When the Stones Held by David E. Owen
Publication Date: 16th May 2026
Publisher: Independently Published
Print Length: 331 Pages
Genre: Historical Fiction
When the Stones Held is a historical novel inspired by the remarkable true story of William Edwards, the self-taught Welsh stonemason who built one of the great bridges of the eighteenth century.
Growing up in rural South Wales, William lives in a world of hard physical labour, dangerous rivers and limited opportunity. From an early age, he develops an instinctive understanding of stone, balance and the possibilities hidden within the landscape around him.
As the coal trade begins to transform the valleys and the need for safer routes grows, William accepts an extraordinary challenge: to build a bridge across the River Taff at Pontypridd. He is twenty-seven years old and has never built a bridge before.
What follows will test far more than his skill as a stonemason. Flood destroys his first bridge. Later attempts bring new failures and new problems to solve. With his reputation, livelihood and family affected by every decision he makes, William must decide how much he is prepared to risk for something no one can promise will succeed.
Set against a South Wales beginning to experience profound change, When the Stones Held is a story of ambition, family, community and resilience, and of an apparently ordinary man whose determination would leave a legacy that survives more than two and a half centuries later.
Any Triggers: Drowning, poverty
Praise:
'When the Stones Held' is a beautifully written novel that celebrates perseverance, faith, love, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. It reminds us that the greatest achievements are rarely built by one pair of hands alone, but through the courage, kindness, and support of those who stand beside us.
Buy Link:
This book is available on #KindleUnlimited
Author Bio:
David E. Owen
After decades spent teaching around the world—from the UK to the Caribbean, Africa, and the Middle East—I came to writing fiction later in life. I started with fantasy before finding my voice in fast-paced, real-world spy thrillers. My stories are grounded in current issues like corruption, gender bias, and power, but always emphasise pace, surprise, and character-driven tension.
I’ve visited over 80 countries, worked as a radio host in Abu Dhabi, directed Shakespeare for African audiences in the bush, and even survived a flash flood in Mali and an armed hold-up. I was arrested for drug-smuggling in Nigeria but was eventually released when I refused to pay off the police captain, and I was boat-wrecked alone on a desert island in the Arabian Sea (but no tree) and rescued through a police search. Now retired from teaching, I split my time between writing, photography, and trying to get fit (thanks to a stubborn rowing machine). My latest novel, Hate Machine, tackles misogyny and gender radicalisation — not typical thriller territory, but I like a challenge.
Social Media Links:
Website:
Instagram:
X:
Facebook:
Bluesky:
BookBub:
Amazon Author Page
 |
| Read an excerpt |
Excerpt 1
1746
That evening, William was at
Elen’s cottage, making minor repairs to her boundary wall where the gate was
beginning to come away, making it difficult to open and shut, when he saw
Myfanwy walking up the path. He stopped work and looked at her quizzically.
She barely looked at him as
she asked, “Is Elen in?”
William nodded and lifted the
gate aside so that she could pass. He began to walk with her toward the cottage
when Myfanwy asked quietly. “Is it all right if I see her alone?”
William hesitated only a
moment. There was something in her voice, something strained and uncertain,
that made him step aside without further question. “Of course.”
Myfanwy thanked him with a
slight nod and continued toward the door. William returned to the wall, setting
another stone into place and pressing the earth tight around the hinge post
while she knocked.
Elen opened the door and, for
a moment, simply stood there, her hand still on the latch, looking at the woman
before her, the sight catching her unprepared. “Myfanwy?”
“May I come in?”
Elen stepped aside at once.
The door closed behind them, shutting out the evening air and the faint tapping
of William’s hammer against stone.
Inside, the small room held
the warmth of the day’s fire. A loaf of bread rested on the table beside a
wooden board dusted with flour, the smell of it lingering. Through the narrow
window, the last light of evening slanted across the floorboards and caught the
rough grain of the table.
Myfanwy remained standing
near the centre of the room.
She had always carried
herself with a restless energy, rarely still, rarely uncertain of where she
belonged. Now that energy seemed to have drained away, leaving her oddly
motionless, as if she feared that even the smallest movement might betray her.
Elen watched her for a
moment. “You did not come here to talk about the weather,” she said quietly.
Myfanwy gave a faint attempt
at a smile, but it did not reach her eyes. “No.”
Elen drew out the chair
beside the table. “Sit.”
Myfanwy obeyed, though the
movement was awkward. She settled on the edge of the chair and clasped her
hands together in her lap.
Elen remained standing for a
moment longer before taking the chair opposite.
Outside, the sound of
William’s hammer tapping steadily against the stones of the wall continued.
Neither woman spoke, the quiet stretching until it became impossible to ignore.
At last, Myfanwy lifted her
head. “I did not know where else to go.”
Elen said nothing, watching
her, allowing her time and space, though already suspecting why Myfanwy was
there.
“I thought,” Myfanwy
continued slowly, “that if I kept silent long enough, the trouble would pass of
its own accord.” Her hands tightened together.
“But it does not pass.”
Elen’s gaze moved over her face, noticing the shadows beneath her eyes, the
faint tightness in the way she held herself. “How long have you known?”
Myfanwy’s head jerked
slightly, as though the question had struck her unexpectedly.
“You know? How?” She looked
down at her stomach and ran a hand over it, testing whether anything showed.
“I did not know before. I
guessed from what you just said. Women understand such things,” Elen said.
For several seconds, Myfanwy
said nothing. Then she lowered her eyes again. “I hoped no one would notice for
a while yet.”
Elen laid the knife down
carefully on the board. “They probably don’t. I have only realised because
you’ve come to me in a troubled state. Does your father know?”
The question seemed to drain
the remaining colour from Myfanwy’s face. “No.”
“And Ewan?”
The room grew still. Outside
the hammering stopped briefly, then resumed. Myfanwy’s lips parted, but the
reply did not come. Elen studied her for a long moment, the silence returning
between them.
“Is Ewan the father?” she
asked quietly.
Myfanwy’s hands trembled, and
for an instant, it seemed she might answer. Instead, she turned her face away.
“I cannot tell my father about this.” The words came out raw and unguarded.
Elen leaned back slightly in
her chair, her eyes resting on Myfanwy’s lowered face. “No,” she said after a
moment. “I understand.”
“What do I do?” Outside, the
evening deepened across the valley. The faint sound of William’s hammer fell
silent, while inside the cottage, the two women sat facing one another in the
dimming light, wondering how to approach something that could not be hidden
much longer.
They both started when a
knock sounded at the door. Myfanwy’s head turned sharply, fear flashing across
her face.
William popped his head in
briefly. “The gate’s secure now. I’m heading home.” The door closed quietly,
and William’s footsteps disappeared into the growing gloom.
The interruption broke
whatever composure Myfanwy had been holding. She bowed her head, and tears
came.
Wales mid-1700s.
This was quite an insight into the difficulties and hardships of a struggling sheep farming, poor Welsh family in the eighteenth century.
We meet young William Edwards as the rain is falling and the stream that runs through the farm is swollen, threatening the stability of the fencing and therefore the safety of the flock. The tension as William's father struggles to attempt to repair it mounts as the rain continues to fall... all of which hooks the reader straight into the story.
Already we see how William's young mind works as he sits at the table doing his lessons or simply doodling on his slate; his fascination for stone, balance and interest in what we would now call engineering occupying his gifted mind.
.png)
