#BookExtract #AuthorInterview In the Shadows of Castles by G.K. Holloway

Today’s guest on What Cathy Read Next is Glynn Holloway, author of In the Shadows of CastlesIn the Shadows of Castles is the sequel to 1066: What Fates Impose which I read and reviewed back in 2018. You can read an extract from In the Shadows of Castles later in this post.

Question MarkI’m pleased to say Glynn bravely agreed to take part in my ‘Lucky Dip Q&A’ which involves picking five numbers between 1 and 30 and seeing what questions that produces. (Full disclosure: On this occasion I chose Glynn’s numbers for him.)

Q. If your book was set in space what would have to change?
A. The first thing is the technology. My book is set in the mid-eleventh century, so transport is earthbound and dependant on air for horses to breath. Weaponry would be next; the pen is mightier than the sword and so is a phaser. A space suit would be more appropriate than chainmail if you want to survive in space and a spaceship would be a good idea. Once all these changes have been made the plot and characters could remain more or less unchanged. The human condition, (and probably alien’s, too) remains the same. My story would be the same. It would have a beginning a middle and an end and would still be about who gets what, where, when and why.

Q. If you had to experiment with a completely different genre, what would it be?
A. I’ve thought about this a few times. Sci-Fi and thrillers are at the top of the list. Although I write historical fiction, I find the idea of writing Sci-Fi attractive because there’s no limit to what you can do, other than the limits of your imagination. Stories like, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Soylent Green and Minority Report spring to mind. It’s more the moral and political issues that attract me in Sci-Fi rather than the technical stuff. Turning my hand to thrillers has appeal but it’s quite a trick to produce a story with a labyrinthine plot and interesting characters to which readers can relate. I’m thinking Scandi Noir and The Killing in particular.

Q. What scene in a book was the most challenging to write?
A. Battles are particularly difficult, at least for me, especially if there are several in a book. It’s trying to make each one different. It gets harder every time. I change the setting from battlefield, to town, to tunnels, to a hillside, in a valley, in the dark, the rain, snow, fog, blazing sun, using spears, swords, axes, cavalry, infantry and bowmen.  And I must make them different from other writers, too.  It’s too easy to fall into a ‘he bashed him and then he bashed him back,’ scenario.

Q. What is your most productive time – and place – for writing.
A. This will sound odd, but it depends on what you call writing. If you mean sitting at a keyboard, then the answer is at home in the dining room where I have a computer on a desk right by the French windows that look out into our south facing garden. The afternoon is best for this. On the other hand, the mornings are best for ideas, and they can pop up anywhere but particularly if I’m walking or riding my bike around Durdam Downs, which are close to where I live. Some of my best ideas just seem to jump into my head out of nowhere. It’s like owning a faulty radio with a free roaming tuner that, every once in a while, picks up exactly the right station for what I want. Finally, there is what I call horizontal writing. These are ideas the occur to me when I’m in bed sleeping. I wake up and jot down ideas in a note pad, which I keep by my bedside.

Q. Past tense, present tense of both?
A. I suppose because I write historical fiction something about the past tense seems natural to me and so that’s what I write. It fits in with what I do. However, I’m aware of some writers of historical fiction who write in the present tense and that has a lot going for it. The outstanding quality of present tense is its ability to draw a reader in, bringing them closer to the action, making for a more intimate connection with the characters portrayed on the page. Writing in the past tense is a decision I made intuitively rather than as a result of an intellectual process. It just doesn’t feel right for me to write in the present tense, at least in historical fiction.

Well done to Glynn for tackling that first question. I also love the idea of ‘horizontal writing’.

In the Shadows of Castles CoverAbout the Book

It’s the 1060s, and William of Normandy is establishing a new and brutal regime in England, but there are those who would defy him. As Norman soldiers spread like a plague across the land, resistance builds, but will it be enough to topple William and restore the rightful king to his throne? The English have the courage to fight, but the Normans, already victorious at Hastings, now build castles seeking to secure their tenuous foothold in these lands.

And what of the people caught up in these catastrophic events? Dispossessed but not defeated, their lives ripped apart, the English struggle for freedom from tyranny; amongst them, caught up in the turmoil, are a soldier, a thane and two sisters. As events unfold, their destinies become intertwined, bringing drastic changes that alter their lives forever.

Firmly embedded in the history of the Conquest, In the Shadows of Castles is ultimately a story of love, hope and survival in a time of war.

Format: ebook (434 pages)           Publisher: Silverwood Books
Publication date: 17th June 2022 Genre: Historical Fiction

Find In the Shadows of Castles on Goodreads

Purchase link
Amazon UK
Link provided for convenience only, not as part of an affiliate programme

Extract from In the Shadows of Castles by G.K. Holloway

Whitgar’s problem now would be to make it safely through the snow to Durham, some fifty miles away. He would have to move fast. With enemy troops all around and the terrible cold, he was in danger of dying if the Normans apprehended him or he found no shelter. Hunched up against the cold, Whitgar pushed his horse on to Thirsk. There was a Dane there called Thor, a horse trader he had done business with many times. They had always got on well and even enjoyed the occasional half day hunting. Perhaps he would help.

In ordinary conditions it was a two-hour ride to Thirsk, but with so much snow, it would take longer. Whitgar dreaded the journey but pushed on through the bleached and hoary land, always concerned about freezing to death. His fingers and toes were soon numb, and his legs were stiffening up, but he was soon to discover the cold was not his only worry. As he headed towards the Vale of York, he crossed the tacks of a wolf pack heading north. He judged them to be a pack of at least a dozen. The paw prints were fresh.

‘Come on, Liegitu, we’d better make haste,’ Whitgar said to his horse.

Liegitu responded and increased his pace, he too wanted to get off the high ground and out of the bitter wind. Even if it were only a breeze, it still cut deep into man and beast and the shelter of the valley would be most welcome. They had gone less than a mile when a fearsome howl pieced the white silence of the moors. Whitgar had heard too many stories of people and their encounters with wolves to imagine it would be alone. Where there was one there would be others. Whitgar felt a surge of energy rush through his body and kicked his horse on. Not that he needed any encouragement. He, too, had heard the wolf.

It was a relief, when ten minutes later he made his way off the moors and down into the relative shelter of the Vale of York, which offered some protection against the gusting breeze. He would only have to travel another five miles to safety from here. The thought lifted his spirits but not for long when a wolf howled again, this time much closer. Whitgar turned to see he had company, a wolf. It was big, dark but had a grey muzzle, his breath forming clouds in the air. Whitgar wondered if he was the leader introducing his pack to the next meal. His horse must have picked up the scent because he, too, became unsettled and jittery.

Whitgar began exercising his fingers in anticipation of having to use his bow; they were so cold he thought he would be lucky if he could even string it. He had just begun rubbing his fingers together to get them warm when he noticed something moving in the woods to his right, another wolf and then another, fifty yards further on. He reached for his bow and strung it, no easy matter on horseback, especially with a skittish horse tugging on the reins.

Whitgar felt Liegitu’s distress as their predators began to close in and wondered how desperate his situation was. Liegitu, fast as he was, would never manage a five-mile gallop to Thirsk and in any event, he doubted if he could outrun a pack of wolves. He would have to rely on his bow to save him.

I wonder how many wolves there are, and if I have enough arrows? he asked himself. It was then he remembered something Thor had told him a long time before about the animals, which were a common sight around Thirsk. ‘They hardly ever attack humans, but if you suspect they might go for you, don’t run. Hold your ground. Make yourself look bigger than you really are, make a lot of noise and throw things at them. That should scare them away,’

‘What if it doesn’t?’ Whitgar had asked.

‘You’d better hope it’s all over with quickly,’ Thor said, before bursting into laughter.

The wolf Whitgar had first seen moving up behind him now broke into loping run, not fast but closing the distance between them. At the same time, another one, a little way further up the valley appeared and ran to intercept him. Liegitu panicked and became harder to control. Three more wolves joined the pack and closed the gap between them.

Whitgar did his best to keep Liegitu calm and at a walking pace, and he sent and arrow the way of the closest wolf to see if it would scare it off. The distance between them was now twelve to fifteen yards, an easy enough shot if Liegitu remained steady. Whitgar released the reins, took aim, and released the arrow just as Liegitu jumped forward, making him miss the target by several feet and appearing not to unsettle it.

Retaking hold of the reins, Whitgar tried to settle his horse, but Liegitu was on the verge of panic and the wolves closed in all around them. He tried losing off another arrow but had the same result as the first. Liegitu began bucking and neighing, wildly shaking his head, as fear got the better of him.

Whitgar decided on a change of tactic and slipping his bow over his shoulder drew his sword. He tried waving it around and shouting but he seemed to frighten Liegitu more than the wolves. With Thirsk still more than three miles away, Whitgar was wondering how he would complete the journey when Liegitu bolted. The wolves had achieved their aim and they raced after the horse and rider like demons, closing the gap until they were close enough to make leaps towards Liegitu’s throat. In a blind panic he ran straight into Balk Beck, a small river Whitgar had crossed a few times on his visits to Thirsk. The horse ran straight into the middle while the wolves stayed baying on the bank. Sensing safety, Liegitu came to a halt and he and Whitgar faced their pursuers. This was an excellent opportunity, he realised, and so he sheathed his sword, put an arrow in his bow and shot the closest wolf, which let out a sickening yelp and made off limping and howling with the rest of the pack. Whitgar and Liegitu watched them go as Whitgar patted his horse’s side.

‘You’re a clever fellow, Liegitu,’ Whitgar said to his horse as he patted his neck. ‘Fancy thinking of that. I’ll remember that lesson next time I’m chased by wolves. I’ll just go and stand in the middle of a river.’

Glynn HollowayAbout the Author

G. K. Holloway did several jobs after leaving school before taking A Levels at his local college and later a degree in History and Politics at Coventry University.

Once he had graduated, he spent the next twenty years working in education in and around Bristol. After reading a biography about Harold Godwinson, he studied the late Anglo-Saxon era in detail and discovered a time of papal plots, court intrigues, family feuds, loyalties, betrayals, assassinations and a few battles. When he had enough material to weave together fact and fiction, he produced his award-winning novel, 1066: What Fates Impose, the first in a series about the Norman Conquest.

G. K. Holloway lives in Bristol with his wife and two children. (Photo: Author website)

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#Extract Until We Meet by Camille Di Maio @CamilleDiMaio

I’m delighted today to bring you an extract from a book I’m hoping to read very soon, Until We Meet by Camille Di Maio. My thanks to Ellen at Books Forward for my digital review copy.

Until We MeetAbout the Book

New York City, 1943.

Can one small act change the course of a life? Margaret‘s job at the Navy Yard brings her freedoms she never dared imagine, but she wants to do something more personal to help the war effort. Knitting socks for soldiers is a way to occupy her quiet nights and provide comfort to the boys abroad. But when a note she tucks inside one of her socks sparks a relationship with a long-distance pen pal, she finds herself drawn to a man she’s never even met.

Can a woman hold on to her independence if she gives away her heart?  Gladys has been waiting her whole life for the kinds of opportunities available to her now that so many men are fighting overseas. She’s not going to waste a single one. And she’s not going to let her two best friends waste them either. Then she meets someone who values her opinions as much as she likes giving them, and suddenly she is questioning everything she once held dear.

Can an unwed mother survive on her own? Dottie is in a dire situation – she’s pregnant, her fiancé is off fighting the war, and if her parents find out about the baby, they’ll send her away and make her give up her child. Knitting helps take her mind off her uncertain future-until the worst happens and she must lean on her friends like never before.

With their worlds changing in unimaginable ways, Margaret, Gladys, and Dottie will learn that the unbreakable bond of friendship between them is what matters most of all.

Format: Paperback (384 pages)    Publisher: Forever
Publication date: 1st March 2022 Genre: Historical Fiction

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Purchase links
 Amazon UK | Amazon US
Links provided for convenience only, not as part of an affiliate programme

Extract from Until We Meet

Distracted by the music and the twittering of their conversation, Margaret was surprised that an hour later, she had produced the base of a sock that, while not storefront-perfect, was something to be proud of. Gladys was about as far along as she was while Dottie was well on her way to finishing the matched sock that would complete the pair. At this rate, they could clothe the whole army in a short time. Dottie leaned in and showed them how to change the pattern in order to create the ribbed part that would hug the shin. Knit two, purl two.

As she continued, Margaret thought about the boys who would wear them and about a special request that John had asked of her. Could you write a note to my buddy William? He hasn’t received any letters yet, and I don’t know why. But I think it would mean an awful lot to him. Something cheery. You’re just the girl to do it.

She paused to glide a finger along her nearly done piece and thought about who this William was. Would he put the pair on right away? Or would he stash it in his rucksack for later? But most important, would he smile at the thought that some girl in Brooklyn had spent a Saturday evening making this for him? She was grateful her brother had enlisted her help. It gave her the kind of purpose that she felt working at the Navy Yard. That in some little way, she was contributing to the war effort.

“Margaret, watch out!”

Dottie was pointing to the pocket of the red sweater that Margaret’s grandmother had made for her many Christmases ago. It had seen better days – Margaret wore it frequently to the Navy Yard, and it had caught on her work more times than she cared to count. She missed her grandmother, having lost her two years ago to pneumonia, and the sweater was a warm reminder of the woman she’d loved. Margaret still felt the void at the dinner table every night as her grandmother’s seat remained empty. And now John’s.

She saw the problem that Dottie was pointing to. A piece of the yarn had come loose and had wound its way around the gray wool skein. The last row of Margaret’s stitching had the beginnings of an unintentional red border. “Looks kind of nice, if you ask me,” offered Gladys.

Dottie stood up to inspect the work. “I think she’s right, Mags. It dresses it up a little bit. Makes it stand out.” She dug through her bag. “I don’t have a red skein, but I have a yellow one if you want to make a border on purpose.” She held it up.

Margaret took it from her hand but wasn’t convinced as she put it next to the sock. There was something dull about it. Yellow on gray. Whereas the red reminded her of some of the flashiest dancing shoes her parents used to make. She shook her head and gave the yellow back to Dottie. Then she tugged on her sweater, loosening the yarn even more. “I’m going to stick with the red. For all the socks I make. It will be like having my signature on it.”

“Oh, Margaret!” exclaimed Dottie. “What do you mean? That’s your favorite sweater!”

Margaret’s heart beat faster as she doubted herself, but she knew deep down that this was something she had to do. “That’s why. It’s because it’s my favorite. What if this little sacrifice means something? Like the amount of our effort somehow elevates theirs?”

Gladys set her project down on her lap. “Like it’s in the stars. The more good you put out there, the more comes down to them.”

“Or” – Dottie seemed enthusiastic about the idea now – “it’s like sending them a bit of your grandmother’s goodwill. Letting her be their guardian angel too.”

Margaret smiled. “Yes. Exactly like that.”

“I like it. And so would John.”

Margaret stifled a yawn. It was only nine o’clock, but she still felt tired from the sleep she’d missed from the early shift yesterday. This work was too important, though, and this evening with her friends was too dear to wrap up early. Another Glenn Miller song came on – “Knit One, Purl Two.” The girls fell into another fit of giggles. The song had dominated radio stations last year, and its appearance at this moment felt like it was all meant to be.

“You know what?” said Gladys. “I think I’d like to do this every Saturday night after all.”

Margaret smiled at Gladys’s response to the silent wish of her heart. She whispered a prayer for the boys who would receive the socks and went back to work. Tomorrow, she would write a letter to William and slip it into the box before shipping it out.

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Camille Di MaioAbout the Author

Camille Di Maio left an award-winning real estate career to become a bestselling author. She has a bucket list that is never ending and uses her adventures to inspire her writing. She’s lived in Texas, Colorado, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and California, and spends enough time in Hawai‘i and Maine to feel like a local. She’s traveled to four continents (so far), and hopes to get to all of them someday. Camille studied political science in college. She loves to spend Saturdays at farmers’ markets and belts out Broadway tunes whenever the moment strikes. She lives with her husband of twenty-four years in coastal Virginia, has two kiddos grown and flown, and two still at home. Rescue pets have been a long-term passion for her, the most recent addition being a German shepherd puppy. (Photo/Bio: Publisher author page)

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