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Tuesday, January 1, 2019

New Year, New World

New Year, New World

C.A. Asbrey



In the melting pot of the United States of America in the 19th century, people came from all over the world to build a new life, but they inevitably brought holiday traditions and customs with them. Many have been enthusiastically embraced, such as the German custom of Christmas trees, and the Celtic Halloween. Others have fallen into obscurity or have been subsumed into the mainstream. New Year has become something to be marked and celebrated across religious and cultural barriers.   

Rituals act as a buffer against anxiety and uncertainty. The depths of winter, the cold, and the darkness were all worrying times to our agrarian ancestors. They worried about the sun departing and never coming back again. New Year's, and other holiday rituals, are designed to ease those fears by making the world seem more predictable. They were a routine not to be broken as it ensured the earth would continue to deliver as it always had.
The Fire Walk, Stonehaven, Scotland
For people coming from Scotland, New Year was the huge celebration of the year. Christmas was something for the children to receive gifts and enjoy magical tales. It only became a public holiday in Scotland in 1958. Until then people went to work as though it was a normal day. For a genuine, full-bloodied knees-up which lasted for days, Hogmany was the festival which included all ages. 

The word the Scots use for New Year, Hogmany(pronounced Hog-man-ae), is a bit of a mystery. The old Scots language of Lallans is a mixture of Old French, Anglo-Saxon, and Gaelic. The word is thought to have first been used widely following Mary Queen of Scots' return to Scotland from France in 1561.  It may come from the French word 'hoginane' - meaning gala day. It could come from the Anglo-Saxon 'haleg monath' meaning holy month. It does seem unlikely, to me, that there's a holy connection, as there is little or no religious element to the festival. It seems to embody expansive pagan excesses and self-indulgence which rivals the bacchanalian fall of the Roman Empire.

It would be wrong to think it is all about alcohol though. There are very ancient roots to the festival which brought in the whole family and echo the ancient pre-Christian festival of Halloween, which was basically the Celtic New Year. The superstitions simply moved with the calendar. Bonfires would be lit, houses were scrupulously cleaned as every scrap of dirt was seen as bring bad luck in the year ahead. Traditionally, no alcohol was consumed until the bells at midnight, but from the point it flowed like water. A special meal was prepared for New Year's Day, and special food like Scotch Broth, Black Bun, Cranachan, and Tipsy Laird was prepared for sharing with anyone who came by.

As soon as midnight chimed the doors and windows would be thrown open to allow the New Year in, boats everywhere sounded their whistles, and church bells rang. People even banged pots and pans together. The idea of the noise was related to the pagan practice of using noise and fire to drive away evil spirits. People wished one another well with a kiss. It was unlucky to miss anyone. Songs were sung. Auld Lang Syne is a Scottish song written by Robert Burns in the 18th century, and it is still sung at New Year. It literally means, 'for old time's sake.'  People went from door to door to visit neighbours in a stream of open-house parties. The first person over the doorstep at the New Year, was seen as portentous. They have to be tall, dark and handsome - literally. I have seen fair-headed people denied access until someone suitable came along. It's thought that the tradition comes from a fear of Viking raiders as the Celts are often very dark, so the tall dark and handsome person at the door is more likely to be a friendly local than a marauding stranger. This first footing could go on for days on end. The first footer will be carrying a lump of coal, shortbread, salt, a black bun and a "wee dram" of whisky - all the essentials for a prosperous and happy year ahead.

New Year celebrations in England were a lot more sedate. It was traditionally a time for giving trinkets such as oranges studded with cloves, books, or cakes. Neighbors would visit one another and wassail. They'd gather at a house and sing traditional songs before receiving hospitality from the “wassail-bowl”. Landowners provided bowls of spiced ale to their household, each person sipping from it and toasting “was hael” or “to your health.” This tradition later changed, with the poor neighbors seeking “wassail” from their wealthier counterparts. As they’d drink, they’d become ever more profuse with their good wishes—to a degree comparable with the First Footing of Scotland.

We can see many of the traditions echoed in the New Year celebrations in the USA today. The countdowns to the threshold of midnight, the grabbing of the person next to you to kiss and hug are all still present. Kissing, originally came from the English tradition of "saining," or offering blessing or protection. Auld Lang Syne is still sung. 

Various Europeans  brought the tradition of eating pork and cabbage on New Year's Day, and many people still do this, particularly in New England. Many avoid chicken. Why? Because chickens scratch the earth backwards and it was seen as important to consume foods which only move forward such as fish or pork.   

The French gave us the habit of using champagne to celebrate. They perfected the already known technique of adding sugar to bottled wine to create a fizzy beverage thanks to the yeast in the wine, which consumed the sugar to produce carbon dioxide. The earliest recorded sparkling wine was produced by Benedictine Monks in 1531. After the French revolution, champagne was used as a secular replacement for wine used in religious ceremonies. It is from this root that we use champagne to launch a ship. Champagne was used instead of holy water and no priest, or their expensive stipend, was required. It became the must-have drink for any celebration.

An ancient wine producer's superstition is still with is in Italian and Hispanic communities. They kept back the last of the grapes to consume just before the New Year commenced to ensure luck in the next year and the continuation of their crop. The Portuguese eat raisons for the same reason.

Whether it's eating pork or leftover grapes, or visiting neighbors — a huge number of New Year's traditions are all about the money and fertility. Prosperity looms large, along with a fear that the next year will come with a downturn in fortunes. All of this echoes the Neolithic fear of the sun going away and never coming back.  

The Turks wear red underwear, run the faucet and sprinkle salt on their doorsteps to ensure prosperity and ward off evil. The Swiss will drop whipped cream to the floor and leave them there to usher in riches. Filipinos, meanwhile, will wear polka dots, because the rotund shape of the circles symbolizes prosperity. The Danish jump at midnight, off tables, chairs, and steps, to literally leap into the next year.

Underwear features for the Portuguese too. The underwear must be new but different colors will set the tone for the wearer throughout the year: blue for good luck and better communications with others; red for success in love. Brown is to improve one’s professional career, yellow for financial help, white for peace or non-material matters, and green for good health.

People in the south, meanwhile, eat black eyed peas, collard greens and cornbread because they resemble coins, dollar bills and shiny gold, respectively. A civil war legend declares that the peas kept people alive through the worst privations.   

The ball dropping in Times Square was based on the old sailors' use of a time balls to set their own timepieces. They would set these chronometers using a spyglass to scan the harbor for balls which were dropped into the water at certain times, The first time ball was installed in Portsmouth, England, made its first drop in 1829, and by 1845, Washington, D.C., had one too. The First Ball in Times Square was installed in 1904, but was not actually functional. The first dropping ball was used in 1907.

New Year's resolutions date from at least time of the ancient Mesopotamians. Citizens made spoken resolutions in March, during their New Year Festival, called Akitu. They were required to make an oath to the king, and were considered essential to keep the kingdom in the gods’ favor. This then transmitted through the ages to the Romans, and then to Christianity. 

The Chinese gave us fireworks, but were warmly embraced by Europeans to mark a special moment. They also come with the pagan connotation of using fire to cleanse and to use loud noises to drive away evil spirits. 

There are shades of all these traditions on the continent of America, North, South, East, and West. Each community has traditions which are shades of the people who first settled there. In some way, they are all still with us.           

EXCERPT
A vacant-looking man with prominent yellow teeth walked into her field of vision, striding beyond the blinding sun and dragged her roughly from the horse. She had expected to be searched and had ruthlessly bound her body with bandages to try to flatten and conceal her breasts, but the man merely patted down her sides before turning his attentions to her jacket. He pulled out the pistol which had been loosely placed in her pocket and slapped his way down her legs. She was instantly glad she had foregone the Derringer she usually wore at her ankle. A concealed weapon was too risky.
“He’s clean.”
“Well, boy. It seems like you’re gonna get your wish, but if you’ve been messin’ with us and you ain’t Quinn’s kin, you’re gonna regret it. He don’t like to be messed with.”
Abigail felt her arms grabbed as she was roughly turned around and her carefully dirtied hands were bound behind her back, the rope biting deeply into her skin as it was pulled tight. They must have seen her wince as it provoked a chorus of laughter which rang in her ears.
“Looks like this life’s a bit too rough for you, sonny.”
 A thick, smelly bag was thrust over her head, obliterating the world, before she was lifted back onto her little colt and she felt herself led off to face the rest of the gang.

            

Monday, December 31, 2018

Prairie Rose Publications Wishes You All A Happy New Year!




As we close the fifth year here at Prairie Rose Publications with a lot of great books by our amazing authors, tomorrow will be the beginning of an exciting new page in our lives. Celebrate and rejoice! Cheryl and I want to thank all of our readers and wish you much happiness in the year to come. We have many more wonderful titles coming in 2019.

Sunday, December 30, 2018

Gold, Gold, Gold - plus excerpts from "Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure" by Lindsay Townsend

I am fascinated by gold. People in the past were also inspired by it and made many beautiful objects with the metal. One of these ancient treasures is a torc and in my latest historical romance, "Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure" I have a torc as a precious relic at a northern church.

I had in mind the magnificent Snettisham gold torc as my relic. Here it is.

From the British Museum


Here's an excerpt from my sweet Christmas romance, "Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure" where we see Sir Conrad and Maggie together.



Chapter 2

                                             
A gathering of horses, war-chargers, palfreys and spare mounts, a hasty bringing together of men, weapons and supplies, and they were off. They pounded out of the bailey, through the village and onto the track to the old Roman road. Sunrise to sunset they rode and then on through the night, sunset to sunrise. Riding in front of Conrad, his thick arms braced on her either side, Maggie felt her world shrink down to her heartbeat, the scalding ache of her thighs, the glare of snow and the relentless drum of the galloping horses.
Had she ever imagined the recovery of Michael would be an adventure? Wishing she could clasp her aching head but not daring to relinquish her grip on the horse’s mane, Maggie longed to stop.
   “You awake there?” Conrad growled, his lips close to her ear. She shook her head as if he was a bothersome fly and forced her wind-chapped lips to reply.
  “Doing well,” she said, determined her teeth would not chatter. In truth she was not so frozen. Sir Conrad had supplied her with a thick cloak and a woollen cap, cloths to wrap round her boots and rags to bind her hair. If I could only have some eastern cushions for my hips, perched on this bony nagWho knew horses had such a spine? Glancing sidelong she caught a knowing gleam in her companion’s deep eyes, as if he expected her to complain. But I shall not.
“Yourself?” She tried a smile, the cold light of the coming dawn piercing her cheeks.
 “We make camp soon, rest the horses.”
“Naturally. The horses. And the pack mules,” she added, wondering why she was teasing him as she might have done Michael. The truth was, she had ridden with this man for hours, her back snug against his chest, her legs pressed against his long shanks. It was hard not to feel a kind of closeness to him.
Now, she felt rather than heard Conrad’s rumble of a chuckle and knew a fleeting lightness in her soul as his arms tightened briefly about her.
“You will not be outdone, will you?” He guided their mount onto an unpaved section of road that did not jolt her bones, which was overall a blessed relief.         
“Is this a contest?” she replied, catching her wind-sore mouth in a yawn before she could stop it.
He smiled against her woollen cap and Maggie closed her eyes. The great horse moved beneath her, smooth now as a sailing ship on a calm river, the beat of its hooves strangely soothing, like a lullaby. I wonder how Michael is faring, she thought as she slid slowly, inexorably into sleep.
                                                                   ****                                        
Conrad gently lowered the sleeping girl onto the rough pallet of bracken and hay that he had set before the new fire. She had done well, he decided, nodding to Davie, a silent reminder that the man guard her, before he checked on the horses and men. A palfrey had picked up a gorse or bramble tear on her flank. Conrad was conferring with a groomsman how to treat the wound when the weary peace of the camp shattered.
Lurching out of the darkness, Maggie staggered back to the fire, plucked out a burning branch and brandished it at the figure coming after her.
“Back!” she cried, stabbing the flaming brand at her would-be attacker, “You will get none of what you want from me!”
Conrad thrust the salve at the nearest groom and began striding back, to hear the farrier, Brian, say, without shame or apology,
“Come on, goldie, I can give you a sweet time—”
“What is happening here?” Conrad pushed between the pair, scenting the mead on the farrier’s breath.
“A bit of sport.” Brian swayed on his feet, squinting past the taller man as he gave the girl a wave.  Has this fool been drinking all night? Supping while on horseback?
“I do not expect to be set upon when I slip into the hazels to pass water!”
“You take on so, goldie, not fair—”
She took a deep breath that would have fit a dragon, clearly ready to light into the fellow afresh, when Sir David with his uncanny ill-luck, stepped out of the trees where he had been setting guards and said drily, “Women following soldiers are usually bed-mates.”
“I am not following anyone!” snapped Maggie, as red-faced as a dragon’s fiery breath, “I am seeking my brother and your lord is meant to be aiding me! Or do such courtesies only count for knights and ladies?”
Conrad sensed the camp about them stiffen and knew his men were leaning in to listen.
“Ladies do not bawl like market criers,” he drawled.
The bright stare cut towards him. “How else am I supposed to be heard?”
“Enough!” He made a cutting motion with his arm, tired of the whole squabble, and addressed his men. “The girl is with me, mine, and you all know it. Brian, get yourself a pail of water and dunk your head. We move on in two hours, when the sun tops that pine tree. Get on!”
He caught the girl’s arm and led her, none too gently, back to the pallet by the fire. “You stay,” he ordered, ignoring her look of utter betrayal.
He turned to leave, go back to the horses, when a narrow wiry hand grabbed his cloak. Looking back, he almost flinched at the flinty glare which stabbed him.
“You need the farrier, yes? But mark this, my lord, you also need me.”
His temper bridled at her insolence. He leaned down into her face, part of him amazed at how very blue her eyes were, in her anger. “I just saved you from a mauling or worse. Why did you not wait for me to escort you? Are you so naive?”
If she could, she would have shot poison like a snake, he guessed, though her words were pin sharp. “I did not know such courtesy was required in your own camp.”
Not even a gesture of thanks, the ungrateful little wench. Did she think they were equals? “You do not tell me how to govern,” he began afresh, but she interrupted,
“Then rule yourself first. I thought you, sir, were different.”
With the I was wrong hanging between them, she stepped aside and flounced down on the pallet with such force that a puff of hay-dust rose in the air between them. Sensing he had made a mistake, loathing that feeling, Conrad stamped back to the horse lines.
Later, too brief a time to be truly rested, they rode on, into the forest of Galtres. The girl sat before him, silent as a stone. I thought you were different. “What happened to you?” he growled, too low for her to hear. He disliked her being so stiff, that was all.
I do need my farrier. She had no right to complain. As for Brian approaching her, it is the way of the world. In a war-band, everyone expects it.

So why did these reasonable justifications seem hollow?

Here's another excerpt, where we see the golden treasure of Ormingham church.

Inside the church Conrad noted that his brother and the earl were most keen to see the treasures within its crypt. In contrast, Maggie—or Margaret—was intent on the stout door of the underground chamber, the narrow stone steps leading down to it and the huge key the priest produced from his surplice to unlock the sanctuary.
“No one has ventured here for a while, thank our holy mother,” she observed, as the priest shouldered open the thick door and Richard and Earl John jammed together in the small opening in their haste to be first into the crypt.
Would be funny, I vow, were my girl’s plight not so serious.              
“Why do you say that?” Conrad asked aloud, interested in her and her reasons rather than the costly trinkets stashed within.
Maggie smiled, her eyes less strained than he had seen them for two days, and pointed down. “Dust and cobwebs on the steps, before the holy father walked down,” she answered, “which means no thieves, either, so we can set a trap for them here.”
“Snares have no places in the house of God!” protested the priest, while Conrad could only think she said we. She is glad we work together. In that instant his joy burned as fierce as the newly-lit torches.
“By all the saints, look at this!” Richard’s loud excitement over-rode the cleric’s disgust and the earl rocked back and forth on the heels of his two-tone coloured shoes, murmuring, “My, my, such handsome works.”
Curious where he had not been greatly intrigued before, merely staying with Maggie to ensure she was safe, Conrad waited for the smoke of the priest’s spitting, damp torch to settle, and then looked for himself.
So much bright gold, was his first thought, while Richard, naturally stretched out sticky fingers to paw at the pieces and Earl John intoned, “Roman, or earlier, and fit for a king.”
“This is the holy moon torc of Saint Oswald!” snapped the priest, keen to put the church’s ownership beyond doubt, “Discovered in a pond near here by my great-grandfather!”
“I have heard tell of such sacred wonders before,” said Conrad, hoping to prevent the priest and earl from saying more in anger or gold-greed that they could not take back.
“It was a woman’s,” said Maggie softly beside him, glancing once at him to share her thought.
“Why do you say that?” asked Conrad.
She pointed. “Because of the safety chain.”

Here's a picture of the gold torc with safety chain that inspired me.
From YouTube

My sweet medieval historical romance, SIR CONRAD AND THE CHRISTMAS TREASURE, is now out. You can read it for free with Kindle Unlimited.

On Amazon. Com here
And Amazon UK here  

Saturday, December 29, 2018

Pinkerton's Women

Pinkerton's Women


C.A. Asbrey 


It’s not commonly known outside of the USA that the first professional female detectives in the world date right back to the 1856 when Kate Warne answered an advertisement in a Chicago newspaper looking for detectives. Allan Pinkerton thought that the women described as thin, attractive- but not beautiful, confident and outgoing, was applying for an office position. He was wrong. She wanted to be a detective. And she was very persuasive. The woman Pinkerton thought was applying for secretarial work assured him, worming out secrets in many places which would be impossible for a male detective.”

Pinkerton agreed to give the young widow a try and she quickly proved her worth. Nobody expected a woman to be a detective, so witnesses and friends of criminals spoke about things in front of her which they would never discuss in male company. Men would brag to women, and lonely people confided secrets. Not only did she recover large sums of stolen cash, but she compiled robust evidence which was vital in the arrest and conviction of many criminals. Warne was skilled at transforming her appearance and her accent, and passed as a man even close up. Working under cover, which Pinkerton called 'adopting a role', Warne gathered intelligence on a plot to assassinate Lincoln, was pivotal in planning his safe delivery to the White House, and stayed up all night as a vigilant armed guard. She could slip in and out of accents as easily as she could alter her appearance. She was rumored to have been a widowed actress, but there is no evidence to support that to date.

During the Civil War she infiltrated Confederate circles to deliver vital military intelligence, and adopted a dizzying array of roles. She was a wife, a fortune teller, a Southern Belle, and helped capture thieves, spies, and prevent at least two murders. Before long she was the head of the new Women’s Department.

Allan Pinkerton is quoted as saying to the female recruits “In my service, you will serve your country better than on the field. I have several female operatives. If you agree to come aboard you will go in training with the head of my female detectives, Kate Warne. She has never let me down.”
She died on the 28th of January 1869 of a pulmonary edema caused when a fall from a runaway horse broke her ribs. It turned into pneumonia and she died at the age of 38 in Pinkerton’s own home. Allan Pinkerton was by her side and she was buried in his family’s cemetery plot. It’s not recorded what Mrs. Pinkerton thought of all this. We can only imagine that she was unhappy with the situation as Pinkerton's son pushed for the removal of the woman's department, but had to wait until Allan Pinkerton's death in 1884 to accomplish that.
Hattie Lawton with fellow Pinkerton agent, Timothy Webster, before his execution
Her legacy continued, for a while, in the other female operatives. The second woman employed was the first mixed-race agent. Hattie Lawson, or Carrie Lawton (called H.H.L.) in the agents reports, who just might be the stunningly beautiful Kitty Prescott Brackett who posed as the wife of a spy captured during the civil war. Pinkerton and had been a chartist back in his native Scotland, campaigning for universal suffrage. In the USA he worked on the underground railroad, helping runaway slaves reach safety. He saw through gender and race in a way which was unusual for the USA at that time, but it definitely helped him put his detective agency on the map. John Scobell was the first black man recruited to the agency in late 1861. Hattie was hired in 1860 and was not only the second woman employed at the world famous detective agency, but some historians speculate was the first, mixed race woman as well due to the circumstance of her meeting with Pinkerton. 

Hattie played a key role at the detective agency for many years, assuming various identities and ferreting out information that aided in solving numerous cases.  One of the most dangerous assignments in which Hattie participated involved gathering intelligence about Confederate army movements.  She posed as Timothy Webster's wife, and while he was executed, she was imprisoned for a year in  in Castle Thunder prison in Richmond, Virginia before she was exchanged for Confederate spy Belle Boyd, in 1862. Whilst imprisoned, he Union's most accomplished spy, Elizabeth Van Lew, visited Hattie Lawton, but it is unclear whether Van Lew was aware of the real identity of "Mrs. Timothy Webster." It's hard to believe she didn't. Van Lew ran her own spy ring, but by 1861 Pinkerton was head of the federal government's Secret Service.

Elizabeth Van Lew


Other female agents, like Elizabeth H. Baker, not only infiltrated the confederate side, but sat casually sketching the opposing force’s naval forces in full view of a naval officer, before handing them over to the union side. She also worked on robberies and missing person cases. Elizabeth Van Lew worked as a nurse in a Confederate Prison, who collected intelligence which she passed to Washington in code.  

All these women have one thing in common. Their histories are elusive, and they often have so many versions of their names it can be hard to pin down their real identities before they melt into obscurity. The fact that many of the records of the Women’s Department were destroyed in the Chicago fire in 1871 makes research even harder. That’s probably fitting for women who lived their lives in deep cover, but frustrating for those researching these elusive pioneers. If this post is light on detail, and low on photographs, it's not only due to the light footprint these women left, it's also a testament to their skills. These roles would later be known as 'spooks' in modern vernacular due to the fact that they would flit in and out and leave nothing but a memory.        

At their worst the Pinkertons were heavy-handed thugs who broke strikes and shot up family homes to capture criminals. At their best, they were not only revolutionary in their recruitment, but they were amongst the first to see the value in a national database. A systematic and analytical approach to investigation now seems routine, but only the enlightened took advantage of the growing scientific discoveries which assisted in solving crime in the 19th century.

Not everyone was delighted at the prospect of female detectives. Pinkerton and Warne were frequently accused of having an affair, and often posed as man and wife. Pinkerton’s son, Robert, fought against the hiring of more females, but his father insisted that he would continue to “to use females for the detection of crime where it has been useful and necessary.”

When Allan Pinkerton died in 1884, Robert finally got his way. He closed down the women’s department and cited complaints from agents’ wives about their husbands working with women.
The very existence of the Women’s Department was gradually forgotten by all but a few, and the groundbreaking work done by these brave women was almost lost to history to all but a few enthusiasts. I’m glad to feature a fictionalised version in The Innocents Mysteries. They are murder mysteries, set in the late 1860-1870s and stripped of the political partiality the agency later became notorious for. I hope it will renew interest in these remarkable women.     


EXCERPT
A vacant-looking man with prominent yellow teeth walked into her field of vision, striding beyond the blinding sun and dragged her roughly from the horse. She had expected to be searched and had ruthlessly bound her body with bandages to try to flatten and conceal her breasts, but the man merely patted down her sides before turning his attentions to her jacket. He pulled out the pistol which had been loosely placed in her pocket and slapped his way down her legs. She was instantly glad she had foregone the Derringer she usually wore at her ankle. A concealed weapon was too risky.
“He’s clean.”
“Well, boy. It seems like you’re gonna get your wish, but if you’ve been messin’ with us and you ain’t Quinn’s kin, you’re gonna regret it. He don’t like to be messed with.”
Abigail felt her arms grabbed as she was roughly turned around and her carefully dirtied hands were bound behind her back, the rope biting deeply into her skin as it was pulled tight. They must have seen her wince as it provoked a chorus of laughter which rang in her ears.
“Looks like this life’s a bit too rough for you, sonny.”
 A thick, smelly bag was thrust over her head, obliterating the world, before she was lifted back onto her little colt and she felt herself led off to face the rest of the gang.

            

Friday, December 28, 2018

FASCINATING NORWAY by Cynthia Breeding


This fall, I took a land tour of Scandinavia…Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. Most of the time, travelers choose cruise ships for these destinations since all the major cities can be accessed by ship as well as the spectacular fjords, but I always like to learn more about the people and the land than what a short day excursion while in port can provide.

Denmark is, as they say, “flat as a pancake” and everyone (everyone!) owns a bicycle. Part of the reason is that there is a 150% surcharge on personal cars, although the Danes can get a “business” plate. Cycling also keeps them incredibly fit and healthy in spite of a penchant for ice cream and waffles. Historically, the Danes were powerful, having control of both Norway and Sweden for centuries. (Remember Hamlet?) Odense is the home of Hans Christian Anderson and a museum there has beautiful editions of The Little Mermaid.

Sweden is very pastoral, with forests and a huge lake (Lake Vattern) that nearly bisects the country. Stockholm is actually a city of many islands criss-crossed with numerous bridges. Old Town (Camia stan) was settled nearly a thousand years ago and contains Marten Trotzigs Grand, a street with 36 steps and only 35” wide. Contrast that to one of our eight-lane freeways!

Norway, though, was my favorite. The fjords are absolutely breathtakingly beautiful and as deep as the mountains surrounding them are high. The snowcap on the mountains starts at about 3,000 feet so you can imagine the depth. It’s no wonder cruise ships can sail all way in. A Flam Railway trip to Voss passes by numerous waterfalls, at which any the Nordic Huldra, a wood nymph that lures sailors into the forest, may lurk. She sang her song as we passed. Also worth the trip was the Trolstigen Road (The Trolls’ Road) which climbs a mountain at a 10% incline and includes eleven hairpin bends…a bit hair-raising if you are sitting on the side of the bus that looks over the edge of that road.

But you simply cannot visit Scandinavia without thinking about Vikings. The Viking museum in Oslo has two well-preserved long-boats from the Viking area that are definitely a must-see, as well as plenty of other artifacts from the Viking Age (9th-11th centuries).

And it was with Vikings in mind, that I wrote The Viking’s Yuletide Woman, available through Prairie Rose Publishing.
Travelling tips: Because of the North Atlantic Drift (part of the Gulf Stream) the waters around southern Scandinavia are relatively warm which means a temperate climate. Pack some shorts and t-shirts! Also, most hotels and restaurants do not have air-conditioning either.

BLURB FOR THE VIKING'S YULETIDE WOMAN:


866 A.D.~

Ruthless Viking Prince Ivar is determined to avenge his murdered father—even if it means marrying a Saxon princess who will do whatever she can to escape him. Ivar and his men take over the Saxon stronghold of York, England, in the hope of forcing King Aelle to surrender. He holds Princess Aethelthryth, King Aelle’s daughter, as a prized hostage---or so he believes.

But the “princess” captive, Ella, is a lowly maid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She bears a striking
resemblance to Princess Aethelthryth who has been spirited away to safety. Ivar’s captain, Bronwolf, mistakes her for her mistress. Though he is attracted to Ella, Bronwolf turns her over to Ivar, as is his duty…but the fires of desire have already been kindled between the captain and the maid.

Ella continues her pretense of being the true princess in order to protect herself from the brutish Viking prince and his men, but her plan is turned on her when Ivar decides to make her his bride to seal the alliance between their people.

When Bronwolf learns her true identity, there is only one thing he can do to save her from Ivar’s fury at being duped—he must find a way to get her to safety. Can he protect Ella from the barbaric Prince Ivar, or will it cost both of them their lives? Will Ella consent to his plan and become THE VIKING’S YULETIDE WOMAN?


Sunday, December 23, 2018

Book review: Kissing Until Christmas: A Mail Order Bride by Livia J. Washburn

Christmas is almost here!! And they'll be kissin' till Christmas! I'm ready, are you??? ;)


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Blurb:

Shawn Killian and his young son Wes came to Briar Hill, Texas, looking to escape their past. The last thing Shawn wanted to complicate his life was a mail-order bride. But because of some mysterious mix-up, that's what he found himself having to deal with when Abby Demarest showed up. Shawn knows the smart thing to do would be to send her back where she came from, but that would have been easier to do if she wasn't so smart, pretty, and determined. What Shawn doesn't know is that Abby has some secrets of her own that threaten the life he has planned for him and Wes, and it may be that love is the only thing that will save all of them!

My Review:

Ohhh! Talk about an intriguing mix of sweet and mysterious and heart-warming and heart-pounding all wrapped up in a pretty Christmas story!

Abby heads off to Texas to meet her groom... only she gets quite the surprise once arriving there. I adored her strength, her stubbornness, and the way she worked through opening up her heart to Shawn and Wes. The secrets she had hounding her -- whew, they sure catch you off guard and make her all the more desirable and worthy of a woman, wife(to-be), and mother(to-be).

Shawn -- he's definitely a mystery as well and manages to keep himself pretty closed off. You just want to dig in like Abby does and find out what's hidden in his head and chaining up his heart so you can give him the love and healing he so desperately shows he needs, and wants, but is scared to accept. Same as Abby - when those secrets are revealed - whoa baby - they're a shocker.

Wes, Shawn's boy, is just absolutely sweet and has so much love to give. Even to cantankerous geese.... haha!


If you're wanting a charmin' sweet Christmas story with just a bit of suspenseful intrigue, grab Kissing Until Christmas. It'll keep you warm and smilin' from beginning to end!

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