if you dare!
I've just re-read this one myself
(only drawback - I know how it ends!)
but I need to refresh my mind before I get really stuck into the next in the series (which will be Jamaica Gold)
And I know I say so myself but... Gallows Wake is really good!
Fast-paced, exciting, humourous in places, that page-turning element to find out what happens next...
Captain Jesamiah Acorne (of course) and Maha'dun ... so many readers have fallen for Maha'dun...
* * *
'Hollick is known for her highly entertaining pirate tales that combine spellbinding storytelling with finely researched nautical history. Gallows Wake delivers abundantly on that promise. Readers will discover delightful fun amid vividly portrayed life during the golden age of piracy." Historical Novel Society Review
CHILL WITH A BOOK Premier Award : HFC Book of the Year 2022 Bronze Award : INDIE B.R.A.G Honoree winner
Where the past haunts the future...
Damage to her mast means Sea Witch has to be repaired, but the nearest shipyard is at Gibraltar. Unfortunately for Captain Jesamiah Acorne, several men he does not want to meet are also there, among them, Captain Edward Vernon of the Royal Navy, who would rather see Jesamiah hang.
Then there is the spy, Richie Tearle, and manipulative Ascham Doone who has dubious plans of his own. Plans that involve Jesamiah, who, beyond unravelling the puzzle of a dead person who may not be dead, has a priority concern regarding the wellbeing of his pregnant wife, the white witch, Tiola.
Forced to sail to England without Jesamiah, Tiola must keep herself and others close to her safe, but memories of the past, and the shadow of the gallows haunt her. Dreams disturb her, like a discordant lament at a wake.
But is this the past calling, or the future?
Praise for Helen Hollick’s Sea Witch Voyages
"A wonderful swashbuckler of a read. Fans of the Pirates of the Caribbean will love this to pieces of eight!" Elizabeth Chadwick
"Helen Hollick has it all. She tells a great story, gets her history right, and writes consistently readable books!" Bernard Cornwell
"Hollick’s writing is crisp and clear, and her ear for dialogue and ability to reveal character in a few brief sentences is enviable. While several of the characters in Gallows Wake have returned from previous books, I felt no need to have read those books to understand them. The paranormal side of the story—Tiola is a white witch, with powers of precognition and more, and one of the characters is not quite human—blends with the story beautifully, handled so matter-of-factly. This is simply Jesamiah’s reality, and he accepts it, as does the reader." author Marian L. Thorpe
"The derring-do of vintage Hollywood. Hugely entertaining , exciting, uncomplicated fun." author M.J. Logue
“A stylish blend of mystery, betrayal, intrigue, smuggling, murder, love, sex, Barbary pirates, and mysticism – all neatly wrapped in a spirited sea tale.” Quarterdeck
"A great read that leaves this reader smelling tar and brine, and somewhat unsteady on their feet after spending time aboard with Captain Acorne. Helen Hollick has filled her story with appropriate nautical and pirate talk, exciting fight scenes, intrigue and deception, a bit of magic and romance, and enormous historical detail to ground the plot and characters. From the first words to the last, this is a most satisfying read"
"Hollick's forte is her ebullient imagination. Pirates of the Caribbean - but better. You walk with a rolling gait after a voyage aboard the Sea Witch."
“A story populated with fictional characters that bring the eighteenth century to life – A pirate adventure you won’t forget.” Cindy Vallar Pirates & Privateers
(This title contains adult language and some violence)
READ AN EXCERPT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Early November
“On deck down there! There’s a sail ahead –
this side of the pointy end!”
Captain Vernon had been semi-dozing in one of
the comfortable chairs in Jesamiah’s Great Cabin. Roused by the shout floating
in from above through the open stern windows, he frowned. “Did he say ‘pointy
end’? And what side is ‘this side’?”
“One
of these days I’ll get around to teaching Maha'dun more of the correct words,”
Jesamiah said, yawning. Rising from his own chair he shrugged on his buckram
coat, buckled on his cutlass and slid a pistol through his belt. He glanced at
his pocket watch. Five minutes after midnight. “And he doesn’t know left or
right, so there’s no point in telling him about larb’d and starb’d.”
Vernon raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but
followed suit with his own coat and weaponry. Said doubtfully, “Let’s hope it’s
her. Can you trust that foreigner to know what he’s looking at?”
“There are many things that Maha'dun is
useless at, but two where he excels: fighting and seeing in the dark.” Jesamiah
laughed as he stepped through the cabin door. “No, make that three; he’s also
very good at being exceedingly irritating.”
“So
why in the name of God do you tolerate him?”
Jesamiah stopped, turned round. “Because of
those qualities and because you will never find anyone, on this Earth or
elsewhere, more loyal. He’s already given his life to save mine.”
“What!”
Jesamiah realised his clumsy error, masked it
by chuckling, “Well, figuratively speaking. A while back he took a pistol shot
meant for me. A nasty wound, but turned out not to be fatal.”
On deck, Maha'dun was carefully descending
the ratlines. Coffee, the Hindustani crewman, was settling himself at the
masthead in his stead.
Maha'dun went with Jesamiah and Vernon to the
bow, stood silent as the two men gazed through their telescopes into the
distant night.
“Do you see her, Edward?” Jesamiah asked.
Vernon nodded. “I see a ship’s
topsails silhouetted against the horizon, whether it’s her or not, though?”
“Oh, it’s the Santa
MarÃa del Bartolomé all right,” Jesamiah said with a grin as wide as a
slice of ripe melon. “She’s dawdling. Only those top sails set – and even from
here I can see they’re somewhat lubberly. Most of her crew are probably asleep.
The captain snug and snoring in his cot, the officer of the watch curled in his
boat cloak dead to the world as well, hidden away somewhere discreet with a
brandy bottle tucked beneath his arm for company. If her task is to patrol,
keep an eye on English, French or Dutch shipping, she ain’t making a very alert
job of it is she? And if she were any of those nations, not Spanish,
she’d not be idling along but making full sail to get where she was going as
fast as she could. It’s a clear night, plenty of stars, a half-moon, good wind.
Merchants – or Royal Navy – don’t hang about in enemy waters.”
Vernon nodded. “I cannot disagree with any of
that. So, what do you propose we do?”
“We slow down a bit, trundle along in her
wake as if we are another Spaniard minding our own business. We then wait and
see how long it takes for her to become aware of us. When she does, I expect
she’ll want to know who we are. She’ll soon find out.”
Buy link for Gallows Wake: https://mybook.to/GallowsWake
or start the adventure here: https://viewbook.at/SeaWitch
“Helen Hollick has it all! She tells a great story and writes consistently readable books” Bernard Cornwell
KING ARTHUR
 |
| UK editions |
 |
| US editions |
New Editions available worldwide except USA/Canada
https://mybook.to/KingArthurTrilogy
The Boy Who became a Man:
Who became a King:
Who became a Legend... KING ARTHUR
There is no Merlin, no sword in the stone, and no Lancelot. Instead, the man who became our most enduring hero.
All knew the oath of allegiance:
‘To you, lord, I give my sword and shield, my heart and soul. To you, my Lord Pendragon, I give my life, to command as you will.’
This is the tale of Arthur made flesh and bone. Of the shaping of the man who became the legendary king; a man with dreams, ambitions and human flaws.
A man, a warlord, who united the collapsing province of post-Roman Britain, who held the heart of the love of his life, Gwenhwyfar
- and who emerged as the most enduring hero of all time. A different telling of the later Medieval tales. This is the story of King Arthur as it might have really happened...
"If only all historical fiction could be this good." Historical Novels Review
"... Juggles a large cast of characters and a bloody, tangled plot with great skill. " Publishers Weekly
"Hollick's writing is one of the best I've come across - her descriptions are so vivid it seems as if there's a movie screen in front of you, playing out the scenes." Passages To The Past
"Hollick adds her own unique twists and turns to the familiar mythology" Booklist
"Uniquely compelling... bound to have a lasting and resounding impact on Arthurian literature." Books Magazine
(contains scenes of an adult nature)
READ AN EXCERPT
from
The Kingmaking
AUGUST 453
The day had been long and hot. Up here,
the hill wind had helped cool the men down, but still they dripped sweat and
were short tempered with the string of stubborn pack mules. Arthur called a
halt early, although it was only mid-afternoon and they had plenty of light to
cover a few more miles. They made camp quickly and efficiently, securing the
mule loads in a guarded tent beside the Pendragon’s. Then relaxed a while,
taking the opportunity to bathe in the cold waters of the lake, grateful to
wash the itch and stink of stale sweat from their skins.
Arthur splashed with them, diving deep
into the clear pool, the green depths quiet and mysterious beneath him,
stretching down as if to reach the Earth’s heart. It seemed another dimension
of being, amidst this weird light and diffused sound; another place; the other
world of Faery, where time had no meaning. He pushed upwards, feet kicking
against the pull of water and for a panicked heartbeat it felt as if he were
held there, trapped, being enticed down into that magic kingdom where no mortal
dwelt. His head broke the surface, dazzling sunlight hitting him smart in the
face. Men were laughing and jesting along the shoreline, splashing each other,
pushing companions into the cool water. Arthur gasped and sucked in sweet,
clear air and struck out, relieved, towards them.
From the shore, where he rubbed himself
vigorously with his tunic, the pool looked safe enough, but even so he
shivered. Superstition. Even in a man of level thinking it was a powerful
inheritance.
Cei noticed the shiver and grinned.
“Too cold for you, huh?”
“Na,” Arthur
confessed, “too deep.”
Cei nodded understanding, his hand
involuntarily making the sign of the Christian cross. “They say there is an
island where the faery folk dwell, on one of these lakes, visible only at
Beltaine. An evil place of pagan darkness where God’s blessed face would not
look.”
“Aye, well, ’tis not Beltaine.”
All the same, Arthur found it difficult
to shrug aside that moment of fear when he had fought against the pull of
water. How easy would it be to become lost within those silent depths? He
shivered again, the memory lying heavy on his shoulder. As Cei had just now
made the Christian sign of protection, Arthur’s fingers formed the horned sign
against the pagan lords of darkness.
Noticing, Cei gave him a sidelong
glance of disapproval. He decided against comment, saying instead, “Should we
not take a look at the morrow’s ground?”
Arthur grinned back at him, grateful
for the chance to turn his thoughts from the unreal to the practical. He strode
briskly to the horse lines barking an order at an officer to take command. “And
see to it no one goes near the mule loads while I am gone!”
“Do you not trust us then, sir?” called
a soldier sitting outside a tent sorting his gear.
“Na, Lucius, I
would rather trust a whore to stay virtuous in the men’s bathhouse,” Arthur
answered brightly, a smile playing on his mouth. The men nearby laughed
good-natured, knowing they would not have been picked for this duty were they
not trusted. Escorting gold was not a task for the unreliable.
Vaulting into the saddle, Arthur heeled
his stallion to canter away across the short, springy turf that in wetter
months would be soft and bog bound. He reined in some distance up the hill, Cei
bringing his mount round to stay close. They let the horses’ heads drop to tear
at the grass, which held little goodness in this bleak, wind-teased landscape. Arthur
shifted in the saddle and hooked his leg around one of the two forward pommel
horns, rested his arm on his crooked knee. Eira grazed, his sensitive muzzle
searching for choice eating.
“What are we doing here, Cei?” Arthur
asked after watching the lazy swirl of smoke from campfires for a while.
“We are sitting up here thinking of the
men down there preparing our supper,” the big man beside him answered jovially.
“And we are bringing a full load of gold from the mines to our bastard of a
king. Your action was wrong, you know.”
Arthur glanced sharply across at Cei
and frowned. He had known Cei would eventually say something about what had
happened.
“The mines must be kept working,” he
said.
“To fill
Vortigern’s treasury? Is that worth the killing and maiming of slaves?”
“Is it the death of a few slaves you
object to then? Or that we are guarding and carrying gold for the King?” Arthur
replied angrily, for Cei’s words stung – the more so because he knew him to be
right.
B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree - Award-winning Mystery Books
The first in a series of quick-read, cosy mysteries set in the 1970s
Eighteen-year-old library assistant Jan Christopher’s life is to change on a rainy Friday evening in July 1971, when her legal guardian and uncle, DCI Toby Christopher, gives her a lift home after work. Driving the car, is her uncle’s new Detective Constable, Laurie Walker – and it is love at first sight for the young couple.
But romance is soon to take a back seat when a baby boy is taken from his pram, a naked man is scaring young ladies in nearby Epping Forest, and an elderly lady is found, brutally murdered... Are the events related? How will they affect the staff and public of the local library where Jan works – and will romance survive and blossom between library assistant Jan Christopher and DC Laurie Walker – or will the brutal murder intervene?
"I sank into this gentle cosy mystery story with the same enthusiasm and relish as I approach a hot bubble bath, (in fact this would be a great book to relax in the bath with!), and really enjoyed getting to know the central character..." Debbie Young bestselling cosy mystery author
"Jan is a charming heroine. You feel you get to know her and her love of books and her interest in the people in the library where she works. She's also funny, and her Aunt Madge bursts with character - the sort of aunt I would love to have had. I remember the 70s very well and Ms Hollick certainly gives a good flavour of the period." Denise Barnes (bestselling romance author Molly Green)
“A delightful read about an unexpected murder in North East London. Told from the viewpoint of a young library assistant, the author draws on her own experience to weave an intriguing tale” Richard Ashen (South Chingford Community Library)
“Lots of nostalgic, well-researched, detail about life in the 1970s, which readers of a certain age will lap up; plus some wonderful, and occasionally hilarious, ‘behind the counter’ scenes of working in a public library, which any previous or present-day library assistant will recognise!” Reader's Review
“An enjoyable novella with a twist in who done it. I spent the entire read trying to decide what was a clue and what wasn’t ... Kept me thinking the entire time. I call that a success.” Reader's Review
.jpg) |
| (image, courtesy Debbie Young) |
READ AN EXCERPT
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Alone In The Kitchen
Laurie wanted me to sit in the
car while he ran to the police telephone box situated beyond the cinema, on the
island crescent where the buses terminated. I had refused.
“I
can’t leave her on her own!” Tears were starting to prick my eyes, and I was
shaking. He was right, the car would be a better place, but despite the
obnoxious odour I couldn’t, just couldn’t, leave Mrs Norris lying on her
kitchen floor with no one to – to, what? Comfort her? Protect her? She was
beyond both, but I could not bear the thought of leaving her.
I
think Laurie understood, because he took his jacket off and draped it around my
shoulders, sat me in one of the wooden chairs next to the kitchen table and
told me, firmly, to, “Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything.”
When
I looked up at him, my face half-crumpled into grief, half into bewilderment. He
kissed my forehead and said, “It’s a murder scene, love. The entire place will soon
be crawling with coppers and SOCO – Scene of Crime Officers – looking for
evidence of who did this.”
I
nodded. I knew that, but until he’d said it, it hadn’t registered properly. “I
know what SOCO means. My uncle is a Detective Chief Inspector,” I said
unnecessarily tartly. I immediately apologised. “I’m sorry, that was very rude
of me. I’ll stay put,” I promised.
“No
need to apologise, you’re in shock.” He didn’t kiss me again, but he touched my
cheek with a forefinger. “I won’t be long.” And he was gone.
I
heard vomiting outside the open front door, partially rose as I guessed it was
Laurie spewing his insides up, but thought better of going out to him. One: he
had told me to stay put. Two: he would be embarrassed. Three: I would be
embarrassed.
I
was shaking again. I clutched my arms around myself and rocked back and forth,
a sound between a groan and a sob leaving my throat, awful memories returning.
It was not the first time for me. I’d seen my dad, my own dad, shot dead with
three bullets right before my eyes. I’d been upstairs in bed, had heard someone
knock, loud and insistent at the front door. Heard Dad answer it, exclaim,
‘What the...?” and then scuffling and shouting.
I
had run from my bedroom and peered through the spindles of the banisters. There
had been three very loud bangs, and Dad had staggered backwards clutching at
his chest, knocking over the telephone table with the vase of fresh flowers on
it, sending it crashing to the floor. Daffodils. Bright yellow daffodils that I
had helped Mum pick from the garden that afternoon. The telephone itself
tinkled as it, too, fell, the Bakelite casing cracking as it smashed on to the
floor. Dad tried to grab the post of the banisters as he toppled onto the
bottom two stairs. There was blood everywhere, all over him, on the carpet, up
the walls, red splatters and dribbles spoiling the new floral wallpaper. The
only other thing I remember of that night was screaming. I stood at the top of
the stairs, and I screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I had been five years
old.
I
felt a scream crawling up from my stomach into my mouth now, but gulped it down
and clutched Laurie’s jacket tighter around my shoulders. I swallowed, hard,
again, suddenly desperately wanting the loo. I crossed my legs and squeezed my
thighs together.
“Think
of something else!” I murmured aloud.
I
looked at the space where the mirror had been, a distinctive lighter patch
against the cream-painted wall. The mirror must have been ripped off in anger,
or frustration, for the nail, hook or screw – whatever it had been hanging on –
had been yanked out of the wall, leaving the plaster cracked around a large
hole. I looked again at poor Mrs Norris. She was facing away from where the
mirror had been, had she turned from someone, not expecting such a vicious
attack? Had there been an argument? Had she known the person who had killed
her?
Unlike
the dining room, and the front room, come to that, this kitchen looked lived in,
bright and homely. There was nothing modern, most of the furniture and fittings
reflecting the fifties: a cream-painted wall cabinet, and matching cupboard and
drawers. A stove with a red kettle on one of the gas rings, its conical whistle
in place. Corner shelves with three cream-coloured tins with green lids,
labelled tea, coffee, sugar. A square, white metal bread bin. Pale blue chequered
curtains, drawn across a window above the sink, with blue and white china on
the draining board washed up and left to dry. A matching chequered curtain on a
wire rod beneath the sink. The table I was sitting at had a blue Formica top
and was pushed against the wall, the flap on that side folded down. Above, the
doors of the serving hatch into the dining room. Apart from the washing up, and
the blood on the floor, all was clean and tidy.
I
felt beneath the striped, knitted tea cosy that covered a teapot sitting on its
wooden stand on the table. Cold. Then I remembered that Laurie had told me not
to touch anything. I sat back in the chair and folded my arms. It didn’t seem
right that Mrs Norris was lying there, abandoned. Maybe I could cover her with
something? I started to get to my feet, sighed, sat down again. Laurie would be
back soon; he would take care of her dignity. Then I noticed something. I bent as
far forward as I could without leaving the chair, to peer closer. Something was
clutched in her hand. A piece of paper, the corner of the front page of the Daily
Mirror poking through her clenched fingers. I could see its distinctive white
lettering on a red background. Footsteps coming down the hall! I gasped, sprang
to my feet. What if the murderer had come back? Felt stupid as I heard Laurie
call out.
“Only
me!”
He
walked in through the door, and I ran to him with a gulped sob, throwing myself
into his arms. I buried my head into his home-knitted, woollen cardigan and
cried. For Mrs Norris, for me, for the memory of my dad? I don’t know, all I
knew was that with Laurie’s arms round me, holding me tight, I felt safe.
 |
The Jan Christopher Cosy Mysteries set in the 1970s |
Thoughts from a Devonshire Farmhouse
(posted on my blog - subscribe to a 'reminder' list)
Start Here: January 2024 https://ofhistoryandkings.blogspot.com/2024/01/thoughts-from-devonshire-farmhouse.html
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| The story of the events that led to The Battle of Hastings in 1066 Harold the King (UK edition) I Am The Chosen King (US edition) 1066 Turned Upside Down an anthology of 'What If'' tales |
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| The Forever Queen (US edition) a USA TODAY BESTSELLER A Hollow Crown (UK edition) |
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THE PENDRAGON's BANNER TRILOGY |
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| US editions |
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Historical Stories of Exile by 13 popular authors Cryssa Bazos, Anna Belfrage, Elizabeth Chadwick, Cathie Dunn, J.G. Harlond, Helen Hollick, Loretta Livingstone, Amy Maroney Alison Morton, Charlene Newcomb, Elizabeth St.John, Marian L Thorpe, Annie Whitehead. With an introduction by Deborah Swift |
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