Guest Post: Helen Bryan's 'The Sisterhood' | Women in the Aftermath of the Reconquista

The Sisterhood; April 2013

Please welcome author Helen Bryan:

It was not until I began a biography of Martha Washington, intending to look at the American Revolution from her perspective and that of other women of the time, that I had something of a Damascene moment about how wide the gaps in history are. Among accounts of battles, military strategy and the views of the Founding Fathers, I had to search long and hard to find information about women’s experiences. “The ladies, God bless ‘em” were mostly invisible. As ever. Too often, we have no idea of history’s impact on women because the record is silent. In this scenario writers of historical fiction become archaeologists, piecing together clues from their research, to reconstruct in fiction something of the reality of women’s lives in the past.

My latest book “The Sisterhood” is a woman’s eye view of Spain in the sixteenth century in the aftermath of the reconquista in 1492. This was a watershed in history, marking the defeat of the Moors who had ruled Spain for nearly seven hundred years by the Reyes Catholicos, Isabella and Ferdinand, who united Spain vowing to establish God’s kingdom on earth. The rise of Spain as a world power and the expansion of the Spanish empire overseas in the Americas followed, while Spain itself became a religious police state, instituting a policy of ethnic cleansing. Muslims and Jews, who had previously co- existed with Christians under the Moors were persecuted, forcibly converted, exiled, and killed. No one was safe from suspicion and denunciation as a heretic or secret Jew or Muslim, and the Inquisition had sweeping powers to investigate individuals, with the help of a network of informers and torture. It must have been terrifying.

And where did women fit into the picture? For women in the higher echelons of society with the necessary dowry, it was often as nuns. A cloistered existence of religious discipline, confinement and celibacy may appear an unnatural choice today, but then it offered intelligent women the possibility of intellectual pursuits, a chance to exercise financial control over the convent’s assets and make a real contribution to the general welfare. Convents ran hospitals, orphanages, school, and nuns enjoyed status in society. In addition, given the high mortality rates of women in childbirth, a nun might well outlive her married sisters. Whether women entered convents willingly or unwillingly, life there offered undeniable benefits, especially as a woman was unlikely to marry where she liked but as her male relatives dictated. Convents proliferated. And it was a visit to a Spanish convent dating from the reconquista that inspired “The Sisterhood.” The unusual feature of this convent was its orphanage for illegitimate daughters of the Spanish aristocracy. After growing up in the convent, the girls progressed from the orphanage to novitiate to the veil. To prepare them for their religious lives, their playthings were a bizarre selection of toys on display: nun dolls, a miniature convent, doll size altars and tiny altar fittings. The presence of these children whose cloistered fate had been fixed at birth, lingered in the old, low-ceilinged rooms with their smell of beeswax, incense and age. The atmosphere was irresistible for a writer.

Beginning with the fictional “What if…”, I first imagined a romance featuring a plucky orphan girl who ran away from the convent, made her way to Spanish America and found love. Once I began to research the necessary background to the story- the lives and orders of sixteenth century nuns, religious diaries of the time, accounts of Inquisition excesses, the Spanish conquest in America, the Incas, the story changed. One orphan girl became five, each in danger of persecution by the authorities. And to explain why the nuns gave them refuge, I drew on one of many early Christian legends, the three Marys of the New Testament who are said to have made their way to the coast of France, where their supposed relics are venerated to this day. I gave the nuns of “The Sisterhood” an equally ancient spiritual tradition dating back to Roman Spain, which explained their courage and determination to uphold humanitarian values at the risk of their lives. Suddenly there was a much bigger story to tell, connecting the past with the present. Staring me in the face was the fact that religious oppression given a political dimension in sixteenth century Spain had a resonance in modern times with the political tensions that exist between Muslims, Jews and Christians across the world. The sixteenth century orphan girls in fear of their lives have their counterparts in young women who are victims of human trafficking and abuse now.


The romantic theme I once imagined was the focus became woven throughout into the individual stories of different characters, stories forgotten until they are recovered and told centuries later by a young woman who makes the unexpected discovery that she herself is a link in a long chain of Sisterhood.

Book summary of The Sisterhood:

With THE SISTERHOOD, Bryan weaves two stories separated by centuries about the resilience of the female spirit. Set in Spain during the sixteenth century and present-day, Bryan tells the story of Los Golondrinas Convent—a place of refuge for women and girls during the Spanish Inquisition regardless of faith or sin, many of whom had desperate reasons to hide from the church and state authorities.


Each girl and woman’s story was recorded in the Convent’s chronicle to bear witness of the cruelty and inhumanity they suffered. The Chronicle helped bind the sisterhood across generations.


Centuries later, Menina Walker, a 19-year-old adopted daughter of a small-town American couple, finds her life in shambles. A despicable incident causes her to call off her wedding, and she finds herself alone and depressed. Her best friend arranges a trip to Spain for her to get away, and Menina takes with her the only links to her birth family: an ancient book and a medal from the convent from which her parents adopted her.

In the process of unlocking the stories of the Chronicle, she learns that nothing less than destiny brought her to the birthplace of her ancestors, and the power to find peace and love had been burning in her blood all along.

Helen Bryan is an American-born writer living in London for many years. Previous books include War Brides and Martha Washington: First Lady of Liberty.

{3 book giveaway!} Jack Absolute by C.C. Humphreys

Excerpt and Giveaway spotlight special!

Jack Absolute: A Novel A Sourcebooks reissue available May 7th 2013

Reimagined as the title character in C.C. Humphreys’ first novel in a three-book series set during the American Revolution Humphreys has long had a love affair with the character of Jack Absolute. The actor played the dashing leading man in a British tour of The Rivals early in his career, and decided to bring him from the stage to the page when he began writing novels. A bit about the book…

It’s 1777 when Captain Jack Absolute becomes a sensation throughout London. This news comes as a shock to the real Jack Absolute when he arrives in England after four months at sea. But there’s little time for outrage before he finds himself dueling for his life. Right when he thinks he’s finally won, he is forced to flee London by the quickest means possible, becoming a spy in the American Revolution. From the streets of London, to the pivotal battle of Saratoga, to a hunt for a double agent in Philadelphia, Jack Absolute marks the exhilarating beginning of an epic historical series and a character you won’t soon forget.

The following is an excerpt from Jack Absolute: A Novel by C.C. Humphreys

Chapter Three: The Duel
 (please forgive the formatting, not indicative of the finished novel)

My young friend will have redress for his injuries. As an officer of the King, are you not unable to refuse him? Jack stared across the dueling ground at the Count von Schlaben, the man’s words, spoken so softly the previous night, echoing in his head. That the German wanted him to fight and, presumably, die was clear. But why? Why? Because he was an officer of the King? He wasn’t. And yet…hadn’t Burgoyne made it known that Jack had already agreed to rejoin his regiment as the General’s Intelligence? Jack shook his head. The remains of the cognac he’d drunk the night before still muffled his reasoning while the cold was beginning to numb other parts. And he suddenly realized that such musing would clarify nothing. The reason might not matter anyway, as he could be dead very shortly. The best—the only—way to avoid that was to get this fight over with as soon as possible. There would be time enough for “why” later. Or not. Jack had been content to hang back with his thoughts and leave the formalities to others. But it was clear, by the increasing volume of the voices, that a resolution was far from being reached. Blowing his nose again, he went over. “Gentlemen, if we do not commence soon, I’ll freeze before I fight. What is the problem?” A babble arose. Sheridan’s voice, used to the demands of the theater, won through. “Jack, they wish to make it to the death. And to ensure such a result they wish to fight with these.” He gestured to a servant standing behind the squabblers. The man held two “hangers,” the cavalryman’s main weapon. The wounds this heavy, curved sword could deliver, in capable hands, were hideous. His opponent’s hands looked more than capable. “As a tribute to our branch of the army, sir. Do you not think it fitting?” Tarleton’s almost pretty face twisted with emotions he could barely suppress. He is a man for whom control is difficult, Jack thought. Something to remember in the fight ahead. “Fitting?” he said. “I have no desire to kill or be killed as a tribute to anything.” Before anyone could speak again, he added, “Furthermore, gentlemen, as the challenged party, I believe my Seconds have the right to decide. They act for me.” Sheridan stepped forward. “My friend is correct. And, as I have said, we choose small swords, since the light is poor for pistols. And the matter to be honorably settled at the sight of First Blood.” Muttering began at that through the gallery of spectators. People had come to see a death, not a wounding. “Never mind.” Tarleton stepped forward, his eyes holding Jack’s, his voice quavering, though there was no fear in it. “First Blood can be last blood too.” The promise hung in the air until Tarleton’s First-Second, the Ensign from the Coldstreams, spoke, his voice unpleasantly thin and nasal. “Your Seconds? An Irishman and…what is this fellow exactly? We know that the Absolute name has fallen low. Your father bays at the moon, does he not? But could you not get better than an Irish playwright and a savage who does not even comprehend our language?” The emphasis was contemptuous in the extreme. Jack felt Até stir beside him. The Mohawk had little concern for the etiquette of a duel. He’d stove this man’s head in and not think twice about it. Quickly, Jack said, “Do you refer to Até here? He does indeed speak English.” The Ensign turned to the semicircle of men who had gathered closer to listen. “My betrothed, Lady Augusta, keeps a parrot who can talk. Any animal can be taught tricks.” Guffaws rippled through the gathered gentlemen. “Shall I spill his brains onto the ground, Daganoweda?” Até had stepped back to give himself room to swing, his hand resting on the tomahawk at his waist. He’d spoken in Iroquois and Jack answered in the same. “I doubt you’d find any to spill, Até. Could not you quote him some of your infernal Hamlet instead?” The Mohawk’s gaze flicked to Jack. “Could not Lady Augusta’s parrot do as much?” Jack sighed, looked heavenward for a moment. He really needed to get his friend back across the ocean. So-called civilization was sapping his reserves of irony. Then, in that moment, Jack recognized the Ensign. Savingdon was his name, a Viscount, and Jack had been at Westminster School with the man’s elder and equally bovine brother. “Até here can trace his family back for seven generations and every ancestor royalty of the tribe. Wasn’t your grandfather, Savingdon, the coal merchant who bought his title?” It was true and all there knew it. The laughter made the Viscount’s already florid face flush a deeper red. He stepped forward, hand reaching for his sword. “You dog, Absolute! If my friend here doesn’t kill you, I will.” Tarleton said, “You will not get that chance.” A hubbub arose from the gallery. The President, a colonel of the Foot Guards, tried to lift his voice above it and restore calm. He failed. “Enough.” The word was spoken quietly. Yet the speaker’s command was such that there was an almost instant hush. “Is this how such matters are conducted in this realm? Are we here to talk or to fight?” Once more Jack looked at Tarleton’s Second-Second; into the gray eyes, so mild in that long face framed with white-blond hair. Once more he was puzzled. Everything else concerning this affair reminded him of episodes from his youth, the English gentleman and his prickly honor. But this man, this German, was out of place in such a scene. Before Jack could consider any further, Savingdon was braying, “Enough, indeed. Let us begin,” and Jack was being pulled away by his friends. “My lawyer, Phillpott’s of the Inner Temple, has all the details should anything befall me,” Jack said in answer to Sheridan’s entreaty. “There’s precious little left in the Absolute coffers; we’re mortgaged to the last button, hence the importance of my journey to the Indies. Enough to keep Sir James supplied with wine in his cell at Bedlam for a time. But it’s a pauper’s grave for me and nothing for you, I’m afraid, Até.” “Then may I suggest you win this fight so we can complete your business and I can return to my people, as befits my status, with rich gifts for all.” “Is that what concerns you?” Jack looked at his friend. “Your status? I might be dead in a moment. Have you nothing to say of that?” “I will say just two things, Daganoweda. Firstly, this man who talked of parrots will die moments after you do. Secondly, concerning your death, remember this.” He drew himself up to his full height, arms extended before him, as if he was about to speak in the meeting lodge of his tribe and, in sonorous Iroquoian, declaimed, “‘If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all.’” “Zounds,” Jack muttered, “Hamlet again! I wish I’d never introduced you to that bloody play.” “He is the Wise One. Wiser than you, Daganoweda. For when he was to die, he knew why. He had accepted it, like a warrior. Yet you still think you are to die for a woman. And I think you are wrong.” Jack had little time to consider his friend’s words. Tarleton had taken his position at one end of the rectangle of snow, tamped down by those who’d come early to enjoy the fight. He stood there, swishing his sword, still clad only in his linen shirt. “Your coat, Jack?” Sheridan already held his cloak. “No,” Jack sniffed. “I don’t mind being killed—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to catch a cold.” He stepped up to his mark. They saluted the President, their opponent’s Seconds, each other. Then their two swords rose, ends meeting with the faintest of chimes. It was like the toll of some faraway bell, a stirring of consciousness, and it instantly cleared the very last effects of cognac from Jack’s head. His plan was simple. He assumed, from their previous dealings, that his opponent would be mad in assault, contemptuous of defense, that he would fall like a storm upon Jack’s artfully casual resistance. Fire and fury was what was expected from youth; coolness and calm the prerogative of age and experience. Yet in the opening exchanges, the younger man refused to conform to Jack’s prejudice; was not tempted into an extended lunge, did not respond to the first of Jack’s feints when he left his weapon slightly out of true, in tierce. He parried and riposted and parried again in the least exerting of ways. Damn him, thought Jack, taking a breath, the bastard’s come to fence. Tarleton was obviously conscientious in his attendance at Master Angelo’s Academy in the Haymarket. Though Jack had himself been one of the Italian’s foremost pupils, it had been fifteen years since he’d last ascended those steep stairs—and the small sword required a subtlety of mind, a strength and nimbleness of wrist, and continual practice. The last thing he wanted was a fencing bout. The fighters separated, sword tips an inch apart, the preliminaries ended. Each had a sense of the other. Jack breathed, tried to focus on his plan. A glimpse of blood was all that was needed for honor to be satisfied, to enable him to walk away. If Tarleton would not be drawn into rashness, there were other ways to attain this end. A good scratch would do it. He just had to set about inflicting one. Yet as Jack considered, his opponent began on stratagems of his own. A dozen rapid passes, a flank temptingly exposed; Jack lured, over-lunging. His rear ankle bent instead of staying sole-flat to the ground, requiring an extra second to restore his balance; and in that small moment, Tarleton circular parried hard to the right. Jack’s thigh was stretched out, exposed, his weapon too extended for protection; and the spectators who knew their sword-work, waiting for the swift strike at thigh that would at least wound but could kill if the artery were pierced, caught their breath. The moment passed. Tarleton did not move; Jack regained his balance, dropped his point, and slashed. Since the small sword has no cutting edge, all knew that this was mere desperation on Jack’s part. They also knew that a chance for Tarleton to end the fight had not been taken; most realized, then, that for him, a glimpse of blood would not be enough. Recovering, Jack returned once more to guard. His breath plumed the air before him, dissipating before it could join with his opponent’s negligible exhalation. He was hot and now wished he had taken off his jacket. Yet to do so at this stage would be an acknowledgement he would not give his enemy. That last desperate slash had spent enough of his credit for coolness. “Agitated, Absolute?” Tarleton’s voice was calm, seemingly unaffected by the exercise. “You’re as red as you were when I caught you astride that whore last night.” Recognizing the goad to anger, disdaining it, Jack took a deeper breath and smiled. “You malign a lady, sir, whose only wrong is preferring a man to a boy. Though, if the story be true, her rejection of you was more to do with the, uh, length of your sword. Quill-trimmer was the term used, I believe.” He heard Sheridan mutter, “For God’s sake, Absolute.” Indeed, the jibe was barely worthy of the playing field at Westminster. Yet it seemed to have such a startling effect that it left Jack speculating it must indeed have been true. “My sword? You shall feel the length of my sword, you dog!” Jack had but a moment to marvel at the change in Tarleton’s color. Roaring, the youth disengaged his blade and hurled himself wide, thrusting for Jack’s right flank. Retiring a step, parrying with point down, Jack riposted to the man’s breast, under his arm. Stuck at the full length of his lunge, Tarleton went to parry hard…but encountered no blade there; for Jack had merely feinted, disengaged again and thrust to Tarleton’s left shoulder. The younger man was forced to pivot off his front foot to make the parry, his back leg spinning out and round. Jack followed, keeping his blade bound tight to his opponent’s, moving him around. He could have struck again but decided to savor this first little victory—and let Tarleton savor it too. Finally he stepped away. Oaths were uttered, in approval or condemnation depending on the support. Suddenly, a one-sided fight had become a contest. Tarleton, smarting from conceding even a point, immediately began another assault. Jack had only a heartbeat to congratulate himself on the success of his provocation before he was protecting himself from the result of it. A lunge in carte, one in seconde, the next in tierce. Jack contented himself with parrying and nothing more, but refusing to give any ground. This was forcing Tarleton to “thrust at the wall,” an academy exercise to make sure parries were true…and almost an insult to a good swordsman. For Jack had discovered that, once the river of Tarleton’s anger had flooded, it would not recover its banks with any rapidity. Another thrust came, another step to the right taken, parrying with point down. Jack’s weight was on his back foot and, still in his fury, Tarleton slashed diagonally up at Jack’s face. Yet Jack had seen the preparation for that, the slight withdrawal of steel that indicated it. He ducked low, back over his bent right leg. The slash had taken the younger man off-balance, and now Jack lunged, stretching from the crouch to his full length. Desperately, Tarleton threw himself to his right, his sword point down, just preventing Jack’s from puncturing him. Their hands were almost touching, their bodies close, and the youth tried to pummel his sword fist into Jack’s face. Withdrawing his blade and swinging his back leg away, Jack used his left hand to slap down the blow. They separated again. Two equal clouds of breath met and mingled in the frigid air. A voice called out, English, but with an Iroquois accent. “You can finish him now, Daganoweda. Your name says what you are and his says nothing.” “And what does that name mean, Até? I always meant to ask,” said Sheridan. “‘Inexhaustible.’” He turned to the Irishman and winked. “His first wife gave it to him.” Jack, meanwhile, simply breathed. He was not as inexhaustible as once he’d been. And his younger opponent would recover quicker. So he began to attack. He’d noticed that a patch of mud and grass had appeared beneath the snow, scraped up by their endeavors. All he had to do was draw Tarleton into an extended lunge… Yet it was he who was drawn. Instead of parrying, Tarleton avoided the blade with a volte, a leap and a thrust to the left side. Jack had to step hard right to parry it…and his foot landed square in the churned earth and melting snow. He slipped down to one knee, his sword arm halting his fall. With a grunt, Tarleton drew his weapon back and thrust down with a blow meant to puncture flesh and snap bone. With a part of his mind Jack watched the weapon come, aimed straight into his watching eye. With another he let the hand, still holding his sword that pressed into the snow, slip. So sure was Tarleton of his triumph that his blade didn’t waver, didn’t follow the slight movement of the head. So he was as surprised as Jack when the point met cloth, not flesh, and plunged through the collar of Jack’s jacket, the one he’d wished he was no longer wearing, ripping half of it away. The force of the blow pushed the torn shred of wool down, impaling it into the frozen ground. The weapon shivered with the blow, then snapped. “Hold, sir, hold,” cried the man acting as President. Tarleton would not be halted. Pulling back the half-sword, now with its jagged end, he made to thrust again. Yet his target had shifted, Jack had rolled onto his back. His own weapon, lifted from the snow, came round. The broken blade descended but Jack swiped it aside with the outside of his left hand. At the same time he jabbed up with his right. He didn’t have to jab far. Tarleton was falling. Jack’s point pierced his ear in its center, went through, and held it like a piece of meat prepared for an open fire. Blood, for the second time in twenty-four hours, spattered Jack. “First Blood…sir,” Jack said. A howl from Tarleton, a cry from the onlookers. And another sound, unheard till then—a horn, then another, a third from their proximity minutes only from the dueling ground. The combatants were pulled apart. The President came forward. “Fielding’s men. The Runners are come! Here’s First Blood drawn and honor satisfied, eh? Shake hands and let’s be gone. None of us wants to spend time in the Clink, do we, gentlemen?” “Come, Jack, to Drury Lane.” Sheridan’s face was flushed. “I’ll dress you as Harlequin in a pantomime and hide you onstage. And, by God, if you don’t put this into a new play, I will!” The horns were drawing closer, and the yelping of dogs was added to them. The hunt was on. At the far side of the trampled square of snow, Viscount Savingdon had withdrawn Jack’s sword and was trying to stem the blood flowing from Tarleton’s ear while Von Schlaben whispered urgently into the other. “No!” screamed Banastre Tarleton. Suddenly he leaped to his left, where his valet still held the weapons that had been rejected for the duel. Pulling one of the cavalry sabers from its sheath, he ran across the square toward Jack. Jack, shrugging into his cloak, turned at the scream, but not in time. The heavy blade was rising and, in that instant, both he and Tarleton knew that there would be no second miss, no collar to save him now. Something else did. Something that flew from the edge of the clearing and struck the shrieking man on his temple, just before the saber could begin its descent. Tarleton dropped to the ground as if he’d been shot. The sword sank into the snow beside him while, on his other side, another weapon fell as if from the sky. “God?” yelled Sheridan, looking up, as if searching for the source of such divine deliverance. “Até,” said Jack, and bent to pick up the tomahawk. “Good throw, brother.” The Mohawk thrust the weapon back into his belt and shrugged. “I do not understand all the rules of these contests. But as your Second, was I not meant to stop such a thing?” Savingdon had rushed to the fallen man. “Your savage has killed him!” he cried. “If my savage had meant to kill him, then he’d be dead.” Jack smiled. “Is that not right, Até? You struck him with the top of the weapon, not the cutting edge, eh?” For the first time, Até looked a little disconcerted. “Actually, brother, maybe it was just not such a good throw.” The horn blasts sounded again, much nearer now. Shouts too, seemingly from all sides. “Come, gentlemen,” said Sheridan, “time to make our exit.” The crowd had scattered swiftly, for anyone arrested at the scene of a duel could be prosecuted. The largest body, counting on the strength of their numbers, headed for the most direct route back to the road—which was, of course, the direction from which the constables were approaching. Others broke, in singles and pairs, in all directions. “This way,” called Sheridan. They burst through a screen of trees cresting a small bank. The snow had drifted here, rising to their thighs, making it hard going. To their left came an excited shout, a blast of horn. Looking there, Jack saw three men in gray greatcoats. Each was armed and one now unleashed two hounds. “To the right, lads,” Jack cried, and he began to straddle the snow, seeming to go where it was thickest. It was exhausting work but looking back, Jack saw his choice had been correct; for the dogs were finding the drifts too deep, leaping like porpoises in a white sea only to be swallowed and having to leap again. Their handlers were not faring any better. They had gained some advantage when they reached a drover’s path where the snow had been beaten down with hooves. Immediately, they began to run, stumbling at first, used as they were to the sensation of resistance. Soon, however, they picked up a good pace, though by the sounds of the yelps behind them, it would not be long before the dogs were moving swifter than they on the packed snow. Ahead, through the gloom and falling snow, they saw a light. A shepherd’s hut stood on the edge of the common there. “The Windsor Road, I think. Means our landau is round the other side, dammit.” Sheridan was breathing more heavily than the others, unused to this outdoor work. “It would have been secured by the Runners anyway.” Jack led them around the side of the hut. In its lee they paused for a moment, squatted down. Sheep in a pen regarded them incuriously. “If Windsor’s that way then so’s the river. We can lose the dogs in the reeds on the bank. Come on.” Jack rose, Até beside him. Sheridan struggled up but, red-faced, fell back. “No, me boys, this hare has run his last. I think I’ll converse with the owner of this fine establishment. Always useful to hear how the simple folk are talking these days. And when the Runners find me here, I can entertain them for a while.” Jack began to protest but Sheridan interrupted him. “Go and Godspeed. They will not incarcerate me long. We play my new comedy, The School for Scandal, for the King next week, and he will not like to be disappointed. Go!” Two swift handshakes, and Jack and Até turned, began to run. Behind them Sheridan called out, “Write me, dearest Jack, of your exploits, if you please. You always provide such thundering good plots!” Jack snorted. He knew how this plot had to end. They needed to buy—or steal—horses in Windsor and ride south. The Portsmouth road was not far. He had to beat the news of this action to the coast. With the right tide, he could be aship and on his way to Nevis ahead of any pursuit. They were a few hundred paces along the road when they heard the dogs again. Glancing back, they saw lanterns and shapes moving before the shepherd’s hut. Some lingered, but a significant body set off in immediate pursuit. They ran faster, looking to the left for a gap in the hedgerows, a path through the fields and down to the river. Behind them, the horns blew again, dogs bayed. And then another sound came under it all, a rolling, crunching noise, joined by the clear snap of a whip. Half-turning, Jack saw the huge shape of a coach and six, moving at speed through the pursuing pack. He was close enough to hear the curses heaped upon the coachman. The vehicle drew alongside, slowing slightly to match their stride. A blind went up. “Care for a ride, Jack?” John Burgoyne leaned in the window, a pipe in one hand, silver flask in the other. Jack didn’t hesitate. “Much obliged, General,” he said, swinging a foot up onto the running board. The door of the carriage opened and he threw himself inside while Até, a pace behind, scrambled up the rear of the coach to its roof. As he was joined, the coachman cracked his whip again and the six horses surged forward. “Strange…that you should just…happen by, sir,” Jack gasped. “Strange indeed. And fortuitous, it seems.” Burgoyne smiled at him. “Cognac?” “A moment…to catch my breath, sir…if you please.” He leaned out of the window, looked back. Darkness had enveloped the sight of pursuit. The sounds of horns, frustrated men, and yelping dogs retreated into the night. Jack sat back, then became aware of a presence beside him. He turned. “Ah, Miss Reardon. Please excuse the intrusion.” She smiled. “Mr. Absolute, how glad I am to see you again.” Then her smile vanished. “But you are wounded, sir! Quickly, may I help you? I have some knowledge of these matters.” “Wounded?” He glanced down. “Oh, the blood is not mine.” And he laughed. It suddenly felt rather good to do so, so he carried on for a little while, until Burgoyne, a broad grin on his own face, said, “So, did you kill your man, Jack?” “I did not, sir. I had hoped to avoid it. I merely pricked him.” Burgoyne shook his head. “You might come to regret that. This Tarleton has built up a brutish reputation. Scarce eighteen, and he has already dispatched three fellows. He’s not the sort to consider honor satisfied if he loses. And he keeps some strange company.” Jack now took the flask and drank. The cognac tasted even better than it had the previous night. “Are you referring to his Second, this German Count? I did wonder about him.” “And so you should.” Louisa added, “The General believes he is aiding the Rebels in my poor country.” “In what way?” “Have you heard of the Illuminati, Jack?” “I have not.” Burgoyne took the flask back, drank, then continued. “Of course, you’ve been away. And even if you’d been here, you might not have…you do not move within the Mystery, do you?” The General was referring to the Freemasons. Jack had always avoided the Brotherhood, even though it might have aided him in his business ventures. He felt there was more than enough secrecy in his life, enough obligation. But he knew Burgoyne to be high up in the order. “I do not, sir. Are these Illuminati a lodge then?” “Of a kind. A new one, formed in Munich only last year by a man called Adam Weishaupt. A professor of religious law, apparently, and many of his followers are of the same ilk. Lawyers!” Burgoyne gave the title a soldier’s contemptuous emphasis, drew on his pipe. “Yet these fellows have formed a secret society within a secret society. No one is quite sure what they want, though they have tried to infiltrate every lodge in the realm, succeeded with many. This Von Schlaben even approached me.” Burgoyne exhaled a gout of smoke toward the carriage window. “I now regret not leading the Count on a little to discover more. But a contact who did said this Weishaupt’s motives are shrouded in Jesuitical casuistry. He was educated by Jesuits, apparently, and rejected them later as not extreme enough, too tied to a Catholic orthodoxy. Thus my friend did not learn much; but he got the impression that these Illuminati seek, in all societies, disorder, disruption—” “Revolution?” “Indeed. To build an ‘illuminated’ new order out of the chaos of the old. With them in control, presumably.” Now that Jack’s heart had calmed, his mind was engaged. And there were questions here that puzzled him. “So why his interest in me? He seemed very set on my extinction.” As he asked the question, he recalled again part of their conversation at Drury Lane, Burgoyne’s parting words, and, remembering it, he had the beginnings of an answer. “Did you not let it be known, sir, that I had already accepted your offer to rouse the Iroquois for the King?” Burgoyne smiled. “I’m rather afraid I may have given out that impression.” “So if Von Schlaben understands the importance of the Iroquois to the British cause, he might perceive me as a serious threat to the Revolution? To the disorder he seeks?” “You know, Jack, I’m rather afraid he might.” Jack looked out of the window at the roadway speeding by. The fields were giving way to more houses. They were entering the outskirts of Windsor. Of course. There always had been more to it than a dispute over a pretty player. “Well, General, I think you have enmeshed me here.” It was said with a little heat but Burgoyne merely smiled still. “Alas, Jack, I fear you are right. How ever can I make amends?” “You are bound for Portsmouth?” He received a nod. “Then a ride there would quit your obligation. My boat, as yours, awaits. If you will but take me to the docks—” “And you will be arrested the moment you set foot upon them. My boy, you were called out in the most public setting possible. In accepting Tarleton’s challenge, you in turn challenged the Authorities…and they seem very serious about restricting a gentleman’s prerogative of honor. Examples must be made and you will make a fine one. Not too wealthy to cause a fuss but still well known. Your estates will be forfeit, your neck may well be stretched, you will at the least be thrown into the Clink and nothing can save you.” Burgoyne smiled again. “Well, almost nothing.” “‘Almost nothing,’” General?” Louisa leaned in. “Oh, do say there is something that can be done for the gallant Captain!” They seemed to be sharing a private joke. Jack, looking from one to the other, suddenly realized what it was. And that it was on him. “As usual, my dear, you have hit upon the very heart of it. If you were indeed ‘Captain’ Jack Absolute again, entrusted by a commander of one of His Majesty’s armies—odds life, I suppose someone very much like myself!—entrusted, as I say, with a mission vital to your country’s cause…why then, my boy, no civil power on earth could touch you.” Enmeshed indeed. There was no escaping from the snare. Instead of further anger, though, Jack could only tip back his head and laugh. “It really is a very good plot,” he said, looking at each in turn, “I must write Sheridan with it.” “You will have plenty of time on our voyage to America.” Louisa smiled, laying her hand on Jack’s arm, squeezing it gently. He looked from her fingers up into her steady green eyes and seemed suddenly to see in their pattern something of the land from which she came. It appeared he had no choice now but to return to that land, to North America, eleven years after he’d left it. Até, facing into the wind atop the carriage, would be delighted. And Jack, now that he had no other option, was strangely pleased too. His business in Nevis could, with very careful handling, wait a short while. And as for the Colonies, he had had another life there, other causes; it would be a homecoming, of sorts. Once more, to be Daganoweda, the “Inexhaustible” of the Mohawk. Once more to be a captain of the 16th Light Dragoons. Once more to be a secret agent of the Crown. Leaning back into the cushions of the carriage, Jack Absolute faced the inevitable with a smile. Até’s words on the dueling ground came back to him. The readiness is all. He took the flask again, raised it first to the lady and then to the General. Taking a long pull of the exquisite cognac, Jack realized that he was, indeed, ready.

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Chronicle of the Mound Builders by Elle Marie

Please welcome Elle Marie as part of her virtual tour while promoting her novel, Chronicle of the Mound Builders.

I had a lot of fun creating symbols to use in Chronicle of the Mound Builders. As Angela Hunter deciphers the title page of each section of the mysterious chronicle, she reveals another clue to the mystery. Each chapter title contains Aztec pictographs, spelling out the title.

In Aztec writing, symbols can be used for an actual word (such as drawing an eagle to mean literally ‘eagle’) or they can represent sounds instead that can be combined to form other words and phrases.

Putting together real Aztec symbols to form meaningful snippets was sometimes a challenge. First, I had to decide what message should be told to foreshadow the next chapter of the modern-day timeline. It had to provide just enough information to give the reader a hint of what was to come, without giving away too much. And once I had formulated a message, I needed to find symbols to approximate that message.

The next challenge was having Angela figure out the puzzle. Actually, this was the easy part. I just reversed the process I had used to develop the message in the first place.

Here's an example:

In this chapter, I wanted to hint at the curse that was going to be placed on my Aztec characters. I found the Aztec word teochihua, meaning ‘he blesses it’, and amocualli, meaning ‘evil’. I figured that together, the phrase could be taken to mean a person bestowing a curse, or ‘evil blessing’.

Combining the words for stone (tetl) and dog (chichi) produced tetl-chichi, which has a very similar pronunciation as teochihua. So I found the pictographs for stone and dog and placed them together.

To form a word that sounded like amocualli, I put together the sounds for book (amox) and house (calli). The simple square symbol represents a sheet of paper or book, so I put that above the Aztec pictograph for house. And there you have it - he curses them!

I've been asked if the symbols in Chronicle were real Aztec symbols. The answer is yes - well, mostly. In a few cases I had to get creative to come up with a pictograph to meet my need. I challenge you to try to tell the difference!

About the book:
Publication Date: October 29, 2012
CreateSpace
Paperback; 416p
ISBN-10: 1479206652

Archaeologist Dr. Angela Hunter discovers an ancient codex at a Mississippian Indian dig site in the St. Louis area. Knowing the Mississippians, or Mound Builders, had no written language, she is determined to solve the mystery of the 700-year-old, perfectly preserved codex.

In the early 1300’s, an Aztec family is torn apart. A judge rebelling against the Aztec tradition of human sacrifice is cursed and escapes his enemies with his 12-year-old son. They travel from the Gulf of Mexico up the Mississippi River to settle in the thriving community of Migaduha, modern-day Cahokia Mounds, Illinois.

Angela recognizes the symbols as Aztec pictograms and begins to translate the story. However, other forces also want the codex and will do anything to get it. Can she learn the secrets of the chronicle before the tragic events of the past are repeated today?

Praise for Chronicle of the Mound Builders

Good Blend of Fact and Fiction
"I really enjoyed reading the Chronicle of the Mound Builders. The author artfully wove the timelines, dropping hints as the story unfolded. I also enjoyed trying to figure out the geographic locations since I live in the St. Louis area. The author's descriptions were so accurate that I was able to pinpoint exactly where the action was occurring.

I was so engrossed in the storyline that I read the book in two sittings during one weekend. My husband said that he had never seen me read a book that quickly. I was sorry when I had finished but realized that the author left the story open for a sequel. I look forward to reading that book, too." - Archeology Enthusiast, Amazon Reviewer

Exciting and Informative
"This is an exciting read, a real page-turner. The story travels between the past and present such that the events of the past parallel the discoveries in the present in a timely manner. The story is filled with adventure and mystery. It was written with some intelligence as the author displays in-depth knowledge of ancient Aztec cultures, the Mississippians, and modern day archeological techniques. These are combined into a thrilling adventure. I look forward to the author's next book." - JayCee, Amazon Reviewer

About the author:

Coming from a large family of readers, Elle Marie grew up with a love of reading. Her passion for reading led to a desire to write. After first publishing a nonfiction book, Living the Thin Life, she turned to fiction. 

A visit to Cahokia Mounds sparked a fascination with the mysterious Mound Builders, about whom so little is known. What was their culture like? How did ordinary people live in the 14th century? What caused the civilization to vanish, seemingly overnight? She put her imagination to work and came up with a story line that put it all together. Extensive research enabled her to create a believable, engrossing world. 

By day, she works in the information technology field at a large financial services firm. She is a graduate of the Missouri University of Science & Technology and lives in the St. Louis area with her husband. Chronicle of the Mound Builders is her first novel.

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(Giveaway) Doc Holliday, the legendary adventurer: INHERITANCE by Victoria Wilcox

Gone With the Wind Goes West

Southern Son: The Saga of Doc Holliday

Inheritance (Book One)

by

Victoria Wilcox

The name Doc Holliday conjures images of the Wild West and the shootout at the OK Corral, but before he was a Western legend, John Henry Holliday was a Southern son, born in the last days of the Old South with family ties to author Margaret Mitchell – and a rumored romance with a cousin who became the model for Melanie in Gone With the Wind.

That was the untold story I had discovered in my work as founding director of the Circa 1855 Holliday-Dorsey-Fife House Museum, the antebellum home of the Holliday family in Georgia. The house was a classic Southern beauty, a Greek Revival-style mansion standing on a tree-shaded street just off the courthouse square in Fayetteville, forty miles south of Atlanta. It was right in the middle of Gone With the Wind country – and in the book itself, as the Holliday’s House was once used to board students from the local private school, the Fayetteville Academy. As Margaret Mitchell writes in the first chapter of Gone With the Wind: “Scarlett had not willingly opened a book since leaving the Fayetteville Academy...”

The Holliday-Dorsey-Fife House Museum, Fayetteville, Georgia

Of course, there were other Southern Belles who attended the Fayetteville Academy in those last days before the war, as Scarlett O’Hara did, including a girl named Annie who was a lot like Scarlett: her family lived on a big cotton plantation in neighboring Clayton County, her father was a feisty Irishman named Gerald, her mother had green velvet drapes hanging in her parlor windows, she went to Atlanta during the Civil War and survived on a little grace and whole lot of gumption. But unlike Scarlett, who was fictional, Annie was real. Her father wasn’t Gerald O’Hara but Phillip FitzGerald, her mother who owned those green velvet drapes wasn’t Ellen but Eleanor, and she was Margaret Mitchell’s grandmother!

Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone With the Wind 

Although Mitchell, cautioned by her attorney father, always insisted that none of her characters were based on real people, some of them were very clearly inspired by real people. But there was one family member who was more than just inspiration – she actually gave her name to a character in the book. She was Annie FitzGerald’s cousin, which made her Margaret Mitchell’s cousin-twice-removed, an elderly nun living in Atlanta when Mitchell was writing Gone With the Wind. Mitchell went to visit her while she was working on the novel and asked if she might name a character in the book after her. The nun’s answer was a sweet, “Just make her a good person.” The nun’s name was Sister Melanie, and the character named after her was Melanie Hamilton, Ashley Wilkes’ wife.

Melanie Hamilton Wilkes, as portrayed by Olivia deHavilland 

And here’s the most intriguing information of all. Before Sister Melanie became a nun, she was a girl named Mattie Holliday, and she too had a connection to the Holliday’s house in Fayetteville, as the owner was her uncle and she was one of the cousins who used to play there. And her favorite of those cousins was a boy who also came to visit from his hometown in nearby Griffin – young John Henry, who would one day be known as “Doc” Holliday. They were close as children and sweethearts when they were older, and though we’ll never know for certain until their rumored love letters reappear, some say it was their ill-starred love affair that sent her to a convent and him running West into a life of legendary adventures. And what a love affair it would have been: Melanie from Gone With the Wind in love with Doc Holliday from the OK Corral, the Old South meeting up with the Wild West, or literature and legend falling in love!

John Henry “Doc” Holliday

That was the story I had stumbled across as we turned the Holliday’s antebellum home into the Holliday-Dorsey-Fife House Museum – a story only hinted at in movies like “Tombstone” where a dying Doc Holliday confesses that his one true love was a cousin who entered a convent over the affair. But living (and dying) years before author Margaret Mitchell was born, the movie Doc couldn't mention that his lost love was also the model for Melanie in Gone With the Wind.

But I could, in a saga that starts in Georgia during the Civil War and follows young John Henry Holliday as he goes from Southern son to Texas outlaw to Western legend. Southern Son: The Saga of Doc Holliday spreads over three historical novels, sweeping from the Old South to the Wild West in a story of heroes and villains, dreams lost and found, families broken and reconciled, of sin and recompense and the redeeming power of love. It’s the best history I could find in eighteen years of research (during which I became a nationally known expert and speaker on the life of Doc Holliday) and a real-life love story almost too good to be true. I like to think of it as Gone With the Wind meets Lonesome Dove!

The first book in the Southern Son trilogy is Inheritance, published by Knox Robinson Publishing, London. Release date is May 8th in hardcover and eBook at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and selected bookstores everywhere. The paperback follows December 4th. My book tour for Inheritance began with an appearance in Tombstone, Arizona, site of the OK Corral shootout, and takes me across ten states to all the places Holliday knew in his adventurous life. The US Book Launch is June 1 at the Margaret Mitchell House Museum in Atlanta, where Gone With the Wind was written – a fitting start for a book that stars the real people behind Mitchell’s classic epic. For information on the Book Launch, contact the Margaret Mitchell House at 404-814-4114.

 For more information on Southern Son: The Saga of Doc Holliday, please visit my author website at http://www.victoriawilcoxbooks.com.

About the Author

Victoria Wilcox is founding director of the Holliday-Dorsey-Fife House Museum, the antebellum home of the family of Doc Holliday. Her work with the house led to eighteen years of original research and inspired her novel trilogy, Southern Son: The Saga of Doc Holliday. She has been advisor and contributor to other authors, has lectured extensively and appeared on various television programs relating to her work. A member of the Western Writers of America, Wilcox’s writing on the Old South and Wild West has been featured in such publications as TrueWest Magazine and North Georgia Journal. Drawing on her lifelong love of music and theater, she has written songs for Nashville recording artists and authored the musical Goin’ to Zion! along with numerous smaller theatrical works.

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 Thanks to the publicist they have offered a giveaway of 

Inheritance, Southern Son: The Saga of Doc Holliday (Book One)

May 8, 2013 Knox Robinson Publishing, London

Giveaway open to followers in USA, Canada and the UK

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