a horror of misspelt names, misnamed characters and places, question marks and highlighted sections where I need to check something. But, it’s increasing my productivity and the pressure to write each day has slowly started to dissipate. It’s not always easy to be creative on demand, but, now I know I need at most an hour a day to hit my minimum writing targets, I’m empowering myself each and every day that I hit my target. (I am very aware not everyone is a developmental writer, but I urge you to take the time to work out your own processes. It might surprise you).
Check out my writing year reviews for 2024 and 2025 – you’ll see it doesn’t always work, but it’s a good routine to ‘hang’ on to when the going gets tough.
