Download in various ebook formats here:

http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/23709/ashes-of-dearen-book-1

or here: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/102432

Dearen is the smallest kingdom of the Three Nations. But thanks to a joy-producing dust called safra, Dearen is also the wealthiest, most powerful, and safest kingdom on the continent. Consumers of safra remain joyful and euphoric for as long as they consume it, and safra can only be found in Dearen. Princess Fayr is about to learn the secret of making safra from her father–the last man alive who knows how—when he is killed by a red-eyed assassin known as a Wolven. Distraught, Princess Fayr must attempt to save her country while watching its safra supply slowly run out.

Meanwhile, the warrior country of Vikand hires another Wolven to succeed where the first failed. Sean Wolven must venture into Dearen and kill the last two members of the royal bloodline: Princess Fayr and her little brother, Kyne. A Vikand politician named Picard, who has been addicted to safra ever since his right arm became mauled in combat, uses cruel wiles to force Sean into an additional agreement: Sean must learn the secret of making safra from the Dearen royalty before he kills them. Sean has little choice but to cover his red eyes and approach Princess Fayr in the guise of a suitor.

King-wife Eleanor of the nation of Yamair worships reason and efficiency. She hates safra and all it stands for, so she visits the vulnerable Princess Fayr and announces her terms. But while she is Dearen, Eleanor tries safra for the first time and the experience changes her life forever.

All four characters soon find themselves in a violent competition for power that brings all Three Nations to the brink of warfare. And little do they know, their scrambling efforts are being carefully watched by a much greater power: the gods behind the beguiling drug that ensnares them all.

***

I first wrote this book several years ago when I was fed up with writing what other people wanted me to write (classes, jobs, agents, Hollywood, etc.). I wrote whatever the hell I wanted, no matter how strange or perverse, and I didn’t worry about what anyone else might think because I didn’t plan to let anyone read it but my husband (this was when I first came up with my pen name, Jayden Woods, in fact). I had so much fun, of course, that when I was finished I loved what I had created and felt tempted to share it. A few rejection letters later, I tucked the novel away and put it out of my mind.

Recently, I’ve been fed up with writing for different but familiar reasons (i.e., trying to please other people). For whatever reason, I was drawn back to this story and still felt as attached to all the characters as if I had just written it yesterday. And just like that, I found myself rewriting it from scratch.

I should also mention that I don’t rewrite much. Ever. Some people would wag their finger at me for admitting such a thing, but it’s true. Usually once I write something, I feel like it already happened. My characters have made their decisions (usually from some part of my subconscious which I dearly trust) or they’ve said their piece, and that’s that. “Ashes of Dearen” is an exception for me. Truly, I didn’t change the plot much at all when I rewrote it. That’s another confirmation for me that my subconscious tends to know what it’s doing. But I made it better. And that has been deeply satisfying so far.

Now go read it for free. And most importantly, enjoy!

Meanwhile, here’s a review by Kay J. Blalock, Ph.D.:

“He understood why people must die.  The death of certain people put the world into balance.”  This understanding comes to Godric, bastard son of the first “son of Mercia,” Eadric the Grasper, at an early age.  Godric the Kingslayer, as he eventually will be known, takes it upon himself to live his life accordingly—as the one destined to “put the world into balance.”

Despite his age, or perhaps because of it, Godric finds himself again and again caught up in the rivalries for the throne of Engla-lond.  Woods reintroduces us to such historic figures as Edmund Ironside, Canute, Queen Emma, and Edward, as well as the Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian warriors whose bids for survival and power enrich not only the eleventh century but this work of historical fiction.  The introduction of Godric to this mix provides a quick-paced and fascinating journey of the outsider on the inside through a critical period in history.  Sweeping the reader along with him, Godric serves, more often than not, as an unwilling participant at the center of the intrigue and danger that comprise the story of the past and the narrative of the novel.

Throughout his and our journey, the author guides us by developing sympathetic characters, such as Osgifu, the eldest red-headed daughter of Lindsey, boon companion of Godric’s father.  It is to her that Godric will turn, either in thought or in deed, during various traumatic times in his own emergence from a boy to manhood.  The effeminate minstrel, Sigurd, offers a friendship that informs and shapes the man that Godric is and will become.  One can only wonder if Godric would have survived his coming of age without such a friend.  More likely than not, however, the reader, like the title character, must come to grips with several individuals who seem hell-bent on injuring or destroying the young man, although a few, in-the-end, offer more good than harm for Godric’s growth to manhood.  His evil, or at least so he believes, stepmother is one such example.  With her death, we see this young battle-scarred man seriously grieving and crying over her grave.

Once again, Jayden Woods creates a contextually factual and colorful narrative that will enlighten as well as entertain the reader.  Her fictional characters, as in the first Sons of Mercia volume, become real people in the reader’s mind, adding to rather than taking away from the historic possibilities she creates.  I once heard an academic historian refer to scholarship as educated guessing.  The historian works with the resources available.  The historical novelist enhances those resources with an imagination that suggests the aforementioned historical possibilities.  As an historian, I highly recommend Godric the Kingslayer.

**

Get it for the Barnes & Noble Nook

Download it for the computer or other mobile devices

Thanks to everyone for your support. I hope you enjoy Godric’s story!

Vagabonds

Chapter 1

The horizon had long since vanished, or flipped itself over, or become something else entirely. Aeryn could not tell one way or the other. Nor could he remember when the change occurred, or whether it had always been that way. There was no more up, or down, or eastward, which had been the direction he traveled, sometime long ago. There was only a wall of sea foam in the distance, or at least something akin to one. Whatever it was, it undulated with a hundred colors, and it was always moving, but never going anywhere. If he looked at it for too long his head began to ache.

“We should turn back,” said Aeryn. “I don’t think we’ll find it there.”

“If not, it won’t matter,” said Perceval. “Maybe it’s the end.”

“Like heaven?”

Perceval shrugged.

Their horses stirred restlessly beneath them. Aeryn turned to regard his companion. The two of them both sat upon horses of the most elegant stock. The velvety black fur of their steeds gleamed with the colors of the upturned sea. But Perceval’s chainmail sparkled pure silver, as it always did, and his long brown hair blew with a breeze Aeryn could not feel. The other knight’s blue eyes twinkled as they stared into the radiance beyond, but he did not seem to grow weary of it, as Aeryn did. Perhaps because Perceval wasn’t real. Perhaps because none of it was.

“What if it’s hell?” said Aeryn. He took off his helmet so he could meet his friend’s gaze, perhaps to borrow its brightness. In Aeryn’s own eyes there was only darkness and sadness. His black hair lay flat upon his armored shoulders, and he felt none of the spring wind that refreshed his companion.

“Is there a difference anymore?” Perceval never looked to Aeryn. His eyes remained on the foam in the distance. In the glassy irises, Aeryn could see its reflection.

“Of course. Why would you ask such a silly thing?”

“What if God is the Devil, and the Devil is God? What if they are one and the same?”

Aeryn gripped his sword and loosed it from its scabbard. His voice grated in his throat like the steel against its sheath. “The Perceval I knew would never say such a thing!”

“Then perhaps I am not he.” At last, the knight turned his head. As Aeryn watched, Perceval’s face seemed to morph, resembling less and less of the man he knew and loved, revealing instead a demon with grinning white fangs and red, slitted eyes. The demon laughed as the wind around him strengthened, lashing his hair against his lips. “Why do you care so much, Aeryn? Why, after all this time, can you not let it go?”

Aeryn bared his blade, thrusting the naked steel through the winds towards Perceval. “Tell me where it is.”

“How should I know? I am not Perceval. Perceval is not even real, Aeryn. He never was.”

“We shall see about how real you are when my sword breaks your skin.”

“I did not say I am not real!” The demon laughed. His hair wrapped around itself and swelled into a slimy texture. His chainmail stretched and twisted, sinking into his flesh until it became like scales along his arms. “Perceval was a dream, Aeryn. So was the Grail. So is anything you see here in this accursed place. Except for That …” He swept his hand towards the vertical storm. “That is the only real thing that ever was, the form from which all shadows are cast. The sea of being. The river of life. The stream—”

Aeryn jabbed with his sword, rending a hole through Perceval’s chest.

The demon screeched and his horse reared. But instead of Perceval bleeding to death, or the horse galloping away, something stranger happened. Through the hole in Perceval’s chest, something squirmed, then slithered out. It was a serpent, and as it came out, it wound around Perceval’s neck—not to strangle him, but rather to embrace its master. Aeryn watched in awe as Perceval’s hair twisted around itself and merged to form another snake, coiled about his head. The scales on his body which had once been chainmail rose out and formed yet another serpent, or maybe two, looping around his arms like bracelets. Beneath the writhing serpents the demon’s form revealed itself to be a human body, muscular and firm, but pale and gray, as if sculpted from clay and ash.

Meanwhile the horse beneath him changed, too. Horns pierced through its forehead and spread out towards the sky. Its body thickened, hooves spreading over the rocky earth, while its head widened then lowered. Slowly, the horse became a bull with eyes like globes of amber. The bull’s hide was as of sandy dunes, soft and grainy. Over the fur was a dark gray dust, the same as on the skin of his master, whose white flesh was powdered with the dark stuff.

“I see you cowering,” laughed the demon. “Do you cower when you know you are dreaming? Or are your dreams worth fearing the most?”

“It … it … can’t be,” gasped Aeryn. The air rushed against him, shaking his sword, rattling his lungs. He smelled spoiled meat, rotten fruit. “The Grail is real. It has to be. I will never stop searching. I must find it. For Queen Eleanor!”

“Hm,” said the demon. When he smiled, his tongue writhed behind his teeth like another serpent. “Queen Eleanor … ?”

Aeryn’s grip tightened on his sword. The wind about him strengthened. His steed tossed under his legs. “She is real. She has to be!”

“I suppose she was as real as you perceive such reality.” The bull mount snorted and stomped its great hooves. “But she was yet another form, cast by the light of the essence.”

“You speak nonsense,” cried Aeryn, “and I will hear no more!”

This time he stabbed the demon’s mouth, piercing the snake behind the teeth. The tip of the blade drove through. With a yell of rage, Aeryn leapt from the back of his own horse. He planted his feet on the bull’s shoulders and drove his blade into the demon’s mouth. The steel plunged through the demon’s skull and out the other side. Aeryn cried out for victory as he plunged the blade home.

But when he blinked, he saw the demon still smiling, even with the sword between its teeth. As Aeryn watched, a serpent crawled from the demon’s arm and bit Aeryn’s wrist.

Aeryn stumbled back, watching the snake’s teeth pull back out. Two holes in his forearm gaped open. The sky rolled. He sagged and slid down the bull’s neck.

The demon reached up and pulled the sword from its teeth. Its tongue seemed no worse for wear once freed. “The poison acts quickly.”

Aeryn fell into a tangle of soil and rocks that formed the earth below. He cried out as the pain spread up his back and his vision became lost in the world above. It should have been a sky, but it wasn’t. Through the clouds was another landscape. Winding across its surface was a river, blue and turbulent, and around the river were sharp mountains jutting out as if to impale him. Indeed his body seemed to be rising, or falling, towards the rocky spikes; he grew dizzy and lost track of what was up and down. His whole body tingled and he knew the poison must be taking effect. But while all the world turned around him, the face of the demon loomed steadily over him, grinning with its snake fangs.

“Poor Aeryn. Lucky Aeryn. How long have you been dreaming?”

“Not … a dream …” gasped Aeryn. He saw the river trickling closer, winding towards him like another snake. He saw his shape reflected in its surface, dark and fading fast. “Oh God … how long? How long have I been searching?”

“Hundreds of years. Maybe thousands. You have been caught in the stream for a long time, Aeryn. We all have. Can you see it?”

The demon held him now, his fingers digging into Aeryn’s shoulders, the serpents hissing in his ears. The two of them floated above the stream—or if up was across, then they floated next to it—while the Sea of Being writhed above, and no earth lay under their feet. Aeryn stared into the stream and saw his face, the face of a young knight with an X-shaped scar on his cheek. His body was one of youth and strength, but in his eyes was something much older, much wearier: the soul of someone who had lived too long.

“It’s only a reflection,” said the demon. “One perception of the essence within.”

Suddenly the demon thrust Aeryn into the water. He tried to cry out but his mouth filled with water, or whatever it was. The stream-stuff burned his tongue and tasted like fire. It filled up his veins and melted him, from within and without, and he released a silent scream.

When the demon pulled him back out, he felt smaller and frailer. The sound from his mouth was a high-pitched squawk. He thrashed and squirmed, but his arms had become large, flattened things—wings. Feathers flew from his body, as black as shards of the night sky. He twisted to peer upon his reflection, but instead he saw the face of a raven, clacking its beak and flapping uselessly in the grip of the snakes.

“Another form. The same you.”

Once again Aeryn was thrust into the stream. This time he tried not to breathe, knowing that here, breath was only an illusion: not a necessity for life. Yet after a time the water seeped into him anyway, through his feathers, through his eyes. He tried flapping but he could already feel his form changing again, shifting, twisting, withering like a leaf in a flame. When he thrashed free, his wings were arms again.

He gasped for breath, or the idea of it, as he watched his own lips in the water. They were different now, like everything else. The lips were small, pert, and pink. He blinked in awe as he stared at the new reflection of himself, or herself, for the face staring back at him was that of a young girl’s, perhaps seventeen years of age. She had big blue eyes and jagged black hair. Her body was small and wiry. She did not appear to possess much strength, but when he squirmed, he found the grip of the snakes slipping.

“Cute,” said the demon. “Take your last look, Aeryn. You will never get a new form again.”

Now Aeryn glimpsed many more faces in the water: men, women, young, old, black, white. All him. All her.

“Goodbye, Aeryn. Good luck.”

The demon let go, though Aeryn now wished that he wouldn’t. Aeryn fell into the stream and it wrapped completely around him. He reached and flailed but there was no swimming in a stream like this. Its surface looked like water but on the other side it loomed something else. Pitch blackness, disrupted occasionally by flashes of light. He could not close his eyes to the light because he no longer had eyes, or a body. He was only a consciousness hanging in an atmosphere without substance or shape.

One flash of light beamed more steadily and brightly than the others, drawing him in. As it flooded over him, he felt his head reform above the stream. He saw the waters roiling about him, splashing and undulating. Then he saw the land rushing past. The stream was moving—fast. And it was headed somewhere.

Towards the standing ocean. He cried out, but it was too late. The stream had him, and it would pull him into the undulating oblivion, the spraying acid foam.

He stared into his doom and it was as frightening as it was beautiful. He wished he could see more of it, but his eyes could not see far enough, for it expanded everywhere. The colors were too intense, too searing. When he tried to focus on the foam, seeing shapes in it, he failed to do so. Sometimes the details became broken up into pieces like cubes, larger than they ought to be.

Then Aeryn felt as if he was breaking into cubes, too, and splitting apart every which way.

Then there was nothing.

Chronology

I intentionally wrote the Lost Tales of Mercia out of order. However, if you’d like to read the Lost Tales (and Eadric the Grasper, for that matter) in chronological sequence, that’s fine too. Here’s how you would do it:

1. The Second Lost Tale of Mercia: Ethelred the King (978 A.D.)

2. The First Lost Tale of Mercia: Golde the Mother (993 A.D.)

3. The Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia: Athelward the Historian (993 A.D.)

4. The Third Lost Tale of Mercia: Aydith the Aetheling (1001 A.D.)

5. The Ninth Lost Tale of Mercia: Runa the Wife (1001-1006 A.D.)

6. The Tenth Lost Tale of Mercia: Edmund the Aetheling (1002 A.D.)

– Eadric the Grasper (begins 1002 A.D. and goes to 1017 A.D. Therefore, the following stories actually take place during/in between the events of the novel)

7. The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia: Hastings the Hearth Companion (1004 A.D.)

8. The Seventh Lost Tale of Mercia: Hildred the Maid (1005 A.D.)

9. The Eighth Lost Tale of Mercia: Canute the Viking (1012 A.D.)

10. The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia: Alfgifu the Orphan (1014 A.D.)

People also ask me whether to read the Lost Tales of Mercia or Eadric the Grasper first. I mean it when I say you can read in whatever order you want. There are bound to be little spoilers here and there but nothing too drastic; I intended it that way. However, if I’m pushed for an opinion, I say read Eadric the Grasper first, probably because I wrote it first so it feels most natural to me. Or just read Eadric the Grasper on its own, because the Lost Tales are altogether supplemental. Seriously, do whatever strikes your fancy.

Rating / Maturity Level

People are also curious whether the Lost Tales of Mercia are suitable for kids. I’m probably not qualified to say, because if I had kids, I think I’d let them read whatever they wanted. But I imagine most people would reply “no,” the Lost Tales of Mercia are not for young kids. Young adults–maybe. If they were movies, the Lost Tales of Mercia in general and Eadric the Grasper would probably be PG-13; Godric the Kingslayer and Edric the Wild would most definitely be R.

There is sex, there is violence, there is language, and a splash of homosexuality in just about everything I write. What can I say? I love drama, and I follow the story where it leads me.

Cover art by Del Melchionda

The book still releases September 27, 2011 until further notice!

See the book’s new webpage here: http://www.jaydenwoods.com/Kingslayer.html

I’m proud to say that after a long time of searching, a good literary agent and I have found one another. I also finished that book I thought I was stuck on. Tomorrow I have an interview I feel good about.

Changes are on the horizon, indeed. Stay tuned!

For now, it is my pleasure to tell you about my last two days in England.

First we took a trip from Tamworth to Birmingham. Because Birmingham is such a large city, we decided to ride the rail to it, rather than test my left-lane driving skills in a thick urban area. Boy, am I glad! Birmingham was even bigger and denser than I expected it to be.

Birmingham is the second-largest city in England next to London, and its urban economy is the 72nd largest in the world. I could not believe how many malls were all together in walking distance, nor how many people were out shopping in the middle of a Monday! It felt like Christmas season at the St Louis Galleria.

We made our way to the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery, which was the focal point of our journey.

This would be our first glimpse of the renowned Staffordshire Hoard.

Sadly, we were not allowed to take pictures. However, there are plenty on the internet that I can share.

If you’ve never heard of the Staffordshire Hoard, I should remedy that quickly for you. The Staffordshire Hoard is the largest collection of Anglo-Saxon gold metalwork ever found. A man discovered it in 2009 while searching a hill near a highway with a metal detector. The little tiny scraps of ancient craftsmanship he pulled from the dirt, piece by piece, would soon be valued at more than 3 million pounds.

The next few images are from http://www.staffordshirehoard.org.uk/, which I encourage you to visit.

Glancing at this pectoral cross (don’t peek at the next picture yet), how large would you suppose it was? I mean, look at those tiny spirals, or the intricate little ridges around the edges. Then remember that this all would have been hand-made–there were no technical gadgets to help the Anglo-Saxons create something like this. Do you have an image in your mind of how big this would be?

Good. Now you can look below.

A little smaller than you imagined, eh?

The most incredible thing about the hoard was tiny and intricate every little piece was. Most pieces were displayed in glass cases with magnifying glasses so that you could study each piece more clearly.

See more incredible images here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/birminghammag/sets/72157622327837525/

News of the Staffordshire Hoard became public around the same time I was writing “Eadric the Grasper.” It was amazing timing for me. Call it narcissistic, but the fact that this great discovery of the Anglo-Saxon era happened while I was writing my first historical fiction felt like a divine indication that what I was working on was important, profound, and unwilling to be forgotten.

In any case, there’s a glimpse at the Staffordshire Hoard, which we saw more of the next day, at the Potteries Museum & Art Gallery in Stoke-on-Trent.

I skip ahead a little, but in truth, I near the summation of the story of my England trip. The last two days were a blur of walking, riding the train, driving, and then touring museums. Here are a couple more images from the Birmingham museum and city:

During our last full day, we took a walk through the Tamworth morning market:

And then made our way through an incredible fog to Stoke-on-Trent. I must confess, I was not a big fan of that town, and in fact the only picture we took other than a picture of the museum was this one:

And that pretty much sums up my impression of that town. Sorry. Might have been my mood.

In any case, I leave you now with an image of the fog we drove in, an image that lingered in my mind long after I left. I felt as if on my last day, England was telling me that I had seen a great deal, but there is still so much more to learn and discover about this magical, majestic nation.

]]> http://talesofmercia.wordpress.com/2011/05/03/england-trip-days-5-an-6/feed/ 0 jaydenwoods Rail to Birmingham Birmingham shopping area Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery Sign for the Staffordshire Hoard Staffordshire Hoard - cross Pectoral cross - size reference Potteries Museum and Art Gallery Lucifer - Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery Birmingham Museum square Tamworth Market Stoke-on-Trent mall display Fog in England http://talesofmercia.wordpress.com/2011/03/22/england-trip-day-4/ http://talesofmercia.wordpress.com/2011/03/22/england-trip-day-4/#comments Tue, 22 Mar 2011 03:56:06 +0000 jaydenwoods http://talesofmercia.wordpress.com/?p=619 ]]> The fourth day of our trip was a Sunday, at which point we discovered that there is not a great deal to do in Shrewsbury on a Sunday morning, for the streets looked like this:

Empty.

Nonetheless we took our last stroll through the town, enjoying it to the fullest, and checked out of our lovely bed and breakfast. It was time to move on to Tamworth.

Don’t quote me on this but I *believe* those are the Pennine Hills we saw in the distance as we drove out of Shrewsbury. They looked quite gigantic as we got closer.

The road we took most of the way was the A5, which long ago was the ancient Roman road called Watling Street, and would have been a popular highway in Eadric’s time, as well.

We settled into Tamworth as quickly as we could and made our way to Tamworth Castle. Long ago, in the time of King Offa, Tamworth was the capital city of Mercia. Because of this it was later the target of Viking raids who burned down the timber fortress. In 913, Ethelfleda, Lady of the Mercians, rebuilt the fort, and for this reason I make it the home of Eadric Streona and his wife Aydith in “Eadric the Grasper.”

Whereas the museum of Shrewsbury Castle was rather disappointing, Tamworth Castle was a lot of fun, complete with rooms decorated in the Tudor style and lots of old artifacts.

After the castle we continued to roam around the Tamworth Castle Pleasure Grounds and the nearby shops.

Here is a statue of Ethelfleda standing just next to the castle:

We didn’t do much else that day because there was a rugby game going on, and that filled up the pub of our hotel so tightly that I could barely squeeze my way inside. From the comfort of our room we enjoyed listening to the intense yells and cheers concerning the ongoing game below, but best of all, the rather well-coordinated eruptions of song.

In any case, the first item on our agenda met with some difficulty. We wanted to see the Stiperstones, which involved walking part of the 49-mile path called Wild Edric’s Way. Walking at least a small portion of Wild Edric’s Way had been a highly anticipated goal for me, considering the fact I just wrote a book about Edric the Wild. This path wraps through the lands Wild Edric probably frequented, with such highlights as the Long Mynd, a medieval drovers’ road, the peaceful hills of Clun, Offa’s Dyke Path, and of course the Stiperstones.

Unfortunately, we could not find where the path to the Stiperstones started.

At that point I’m not sure who or what to blame for our difficulty: my inability to find a good address to plug into the GPS, or the GPS’s inability to give us a proper path to wherever we wanted to go, or the plethora of small unnamed roads, or my unwillingness to drive them. In any case, we drove around for some time looking for the Stiperstones, going down such roads as the one below …

We ended up in the East Ridge woods, and stretched our legs with a brief walk. Unfortunately, by then we were convinced the Stiperstone trail was not in our destiny.

It all turned out for the best, for while the day was still young, we decided to get back in the Ford Galaxy and drive further south to Clun, which we might not have done otherwise. Clun turned out to be one of my favorite parts of the trip.

The town is incredibly small, with a population of less than 700 people, and according to Wikipedia it’s one of the most tranquil places in England. I will readily attest that it’s one of the most tranquil places I’ve ever been.

After a short hike (on Wild Edric’s Way, at that) we made our way to the ruins of an old Norman castle.  It was built by a Norman knight named Robert de Say who seized these lands from–of course–Edric the Wild circa 1066. Robert did not make it into my novel about Wild Edric, but after seeing these ruins, I kind of wish that he had …

After a little walk around the castle we went into the town for some scones, cream, and tea. Those were probably another reason I loved Clun so much. DELICIOUS!

That night was going to be our last in Shrewsbury, and we still had not been able to tour the Shrewsbury Castle Museum because of its limited open hours. Therefore we picked up and made our way hastily back to Shrewsbury and its lovely castle.

The museum was a bit disappointing, for me at least, as its focus was far from the stronghold’s ancient roots. Still, it was great to walk about inside one of my favorite castles. Afterward, we kept walking through town towards areas we had not yet visited. An important site for me was Shrewsbury Abbey, another remnant of one of my characters, Roger de Montgomery.

On the side, you can see the ruins of its most ancient section:

What I did not expect, however, was to come upon the sarcophagus of Roger de Montgomery himself!!

"Sir Roger de Montgomery" -- Second in Command of the army of his kinsman, William the Conqueror, at the Battle of Hastings. The first of the family of Montgomery in England, he was advanced to high honor as the over-lord of many counties, and created Earl of Shrewsbury. He founded this Church and Abbey wherein he as a brother of the Benedictine Order died, the first of August MXCV."

I can hardly describe how awesome it was to find this. So I won’t even try.

An ancient pulpit

We continued walking around town, and treated ourselves that night to fish and chips. Oh my goodness, they exceeded my expectations to an incredible degree. Sooo good!

On that note, I forgot to mention that on our second day of the trip, my husband and I celebrated our anniversary at a hotel/restaurant called the Golden Cross within Shrewsbury. The Golden Cross!! Totally a coincidence, but in that case, all the more wonderful …

My second day in England, I’m happy to say, was much more pleasant than my first. We had quite the adventure.

The first item on our agenda was to travel out of Shrewsbury to see Wenlock Priory. The town of Much Wenlock is a beautiful place, as well as the surrounding countryside. These rolling green slopes form the setting of a lot of events that might have happened just outside of Shrewsbury in my Mercia tales, especially Sons of Mercia Vol. 3 about Edric the Wild. Eadric Streona’s descendant, Wild Edric, most certainly held lands around this area.

A quick shot through the car of the lands around Much Wenlock

(I apologize ahead of time for the largeness of some of these images. When I get the chance I will scale them down a bit)

We parked near old Wenlock Priory, which began as a religious house in 680 AD founded by Merewalh, King of Mercia. At first it housed both men and women, and for awhile Milburge governed as abbess (she later became a saint). Earl Leofric of Mercia and his wife Godiva transformed the abbey around 1040 AD into a college for priests. Later a Norman Marcher lord, Roger de Montgomerie (an important character in Vol. 3 of Sons of Mercia, Edric the Wild), acquired the abbey as part of his lands from William the Conqueror. Being Norman, Roger originally filled this place with Norman monks and made the locals angry. Skip to the year 1504, when the monastery was destroyed in the midst of Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries. Not much of the monastery remains now.

The two stone structeres here once connected as one large nave. One can still see the round bases of pillars that once supported more stone.

It was so very peaceful here. We spent a lot of time standing still and listening to soft baa-ing of sheep in the distance–actually, it got quite loud at times!–and the gushing of the wind over the stones. We were the only ones visiting the priory and had it all to ourselves.

Wenlock Priory Chapterhouse

This was once a chapterhouse where monks would have gathered every day to read a chapter from the rule of St Benedict, discuss self-discipline, and make administrative decisions about priory matters.

This used to be an area for the choir monks

After spending a long time in the serene setting of Wenlock Priory, we got back in our (ginormous) Ford Galaxy and made our way further south to Ludlow.

A farmer's market in Ludlow

In Ludlow, we first discovered the difficulty of driving through small towns in England, which is that two-way streets will generally have room in the middle for ONE car, due to other cars being parked on the sides! Here is a picture we later took in Clun, but I think it demonstrates my point:

One is driving along the left and comes to this line of parked cars. What do you do? You keep driving (now on the right), even though someone may come rushing from the other direction at any minute, because there's no other option!

 That is a two-way street!

In any case, we made it through Ludlow, parked, and grew much more relaxed as we began to walk around.

We continued from there to take a look at the intimidating Ludlow castle looming over the town. It was an early Norman castle built by Roger de Lacy.

Ludlow Castle

As awesome as Ludlow Castle was, my husband and I had an extremely important item on our agenda, and it was starting to rain. Our goal was to see Richard’s Castle, or at least the ruins of Richard’s Castle, because Richard FitzScrob and his son, Osbern FitzScrob, are important characters in one of my books. I knew that if I could find the castle ruins, it would be one of the most direct connection to one of my ancient characters that I could make.

Little did we know, finding Richard’s Castle was one of the most challenging things we’d done yet.

I didn’t have an address for Richard’s Castle, but I knew approximately where it was on a map. To make matters more confusing, the actual castle ruins lay within a *town* called Richard’s Castle, which is a much larger area. We put in the closest address we could manage into our GPS and set forth. I felt confident that between all our maps and the power of our navigational system, we would be set.

Boy was I wrong.

As we kept driving south, the road got smaller, and smaller, and smaller. Eventually, we were driving on a road like this:

Terrifying road

Believe it or not, that is a two-way road!! As you can see, there was absolutely no visibility, and no room to get out of the way if another car came along. If another car came along and the both of you did not smash each other, the only thing to do was back up slowly until you came to a rare wedge of space which gave you both room to pass.

There were miles upon miles of these roads!

Eventually we found a sign pointing to a “Historic Church,” leading down a road like the one in the picture above. I knew that the ancient St Bartholomew’s Church, built by Osbern FitzRichard, lay somewhere near Richard’s Castle, and that this was the best lead I would probably find (by that point the GPS was useless). My knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel, and John and I were both about to pass out from stress, but we had come this far. Richard’s Castle had been one of the sites I most wanted to see on this entire trip, and I knew I wouldn’t forgive myself if I turned back now. So down the road we turned.

Well, the wheel-clutching terror continued for at least another hour. One unnamed road branched off into another, so on and so on, with no signs and no visibility helping me figure out where to go. Eventually, I grew so desperate I pulled over and asked two of the local residents for help. They were nice and pointed me towards the right direction, and though I still didn’t find it immediately, I knew at least that I was close.

At long long last, we found Saint Bartholomew’s Church! I can hardly describe my relief as parked our car and walked through the hedgerows towards the ancient church built by Osbern FitzRichard.

I am no longer a very religious person, but Saint Bartholomew’s Church was the most solemn and faith-inspiring places I’d ever visited. We were the only ones there, of course. As we stood inside we heard the constant whisper of soft, howling wind against the stones. Even when the sound of the wind rose to a high pitch, we felt protected inside. My husband and I both felt inclined to whisper to one another even though no one else was around. We stared at the ancient pews and stained glass windows and, for awhile, didn’t speak at all.

But alas, our journey was not finished … we still had not found Richard’s Castle.

Finding the castle took another good half hour of searching. We drove a bit further on the unnamed roads. We came back to the church and nearly gave up and then tried again. Then still nothing.

Finally, my husband decided to focus on what one of the locals had told me: to reach Richard’s Castle, go “through” the church. We had already walked all around the church and found nothing. But by this point we were desperate, and the only thing to do seemed to be to keep walking through the trees behind the church.

And there it was.

After passing over the ditch and the remains of the bailey walls, we got to this:

It may not look like much now, but around 1000 years ago, this was the motte that formed the pinnacle of Richard’s Castle. On top of this motte could have been the large stone keep overlooking all the rest.

What an amazing feeling to have found it.