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Nature's tribe - prequel series to Hengist: People of the Horse
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N.B. Click on the links/book covers above to buy, or on the pink links below to read a short extract.
Because I love the Hengist series so much, I couldn't wait for an excuse to return to that world. A number of people asked about how it came about, so last year, I set about writing a prequel, and met Senna - a spirited midwife, who told her story through 12 Days of Yule. Three chapters into the sequel, 8 Sabbats of the Sun, Lyran tapped me on the shoulder and demanded why I hadn't bothered to give him the mic until right at the end.
So, just to get him off my back, I wrote a prequel to the prequel going back to when he first married Senna: 3 Handfastings and a Burial.Now the 4th book, 13 Esbats of the Moon, is finished and will be available on 11th May - you can pre-order it now at only 99c/99p.
And as a special bonus, anyone who posts a review to 12 Days of Yule will get a bonus copy of Senna and Jarl's Handfasting - not available to buy. Simply message me on facebook and I'll give you the details. Or join my mailing list to get access to news of deals, new releases and competitions.
If you came here looking for recipes, click here.
3 Handfastings and a Burial
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| Hengist Prequel - Nature's Tribe #1 |
Click the link 3 Handfastings and a Burial to pick up your copy and experience the joy and danger of being a midwife in medieval England.
Exactly whose handfasting is this? Senna feels like nothing but an inconvenience at her own wedding.
Instead of the small, serene event Senna and Lyran conceived, his father seems determined to take over every aspect, from what she should wear to exactly what and when their guests should eat. His reason for inviting the entire village, and commissioning a chef to royalty, is clear.
Power.
The magister wishes to impress people who could gain him a position on the council.
But when Lyran swaps his heartfelt vows for the complex ones his father deems appropriate, Senna’s anger boils in the midsummer sun. Is the man she’s marrying too weak to stand up for himself? It does not augur well for their life together if he is nothing more than his father’s puppet instead of the generous, independent man she thought she knew.
This medieval, Wedding-themed romantic tale will appeal to fans of Call the Midwife, Poldark and Robin Hood who enjoy elements of magical realism, mystery and humour.
Here's a short extract:
1 – All is as it should be
“Aaarrrggghhh!”Despite the discomfort in her arm, Senna knew the poor woman clenching it never intended to inflict hurt. So often, she’d heard people try to hush the screams of someone in pain, as though it might lessen what afflicted them. But she knew the benefits of discharging the harmful energies resulting from any upset of the body’s equilibrium. Pain was nature’s way of alerting a person they needed to stop what they were doing to cause the upset. Unfortunately, Bernadine had no choice about stopping.
Pressing a soaking cloth to the woman’s brow, she trusted in the power of the peppermint and lemongrass tinging the water to augment the cooling effect. “That’s good. Let it all out. Think of breathing in healing air and pushing out the pain as you breathe out.”
Bernadine gasped. “I’m sorry, Senna. I did not mean to squeeze your arm so. Are you hurt?”
“Not at all. ’Twas nothing but a momentary discomfort. Already passed. Would you like a sip of water?”
“Please.” After the briefest of sips, she smiled. “This is good. The essences will help calm my ailing stomach.”
Senna’s reassuring smile hid her concern that the woman had emptied her stomach several hours ago and would not have the strength to endure for much longer. But she knew from experience Bernadine was made of stern stuff. The councillor’s wife was a force in the community, attending to her duties with a dauntless energy which made several enemies among those who considered themselves powerful. No cause was too small or too awkward as she fought for justice for any who’d been wronged by greed, malice or unfair laws.
Another wave of pain assailed Bernadine’s ravaged body, and she once more screamed with an energy which belied her weakened state. This time, she clung onto the bolster cushion provided for that purpose, allowing Senna to make her examination at the source of the pain: a babe struggling to make its way into the world.
12 Days of Yule
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| Hengist Prequel - Nature's Tribe #2 |
Click the link Twelve Days of Yule to pick up your copy and experience the joy and danger of being a midwife in medieval England.
A self-important official or an unreliable mercenary? Not much of a choice.
Senna must make a choice when her year of mourning ends on the twelfth day of Yule. Domenyk, a well-respected magister, needs a woman of substance to accompany him on his ascent to leader of the council - the most powerful man in the village. Jarl was her late husband's best friend, but he spends more time away from the village as a sought-after military commander. And he's not too good at keeping his promises.
As she prepares for the Yule festivities, her standing as the village healer is called into question by powerful adversaries when complications arise for two of her expectant mothers. The stakes ramp up as the ancient Pagan practices are threatened by the new religion, and the village’s three best defenders disappear. Thankfully, someone is looking out for Senna – her dead husband, Lyran.
This medieval, Holiday-themed romantic tale will appeal to fans of Call the Midwife and Poldark who enjoy elements of magical realism, mystery and humour.
Here's a short extract:
Day 0 – Yule Eve Preparations
“Mama, the other girls will be here shortly. May I please be excused to go with them for the gathering?”Senna paused in her vigorous mixing of the aromatic minced-meat mixture, returning an escaped tendril to the snood covering her hair. Regarding her daughter’s eager face, she tried in vain to maintain a stern expression. “Am I to make the mincen parcels on my own?”
“No, Mama. We only need enough for the first three days. You said yourself it’s unseasonal warm; they will spoil by sixth night.”
“I’m not making the ones for the Clove-Gifting. But you know what your gram …”
“A dozen mincen parcels at Yule will bring luck the wheel round.” After mimicking her grandmother’s saying, Lyrelie twisted her features into a scowl which marred her normally pleasant countenance. “But you’re not Gram, and you don’t have to follow all her old-fashioned …”
“Lyrelie!” Senna poured enough admonishment into the single word to give the girl reason to mind her manners.
“Sorry, Mama.” Her daughter’s gaze dropped for a moment before she made amends. “Here, let me roll the dough for the parcels.” Her father’s smile brightened her face, fairly tearing Senna’s heart apart.
Taking an edgy breath, the healer tried in vain to follow the advice she handed out with aching regularity. Calming advice to those who sought her elixirs in the hope of curing whatever ailed them. What ailed her was the first Yuletide without the comforting presence of her beloved husband, Lyran. A sigh caught her unawares as it fluttered that disobedient wisp of hair.
Senna didn’t want to take the spiced wine she normally counselled for grieving widows; forgetting him was the last thing she wanted to do. Unaware she’d closed her eyes, Senna stiffened at the unexpected feel of her daughter’s arms stealing round her waist and Lyrelie’s cheek resting on her back.
Her daughter squeezed, ever-so-gently. “Don’t be upset, Mama. Remember, Da will always be in your heart.”
Senna cleared her throat, seeking a light tone. “Why would you speak of your father, today?”
“Because this was one of his favourite Yuletide tasks.” Lyrelie divided a third of the dough into twelve. “He could eat his dozen in a single day, so he always ensured you made enough for his sweet tooth.” She formed twelve small balls, each one destined to be flattened into a circle by her rolling pin.
The muscles around Senna’s lips pushed past sadness, heading for wistful. “It was his idea to add some of the frumenty pudding mixture to the meat.”
“And the honey, don’t forget that.” Another one of those heart-stopping, Lyran-shaped smiles.
In her mind, Senna envisioned her husband’s face with joy instead of pain. As she spooned the mixture into the dough circles, her cheeks twitched, taking a shot at wry.
When the knock sounded at the door, Lyrelie’s rapid glance made the auburn curls bob around her shoulders. Her dilemma was clear; she still had a batch of circles to roll out, and would not want to shirk.
Senna’s expression warmed. “Go on, join your friends. And remember to be careful climbing up for the mistletoe.”
This time, her daughter’s grin was purely her own. “You say that every time, but I will never leave it to the boys. They break all the berries off.” Rushing to the dresser, she dusted the flour clinging to her hands into a dish. It would be used to thicken the broth; nothing was wasted in this house. She rinsed her hands in the sluice pail.
Picking up the trug, she yelled out gaily, “I’m coming,” to the waiting gang, whose impatient mutterings could be clearly heard through the open window.
With a kiss on her mother’s cheek, the whirlwind of love and light disappeared.
Senna gave thanks to the universe, for gifting her with such a treasure. Every day, she brought her father’s energy into the room and, at sixteen, she was already a skilled healer.
She paused in her task, her thoughts driven by an unknown source. Irreverent wit tinged the idea that Lyran’s abilities and courage had been the death of him. Fearless in his quest to heal the sick, he’d been first to the quarry after the accident, quickly fixing up the injured and organising their removal to safety.
Any vestige of humour dissolved as she remembered the quarryman’s account: her husband had been buried in a secondary landslide which killed him instantly.
Shaking off thoughts which could do nothing but lower her spirits, Senna focused instead on what was left to do before she could allow herself a goblet of spiced wine and a visit with the neighbours.
Her birthing bag was stocked and waiting in preparation for two ladies close to their time. Lareeta was still several weeks away from the birthing, and currently visiting her parents in a nearby town.
Yesterday’s examination of Marena revealed all was going well; she was an experienced mother with a supportive husband. Senna had no qualms about leaving her be for a few days; she’d doubtless be called once the birthing had progressed sufficiently for her presence to be required.
Apart from her patients, she’d promised contributions to many of the shared festivities. Three skins of honey ale hung on the door ready for the Wassailing; her own recipe with her great-grandmother’s secret ingredient harmonising the roasted apples, honey and nutmeg.
Alfun, the farmer in charge of the Field Blessing, had commissioned her to create thirteen blessing charms: herb-infused faggots, which would add their magic for a good growing season.
It was not purely a selfless act; her home benefited greatly from the making of these aromatic concoctions.
Lyrelie had helped to cast the spells, finishing each one with red and green ribbons which secured a quartz crystal, the power stone at the centre of each twig bundle.
Her daughter: apprentice wise woman. Did that make her a wise girl? Undoubtedly. Senna’s mind drifted past suitable names.
A loud, persistent thumping at the door brought her attention sharply back to the present. This normally heralded some kind of medical emergency, and she reacted instantaneously, dropping everything. With cheeks flushed from foreboding, she opened the door, anticipating at least a broken limb or gaping wound.
The dishevelled man bearing a huge slice of ash tree in his arms had neither of these.
8 Sabbats of the Sun
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| Hengist Prequel - Nature's Tribe #3 |
Click the link Eight Sabbats of the Sun to pick up your copy and experience the joy and danger of being a healer in medieval England.
Why does everyone keep Cal and Lyrelie apart? Even themselves.
Cal knows eavesdroppers never hear anything to their advantage. But he really didn’t need to hear Lyrelie’s offhand dismissal to know she thought him unworthy. Lyrelie did not understand what more she could do to make Cal notice her; she was convinced he already thought her too forward. Even without their self-imposed barriers, more than one person in the village had reasons for sabotaging their union. But would Cal have the courage to stand up to the predatory powers or resist the tantalising temptress? And would Lyrelie ever be able to forgive his betrayal?
This medieval, Holiday-themed romantic tale will appeal to fans of Call the Midwife and Poldark who enjoy elements of magical realism, mystery and humour.
Here's a short extract:
1 – All is as it should be
Nearing the house of the kindest, sweetest girl in the village, Cal heard laughter trilling like melodious birdsong. Daring to hope he might hear a mention of his name, preferably in a favourable light, he crept closer to the open window. Lyrelie’s voice resonated with the contentment of a purring cat. He could listen to it all day.Senna, the village’s well-loved healer, spoke of the up-and-coming Yule feast. “Magister Domenyk has invited you and your young man to join him at the top table.”
Cal drew breath, praying Lyrelie would select him.
“You know I’m not walking out with anyone.” Her assertion hit him like a blow. Although he’d never courted her officially, he yearned for her to recognise his interest, especially after yesterday. Pressing against the wall, he strained to hear her next statement. “Do I have to come?”
He couldn't relate the wheedling tone with the sunny disposition of the girl he’d loved his entire life.
Frustration marred her mother’s tone, which normally cooed with the patient wisdom of the owls roosting in his father’s barn. “I’m afraid this was more summons than invitation.”
He imagined the frown on Lyrelie’s face as she itemised the failings of her closest male companions. “It would not be an enjoyable experience with any of them. Tol is too silly, Ran is too stuffy, and Cal is too … Cal.”
What in the name of all glory did that mean? Too Cal! His brain darted around, looking for suitable euphemisms, unable to suppress the confusion he felt after the previous day’s strong connexion between them.
Memories of their unrivalled teamwork accosted him: they’d collected more mistletoe than all the other pairings. He smiled at the forthright way she insisted on climbing up for the elusive plant. Her reason for endangering herself and worrying him so? Because she would do less damage as she detached it.
The smile turned to a blush as he remembered her declaration of confidence that he’d catch her if she fell. And the feel of her in his arms when she missed her footing and slipped down from the lowest bough of the ash tree.
The fond recollections curtailed as Lyrelie responded to her mother’s warning about the consequences of going out with her friends instead of attending the prestigious event.
“There is one person I could bring, if he’s not already spoken for.”
Cal’s sceptical heart sank as Senna pressed for details. “Do I know him? And, more importantly, would I approve of him?”
In the extended silence, he strained to hear the name of this rival, but to no avail as a group of lads passed by, jesting in loud voices. Ducking behind a bush, he froze as an arm reached out to close the shutter. He caught a glimpse of the object of his affections as she casually broke his heart.
All the way home, he wondered how he could have been so foolish to imagine someone like her would ever choose a simple farmer’s boy like him. She was the daughter of the village’s most talented healers for miles around. That was how his parents described Senna and Lyran, even though the man had died a year ago. In what universe would a girl with her pedigree and obvious talents want to spend time with a dullard like him?
13 Esbats of the Moon
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| Hengist Prequel - Nature's Tribe #4 |
Click the link 13 Esbats of the Moon to pick up your copy and experience the joy and danger of being a midwife in medieval England with the Black Death ravaging all around.
Does a fallen woman deserve to find love?
Eanje's tormented childhood forced her to make some unsavoury choices. She refuses to waste time crying over her past, nor the things she was forced to do in order to survive. If onlys have no place in her life, not even when she finds herself pregnant with no idea who fathered it.
This is where it gets messy.
It could belong to the monster who terrorised the village, murdering anyone who got in his way.
It could belong to the man who'd shown Eanje nothing but kindness since they moved to this new place after the ravages of the Black Death.
But it could not belong to the only man she'd ever loved, because he was spoken for and, despite her reputation, she has standards.
As the fertile new world brings many challenges, Eanje has no idea whether any of her experiences to date will prepare her for this new adventure.
This medieval, moon-themed romantic tale will appeal to fans of Call the Midwife, Poldark and Robin Hood who enjoy a dystopian story with strong female characters and elements of magical realism, mystery and humour.
Here's a short extract:
1 – New Moon - September 1348
Waking up to the warmth of the sun on her face filled Eanje with something akin to awe. Despite all the careful preparations, a small part of her could not quite believe it would all work as they had planned.
Lyran had obviously given some thought to their first moments in this new world, and the sun felt symbolic of a new start. She smiled as she realised the hard floor beneath the sheepskin belonged to a stone building with narrow windows. A building which could only be the village church – somewhere she rarely visited in the other world.When reason set in, it made sense that the only structures still standing in this world would be made of stone, like the church. She speculated that if a woman had been responsible for the transfer, she might have awoken in the moon circle, with pale moonlight silvering the scene.
Tentatively propping herself up, she spotted two other bodies lying a little way off, flooded with sunlight from the next window. Senna and Jarl. But as yet, they showed no sign of awakening.
“Eanje. Thank Gaia. I had begun to think it hadn’t worked.”
She spun around, instantly regretting the sudden movement as her head protested. Lyran sat on a stone bench, positioned so he could watch all three of them.
“Careful. You should move gently. Your body may take a while to adjust after the recent traumas.”
Dozens of questions fought for supremacy in her mind, but she had learnt the wisdom of taking a moment to evaluate her surroundings before opening her mouth. Something which had benefitted her on more than one occasion. She had no need to ask if they were in the new world; Lyran’s solid form confirmed the fact. When he first contacted her, requesting help, he had appeared in her dreams and thoughts. She had been sceptical, demanding proof, and he tried manifesting in an attempt to convince her, but never got much further than a transparent version of himself.
Her immediate impulse was to quench the thirst which dried her throat. Somehow, he knew, offering her a rough clay beaker. He suggested she sipped slowly, letting the water moisten her parched lips, only swallowing a tiny bit.
Despite adhering to his advice, she had no control over the instinctive reaction to void the contents of her stomach. Again, he anticipated, offering a deep earthenware dish and a damp linen rag to clean and refresh her face.
The deep red colour and metallic smell reminded Eanje of her final moments of being alive in the other world. Skipping past Domenyk’s brutal, hurried use of her body, she gave thanks for the efficacy of Lyran’s design. Under his direction she had made the leather sleeves for her and Senna which had protected their throats. Her hand fluttered to her neck which, instead of being slit by the monster, merely ached.
“I have applied some salve, but it may bruise. Your invention worked perfectly; fooling him into believing he had delivered a fatal slice.”
How typical of Lyran to credit her. If ever a man had no need of glory, it was he. She grimaced. “Mediterranean audiences demand more than a mere red scarf symbolising blood when their mummers die on stage.”
“They sound like a bloodthirsty lot. But I should not disparage, it served our purpose well.”
Before he could explore further, Jarl awoke, choking. Lyran instantly administered fresh water, dish and linen.
“Gah, that tastes foul. Have you no ale for me?” The soldier’s curse echoed around the church.
His cousin suggested anything he drank would make an immediate return journey. “Give it time, man. It would be a waste of good ale, if only we had some.”
“What in Gaia’s name have you and Bryce been up to that is more important than brewing ale?” Jarl’s comical outrage all but drowned out Senna’s subtle stirring.
Lyran rushed to tend to her body’s reaction to the difficult journey, her primary concerns being for the welfare of the babe growing inside her.
“Hush, Sennalina, you have no need to fret. Your child will be unscathed by the transfer.”
Eanje watched Jarl’s face darken at his cousin’s tender use of an old endearment.
Magical Medieval Recipes
1lb of pastry (see below) will make approx 4 dozen parcels.
Approx 1lb of mincemeat
Beaten egg to glaze
METHOD
Split into 4, then for each quarter:
Divide into 12 equal balls, and roll each ball into a circle approx 3 inches/8 cm diameter.
Spoon a tbsp of mincemeat mixture into centre of circle.
Brush edges with beaten egg, fold edge over into half moon.
Seal edges by pinching between thumb and forefinger.
Brush with beaten egg and bake in centre of oven 400F/200C/Gas mark 6 for 15-20 mins til golden.
Old-fashioned mincen meat
1 lb (700g) lean mutton or beef (minced)
4oz (100g) suet (grated)
3 tart apples (finely chopped, skin on)
1/2pt (300ml) apple cider
1/4pt (150ml) cider vinegar
2 tbsp molasses (or black treacle)
6oz (150g) dried fruit (sultanas, raisins, currants)
1/2pt (300ml) apple cider
1/4pt (150ml) cider vinegar
Juice and rind of 1 orange, 1 lemon
6oz (150g) dried fruit (sultanas, raisins, currants)
2oz (50g) each of stoned prunes, figs and dates, all chopped into small
cubes
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tablespoons ground cinnamon
1/2 tablespoons ground nutmeg
1 tsp ground mace (or allspice)
1/2 tablespoons ground nutmeg
1 tsp ground mace (or allspice)
1/2 tsp black pepper
a pinch of saffron4 tbsp brandy or sherry
METHOD
If using raw mincemeat, fry over a low heat until thoroughly browned,
then drain away all fat and pat dry with kitchen paper.
If using cooked meat, mince it (or chop into small cubes).
If using cooked meat, mince it (or chop into small cubes).
Put the apples in a pan with cider, cider vinegar, orange & lemon
juice/rinds, and all the dried fruits. Bring to the boil, simmer for five minutes.
Mix in the meat, suet, molasses and spices and simmer for 2 hours. Allow to cool for 30 minutes, then stir in brandy/sherry.
If the mixture is too sloppy, add in more dried fruit.
If the mixture is too dry, add in more cider/brandy to taste.
It is best to let mincemeat stand at least a couple of weeks before
using.
Store in the refrigerator for up to a month. Freeze in air-tight
containers for longer storage.
Modern mincemeat equivalent for busy folks
Buy a 1lb jar of mincemeat and add in the following: 2oz (50g) each of stoned
prunes, figs and dates, all chopped into small cubes.
2tbsps sherry or brandy.
To try the savoury version add 1lb of cooked, minced meat which has been cooled, but this will reduce the length of time the mixture can be stored/used unless you freeze it.
Mix all ingredients in a bowl.
2tbsps sherry or brandy.
To try the savoury version add 1lb of cooked, minced meat which has been cooled, but this will reduce the length of time the mixture can be stored/used unless you freeze it.
Mix all ingredients in a bowl.
If the mixture is too sloppy, add in more dried fruit.
If the mixture is too dry, add in more sherry/brandy to taste.
Old-fashioned pastry
1lb (450g) plain flour (use Spelt flour for authentic taste)
2tsps salt
4oz (100g) lard
1/4 pt (150ml) water
4tbsp (60ml) milk
METHOD
Sift the flour and salt together into a large mixing bowl and make a
well in the centre. Heat the lard, water and milk until boiling and pour into
the well. Quickly beat the mixture together with a spoon to form a soft dough,
and knead until smooth on a lightly floured board.
Modern pastry equivalent
12oz (350g) plain flour (or flour substitute e.g. rice flour, buckwheat flour, oat flour)
2oz (50g) wholewheat flour
2oz (50g) ground almonds
pinch salt
4oz (50g) lard (or butter/margarine for vegetarian)
4oz (50g) butter/margarine
1/4 pt (150ml) water
METHOD
Either: rub fat into flour Or: beat lard & butter until melted,
then sift in flour & salt and mix in.
Mixture should resemble fine breadcrumbs. Add 8tsps of water and mix
together, kneading with hands until smooth. Allow to stand for at least 30 mins
(preferably in refrigerator) before using.
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