Sewing Resistance

Chapter 1

A woman carrying a suitcase walking through Nazi Occupied Paris

March 23rd 1937. Austria.

My foot pauses on the pedal when I hear the rumble of trucks pulling into the convent’s courtyard below. I glance down at the beige shirt held by the needle of my trusty Kohler sewing machine, then through the small window next to me. Adjusting the shirt to fit the smaller chest for one of the orphans will have to wait, as two jeeps, a covered truck and a long-nosed black car fill the yard below.

Soldiers scramble out, guns cocked. A tall officer steps from the back seat of the car. His face is hidden to me as he pulls his cap low, then straightens his long, black SS coat. I draw away from sight, mouth dry, mind racing. With so many armed men accompanying a senior Nazi, this cannot be a cursory check. As if confirming my fears, the barked order echoes up: “Überall suchen.”

Would they search everywhere? I doubt they will leave out my room. My gaze sweeps around the neat, narrow space. It was once a corridor, but now my bedroom-come-workroom has a chest for clothes and a bed. On the shelf near the machine, I store sewing supplies and fabric remnants. Superficially, it’s just an ordinary room. But, in the middle of the long wall is a faded wall tapestry, which appears to be decoration. The hanging has another purpose – behind it is the locked entrance to the room which the corridor once provided proper access to.

If my bedroom, then the next, are searched, explaining away the printing press would be difficult. The scruffy-looking man who rested there for a few days departed last night, using the knotted rope hanging from the window tucked into the ivy which grows up the side of the building. I pray he left no evidence of his presence behind, but, hearing the hammer of boots marching across the flagstones, I’ve no time to check.

As I push my stool aside and stand, I catch sight of Freddie’s holey socks on the bed – my next project. Where’s my son? My stomach clenches as I dash across the room. Wasn’t it today the children are supposed to be learning about tending to vegetables? I fling the tiny bedside window open and stick my head out, searching for our ever-growing group of orphans and Freddie in the gardens and vegetable patches. No small capped heads are bent over the beds, no sound of chatter or laughter drifts on the breeze.

Under the shadow of the mountain, the grounds seem deserted, but then, I spot grey intruders stalking through the beans. The muzzles of their guns poke through the leaves like wolves’ black noses, peering, searching for prey. What can they be looking for? This is a small convent, dedicated to taking care of orphaned children, although, for the last year, it’s been hard to ignore the comings and goings of late night visitors, and whispered conversations which cease whenever I walk in.

The classroom – the children must still be there. I close my eyes briefly as I shut the window and cross myself, sending the Lord a prayer for us all. The simple action does little to calm me, but then, not born to this Catholic faith, it’s the best I can offer. I have learned the hard way that appearances matter, and, with my sallow skin, dark hair and eyes, I’m accustomed to visibly demonstrating how not Jewish I am now. After being orphaned ten years ago, in this second decade of my life, I follow the religion of my childhood benefactor and current home, and have forgotten everything I was born to. In dark times, Catholicism is safer, or so Herr Franz Weisz said, when he begrudgingly undertook my parents’ wishes and provided a roof over my head. Until, I disgraced myself and ended up here, sheltered by the nuns. I have no desire to take vows, nor could I, but in return for mine and Freddie’s board, I sew, cook and clean.

A cursory, almost habitual, check reassures me there’s nothing to suggest wrong-doing visible, unless you count an old, much-treasured copy of Harper’s Bazaar nestled on top of my clothes in the chest. Satisfied, I rush through the corridors towards the schoolroom at the other end of the building. When I open the door, Sister Marta’s eyes widen and her mouth tightens at the interruption. The children’s fearful white faces swivel to see who’s entered, so I imagine she must know our sanctuary swarms with Nazis and has warned her charges to behave. My gaze is drawn to the front table where Freddie usually sits.

He isn’t there. My throat tightens. “Can I help, Hannah?” Sister Marta’s voice wavers slightly. How hard it must be to stay calm for the children when we both know what’s at risk.

My speech sounds thick as I replied, “I just wanted to….” To what? Check on my son, when all the other children here have no parents to care for them? My stomach knots with shame. I should be protecting them all, like the good Sister is.

“If you are looking for Freddie, he was helping Sister Luisa with his camera, cataloguing paintings in the Chapel. All other children are accounted for here, safe with me.”

I throw her a grateful smile and close the door behind me.

As I look back up the corridor, a soldier stands outside my room. He’s young and skinny, barely a man, and probably no older than I. His expression changes from bewilderment to decisive. “Halt!”

I freeze, my hand still on the classroom doorknob. “Can I help you?” I doubt it, but I must draw him away.

“What’s in these rooms?” He grips the gun slung over his shoulder and waves the muzzle at the doors as he strides towards me.

I want to tell him it’s none of his business, but Mother Superior’s voice floats through my head. “Rebellious behaviour will only get you noticed. Know your place, speak only of what you know and all will be well, Hannah,” was her wise advice upon my arrival here, six years ago and pregnant.

“Dormitories for the orphans,” I said, my head low. “And this is their classroom. They aren’t locked. You can go in them, if you like.” They are kept spotless and I’m certain the worst he’ll find in there is a contraband catapult toy. Go into these rooms, I pray, not mine.

His lips pinch together as I urged, “But please, lower your rifle if you enter the classroom. I’m sure there’s no need to frighten the children.”

He nods at me curtly, then flings open the door nearest him. I take the opportunity to dash downstairs. My steps slow as I cross the stone flags of the entrance hall and sneak towards the Mother Superior’s office. Through the doorway, I glimpse the officer’s leather coattails, flapping as he paces.

“Father Tomas only read what he was given,” Mother Superior said, in a prim voice. Last weekend, the whole convent, including the children and myself, had attended the Mass in the larger Church in town, upon Mother Superior’s instruction. We had all been shocked at the strong opinion – an abject condemnation of the Nazi regime, in what he’d titled, ‘Mit brennender Sorge’. The edict, written by Pope Pius himself in German, was delivered from the pulpit to the congregations of all Catholic churches simultaneously on Palm Sunday. I recall the sharp intakes of breath when Father Tomas paused after reading out, ‘The experiences of these last years have fixed responsibilities and laid bare intrigues, which from the outset only aimed at a war of extermination.’

For those of us from the convent in the congregation, it echoed Mother Superior’s daily caution – each Jewish child we house here must be protected. Their very lives depend on our conspiracy of silence about their origins.

She invokes the authority of the Papal office, said primly, “A Papal Encyclical must be delivered to the public as soon as it is received.”

“I know it must, I was brought up a Catholic myself,” the officer said. “But it is one thing to have an opinion, but quite another to act upon it, as you have.”

A shiver runs through me as I recognise the deep, clipped voice of Pieter Weisz, son of my benefactor. I have not seen him in years. He’d already moved into the accommodation provided for him by the state, when his cousin – and my only childhood friend – Katarina and I faced the consequences of our actions, back in 1932. Pieter would surely know of my dismissal from his family estate, perhaps even why. And, he knows I’m Jewish.

Hide, my instinct reacts, before he sees me. Before I can be his undoing, for he would surely shoot me down rather than risk me telling anyone his father housed a Jew, let alone built the family fortune by taking over my parents’ business upon their unfortunate demise.

Mother Superior sounds indignant. “Act upon what? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Perhaps within these walls, you do more than pray.”

“Of course. Aside from our work in the community, we have orphans to care for.”

“If I should find any of them are Jewish, there would be consequences,” Pieter said.

“All children are innocents. Surely you can agree, Oberführer?”

“Not all children are, and a Jew is a Jew.”

This antisemitic stance is well known to me. He has clearly risen the SS ranks in my absence, as well as cast aside the teachings of compassion from his faith. His coveted position was the very reason Herr Weisz was so keen to remove me from his house. The SS must be beyond reproach, generations of pure Aryan blood proven, with no hint of association with a Jew.

I should run – now – but my feet refuse to obey. My hands shake… I cannot leave without Freddie.

Inside the office, the paces cease. Pieter said, “I’m under orders to expose those who assisted delivering the Encyclical, then deal with them appropriately.”

Find Freddie and go, I decide, mentally repeating it over and over until my feet finally comply. As I creep past the doorway, Pieter’s voice reminds me of the cold deliberation of his father. “You can imagine my surprise when last night, my men captured a known dissident on the road, close by to this very convent, with copies of the Encyclical on him. A man known for spreading disinformation, for resisting. A radical who seeks to disrupt order in this province.”

Mother Superior gasps. “Whomever he is, whatever he’s done, that’s nothing to do with us. We are a simple religious order, seeking only to do God’s work.”

“After ‘questioning’, the traitor admitted he’d been housed at this very convent.”

Just past the door, I freeze. Under torture, I imagine most people would say anything to make it stop. But, there was a man here, until last night…

Mother Superior said, “We have no men here, Oberführer. Apart from a few young male orphans, there are only women living here, of course.”

“Then it is women, nuns even, who have produced this pamphlet preaching rubbish, which we also found on him?”

The implicit sneer in his voice makes my blood run cold. Whatever was printed, I can only assume the contents are critical of the regime we live under. Why else would it be of concern to the SS?

I clench my hands together to stop them trembling. How had I not seen what was right under my nose? But I know, deep inside, the answer to my own question. Fearful, I had suppressed my curious, rebellious nature. For Freddie’s safety was why.

In the silence I imagine Mother Superior is wrestling her usual inclination to voice the truth with the need to protect us all.

But Pieter isn’t done. “Not only are you harbouring criminals, but abetting their pathetic cause. Which makes me think, what else are you hiding here?” He snarled, “Shall we see? How about the chapel? Lots of hiding places there.”

Urgency to find my son overrides my caution. As I dart down the passage towards the chapel, the office door creaks behind me.

“There’s nothing there,” Mother Superior squeals, unnaturally high pitched. Her voice and the shuffle of her shoes are too close for comfort, but I don’t look back as I slip into the cool recesses of our sanctuary.

I scan the empty pews, chewing my lip. On one side of the chapel, a selection of paintings I’ve never seen before are propped against the wall by the confession booths. “Freddie?” My whisper grows urgent as I tiptoe towards the altar. “Freddie? Where are you?”

“Mama?” He calls from inside the limestone pulpit. As he then stands, his hair pokes above the stone rim, white-blond wisps caught in the sun streaming through the windows.

“I’m coming, stay there!”

Pieter’s voice echoes down the hallway. “There’s rarely nothing in my experience. Where there’s one rat, there’s a nest.”

“Get down,” I hissed as I run towards the pulpit and up the few steps to reach him. “Stay silent until it’s all over.”

He crouches, arms wrapped around his knees, white-knuckled fingers grasping his camera. Relief floods my body as I drop inside the stone booth and clutch him into me. Freddie’s hands shake and I place my fingers over his on the camera in case it rattles. His most precious possession, his only one, is this old Zeiss Ikon Box-Baldur. The metal box was all the rage in Hitler Youth, and passed on to me as a hand-me-down by Katarina just before she left for finishing school. I suppose it might have been Pieter’s once upon a time. Freddie formed an attachment to it from a young age, although we rarely have money for film or to have his photos developed. Of course, he knows nothing of its providence, just likes to take it apart and put it back together again, twiddling the knobs and pressing the trigger with a very satisfying click.

“Resist any more, and you’ll learn the consequences,” Pieter said, closer now.

I bury my head over my son and hold my breath.

There’s an audible bump from by the doorway, then Mother Superior squeals.

“How dare you?” Sister Luisa calls out. She must have been hiding in a confession box, but as I turn my head to look through the pulpit’s entrance, she steps directly into my eyeline. “This is a place of worship.”

“It’s alright, Sister,” Mother Superior replied, but it sounds forced.

Pieter’s shoes click across on the aisle tiles. “Looks like you do have something to confess, Sisters. A fine collection of paintings, I see. Not the usual sort of pictures one might expect in a chapel. These look far too modern. Being something of an enthusiast, I’m always on the look out for works for the Entartete Kunst. That’s the ‘degenerate art’ exhibition, which will soon be held in Munich. Something of a hobby for our Führer, and he looks kindly upon those who support his vision. Let’s see now…”

“See it or seize it?” Sister Luisa snaps back. The woman has no fear. “I’ve heard what you’re doing, taking paintings from people, from Churches even.”

“But it’s so important to show the people the right kind of art, wouldn’t you say? So they might see the truth within. And, you never know what kind of filth you’ll find in unexpected places.”

“I assure you,” Mother Superior’s voice wavers. “You’ll find nothing of interest here.”

“Then why, pray tell, are all these paintings – showing nothing to do with the glory of God – displayed here?”

There’s a shuffle of feet as Sister Luisa disappears from my view, then she said, “I’m simply cataloguing them. They were donated to us, for safe-keeping.”

“Ah, but who did they belong to before, I wonder?” His shoes tick-tick-tick as he crosses the flagstones, closer to our hiding place.

“Stop!” Sister Luisa said. My arms tighten around Freddie.

“Therefore, I conclude these can only be stolen. Or maybe given in exchange for something. Harbouring Jewish children, perhaps, or fugitives. Either way, they don’t belong here, do they, Sister?”

“They are ours,” Mother Superior interjects. Her voice sounds feeble behind us, then she whimpers. I crane my head around so I can see out of the pulpit better.

Pieter faces Sister Luisa, who stands in front of the paintings like a guard dog. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“I would never…” Sister Luisa blusters.

“Oberführer, no!” Mother Superior calls.

“No-one cares what you say. It’s what I say that matters.”

My heart is in my mouth as Pieter’s arm rises. Then I see what was obscured before – the black snub of a revolver blends seamlessly with his dark leather gloves.

“No!” Sister Luisa’s exclamation is drowned out by the shot booming around the room. Before my eyes, she crumples to the ground. I register the click of Freddie’s camera as Pieter swivels on his heel, arm still extended.

“This lawlessness is unacceptable – even for the Gestapo!” Mother Superior exclaimed.

But he sweeps the gun past the pulpit and aims it towards the doorway at the back. I clap my hands over my mouth and clutch Freddie into my chest.

“Resisting arrest, Sister? What if there’s no-one left to tell?”

Bang! The noise echoes briefly, replaced by the receding tap-tap of his shoes as he strides out.

Freddie whimpers in my arms, breaking my shocked silence. I’ve been clutching him so hard it must hurt, but for the life of me, I cannot release my boy. Framed by the pulpit’s carved sides, I can only stare at Sister Luisa’s body. Blood saturates her white wimple. Despite me silently willing her to get up, she is utterly still.

Freddie wriggles. “Shh,” I whispered into his hair.

I am frozen in fear, until I hear a groan at the back of the chapel. Mother Superior! Her moans galvanise me – perhaps she still lives? “Stay here,” I ordered Freddie as I uncurl myself from him. As I stand, he looks up at me. Watery blue eyes meet mine and his fingers tighten around his camera as if it can replace my warm body comforting him. I tear myself away from his gaze and dash to the doorway.

Mother Superior lies, leg twisted awkwardly, on the floor. She holds her hand to her chest, but blood seeps out between her fingers. “Oh no!” I drop to my knees and push my palm over her bloody hand.

Her eyelids flutter open. “Run Hannah!” She croaks out. “Never look back.”

“Don’t try to speak.” I bear down in a vain effort to stem the bleeding.

A gurgling noise comes from her chest and she tries to cough.

Her other arm twitches, fingers reaching for me as if she is desperate to say something more. I bend closer, folding my other hand over her cold fingers. As I grip her, I remember these arms of hers held me as I birthed Freddie. Comforted me as I accepted I could never go back to the Weisz’s and life as I knew it. I long to feel the strength of her embrace again, but, I fear all I can do now is hold her in her final moments. Despite my best efforts, her blood pools around my knees as I sense her heartbeat slow. “Please stay with me, Mother,” I pleaded, “Lord, heal your servant, I beg you.”

But my prayer falls on deaf ears. I cannot call out for help. Can do nothing but hold her hand and be with her.

Her last breath drifts silently from her lips, soft and shallow. Her head lolls, and I know she is gone.

Before I can do more than bow my head with sorrow, gunshots sound from the courtyard. They are the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns, not the calculated aim of a pistol. I cannot imagine what is going on out there, and I don’t want to find out. We must heed Mother Superior’s warning, so I dash back to the pulpit.

Freddie hunches against the stone, shivering. There’s no time to comfort him; I grab his arm and pull him out. He resists, shaking his head, but I’ve no choice. I scoop him up, into my chest, and, like a limpet clinging to the rock against the waves, his legs wrap around my waist. My bloody palm holds his face into my collarbone so he does not see the terrible cost of resisting. The camera slung around Freddie’s neck bangs against us with every step as I run past Sister Luisa’s body, then Mother Superior’s, and into the empty hallway.

Mindful of the danger outside, I dash up to my bedroom. My heart thumps a warning, my breath fast and too shallow to calm me as I’m greeted by confirmation of my fears: the tapestry has been pulled down, and the door behind it kicked in.

Stunned, I stand motionless, listening to the wind whistle through from the chamber beyond. In the stillness, I sense we’re alone. They have made their discoveries, passed judgement on us all and delivered the punishment, all in a matter of minutes.

Run, Mother Superior said, but, in a moment of clarity, I understand the intention behind her instruction – we can never return. Still clutching Freddie on my hip, I accept in an instant we’ll never come home and make my peace with it. One handed, for I’m not letting go of Freddie for anything, I sling my old school satchel over my shoulder. I rummage through my chest then stuff my papers into the front pocket. Not knowing what’s ahead for us, I grab my mother’s yellow scarf, Freddie’s holey socks, and shove what few pieces of clothing will fit into the bag. I fix the straps with shaking fingers. Sliding everything we now own across my back, I glance out of the window to the courtyard. Freddie whimpers as I turn his head into my shoulder, but I do not want him to see what I fear I must witness.

Below, the flagstones are strewn with bodies, mown down as they tried to flee. Children, nuns. Innocents. Soldiers stand around the walls, lighting cigarettes as they survey their morning’s work. Guessing what happened sickens me.

Then, Oberführer Pieter Weisz emerges from the front door and orders them to pile the corpses and douse them in petrol. The young soldier I met in the hallway approaches him and points towards my window. I pivot away – a mouse does not wait for a cat to pounce, and they will surely come for the press before long.

As I head through the smashed door, my eyes fall on the dog-eared Harpers Bazaar left on the bed in my haste to pack. Girlish dreams I have to leave behind now our mere survival is in question. I reach beyond the windowpane and drag out the knotted rope from the ivy. Then, I climb onto the windowsill, take a deep breath and swing us out. As I rappel down with Freddie on my back, step by careful step, my mind flashes to recall the pages of that magazine, fallen open on a report from Paris’s Spring Collection. I know then where we have to go.

* * *

Sewing Resistance will launch in September 2025 on Kickstarter, along with a companion read for middle grade children, ‘Boy, Resisting,’ which tells the tale from Freddie’s point of view. Follow the project to find out more.

Subscribe to my newsletter for launch news, to follow the Kickstarter and more stories HERE!

#firstchapters #sewingresistance #rebelsandresistance #ww2 #history #frenchresistance #occupiedparis

A Bridge of Words

Recently I was invited to appear on a podcast, with a twist. Writing to a prompt of ‘polite’ the two hosts of ‘The Tiny Bookcase’ and I would write a short story and read it out for the first time, on air. It was a fantastic exercise because, not only could I write something completely out of my usual ‘world’, but also the opportunity to ‘perform’ it was great fun!

You can listen to the podcast HERE, and if you would like to, the interview with me HERE (separate episodes). I also wanted to share the story as a written piece, just for fun, so below is A Bridge of Words, a tall/small tale about living in a society where manners are valued above all else, until interlopers and dangers strike. I hope you enjoy it!

A Bridge of Words, by Jan Foster

“A person of your stature shouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of reaching up for your goods, Thorina,” Gladys said, as she bustled around the high counter. She could barely reach over the wooden ledge atop the baskets of cakes and breads on display either. “There now, you enjoy your lunch and I wish you a pleasant day, good neighbour.”

Her fingers traced over the label as she read it out. “Please take great care when eating this item of food, as contents may be hot.”

I should bloody hope so, Thorina thought, cold bacon and eggs were awful.

Gladys bobbed her beak-like nose and proffered the frilly paper-wrapped parcel then stuck out her other hand. “That’ll be thruppence and…” Her grimace widened to display an uncomfortable number of pointy teeth. “Whatever else you deem appropriate compensation for the personalised service you have received at Hoppy Bakery today.”

Thorina swallowed back a sharp retort. It was bad enough being a dwarf without everyone constantly feeling the need to comment upon it, or worse, make such allowances for shortness that her very independence was called into question. “Very thoughtful of you.” She rummaged in her pouch for silver coins with which to pay for the food, and the shiny green-hued Kindness coin Gladys was obviously expecting. With some reluctance, for it was rare Thorina herself was gifted such treasures, she dropped payment into the harpy’s hand and turned to leave.

Gladys trilled, “You’ll probably need to go the long way home, I hear the bridge is blocked.”

“Fuuuu…n times,” Thorina said, grabbing the door a little too forcefully and hoping the near-expletive had gone unnoticed. To make up for it, she swore under her breath as she stomped over the cobbled main street. Long way round be damned, she’d wade across the river if need be. Sometimes, the village’s politeness and tolerance overwhelmed her, especially when she was hungry. It took every ounce of restraint not to tear into the fancy package and rip into the brunch bap inside, but it wouldn’t do to eat on the street. Better wait until safely home, seated at her workshop table with the meal plated and ready to be nibbled upon in tiny evenly cut pieces with knife and forking-fork. Besides, simply to untangle the web of trussing around her treat would take all her engineering skills. Or a very sharp knife.

Resigned, she acknowledged to herself, at least the constant need to fancify everything provided an income. Fixing the villager’s elaborate but well-intentioned contraptions to make life more inclusive provided her with a steady stream of repair work. From hoists and wheelchairs to convey the less able-bodied, to sophisticated machines which could assess one’s capabilities and suitability to carry out labour – these were the bread and butter of her existence now.

As she neared the bridge, the idyllic calm of the quaint thoroughfare was shattered by laughter and derisive snorts. An assortment of people, varying in both creed and colour and representative of the diversity of Eldergrove gathered on the riverbank. They frowned and shook their heads while studying from afar the damage to the only way in and out of the village.

A cart had somehow tipped over, depositing cabbages in the middle of the hump as it had crashed into a shiny, but dented metal box on wheels. The collision left both vehicles wedged into the stone walls in such a way that neither could go forward or backward, effectively blocking the route. Along with a stench of burned rubber, an acidic smell lingered around the area, setting Thorina’s nerves jangling. An old man tottered about on the other side of the river, groaning as he bent to collect his cargo and seemingly impervious to the chaos and the queue of bored-looking traders clustered on the track behind him.

Below, the river babbled away with the odd cabbage; its soothing trickle amidst the lush green landscape completely ignored by the gaggle of unfamiliar youths clambering over the wreckage as if they had no care for the consternation their accident had caused. Thorina’s mouth dropped open as the interlopers began posing with stupid expressions, holding up handheld devices which clicked when tapped. They appeared entirely ignorant of the baleful stares of those on this side of the river. After a series of shots, they huddled, pointing and giggling at their images which Thorina saw flash over the screens of their devices.

Thorina approached a smaller group of village elders, passing a large sign stating the obvious: THREAT TO LIFE – UNSTEADY GROUND. OBJECTS IN THE RIVER MAY APPEAR CLOSER THAN THEY ARE. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. About right for once, Thorina thought, a trog of trolls was less intimidating than this bunch of bozos. Not to mention the gang of hoodlums dressed in almost identical black tops.

Despite nervous glances at their local Mrs Fix It Engineer lurking next to a sandwich board as big as she was, no-one offered her the customary greeting: “Welcome good Mistress, may peace and politeness surround you in the spirit of tolerance. Good health, good fortune, and good day to you.” Good, good, sodding good – it drove her mad, and merely saying it didn’t mean you truly meant it. No kindness coins for anyone today, but at least the severity of the situation had reduced the congeniality delays.

Still, she waited for their acknowledgement – it didn’t ‘do’ to force one’s opinion upon any given situation in Eldergrove; better to be invited to contribute by whomever was chairing the convention. Then, she realised the sorry truth: No-one seemed to be doing anything about the problem. They were all just watching. Passing silent judgment.

Minutes ticked by. Thorina wrestled to control the expletives which threatened to fall from her lips by thinking about the delicious brunch dangling from her fingertips, and how good it would taste… if she could only get home to eat it. Her jaw tightened with the effort and she was about to burst, when chubby Mayor Twickett stepped forward. In his prim, professional and most poncy voice, Twickett tucked his thumbs into his sash of office and announced, “I call upon thee, strangers but welcome to our land, to remove your cart so that those traders behind you can pass.”

A tall, skinny lad, presumably the leader of the gang of some four youths, mocked, “I call upon thee…” before dissolving into laughter. “For real.”

“What kind of a place is this, anyway?” Another jeered from beneath his hood.

“Trust you to flex too far and crash us in ‘ye olde worlde’, Tarq’s,” said another, rubbing a finger under his spotty nose. “Post the vibe, man and let’s bounce.”

Bewildered by their dialect, and intrigued by the picture taking devices they all were equipped with, Thorina stepped out from behind the sign.  

The tall lad pointed at her. “Hey look! A midget, man. An actual dwarf!”

“We in Hobbiton or sommin?! She don’t look like a proper dwarf, or a hobbit. Oh, Gandalf, where are you…” Spotty called. “Damsel dwarf in distress.”

Thorina balled his fists as the Mayor dithered on the river’s edge, mouth gaping like a carp.

The youth with a hood pulled over his buzz cut sneered, “Reckon she’s got a massive hammer hidden somewhere? That’s what’d make her a proper dwarf, innit.”

The fourth, dressed in trousers which seemed to stop below his bottom made a rude gesture around his groin, then said, “Gimli – he da GOAT! Don’t diss the Gim, man.”

It didn’t matter then who spoke, their nasally-toned laughter triggered Thorina. “Shut the fuck up, you disrespectful brats.”

She wasn’t named after the legendary character for nothing. As soon as her surprisingly loud voice rumbled across the river, the youths froze. She glared at them with all the seriousness which a person of slight stature could command, not daring to look at the doubtless shocked expressions on the elders’ faces. For a moment, Thorina thought she’d done enough to shock the thugs into submission. Perhaps then they could be reasoned with. Until….

“She speaks! Oh my days, the dwarf actually sounds like a dwarf,” the tall one jeered. “Go on, get grumpy on us.”

Thorina knew then that there was no reasoning with them. No amount of swearing or threats would work. But the problem remained, they and their vehicle blocked the way. Without the bridge cleared, her way home was impassible, and the village’s trade impossible.

“Why don’t you take yourselves and your contraption away?” Thorina growled.

The tall lad shrugged. “Dunno. CBA.”

“What do you mean, dunno? CBA?”

Pizza face answered, “He means, he dunno how to fix it.”

“Shuddup Tarquin.” The tall lad grunted. His back hunched and suddenly he didn’t seem so big anymore. “I can fix it, I just… CBA.” His eyes slid to the tangled mess on the bridge, then he studied the ground. His friends dithered, equally uncertain it appeared.

Thorina was not so old that she didn’t remember how awkward it was to admit when you didn’t know something. “CBA? Give me a clue. Help an old git out.”

“Can’t be arsed – CBA,” Buzz Cut offered. He swiped the hood back from his face, revealing ears which were a little too pointed for a human.

“Maybe I can help?” Thorina offered. “We need to get the bridge clear as a priority. I’m sure it’s possible, if we work together.”

The Mayor glanced at the other elders, then at Thorina. “We couldn’t possibly do that.”

“Why not?” Thorina asked as her shoulders rose. “There’s enough of us here to lift the cart free, then we can push their… contraption aside.”

“Well, there’s a proper procedure and process for recovery of vehicles, Mistress Thorina. We must follow it.”

Thorina pursed her lips, while the Mayor paced along the riverbank saying, “Not to mention we must assess the team’s suitability for each job, making sure we’ve thoroughly covered every eventuality in our risk assessment.”

Collectively, the youths snorted. Thorina glared at them and they stopped short of derisive laughter. “Couldn’t we just…”

Before Thorina could finish her sentence, the Mayor let out a squeal. Thorina whipped her head around just in time to see Twickett slip, then tumble like a bauble down the riverbank. A deep-sounding splosh confirmed he hadn’t followed his own signage. Thorina dashed to the bank – all that could be seen was the Twickett’s protruding belly as it floated towards the bridge!

“Shiiiiit,” Tarquin the Spotty murmured, scrabbling along the wall to meet Thorina at the bottom of the bridge. “He ain’t gonna get a reboot unless…”

Thorina glanced up and met the youth’s eyes. “The sign. It’ll float.”

The tall lad clambered over the wreckage and joined them. “Hoodies, lads. Now.”

Impressed by his quick thinking, Thorina’s urge to swear disappeared as jumpers were pulled over their heads and tossed them to Tarquin, who began furiously knotting the sleeves together. The giant dragged the sandwich-board sign down to the river, flipped it open, then held it steady on the river edge.

Thorina eyed up the Mayor’s body, caught in the reeds growing underneath the bridge in the middle. “Objects in the river may appear closer than they are,” she said, mentally measuring the many perilous feet to cross.

 “I’ll go,” Tarquin said, dragging the hoodie rope behind him. “I’ve paddle boarded.”

“You’ll sink,” Thorina said, sounding more patient than she felt, but the lad clearly needed some tips. “Think this through.”

“I’ll stand on the board, haul the bossman up, then you guys haul me back.”

Thorina had to admire his spirit. “Good idea but, I’m afraid, flawed. What are you going to paddle with, plus it’s a thin piece of wood. Not enough buoyancy.”

The tall one said, “So, let me lie on it, like a surfboard then? Hands for paddles.”

“The board has a hinge in the middle, so no rigidity. Plus, you’re too tall.” Thorin drew in a deep breath. “The issue is also weight. Especially with,” she jerked her finger to the Mayor’s belly, “that on it as well.”

She dropped her brunch. “I’ll be back for you soon,” she told it wistfully, then tentatively knelt on the board. It wobbled but stayed on top of the water. “Tie my ankle,” she ordered. “We haven’t time for heroics. Anyone touches the bacon and I’ll show you the wrong end of my hammer, got it?”

Cautiously, she unfurled herself along the flattened board while Tarquin and Tall knotted a sleeve around the top of her boot. Then, once she was horizontal, she said, “Push me out, please.”

The lads shoved the makeshift board out, into the river, and Thorina paddled across to cheers from the two youths hanging over the bridge above. It was hard work, kicking and scooping against the current, but she managed to catch her fingertips on the Mayor’s belt and haul herself closer. A quick glance at the graze on Twickett’s forehead confirmed her suspicions – he’d knocked himself out. Leaning over his belly, she discovered the culprit which had saved him from being washed away. His sash of office had caught on a rock, pinning him under the bridge.

“Fuuu…”

Trousers-bellow-bum guy interrupted with, “Incoming!”

A penknife clattered next to her on the board. She looked up to see Buzz Cut Elf Ears grinning at her, his device pointed directly at her predicament. “Do you mind if I film this? Sorry, I should have asked your permission first.”

“Err, yeah,” Thorina said while folding out a blade from the penknife. She slashed through the fabric then, as the surge freed him, she caught the Mayor’s wrists. Shuffling backward, she dragged his body half onto the board. The dead weight kept wanting to slide back down, into the murky depths. Water poured over the sign, both Mayor and tide threatening to drag her in.

“This is sick, innit!” Buzz Cut exclaimed.

No, it’s fucking dark, cold and damp under here, Thorina muttered under her breath. Not to mention dangerous. She couldn’t feel her fingers for gripping so tight. Hefting someone three times her size and waistline was not in her sodding plans for the day. Neither was dying. But the river was incessant, yanking them both downstream. “Oh fuuu…”

Then, she felt a tug on her ankle. “Squad, lock in and heave!” Tall’s voice echoed across the river.

Thorina looked back; all four lads – saviours as she now thought of them – dug their heels in and clung to their hoodies. They staggered backward like a tug of war, pulling the board, the dwarf and the Mayor closer. All Thorina could do was shiver and cling on as the sandwich board buffeted this way and that in the waves.

“The pull is too much!” Buzz Cut grunted through gritted teeth. “Oi!” Tall shouted at the elders and assembled villagers. “Do you usually wait to be asked to save lives?”

Finally, the elders rustled over to assist, and together the team hauled Thorina and Twickett in. As soon as the raft neared the shallows, thin pale arms hauled the Mayor out of the water. By the time Thorina had defrosted enough to climb the bank, Trousers-under-bum was already performing CPR, as well as giving them all an eyeful.

“If we can sort that,” Tall said, wringing out his hoodie, “then lifting the cart should be no problem.” Behind them, the Mayor spluttered back to life. The lad handed over the frilly packet. “Safe and sound, bro.”

The smell of brunch immediately lifted her spirits. Thorina sat back on her haunches. “It can wait until I’ve re-fuelled. And, if you’re willing to show me how that picture gadget of yours works, I’d even go so far as to share my bacon and egg butty, if you don’t mind a picnic.”

Tall shook his head. “No ta, I’m vegan, innit.”

Thorina laughed. “Can’t please everyone.”

Destiny Arising

Chapter 1 – Stars from behind bars

May 1556, Yorkshire Moors

Crowns would fall, many of them. Women’s thrones – vacant for the taking. The future Nemis fore-saw in her visions was not safe for Queens. Locked away, jolted from side to side in a closed cart trundling across the moorland, there was nothing a mere witch like she could do to save them. A captive with no-one she could trust to tell or warn of what could happen. Few humans would believe her anyway, for although everyone knew magic and witchcraft existed, those who could truly control it were often shunned or forced into hiding, lest their true nature frighten. Creaturekind – witches, vampires, fae and daemon – were bound by a Treaty to avoid exposure or interference in human affairs. It did not specify protecting them, but surely it should?

Nemis shivered, despite the warmth of the orange sunset sky glimpsed through the tiny window bars. A debilitating chill, heralding another bout of visions, threatened to overtake her, to drown her in darkness and confusion. The visions began at the same time as strange star lights in the night, two days ago, while she’d been imprisoned in Beesworth gaol. It had to be the star’s fault, Nemis reasoned as her teeth chattered in her jaw, for nothing else unusual had happened during her months of captivity.

When the display was first sighted, the other prisoners had clanged on their doors to be freed, crying with fear at the awesome sight glimpsed through their tiny windows, while she had jittered, fitted and screamed until dawn. The following morning, Nemis – accused of murder by witchcraft – and Sarah Fell, a drunken, unrepentant thief and doxy, had been bundled into the mobile prison without explanation or warning. There had been no time to tell her son or his guardian of her movement to York, or of the Queens’ deaths she predicted. Telling almost anyone about the peculiarities of being a se’er witch wouldn’t help free her, anyway.

Nemis huddled into herself on the rough wooden seat, knocking knees to shaking jaw. Foetid straw scattered over the filthy wood floor, so damp it barely rolled when the cart lumbered over a dip in the track. Her shivering caused the links in her chains to quiver and chink together. The fruity, hay-like smell of droppings caught in her throat as the carthorse dragged its load towards York. In the darkening enclosure, her senses heightened, a sure sign of change within her about to strike.

Her skin crawled, no matter how much she scratched. Wrapped around her head, her scabby arms were streaked with the blood her nails had drawn, disguising the crawlie bites which marred her entire body, testament to months of captivity. Before long, the writhing would start, like a snake twisting inside her belly which she could not scratch out. Her wounds would re-open.

Sarah Fell snored opposite; her duckies heaved plump over a too tight corset and quivered with each snort. Her sound slumber was no surprise as Nemis had kept her awake with shrieks and cries both nights since the stars first displayed their glittering streaks. Poor Sarah had told her as much, in no uncertain terms, and complained nobody wanted to hear her unholy screams. That it wasn’t natural – her eyes rolling back, body quaking, barely breathing. ‘Near fit to die’, as Sarah put it, before spitting at her. They had spoken little on the journey since, as the woman was too frightened of Nemis’s strangeness.

Across the moor, evening squawks of pheasants called and the occasional owl hooted. As darkness deepened, Nemis stared through the bars of the narrow aperture at the back of the closed cart. When the starlight streaked across the sky, no doubt her torture would begin once more. Dread tightened her chest as she tried not to think about crowns falling off at the moment of their bearers last breath. The impressions are more than her usual, dispassionately observed images which flicked before her eyes. In these new visions, Nemis experiences the agony as if her own. Over and over, she has died in her dream-like state, and fears each time she will never awaken again.

The first is a watery demise – buffeted in the tide, the water flashing pink and frothy but the pain stabs her chest. She splutters, arms flailing, her fingers reaching for something but she knows not what. Something is around her ribcage, perhaps in it, binding her as tightly as the cold prison of the waves. A crown drifts away from her as she sinks.

The next is in darkness, pungent with spice. All she can hear are the whispers between wails. She catches a glimpse of a crown, tumbling from her fingers.

For the third, her body convulses, agony streaking through her being. She screams, her voice echoing, over and over. Just out of reach, the same crown, but she is exhausted by the effort of straining for it.

The next is the strangest, for she looks down at her own body and it is bathed in red light. The hunger she feels gnaws through her bones and she wrestles, fighting the arms which hold her down.

Then, somehow, she is the same person but distracted by the flash of blades, arcing through the air, over and over like a silver blizzard.

But the worst is yet to follow. The one which leaves Nemis shredded on the floor and unable to move. It is the absence of anything other than her insides being wrenched from her very skin. Her soul peeling away in agonising strips until she is nothing but a husk. Her head drops, and the weight of her crown tumbles off.

Each time, in the hazy, twilight moments as she rouses, Nemis knows without any doubt, what she sees – experiences – in the shadows is the death of Queens. Their treasured crowns will fall, doubtless leaving chaos in their wake. She cannot forget the sensations of vision, yet cannot recall the detail. Fear of recurrence has plagued her waking hours, and the closed cart with all its smells, darkness and jolts doesn’t assuage her terror.

The last light of the sunset disappeared and the chill clamped in the pit of her stomach. She clutched the rough wooden seat, drawing her hands up and down its length, ignoring the splinters which caught in her fingertips.

Please, not again, she prayed.

The cart slowed to a stop and, for a moment, she could breathe easier. Wood smoke, and the welcome smell of food. Pottage maybe, or the remnants of a roast, lingered in the air. Had they arrived in York yet?

Perhaps tonight would be different, if she could only be outside again. Maybe under the moonlight the prickling to her skin would cease.

She nudged Sarah with her foot to wake her. As the old woman stirred, Nemis’s shaking intensified. She fought to remain conscious, to listen to the muttered negotiations between the cart driver, the accompanying official, Alf Cooper, Assistant Sheriff, and another man with a different accent.

“She’ll stay put. T’other one won’t be a bother if we keep her fettered,” Alf said.

“Tha’s welcome, then. I’ve a room out back ‘fer the thief, a small one mind, wi’ a lock on’t door. The witch’ll have to stay in the cart. And there’s a chamber ‘fer you pair and the best stew this side of Rosedale.” He chuckled. “If tha’d been here twenty years earlier, I’d have sent yer witch to the old Abbey ‘fer the nuns ter pray over.”

A grimace flashed over Sarah’s face as she glanced through the tiny window. Then she sneered. “Pretty, pretty. Here’s my pretty.”

Nemis’s arms, heavy with shackles, slid down from her knees and the chain dropped to the floor with a thud. Another night locked in this stinking cart. She didn’t dare look at the sky – what was the point? She knew the starlights were there again because the sensations in her body told her so.

A key rattled in the lock, then the wooden door swung open. “Mistress Fell, you’re to come with me,” ordered Mr Cooper.

Sarah shuffled forwards, her tattered skirt catching on the rough planks as she pushed herself out. “She made me,” she muttered, as her hand inched her skirts higher. Then she cackled, “Would yer like to sample me secrets? A warm meal and a drink is all I ask.”

As she spread her bare legs, Mr Cooper responded with, “Foul doxy,” and slapped her thighs.

Sarah screeched. “Fie upon thee!”

Nemis’s head lolled against the cart’s wall. The small space seemed to widen, as if the presence of another person had held the darkness in check. She squinted at the doorway, the change in light hurting her eyes.

Behind the Assistant Sheriff, the innkeeper held his hand over his brow as he peered inside. His nose wrinkled. “She looks like a witch an’ all.” He sniffed. “Bit young, like. Still, I’ll not ‘ave ‘er causing upset in my place.”

Alf nodded. “Understandable.”

The door slammed shut. As the lock clicked, Nemis collapsed.

Destiny Arising – Book 3 in the Naturae Series – Available 19th April 2024

Pre-orders open NOW

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The Stain of Magical Places

Old Bottles in a window.

I’ve been watching Ripper Street on TV lately. It’s a drama set in Whitechapel in the years following the reign of Jack the Ripper. I watch it because my latest book is a murder mystery with a horror twist, and because, frankly, the lyrical writing is some of the best I have ever seen.

Watching period dramas in the genre or time-period I am writing in is just one of the ways which I try to ensure authenticity in my novels. Actors call it immersion, and in a sense, that is what I as an author do as well. I also try to visit the locations and settings if at all possible, although many are over-built, derelict or standing in ruins.

There is definitely something to be said for standing in places where people from history once stood. If you close your eyes and open your imagination, it is easy to picture them in such places. Walking the paths you now tread. Staring at the vista before you. The noises and smells are often a reach further, but still possible.

It is even possible to get a sense of the magic of a place as well. As a child, brought up a Quaker, I trekked like a rite of passage up Pendle Hill, in Lancashire. This site was where the forefather of the Society of Friends, first dubbed ‘Quakers’, for their belief that people should tremble at the word of the Lord, first had a life altering vision which lead to the founding of the religious society.

It is a strange and moody place, a steep rock which juts high above the fell, and almost statuesque. It looms over Pendle as a location stained forever by magic, bound up with faith, in England’s minds and hearts. For Quakers, it’s an almost holy location, along with nearby Swarthmore Hall, the home of the founders George and Margaret Fox.

To this day, Pendle remains a source of fascination and touristic thrills. A town known for witchcraft, radicalism and rebellion.

The sleepy countryside, with gently rolling moors all around, is not what you might think it would be like though, if you closed your eyes and imagined the events which lead to its dubious reputation. But I found, or rather felt, something magical about the rocky outcrop and the sleepy stone-built town close by, I confess. Something which stirred the soul.

But why should that be? As an adult, the impression Pendle left the child me with should surely pale into insignificance, now I have climbed far larger mountains, both physically and spiritually. I have visited many a moorland and found or felt nothing of note there. So why did Pendle? Or the many other places I have visited in my quest for realism in my writing?

It strikes me that we, as humans, talk about place and attach personal significance to it, sometimes without ever having visited it. How many of us instantly associate towns and villages with events which have long passed into the pages of history books? Our perception thus colours the reality of these places today. Such as it is with Whitechapel and gory murder in its narrow streets, or Berwick, Biddeford, Pendle and Salem for witches. From Auscwitz to Tyburn, sometimes the very name alone conjures up deadly purpose and history. Their reputation marks them indelibly for all history.

What happened in these places, especially if it involves the accusation of magic or the horrors of mass death, primes us to have an opinion about a place before we have even been there. If you have ever visited a concentration camp, you will know the chill I speak of. It is almost tangible. To know the history before you visit a place serves to fine tune your senses to whatever magic lingers there.

And so I ask, is it magic, then, which causes such a physical reaction to a place? Or perhaps the unsettled ghosts which linger still, just to remind you of what they once suffered? Let me know your thoughts in the comments! Where touched you spiritually?

#witches #magicalplaces #pendlehill #witchtrials #pendlewitches #naturaeseries

(This article was first written for and published by the Faerie Review in July 2023)

About Jan Foster

By day, Jan juggles consultancy work with her family, but by night she sneaks off, into the past. Her penchant for sprinkling history with magic is fuelled by coffee and Cadburys. When not writing, Jan takes her dogs and small monsters into the countryside, especially if there is a castle or historic building there with a cosy coffee shop in which to escape the rain of Manchester, England.

Jan is currently researching and writing the 3rd book in the Naturae Series, Destiny Arising, which is set in the early reign of Elizabeth I. Expect witch trials, murder and mystery with a hefty dose of magical realism and history!

Connect with Jan – all the links you need! https://linktr.ee/janfosterauthor

Subscribe to the Escape Into A Tale newsletter https://www.subscribepage.com/mailingsubscribe and receive a free copy of the Naturae Series prequel Risking Destiny (a full length novel set in Viking Age Orkney) to enjoy.

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Book Links:

Latest release – Destiny Awaiting – a Henry V Age Prequel www.books2read.com/destinyawaiting

Naturae Series – all the books in one place! https://getbooks.escapeintoatale.com/

The truth, the myth and storytelling

I’m delighted to welcome award-winning historical fantasy author Luciana Cavallaro to Escape Into A Tale with a guest article looking at the fictionalisation of historical events.

Some years ago, I tutored students, unfortunately, I don’t have time to do this anymore. Before I delve any further and to introduce myself to Jan’s followers, my name is Luciana Cavallaro and I write Historical Fiction Fantasy and Thriller/Suspense stories. By day, my alter ego is a high school teacher, which leads me back to the beginning of this article: tutoring. This particular evening, one of my students had a research task for History and he chose to write about the legend of the 300 Spartans. Great, I thought, a topic I can provide lots of insight and information. Before I continue, let me say this was a thirteen-year-old boy.

The first thing he asked was whether the movie 300 was true, and did the war between the Spartans and the Persians happen? I told him the war was true but not as the film depicted the events. What followed was a series of questions about the film and to my dismay, how he thought the movie was factual. I pointed out the movie was based on a graphic novel, an overly fantasised story with very little accuracy. It took some convincing that no hippopotamus or a hunchback was ever involved in the battle of Thermopylae!

Fictionalising historical events has been around since the dawn of storytelling. Myths and legends tell of heroic deeds, transgressions of individuals and in some instances, weave tales of disasters that wipe out entire races. For instance, let’s look at Homer’s tale of TheIliad. Was there a war? Was Helen really a Queen of Sparta? Did any of the heroes in the story exist? This famous story has initiated many debates amongst scholars and archaeologists.

Troy VI-VII East Gate cul de sac Troy IX walls on the right. These were massive defensive walls and only a third of the height remains.

For a long time, the general consensus was it was just a story, a fanciful ode depicting an era eulogising the Olympian gods and heroes. However, contrary to the naysayers, archaeological evidence has proven otherwise. The site of Priam’s palace and the city of Troy, discovered by German businessman turned amateur archaeologist, Heinrich Schliemann, found proof of a war. He uncovered arrow heads, human bones and scorch marks on walls and in the earth that dates back to the time of the epic story. Archaeological excavations, still ongoing since the early 1900s, where experts working on the site have determined the war in Homer’s saga was a culmination of several wars over the centuries. The other myth that was debunked was how could one person recite 52,000-word poem and remember it all. It turns out quite easily. A historian/scientist journeyed to Armenia and recorded a bard, not unlike Homer, retell an historic battle through singing and the use of a lute. He recited the epic tale without the aid of a written script. Repetitive use of keywords, names and phrases, along with the music, were strategies used to help recollect lines and the order of the story. With regards to The Iliad, as the story was passed on from one storyteller to the next, creative license was taken and more add to the story.

Masonry tunnel at Tiryns

The site of King Agamemnon’s palace at Mycenae was found, as were Tiryns and Pylos, major Mycenaean cities mentioned in Homer’s tale. The walls of Tiryns were described by the bard as ‘mighty’ or ‘well-walled’ depending on the translation. The remains of the walls are impressive even to this day and when you see them, you can understand why he called them ‘mighty’. Weapons, helmets, armour described by Homer have also been found at the site of Mycenae and you can see them in the museum located next to the ruins.

Path up to the Lion Gate, Mycenae (they are huge and impressive!)

The Mask of Agamemnon, a gold funeral mask, dated 1550–1500 BC

‘Meriones gave Odysseus … a cleverly made leather helmet … On the inside there was a strong lining of interwoven straps, onto which a felt cap had been sewn in. The outside was cleverly adorned all round with rows of white tusks from a shiny-toothed boar, the tusks running in alternated directions in each row.’

Homer, The Iliad, Book 10, Lines 260-265

I count myself fortunate, as I’ve visited the ruins of Mycenae, Tiryns and Troy. It was, and still is, the highlight of my trip and one of the reasons I write Historical Fiction Fantasy.

Back to my student, in their excitement, they informed me a sequel was made: 300 – rise of an empire. I did not go and watch it, though I did see the movie 300. If you enjoy mindless action, blood and gore, then watch it. If you’re after historical accuracy and depiction of the Battle of Thermopylae, better to read Steven Pressfield’s Gates of Fire.

About Luciana Cavallaro

Luciana Cavallaro, genre-bending fiction author, is the multi award-winning author of The Labyrinthine Journey, Minotaur’s Lair and The Guardian’s Legacy. She has been nominated for book awards in the action/adventure and historical fiction genres, Finalist in the New Media Film Festival and Finalist in the Page Turner Awards. She is also rather proud of her ambitious attempt at driving her first car at the age of three. (Just between us, this was when she gave her father high blood pressure … and the beginning of her adventures).

Where to connect with Luciana

Website: www.lucianacavallaro.me

Download sample chapters: https://www.subscribepage.com/softgs

Email: lucianacava@proton.me

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Luciana-Cavallaro/e/B009QHIKN2/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1419996879&sr=8-1

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/luciana-cavallaro

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6567841.Luciana_Cavallaro

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authorluciana/

Linktree: https://linktr.ee/lucianacavallaro

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vTZVsoFkZPo

Where to buy Luciana’s books

Buy direct: https://lucianacavallaro.me/shop/

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Luciana-Cavallaro/e/B009QHIKN2/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1419996879&sr=8-1

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Moirai

The world according to Henry Fitzroy

Welcome to Henry Fitzroy – formerly the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, bastard son of Henry VIII and Elizabwth Blout, and, if I may, the most intriguing character in the Naturae Series so far.

Which book/world do you live in?

You’ll first encounter me in Anarchic Destiny – Book 2 of the Naturae Series and all the following books.

Tell us about yourself:

‘Dying’ when I was 17 was a trauma, but I was told if I became a vampire, I would still be able to fulfil my destiny to be King. Annoyingly, after I said yes to being made vampire, my half brother Edward was born, so I had to wait, hidden and captive for another 17 years, until he too died in 1553. But, when I found out about his plans for succession, I realised I’d been forgotten. I was no-one. I have to find my place in this new world. Find a way to fulfil my destiny to rule.

What are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?

I didn’t realise how liberating it would be to give up my soul, and so I would say my greatest strength is that I have no compunction about doing what is necessary to achieve my given purpose. I’m also super-fast, super strong, and, depending on the day or how I feel, super compassionate. Perhaps that is my weakness, but I still feel for the humans, even though most of my kind view them as fodder.

Name three important people/creatures/institutions in your world (such as lovers, pets, government institutions, leaders, gods etc).

The institutions in my world are the structures which enable people like me to rule – the Church, although I have wavering affiliation to it, and the monarchy. I’m ambiguous as to which of these institutions should remain once I get into power. On a personal front, I have few friends. Those I can count are Thomas Fairfax, a daemon, and, I suppose, my half sister, Elizabeth. She knows who and what I am, and means a great deal to me, possibly because I cannot influence her as I can mere mortals. She has the potential, though, to be great. I have always sensed this about her and I hope that in the future our two realms can grow closer in proximity. Naturae is where I will set my sights though, the home of the fae.

What does ‘heroism’ mean to you?

I have thought a great deal about this, and my opinion of what it means to be a hero is undeniably influenced by my father, King Henry VIII. He had his flaws, to be sure, but he was driven to greatness by passion. A desire to grow his influence. To be the best.

However, I am of the mind that life should be preserved where possible, even in the pursuit of greatness. I regret losing my mortal life and mourn the loss of my soul. I am not about revenge, or killing for the sake of it, but rather, people should be allowed to choose how they live, not die because of what someone else thinks. I think that makes me quite heroic. I will always stand up for liberty. That is my passion.

What do you think of your ‘creator’?

She tries hard to make me into a sympathetic character, although I know at times I may make some choices which ordinary people could view as morally questionable. Had I known my mother, Bessie, more, perhaps she would have endowed me with a more balanced view, but, I was born to rule no matter the cost.

Give us your favourite piece of advice:

Life is short, for humans. Make the most of it. Live how you want to and with honesty, and you will have no regrets when it is over. If, like me, you are destined to live a long life, then there is even more reason to be true to yourself, because hiding who you are will cause you untold miseries which you have your whole life to regret.

Other Naturae series character interviews: Queen Lana

A forgotten heir… A Queendom in crisis… Chaos will reign

Discover a historical fantasy thriller that will take you on a journey through the reign of Bloody Mary, to the fantastical world of Naturae. Book 2 of the Naturae series – escape into a magical past!

Family should be loyal. At least, that’s what Fae Queen Aioffe and Joshua thought, until a rival claimant to the throne returns. A witch’s prophecy goes unheeded, causing shifting allegiances, disruptive visitors and threats to Naturae.

In England, Edward VI has died, and a fight for his throne will follow. Henry Fitzroy, a forgotten heir and Edward’s bastard vampire brother, awakens to the destiny he was promised in tatters. Denied his crown and place in the human world, Henry sets his sights on claiming what was due to him, even if that means hurting everyone who was loyal to him before.

The price of an heir to bring Aioffe, Joshua and the Queendom back together is a sacrifice – their marriage or their loyalty to Naturae.

As darker forces force a decision, chaos will reign…

★★★★★ Book 2 of the Naturae Series is a thrilling historical fantasy novel, weaving together Tudor times with magical realism. Discover an epic alternative history where love, loyalty and faith are all that stand in the way of anarchy. Escape into a Tudor game of thrones and be captivated by this unputdownable story of powerful, magical characters locked in a battle to rule! ★★★★★

The uncomfortable similarities between Henry V and Putin

I didn’t set out to write a story about war with Destiny Awaiting, it just happened. It was supposed to be a simple enemies-to-lovers romance, set in a time of danger and adversity where strangers could observe the history and fulfil their destiny. It is, on one level. I wanted to highlight how conflict drives the narrative, especially in my kind of novels, where the historical events are woven into the fabric of the storyline.

But, the more I wrote about the setting and circumstance, the more I understood the detail and decisions, the more my feelings about Henry V, traditionally a hero king to the English, became mixed. It doesn’t sit well with me, but hear me out when I say: Henry V and Putin have a lot more in common than I could ever have imagined. So, however unpopular a view it is, I explain in this post why we perhaps need to rethink how we, the English, view Henry V.

I’m a pacifist through and through. The prospect of going to war fills me with horror – especially when I’m not certain quite why it’s being fought in the first place. It’s always amazed me how some people can bravely put themselves into the firing line for an idea, or a claim. I can see how people might fight for a belief or ideology a little easier because it must take a significant amount of faith that you are doing the right and just thing to put yourself in harm’s way knowingly. It’s also easier to see how people can fight to protect others.

My prequel to the Naturae Series, Destiny Awaiting, was written during the last year when we have all seen the devastation of war brought to our doorsteps. In a country which is hundreds of miles away from my own, the impact of the Ukraine invasion has rippled through the world’s economies. When I started to research Henry’s campaign in France, what struck me while writing the closing chapters was the uncomfortable parallels with what is happening today and what transpired 600 years ago. At the time of writing this article, the one year anniversary of the war in Ukraine has just passed, and I fear, despite the support given to Ukraine to push back, there is a long road ahead on the war to reclaim sovereignty.

Historical right to rule

Let’s start with a belief that just because at one time a ruler ruled over lands, does that mean that they should ALWAYS rule them? Henry V was essentially continuing (or reviving) a war which had raged over France for almost a century at the time. The campaign of 1415 was just the latest in a long line of battles through five generations of Plantagenets and for 116 years, over the right to rule medieval Europe. Putin believes that Ukraine is a part of historical Russia, the Russian lands which were claimed by the Tzars of old. As the head of his country, he perceives his position as Tzar-like, with near absolute control over what happens and how it is presented to his people by a ruthless control over the rhetoric. Not unlike the monarchy during medieval times, although arguably the citizens’ inability to read made the job easier back then.

A Heroic Leader – or so we’re led to believe. Controlling the rhetoric.

In England, Henry V’s battle at Agincourt is often taught to children as a David and Goliath type of battle – the few (thousand) plucky archers, ravaged by dysentery and exhausted after marching for hundreds to miles towards English-held Calais and safety, met the French army, three or four times the number, and won. Immortalized by Shakespeare, brought to life for a modern audience by numerous films, the tale of a charismatic young king who defeats the odds is the backbone of many a storyline since. Dying young (comparatively) and on the battlefield served to cement his legend. Or, to put it another way, he died young enough not to make too many mistakes later on in his rule. By most contemporaneous accounts, once he became King, Henry was a pious man, who had the ‘common touch’ which later monarchs lacked. A reformed party prince, scarred by early battles with the Welsh and Owain Glendwr, who sought the counsel of his elders to walk the careful balance of diplomacy, war and marriage to secure both the crown of France and peace.

That’s the rhetoric at least. History is largely written by the victors and it very much suited the scribes of the medieval age to paint Henry in a flattering light. Monarchs always want to control the narrative – and as information becomes more widely available, it gets harder for them. We may never know what Henry V was like behind closed doors, but I’m willing to bet, given his acknowledged partying pre-coronation, there’s a good few secrets which will never see the light of today.

This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother.
(King Henry, Act 4 Scene 3, William Shakespeare)

The image and rhetoric Putin presents to his people isn’t dissimilar to Henry’s – a dynamic and decisive leader who will stand up against the tyranny of pretenders to his ‘throne’. A man for all seasons. I remind you of the half naked, gun toting poses of Putin’s calendars showing his virility and prowess, and how Putin has couched his invasion as a fight against Nazi oppression for the good of the Russian people. To say anything otherwise is frankly, dangerous. 

Imagery is all – Henry chose to show his best side (ok, the cheek without the arrow scar and the hair cut for comfort in battle as he prays for divine guidance), Putin issues state approved press releases and a calendar full of poses to remind us how his devout and earnest nature whilst still vigorous enough to lead his country into war.

Patience and Planning

There seems little doubt now that Putin planned his attack on the Ukraine over some years before he actually invaded. Henry’s preparations for war with France are well-documented, even by modern standards. Indentures, budgets, equipment lists and soldiers names and more still survive today – many are housed in the National Archives and quite a lot of information is available online in searchable databases as well. Henry planned the assault for many years and with dogmatic attention to detail. Even the last-minute hitch of a late-discovered plot to overthrow him before he set sail didn’t deter him. He dealt with the traitors in a characteristic, ruthless fashion before ploughing ahead, late in the campaigning season, with his voyage across the channel.

Such a build-up to attack is hard to hide (recall the massive convoys and build up of troops on the border of Russia and Ukraine in Spring 2021?). The world could see what was coming, even though we all hoped it could be stopped.

Neither leader planned for how long it would take though. Both thought that the overwhelming initial barrage would cause a swift capitulation.

Harfleur was ready for Henry’s arrival and had dammed the river until a vast lake surrounded the town. Wooden barricades stood in front of the picturesque white walls, and a battalion of troops were ready to deflect anyone who approached. 

Every day, Henry’s forces besieged Harfleur with cannons and catapults, having fired all the surrounding farms and dwellings. The walled city, trapped by the lake of their own creation on one side and the sea on the other, was patched up overnight, every night, using anything the few thousand residents could get their hands on – church pews, building joists, doors even. Only one supply ship made it to the town in five weeks, and they must have felt abandoned by their ruler (who was mad and thought he was made of glass anyway!). 

Under fire, running out of supplies, and cut off from any other support, military or food, the citizens of Harfleur resisted for just over five weeks before they overrode the commander of the battalion defending them, and surrendered their town up to Henry.

I cannot help but think of the terror of surviving under siege, not knowing when or if it’s going to stop, or if anyone is coming to help. The Harfleur scenes in Destiny Awaiting were written at about the same time as Mariupol was under siege. My character Aioffe is trapped in Harfleur, a stranger observing the best, and worst, of humanity. Five weeks of constant stress is a long time; the residents of Mariupol lasted almost twice as long.

Neither attacking ruler thought the towns they laid under siege would survive half as long as they did, in the end. By the end of the siege, both townships were pretty much flattened.

Cold hearted nature.

Perhaps the most damning fact about Henry V I discovered, which turned my stomach and reminded me so much of the lies of the Russians in WWII and the missing Polish prisoners of war, was what happened at the end of the Battle of Agincourt. Although they were winning, Henry wanted to be sure that the French would stay down rather than re-group. He ordered the captured prisoners to be put to death, and several thousand unarmed men were slaughtered. He kept alive only a few of the nobility who were good for ransom money. Many of his own knights refused to kill the captured, as it went against the chivalric way of warfare, but Henry threatened his men with the noose if they failed to carry out his orders. At the time, he was not criticised for this order, but by today’s standards, it would be considered a war crime.

How does Putin compare? Time will tell but atrocities committed in his name are already in the public eye, and of the 14,000 missing children I can only hope they are found quickly.

Location, location, location.

Even though we live in a technological age, where information is easier to come by and orders are disseminated faster, the tactics of warcraft haven’t really evolved in some ways. Success on the battlefield still sometimes comes down to the weather, leadership and geography. Whether your troops are correctly equipped for these factors is also important.

In Henry’s case, he played to the strengths of the land and dreadful weather at Agincourt. The French were heavily armoured, known for their knights charging on horseback and subject to unclear chains of command. The night before battle, heavy rain fell on the freshly ploughed field just outside Agincourt. In times when a battle took place on one day, rather than stretching out to inch by inch claim land, such matters were decisive. Henry’s forces were lightly armoured, well trained (for it was the law for all men to practise with a bow) and led by experienced commanders. Henry had a battle plan to make the best use of the terrain, the weaknesses of the opposing forces and the strengths of his own. The result was a mudbath bloodbath as the French horses and armoured knights were trapped in the mud and felled by the rain of arrows from the wooded valley.

By contrast, Putin is faced with an opposition who know their landscape and the defensive opportunities of it. He may have rolled into Ukraine with tanks and vast numbers, but the lessons of warfare history (of which he is apparently an avid fan) have not served him well so far. And this, I believe, speaks to the mentality of the man. He makes war the old-fashioned way which Russia has fought with before. With conscripts, who have little vested interest in putting their lives on the line. With a confusion of commanders. With equipment not suited to the task at hand. It is my fervent hope that, like the French fell to the nimble-fingered archers of Agincourt, his attempt to conquer Ukraine is decisively prevented.

Henry V was by no means the most blood-thirsty of England’s kings. That he has been held up as a legendary warrior disguises the questionable choices he made in the heat of battle. Although it’s not easy to look beyond the legend to see the man behind it, by studying the actions of the past, we can change, or at least challenge, the rhetoric about what is happening today. Our values have evolved, and perhaps it is time to re-evaluate how we teach our children about our history. If we continue to glorify wars of the past, then we set ourselves up to be taken in by war-like leaders today.

More, by failing to question the reasons for going to war has time and time again cost lives and toppled countries. When we think of Vietnam, Afghanistan or Iraq, did the wars achieve what was intended? Are the countries any better for those living there than they were pre-war?

If you would like to read more about the siege of Harfleur and the battle of Agincourt, Destiny Awaiting releases 31st March 2023.

If you have any thoughts or comments on my opinions here, please email.

Destiny Awaiting – Sneak Peak!

Meet Aioffe as she enters a strange, human, world with a thump! Read on for the first chapter in a new enemies to lovers historical fantasy romance, set in Henry V’s campaign to Agincourt.

Destiny Awaiting is now available to pre-order or you can join the launch team and be the first to receive a copy!

She stole away to discover a new world, but interrupted a thief. Now Aioffe can’t escape from him, or her growing curiosity.

Across England and France, Henry V relentlessly raises an army to secure his throne. Tarl’s skills as thief, blacksmith and bowman might land him in the firing line, but all he wants is to clear his debts and restore his family’s honour. To pay for his crime he must hand over the strange fae girl to the Church authorities, or he will end up warring with more than just his heart.

Fighting with each other risks both of their lives. A battle between their races must be averted, and secrets kept hidden. As they journey through medieval Scotland, Wales and England and into France,  Aioffe and Tarl must discover what true love is if they are to survive the destiny which awaits them at Agincourt.

★★★ A thrilling, historical fantasy romance prequel in the Naturae Series.  Escape into a magical past with the journey which started the adventure, to where battles of the heart are destined to fight with faith and hope itself.★★★

Chapter 1 – 1415 Wrye, the Orkney Islands

She’d left it too late to pull out of the dive. Her body collided with the fir top, covering her in dislodged icy clumps of snow. All forward momentum halted. With the trunk out of reach, Aioffe tried to steady herself inside the woody prison by pushing all her limbs out wide.
It seemed to work. She had time to draw in a calm breath. Then her wings gave way. As her body slid down the branches, her frozen fingers failed to grasp the dark green spiky tufts. Tumbling through the tree, the translucent panes of her appendages shredded into tatters.
Halfway down, she hooked a thicker branch with one hand, then froze, dangling. Before she could grab another hold, the supple wood sagged, then cracked.
Her numb fingers lost their grip.
“Ow.” Her bare foot broke the thin, icy layer, twisting against the frozen earth beneath as her body weight followed. Having deposited its cargo in an ungainly heap at the roots, the branch pinged back with a whoosh.
Aioffe opened her eyes. A clump of snow plopped onto her head, a final insult.
Her quarry, a lone squirrel which had been sitting atop the tallest fir in the copse in an otherwise desolate land, now leant up on its haunches a few feet away. For a moment, its russet fur quivered as it examined her with curious eyes. They stared at each other silently, then it tilted its neat head at her and hopped off.
“Next time.” She sighed as she caught sight of her battered, numb wings.
She needed to feed. The squirrels’ Lifeforce would have been sufficient sustenance to return home with. Now injured, she would need something more substantial to heal herself. Her wings twitched; the breeze whistled through the holes, tickling as sensation returned. There would be no flying away from the island with them so shredded. Her ankle throbbed in protest at the prospect of walking. Not that one could walk across the sea.
She swallowed, hearing her mother’s voice in her head, ‘One such as you should never leave. If you must, then never travel alone. And never be seen.’
And never find out anything, Aioffe always mentally added. Never be free. Never discover. Never live a different life than that which her mother, and the rest of the fae, demanded of her.
After following the squirrel’s tracks across the flat white landscape with her eyes, Aioffe turned on the ground and peered through the cluster of trunks surrounding her. Her heart sank as she watched for a few minutes. No other prey hopped or flew into sight. The silent sun had begun its descent; twilight would soon fall.
Where the land dipped into the horizon to the west, a stone cross peaked into the orange sky. A slate roof hugged into the curve of the coast; its adornment jutted up like a beacon towards the water. From the air, this small island had appeared uninhabited, but the whitewashed building was worth considering as shelter against the long winter night ahead. At the very least, it had a roof.
She crawled to the edge of the copse and gazed across the other side of the expanse. In the distance to the east, a tall, square building dominated a ridge. A lone tower atop a mound at its base rose only half as high as the trees in Naturae, and cast a long, dark shadow towards the coastline. Centuries ago, the Vikings – invaders, and destroyers from even further North – proclaimed their dominion over these islands with castles and brochs. Aioffe’s mouth dried. Perhaps some were still used by those who ruled here. Stone constructs were so different to the treetop dwellings of her kind. The prospect of exploring them piqued her interest, despite her fear of discovery.
“Perhaps don’t stray too close to them, then,” she muttered to herself. Entanglement with people – humans – would likely get her in more trouble.
With hawk-like eyes, Aioffe stared at the tower, the low building, then the tower again for a few minutes. She didn’t spot any movement or candlelight inside the small windows of either building. A gust of chilly sea wind whipped a loose strand of hair across her cheek. She needed to move, and now, before darkness fell.
Wincing as she stood on her sore ankle, she shook the last of the snow from her head. Her wings, shredded and aching, dropped behind her back, so she tucked them out of sight underneath her heavy cloak before setting off.
As she limped down the slippery incline towards the whitewashed building, the silence of the desolate land was broken only by the crash and rattle of waves, lurching from the Sound to the pebbled beaches between this island and the next. She caught a braying of seals from the cove below and her stomach rumbled. Now they come to shore! Typical of her luck – given her current speed, by the time she made it down there, they would probably have gone back out to sea. Her priority now was shelter.
As she approached the single storey building, a cluster of upright stones jutting from the grass, decorated with carved inscriptions, caught her attention. One was a more recent addition, judging from the absence of moss on its light grey face. The slate was graced with a cross within a circle above the writing, like the one on top of the roof, as if the symbol were the most important thing to announce. A freshly turned earth mound extended from the slab’s base. Her nose wrinkled. Decay emanated from the soil where turf had yet to grow.
Weariness and pain swept over her, and she leaned against the stone. Her fingers traced the indentations of lettering as she caught her breath. Humans lived such short lives; how strange that they would place their bodies under ground when their life ended. Their souls freed to roam wherever they wanted without earthly ties.
A noise interrupted her pondering. Her head shot up and she stiffened. A chink of metal? Despite her extraordinary hearing, nothing further sounded. Aioffe snorted, dismissing the sound as her own knife, holstered, and hanging from her belt; it must have bashed against the slab when she moved. She shook her head; how silly she was to spook herself when she had seen no signs of anyone alive on the island so far.
A flagstone path led to the building entrance. Her ankle throbbed from the unfamiliar exertion of walking. When she pushed the heavy wooden door, it swung open with a creak.
A furtive movement in the shadows at the back of the room made her blink, then, another chink sounded. She gasped.
The light from the slit of a window behind lit upon blond hair. His face furrowed as he turned towards her. The bag he held clanked to the floor, then his hands curled into fists.
Aioffe’s mouth dried as she stared at the human through the drifting dust. He was trapped, like her, in the last beams of sunlight.

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Witches, stereotypes, power and politics

As Halloween approaches and costumes arrive in the shops, I started to explore our stereotypical image of a witch and wondered how we arrived here? A hag or crone. Someone who peddles magic from beneath a pointed hat, stirring a cauldron. Perhaps she has a familiar, a cat or a toad which hangs around her hovel. Maybe she uses a wand, or stones to cast her spells with. She invokes unseen spirits, elements known only to her kind, for the purpose of changing something – curing an illness, revenge against a wrong, or whipping up a storm at sea.

How did this, an instantly recognisable, image of what a witch looks like come about?

When one thinks about witches, there is often a temptation to focus on the witch trials and hunts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Salem, Mathew Hopkins the Witchfinder, Pendle Hill – every schoolchild is taught about these horrifying events and sinful people, partly because they are well documented. They serve as cautionary tales of persecution, misconception, and of how fear can drive policy, and politics. But, the link between witches, magic and power goes back further in world history than you might think.

To discover and understand why we have this impression of a witch, and why we continue to be fascinated by magic, we have to look into history, examine our story-telling and ask what part gender, power and politics play.

Light vs. Dark, and Stories

Although there are many who would profess to be ‘white witches’, pagans perhaps, fighting for the lighter side of magic to be more prevalent in popular culture, there is as much darkness surrounding witchcraft as there ever was. There’s an undeniable thrill about exploring the wicked – especially from the safety of a book or film. A black and white idea of the world ruled by light and dark, good and evil, is also a matter of perspective. Even Darth Vader thought he was doing the right thing when he turned to the dark side, and the best stories are driven by the conflict between good and bad choices.

Stephen Fry’s book Mythos, for example, highlights how storytelling, of myths and legends, was both an entertaining means of passing on knowledge about important things like the passing of time, seasons, the weather, as much as how humans made sense of the natural world. We may have moved on from campfire tales, but we still teach through stories, still escape into them for comfort, and use what we ‘know’ as a basis to frame what we don’t know, or can’t yet prove. How we view magic, and witches, is heavily influenced by what we are ‘told was true’ and by how much you trusted and believed in the storyteller. My husband likes to remind me, an expert is only someone who knows at least one more thing about something than you do.

The concept of magic (sorcery, spirituality) and those who practise it (witches, sorcerers, magicians, priests) dates back to the earliest human cultures.

Put simply, magic explained the inexplicable. In a time when science, as we know it now, didn’t exist, magic and belief were often bundled together.

Magic is all around us, but you might call it faith, or belief.

Belief in magic is a common thread across all ancient, and perhaps some modern, cultures. Our natural desire as humans is to frame the esoteric in a context we can understand, to create order out of what seems like chaos. Sumerians believed the world was full of hostile spirits; evidence suggests they performed exorcisms and wove spells to protect themselves. In Ancient Egypt, Heka, the god of magic, was invoked as medical practitioners and magician priests worked together to cure illness. Chaldea, an area so renowned for its magical teachings that when it was absorbed into the Persian empire, the word was then used to describe a social class skilled in the magical arts and incantation.

Magic and spirituality were, for the majority of cultures, an accepted part of life. Most people worshipped some form of deity, a force greater than themselves, which could impact their daily lives.

Faith itself, like magic, is invisible. Intangible. Binding magic to belief doesn’t require a great leap of imagination.

Photo by Christopher Campbell on Unsplash

Faith itself, like magic, is invisible. Intangible. Binding magic to belief doesn’t require a great leap of imagination.

Evolving religions gave such beliefs a structure, which only added to the power people vested in institutions.

Sadly, a subsequent desire to use or control belief goes hand in hand with the persecution of magical practitioners. When a stricter set of guidelines from religion developed, specifically placing some magic as ‘good’ and some as ‘evil,’ the persecution of specialists, rather than magic itself, begins. In 1316, Pope John XXIII issued bulls which linked sorcery, heresy, and pacts with the devil. Miracles were still miracles, after all, so some magic was acceptable, if those in power determined it was in support of their belief system. For the past millennium, across much of Europe certainly, church and state were so closely linked, that a definition of what was tolerable magic became refined over the years by theologians and scholars, effectively giving religious justification for what would become laws against witchcraft in many countries within two centuries.

The modern, possibly better educated mind, might question whether magic exists, and if therefore true practitioners of magic can be real, but during the history of human civilisation, magic, and the Devil (or whatever your religion called it) absolutely existed.

Photo by Jens Auer on Unsplash

My theory is, at the point where science started demystifying some magic, our perception of what a magical practitioner looked like stalled. It did not particularly evolve, but, I believe, became re-enforced as the stories we told about witches seemed ever more like tales than truth. With all good stories, any conflict is exaggerated for greater emotional effect, until we end up with a virtual caricature of what a witch really looked like.

Let’s break down the stereotype…

She’s a witch, part 1.

Evidence – she’s a woman.

You cannot escape the fact that for the vast majority of people you could ask to describe what a witch looks like, the witch is a woman. The overall impression is usually unpleasant – ugly, peculiar-looking, weird. Not like us. Someone to be derided by normal society. It is, without a doubt, a very medieval image, and perhaps that’s why it’s stuck, because the fear of the witch was at its height in those decades when mankind ‘claimed’ a victory, or a control, over magic by legal means. The witch was tried, sentenced then dead, burned at the stake or by the means of testing for witchcraft itself. Order restored once we purged ourselves of the creatures who practised such dark arts.

In a medieval world ruled by men and faith, gender mattered. Few organised religions (such as Catholicism, Islam, Judaism) had women in powerful positions. One’s place in society was defined as much by economics and class, as one’s reputation and gender. In the vast majority of cultures, women were essentially property. This view is still prevalent in some societies today.

But that doesn’t mean women were without knowledge or power. Without childbearing women, there could be no continuity of human life. Even though they were not often afforded a formal education, skills such as healing, herbology and ritual, were passed down in the oral tradition from mother to daughter. The concept of a family unit revolved around a father and mother as household figureheads, each with their part to play in bringing up the next generation and contributing to society. Women were essential to the balance, but simultaneously, of lesser ‘value’ than a man and considered incapable of things like, ruling a country.

Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash

The Power in Rumours

The more well-born or wealthy you were, the more power you had (within reason). Yet, rising in political power, for anyone, makes you more of a target. This is especially true of royal women – you only have to think of Anne Boleyn and the rumours spread about her to see how easily a woman could be brought down by malicious gossip. I’m not sure at what point she became a six-fingered witch who cast a spell over Henry VIII, causing a break from the Catholic church to marry her, but the more we discover about this vilified Queen, the more ludicrous the 1536 treason claims seem, let alone her being capable of sorcery!

Throughout history, royal women have been accused of witchcraft, usually as a political tool. Take for example a Dowager Queen, the French-born Joan Navarre, one of the wealthiest women in England and beloved step-mother to King Henry V. Despite a victory at Agincourt, England’s finances in 1419 were crippled by the rising cost of war with France, not to mention the cost of servicing her high dowry. Her lands and possessions were seized and given to the Crown upon her arrest, for causing ‘maleficio’ (an evil deed or crime) that would cause ‘lesionem’ (injury) to the King. Interestingly, chronicles differ in specifics, which suggests that the arrest was made more on the basis of rumour than actual evidence, and she never went to trial. She was not the only Queen of England to face such accusations based on rumours from the patriarchy, and bear in mind, this happened some 144 years before the English Witchcraft Act even passed!

Although perhaps we shouldn’t impart too much significance to the commonly cited figure of 75-80% of witches who were tried in the 300 years of European and American witch hunts being women, because it does not take into account regional variations, we cannot escape the fact that, when it comes to persecution, the proportion of women being investigated for the act of witchcraft far exceeds men overall. With the exception of Iceland, Normandy and Estonia, thousands of women’s names were recorded in witch trials between 1520 – 1777, but, there were many other arrests, tests, and accusations which remain unaccounted for and were dealt with on a ‘local’ level. In North Berwick, only 70 were formally accused during the 2-year period of the trials but it’s estimated that 2500 were executed for witchcraft in Scotland during the witch trial era.

She’s a witch, part 2.

Evidence – Her appearance. She looks odd. Old. Poor.

The vast majority of these so-called witches were from the lower ranks of society – sometimes ‘cunning women,’ skilled in the art of healing, midwifery and often unmarried. Women in general were considered easily influenced, so ripe for the devil to do his work through them. Many accused of witchcraft were desperately poor, therefore all the more likely to take part in activities which could better their lot in life. Being poor also meant you could not pay for treatment of your diseases, so might well be disfigured as a result.

You were also more likely to be accused if you were a widow in a land dispute with someone wealthy… hmm. When times got tough, it was easier to blame a person than find an alternative explanation or accept events as fate.

Perhaps the common thread of being on the fringes of society explains the witch’s peculiar clothing? Cobbled together and out of fashion, she looks different from ‘normal people’, shabby even. To hide her activities or devils’ marks, she doesn’t join in with everyone else. Keeps herself apart and doesn’t go to church much. Perhaps she treated a family member who subsequently died. She must be a witch.

She’s a witch, part 3.

Evidence – a witch’s accessories.

For millennia, tokens like amulets, images and ritual handling of icons have been a part of everyday life. Even during the height of the witch trials, people treasured certain objects to bring them luck, and their existence was ruled by superstition. This goes beyond carrying a lucky stone, wearing a cross, or religious rituals like taking the sacrament, symbolism associated with particular items ran deep.

Any power invested in such objects or rituals has been granted by belief, often coupled with anecdotal (subjective) evidence that the object itself had an effect. This association of objects with magic was willingly reinforced by religion – a sip of wine WAS the blood of Christ! Transubstantiation was practised every Sunday, so it is not hard to see why a witch’s accessories were held up as proof of malicious, supernatural activity.

Photo by Ksenia Yakovleva on Unsplash

The stuffed/straw doll or wax figure representing a person. That stick, used to stir potions in a that household essential, a cauldron, for example, might then contain remnants of the ‘magic’. Charms (or spells) written down or incanted, not forgetting her dangerous herbs hanging out to dry. Items which once were the staple of curative magic or healing took on a more sinister meaning in the court of public opinion as fear spread.

The origin of a broomstick and pointy hat remains less easy to pinpoint – and I speculate these are embellishments added latterly to draw parallels with both ordinary women who might perform chores around the house, and certain religious movements which waned in popularity through the course of the 400-year persecution of witches.

The broomstick is, I suspect, in part Pagan in origin – a ‘witches whisk’ was fashioned from dried-out blackberry stems (considered sacred to some Pagan deities of Europe and used in worship) and the ends bound to make a handle. The brush is then wafted around to clean the area of evil forces; ‘cunning women’ would also habitually sweep areas before performing incantations or medical procedures to push out malevolent spirits and invite in the healing ones. The blackberry brush would then be set alight to banish them for good.

So, the next time you wonder how we got to have such a stereotype, I hope this little insight into my theory has helped inspire you to look back through history to find the origins.

Through researching for my historical fantasy Naturae book series, I’ve become very interested in how the accusation of witchcraft was levied as a political tool, in the highest echelons of courts across Europe. I write magical realism, where ‘true’ witches (along with vampires, fae and daemons) co-exist with humans, hiding their powers. As the series is set during the Tudor age, my characters are faced with a mounting human fear of ‘the different’ and this poses an existential threat to them. It is literally only a matter of time before one of them is exposed and has to face the consequences.

If you would like to find out more about the #naturaeseries, please check out my website www.escapeintoatale.com/books where you can download a free copy of the series prequel, Risking Destiny, which challenges some of the perceptions we have around our ‘stereotypical’ ideas of the Vikings, by signing up to my monthly newsletter.

This article was written as a guest post on the Faerie Review – please check it out here:

Witching It Up: Witches, Stereotypes, Power and Politics

Writing for inclusivity  

There is (rightly) a trend at the moment to pay attention to inclusive writing. When we talk about this, it usually means including characters who represent the wider community in terms of race, sexuality and ability. You may be aware of big-name authors having controversial viewpoints on such matters, but, if you want to start at the grass-roots level with inclusive writing, you need to consider issues which affect the widest proportion of readers. And by readers, I mean everyone who currently reads, as well as the 20% of people for whom reading is a challenge.

I’m talking about dyslexia.

Photo by Rob Hobson on Unsplash

I’m a children’s writer and also a historical thriller / historical fantasy novels author; I’m also a mother, a school volunteer, and probably dyslexic. This last fact is officially unofficial. I’m undiagnosed, not labelled, and not particularly noticed for most of my non-authoring career, but, now I know what I’m looking for, I think I’ve been living with moderate dyslexia without really knowing it until I started writing. That might not seem relevant until you read on, but it is because I’m just one of many. I’m not ‘qualified’ in diagnosing dyslexia, but, through the course of research and experience, reading with children in schools and understanding this is not a new problem, just one we have a name for now, I have also learned something about how writers can support readers. I’d like to share these ideas with you so that as writers, your work can be more inclusive of people like me.

Playing the odds.

Statistically, it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly how many people (of every age/race/gender) a reading disability affects because frequently people remain undiagnosed. Estimates vary but roughly speaking, dyslexia affects 15-20 percent of the population, yet it also represents 80–90 percent of all those with learning disabilities. It is the most common of all neuro-cognitive disorders. Screening for dyslexia often doesn’t happen in schools until children are over 8. Maybe older, maybe never.

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This is relevant because embedding a love of reading in children happens from a much younger age and, believe me, it’s an uphill battle if your child ‘hates’ reading. It could be that there is an underlying cause, such as dyslexia or another form of learning disability, which holds them back from enjoying escaping into a book or being able to study. I have a hunch that undiagnosed dyslexia is one reason more adults don’t read for pleasure as well – which is why writers for all age-groups should take note.

So, the odds are, every fifth person you meet today has some form of dyslexia ranging from mild (possibly wouldn’t notice, makes little difference to their daily lives) to severe (resulting in avoiding reading/writing at all costs because frankly, it’s just too damned hard).

Tailoring your writing for inclusivity makes good business sense.

When you publish, you want to reach as wide an audience as possible for your work. More readers equals more sales. Now, I’m not suggesting that you change the way that you write, just to consider how it is presented, for example. As authors, especially indie authors, marketing a book is intrinsic. Whilst every reader has different tastes, genres and styles they prefer, wouldn’t it be better to ensure that your book doesn’t give them a reason to put it back on the shelf? It’s not so much about tailoring, as inclusivity. You may even find in this fast paced, visual and social media driven world, being able to say my book is dyslexia-friendly could also be another string to your bow. If you can highlight the reasons why everyone can ‘read’ your book it can only help sales.

5 Inclusive ideas to keep reading fun and frustration at bay.

For the purposes of trying to encourage reading from an early age, these ideas below are more tailored towards writing for children, but, there are some simple solutions which might help those writing for an adult market as well. My intention is for you to consider how to make reading less onerous, fun even, for both children and adults.

  1. Comics are actually perfect for dyslexics – the speech bubbles make it clear who is talking in small chunks of dialogue. A picture helps them to understand what is happening in the action. They are pacy, moving the story along a frame at a time in a precursor to a TV show. You might think because they have fewer words their value as reading aids is less; in fact, what they can teach is inference – what moved the action from point A to point B? They are also wonderful for youngsters on the autistic spectrum because facial expressions tend to be exaggerated, making it easier for children to identify which face being pulled equates to telling us what that character is feeling.

Plus, comics are historically fun – there’s an element of nostalgia there for grown ups. Funny means more reading! Check out Dave Pilkey’s Dogman or Captain Underpants series and I challenge you not to chortle as much as your child will! (P.S. Pilkey is also a dyslexic Mega-Author!)

Photo by Miika Laaksonen on Unsplash

If you flick through early reader books (aimed at ages 4-8) you’ll see the text is broken up into smaller chunks, often with an image – this helps keep the daunting task of a block of text manageable for those with smaller attention spans.

Chunk it down!

Idea for writing for adults – could you write less blocky paragraphs? Shorter chapters? Use dialogue more for exposition?

2. Font

Typography is a science, it truly is. Without realising it, adults subliminally react to typefaces in different ways – we identify ‘business’ fonts, romantic swirls and cartoon-esque ones as being humorous. The same psychological effect is true for dyslexics and special fonts have been created which ‘weight’ the letters subtly. It gives just enough shape to help a reader identify which letter (and thus sound) should be said. Less mixing up of b and d, m or n! Books which use dyslexia-friendly font are becoming more and more common – just search on Amazon!

Surveys suggest that over 50% of dyslexics find using a special font or even just a ‘serif’ font helps them with reading. This is why times new roman endures as one of the most popular font for books and newspapers, because of the rounded letters with their weighted serifs (the little projection which finishes the line of a letter). When you are in a bookshop, flick through the books and look out for ones which use ‘serif’ fonts, or even better, weighted fonts like Dyslexie, especially if you are purchasing for a child you suspect may have dyslexia.

Top tip – you can download a free version of OpenDyslexie and use it on your own device – why not test it out if you find it easier to read with?

3. Colour

If you are a parent looking to support a child reading, or yourself even, for a relatively cheap and simple solution, try out a pack of coloured overlays. These thin strips of tinted transparent plastic (often index card size) can reduce words ‘moving’ on the page or bring out the letters so they are clearer to read. They can be used as a ruler to help keep place on a page. The different tints suit different people which is why you often purchase them in a rainbow of colours. My son, for example prefers the blue, whereas I know children who swear by the yellow or purple! Often, dyslexics find a yellow or lightly coloured paper is easier to read on, so overlays offer a simple remedy to standard white backing paper. Some books can be ordered as a dyslexia edition which are printed on more yellowed paper as a minimum. Again, if you are in a bookshop, flick through the pages and opt for ones where the text is not against a white background.

Writing for adults? Try changing your paper choice to the cream option if you are publishing novels – even just the slightest tint makes a difference. Alternatively, why not do a dyslexia friendly edition with yellow paper if you are doing a large print run?

The thing I ask myself is, if I weren’t dyslexic, would it bother me if the paper in a book was yellow? I don’t think it would – in fact, a quick flick through my shelves of paperbacks shows me, I have somehow gravitated towards books which are printed on creamier stock rather than white paper for long before I even thought about this as a writer!

4. Audio and e-books

Photo by Nubelson Fernandes on Unsplash

The surge in popularity of audio books is proof that people want to access stories even if they don’t or can’t read a physical book. Many children enjoy listening and following the words along the page simultaneously. Remember that it’s not just about the act of reading, but showing that stories can be fun!

Audible has a wide selection of free books for children to listen to, as do other audiobook providers. The BBC Sounds app for example has a wide selection of classics old and new recorded which are wonderful.

If you publish ebooks, Kindle/Nook devices feature text to speech functions which can be selected from accessibility options by the reader, as well as changing the font size and type (yes, Dyslexie is one of the fonts a reader can select – no need for you change anything, the e-reader has already provided you with a means of inclusive writing!).

If you haven’t considered making your book an actual audio book – consider it. Not only are you missing out on a massive marketplace, but also the options for audiobook creation have expanded with the use of A.I. as well as more options for hiring a human narrator. It does take time and possibly investment, but being able to offer more formats to read your book will pay dividends. Also, as the market grows, so does the way in which people access verbal stories; even music providers like Spotify, now feature audiobooks Some authors narrate their books on YouTube – sometimes the whole novel!

Additionally, most libraries now offer ebooks and audio books on loan via their app (Libby, Borrowbox for example). In a budget conscious time, I have high hopes that there will be a resurgence in supporting local libraries and thus authors. Is your book available for public lending?

5. Others like me?

Children (and adults, but especially children) want to read books featuring characters which have similar challenges to them. Identifying with the characters engages and encourages them to keep reading. But it’s not just about identifying with a character who is the same age or facing the same issues as the reader, and thus either an extension of them, it’s an element of the escapism which books offer. Seeing how a character tackles the adversities a plot throws at them is a safe way for people to consider how they would react.

Goodreads is an excellent place to find lists of books showcasing, for example, children’s books with dyslexic characters. When you are writing, why not consider adding a character who has a learning disability?

This website has some useful resources on style which you could consider as well https://www.dyslexia-reading-well.com/dyslexia-font.html

I hope these ideas have sparked your imagination about how you can move to being even more inclusive in your writing, and how it makes good business sense to make some simple changes to how you publish. If you have other ideas to share, do drop them in the comments!

For more information about myself and other articles about writing, and writing for children, please see my website www.escapeintoatale.com where you can also find my published books.

This article was originally written for Table Read Magazine and can be found alongside many other useful and interesting resources for writers here.