Author of Saxon historical fiction and non-fiction, 20th-century historical mysteries, and Norse-inspired historical romantasy. Book reviewer and blog host.
I’m delighted to welcome Sheridan Brown and her new book, The Viola Factor, to the blog, with a book trailer.
The Viola Factor Book Trailer
The Viola Factor Book Trailer
Here’s the blurb
“The Viola Factor” takes place at a time when the country faced division and growth after the American Civil War. Viola Knapp Ruffner (1812-1903) struggled with what was just and fair, becoming a little-known confidant for a young black scholar from Virginia. But Viola was much more than a teacher; she was a mother, wife, game-changer, and friend. With her mother’s dying wish, a young woman alone, she left her New England roots. This is a story of trauma and love in the South while battling for justice and the rightful education of the enslaved and once enslaved. African American leader Booker T. Washington (1856-1915) called her his friend and model for life.
The Viola Factor is in many ways a journey of life done in baby steps, tentatively stumbling, until a galloping stride is achieved. Viola Knapp wears different shoes on different days. Heavy, mud-trekking boots to allow for aggressive steps, and daintier shoes for more rhythmic and assertive ones. She was a diligent daughter, an outspoken protector, and a progressive teacher.
Like many women in her situation, alone at seventeen, Viola must realize her own principles to fulfill her future goals. With every stride, Viola Knapp Ruffner marches around surprises, over potholes, and dodges folly after folly on her journey to be fulfilled. After ambling in one direction, plodding along in another, and wandering to find herself, a sudden halt pushes her forward until a factor of fate places her in the path of a newly freed slave with a desire to read and penchant to lead. After years of post-traumatic stress and mental uncoupling, she finds herself a woman who followed her mother’s dying wish to fight for what is fair and just.
Sheridan Brown holds advanced degrees in school leadership and is a certified teacher, principal, and educational leader. The arts have always been a central force in her life, since performing in piano recitals, school band, plays, and singing in choirs her whole life.
Ms. Brown was born in Tennessee and raised in small towns of southwest Virginia. She practiced her profession in Virginia, Massachusetts, and Florida. Upon retirement, she began volunteering, painting, writing, researching, and traveling with her husband, attorney John Crawford. She has one son, Tony Hume. She is GiGi to Aiden and Lucy. She has returned to the Blue Ridge to live and explore.
I’m delighted to welcome Heather Miller and her new book, Yellow Bird’s Song, to the blog with an excerpt.
Excerpt 1
John Rollin Ridge, Cherokee Nation West, 1850
The evening’s red sky horizon stretched its wide arms behind Judge Kell’s dogtrot, extending into the dust. A dead tree stood as an ineffectual sentry between his corn crib and smokehouse, visible through the open-framed breezeway. I salivated, smelling pork fat lingering in the air. No longer able to afford to slaughter hogs, my family could only recall bacon’s salty taste.
Inside the paddock, my appy lay on his side. Castration’s fresh blood tainted his coat of bronze and cream. Blood gathered under his hind quarters. If Kell had cut his femoral, he’d die from blood loss. That horse was Dick’s grandson, the pony I begged Papa to bring west from Running Waters.
The porch door squeaked, then slammed behind him. Kell expected me. He rolled tobacco in paper, sealing it closed with his tongue. His eyes squinted from the western prairie’s sunlight sliding low behind me.
He struck a phosphorus match against the porch post, lit the end of the rolled tobacco, held it in his lips, tilted his head to the side, and inhaled. Through smoke, he said, “Look at you, Rollin, standing on my land like some Mexican bandit. I believe your post is south of here.” Kell’s sarcasm snarled like poisoned saliva foaming from the jaw of a rabid dog.
“I’m in the right place,” I said, more confidently than I felt, flying on vindication’s wind alone.
“That is where you and I agree. Not much else, but that singular point.”
He sauntered, with spotless leather boots, to the edge of the steps extending into the western dirt, just dust over the granite under Indian land.
I nodded left toward his painted paddock fence. “Kell, you take my Appaloosa stallion? His markings are unmistakable.”
Kell gestured with his smoking hand, pointing the two fingers toward my injured animal. “You mean that gelding?”
“Who made him so?”3
“I did and am willing to stand by my deeds with my life.4Found him in pastureland. Horse bucked and rammed me. Without balls, he’ll settle right down.”
“As a judge, you should know Cherokee don’t own open tribal land. No reason he should be here.”
Judge Kell gripped his porch rail but remained atop its planks on the high ground. Then, his unoccupied, dominant hand recognized his bowie knife’s handle, sheathed, and slung low on his hip. He said, “Can testify to nothing.”
His lies didn’t dampen my resolve. I saw through him. We both knew the real reason I was there. I shouted, “My sister can.”
He leaned against his porch post with carefree nonchalance. “The deaf and dumb sister? I don’t know what that feeble-minded woman could mean.”
I touched the leather strap of Clarinda’s whistle around my neck. “She doesn’t need to speak to witness. She is a medicine woman.” Then I separated my boots, furthering my stance against the inevitable explosion of powder and ball from the iron under my palm.
Kell scoffed. “Thenremind me to stay well. That woman’s a witch.”
Wouldn’t be illness that killed him. I couldn’t allow Kell’s wit to move me to fire first, no matter what insults he hurled at my sister. To make justice legal, Kell must first try to take my life, although that didn’t mean I couldn’t provoke the inevitable.
I matched his sarcasm. “Now isn’t the time to insult my family. Come down off that porch. Clarinda and Skili followed you, saw what you did. You’ve cost me far more than future foals. That blade in your grip took my father’s life.”
I spoke the Cherokee words fast, having memorized their phrases from a thousand daydreams. Still, this time, the words echoed in the abandoned cave of my chest with heavier resonance—measuring the phrase’s increased weight by speech.
He spoke his smug reply through smoke. “Your father’s signature on that treaty stole nearly four thousand Cherokee souls. So, I believe, son, both that horse and your father,” he smiled before finishing his thought, “got what they deserved.”
“According to whom? Your justice? Chief Ross’? It’s his bloody hands you’re hiding.”
Kell pulled a rogue piece of tobacco off his tongue with his thumb and pointer finger. “See now, truth rests in each man’s perception. Your father knew that, at least.”
“Papa understood Cherokee sovereignty could not exist in the East. My family stood in the way of Chief Ross’ greed; Ross sent you to kill him for it.”
Kell’s searing sarcasm furthered his attempt at intimidation. He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “By accusing Chief Ross of such crimes, you make a steep accusation for a raven so young.” But then, his snide tone became more cynical. “Your family received lawful Cherokee blood vengeance. So’s I heard.”
It wasn’t only his voice; every crack of bare earth mocked me. But what he didn’t know, what the ground couldn’t predict, was that this time, his blood would run. Cherokee Nation’s rocky soil would soak in it, dilute him in its groundwater, and spit his remnants through every winding river and well.
Kell offered an aside, turning his face from me. “You’re still breathing.” He looked back, continuing his threat with closed-tooth menace. “When this knife reaches you, that’ll end. How ironic—” He stopped short, mid-thought, and exhaled a chuckle before inhaling again from his lit tobacco. His eyes looked at me from my worn boots to my mother’s pale eyes.
I finished the sentiment on his behalf, “That the same knife would assassinate a father and murder his son? Admit your part. You were there in ‘39; the same knife hangs at your side.”
Kell unsheathed and admired the blade in his hand as if he hadn’t seen his distorted reflection in it for years. “She’s a beautiful weapon, don’t you think? Buckhorn handle. Metal inside the bone. Streamlined and strong. Son, this weapon ended many a man’s life with its peaceful vengeance.”
I barked, “Vengeance is a fickle whore. She strains her rulings through a sieve she calls morality, leaving behind rocks and politics. Justice’s bullet is fair and fast. Even blindfolded, her shooter doesn’t have to stand close to hit where he’s aiming.”
Years ago, the image of Kell’s bowie knife forged in my mind. Its craftsman burned the bone handle with the image of an arrowhead—no shaft, no flight feathers—only a killing point. Kell’s knife required wind and aim, powered by his quick reach, and forged will. My twelve-year-old eyes remembered his blade. At twenty-two, my memory dripped in images of Papa’s blood.
Impatient and blinded by the reddening dusk, Kell spoke with vigorous staccato, hefting his significant weight down the stairs. “Take your thumb off that trigger, boy, before you start a war.” Then, with sight restored, he dirtied his spotless boots, kicking a wandering rat snake slithering between us, seaming a dividing line in prairie dust.
I shook my head in disgust. “War began ten years ago. Your whiskey breath is as rancid as your soul. I can smell it stronger now.” I studied his smirk, offering my own in exchange. “Stinks so bad,I thought someone died.”
Kell and I stood in paradox: I, in the shadow of a tree, him in the dying sunlight. His age to my youth, wealth to my poverty, appointment to my banishment, and vengeful intent opposing my righteous confidence.
He cocked his head and smirked, glanced over to my horse, and crushed the remnants of his smoke into the dust. “You think this will end with you? Cousin Stand leading your teenage brothers and Boudinot’s boy against my grown sons and Chief Ross’ men in some unsanctioned feud? The few against the many?”
“No, justice ends with me. If you approach, you will lose your life.”5I wouldn’t retreat from his taunts, knowing them for what they were. If Cousin Stand and I took down Chief Ross, it wouldn’t be a feud; it would escalate an already brewing Cherokee civil war.
Here’s the blurb
Rollin Ridge, a mercurial figure in this tribal tale, makes a fateful decision in 1850, leaving his family behind to escape the gallows after avenging his father and grandfather’s brutal assassinations. With sin and grief packed in his saddlebags, he and his brothers head west in pursuit of California gold, embarking on a journey marked by hardship and revelation. Through letters sent home, Rollin uncovers the unrelenting legacy of his father’s sins, an emotional odyssey that delves deep into his Cherokee history.
The narrative’s frame transports readers to the years 1827-1835, where Rollin’s parents, Cherokee John Ridge and his white wife, Sarah, stumble upon a web of illicit slave running, horse theft, and whiskey dealings across Cherokee territory. Driven by a desire to end these inhumane crimes and defy the powerful pressures of Georgia and President Andrew Jackson, John Ridge takes a bold step by running for the position of Principal Chief, challenging the incumbent, Chief John Ross. The Ridges face a heart-wrenching decision: to stand against discrimination, resist the forces of land greed, and remain on their people’s ancestral land, or to sign a treaty that would uproot an entire nation, along with their family.
As a veteran English teacher and college professor, Heather has spent nearly thirty years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, with empty nest time on her hands, she’s writing herself, transcribing lost voices in American’s history.
A huge thank you to everyone who has jumped back into the world of Coelwulf and his band of foul-mouthed warriors with The Last Viking.
Having taken the step back into this series, I wasn’t about to let ‘the lads’ rest. Book 9 is far from complete, but it does have a delightfully messy first draft, and a release date in September 2024, although if I can, I will bring this forward.
So, below is the new cover – and you can preorder book 9 here:
Essays highlighting the importance of three kings – Edmund, Eadred and Eadwig – in understanding England in the tenth century.
Much scholarly attention has been devoted to both the expanding kingdom of Alfred the Great, Edward the Elder, and Æthelstan, and to the larger and integrated realm of their more distant successors, Edgar and Æthelred II. However, the English kingdom in the 940s and 950s, and its three kings, Edmund (939-946), Eadred (946-955), and Eadwig (955-959), the men who inherited and held together the kingdom created by their immediate predecessors, have been somewhat neglected, with little research being dedicated to these men as kings, or the era in which they ruled.
This volume offers a variety of approaches to the period. Its contributors bring to light royal legal innovations to ecclesiastical law, oaths, heriot, complex factional politics, including the crucial role of queens, differing perspectives on the final era of an independent northern kingdom of York, and developments in literary culture outside the domineering trend of the later monastic reformers.
The Reigns of Edmund, Eadred and Eawig, 939-959: New Interpretations is a fascinating collection of essays reassessing this twenty-year period in 10th century England, which is so often overlooked while historians bicker about who was the ‘better’ king Alfred or Athelstan, while casting disdain on Æthelred II. A similar collection has also been written about Edward the Elder and Edgar, while Athelstan has recently received a new monograph written by Sarah Foot.
This collection consists of nine essays concerning our understanding of these three reigns and political developments and the reputations of those involved, including Archbishop Wulfstan I of York, Eadwig and his coronation-day story, Lady Eadgifu and her second son, Eadred, alongside Edmund’s Oath of Loyalty, finishing with a consideration of how one surviving manuscript could provide illumination into the ‘before and after’ effects of the Benedictine Reformation.
All nine essays are intriguing, presenting new arguments and interpretations for the scant written record of the period.
This is a timely accounting of Edmund, Eadred, and Eadwig, and it will hopefully spark much new debate about how these three brief reigns should be considered in the wider setting of the development of the tenth century within the new kingdom of England.
This is perhaps not intended for those who’ve not studied the period before – all historians do have a tendency to fixate on the minutiae which more casual readers may not appreciate, but with no monograph entirely devoted to any of these three kings, it provides a fascinating insight into what more can be known about them from what information is available. I particularly enjoyed the chapters concerned with how the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle entries for these years may have been manipulated, potentially quite close in time to when they were written, and also the chapter re-examining the often maligned Archbishop Wulfstan I of York, and Lady Eadgifu. I always find fresh insight from collections such as this, and I’m extremely pleased it was released as I was finishing my edits on the Brunanburh Series, which of course, features King Edmund, and his younger brother and mother.
His sons were ripped from his arms and he was sold into slavery… Now he has a terrible choice.
Cadwal, a widowed Celtic warrior is a dedicated father raising his children in his mountain stronghold. In these uncertain times, the tribe must be vigilant, as caught between the expanding Roman empire and power-hungry neighbours, treachery is rife.
When enemies infiltrate his hillfort his family are snatched away and he is dragged to the mines as a slave. Trapped in the dark depths, he has to decide whether to save his tribe from the onslaught of the Romans, or his sons. His only hope is to seek out the dreaded druids… but first he must escape the chains and tunnels.
Brethren is the gripping first novel in the Foundation of the Dragon series based in what is North Wales during the Roman invasion. If you’re a fan of page-turning historical fiction with twists and turns galore then you will love this book.
Brethren by Robb Pritchard is a thrilling tale of Britain during the first century of Roman occupation, twenty years after the devastation of the Druid stronghold on the Island of Mona. (Readers of my reviews will know I’ve just read Simon Turney’s new story about Agricola – the two stories dovetail in a most pleasing way)
Our two main characters, Cadwal and Brei, fight for what they believe in, even as treachery abounds from those determined to make alliances with the Romans to the detriment of other people.
Cadwal, a warrior, struggles to rescue his children from enslavement while himself facing enslavement, injury and death at the hands of the Romans. Brei, the king’s counsellor, must do all she can to protect her tribe from a weak king and power-hungry heirs. Combined, the two characters present a thrilling story of the era, which is very much non-stop.
It’s taken me a while to get to this story, for which I’d like to apologise to the author, but it is very well-written and engaging. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and my 5-star review is fully justified. I’m looking forward to reading more of Robb’s books.
