Thursday, 2 July 2020

Do you love Historical Fiction? The check out Ellen Alpsten's fabulous debut novel — Tsarina #HistoricalFiction #GreatReads @EAlpsten_Author



Tsarina

By Ellen Alpsten



Spring 1699

Illegitimate, destitute and strikingly beautiful, Marta has survived the brutal Russian winter in her remote Baltic village. Sold by her family into household labour at the age of fifteen, Marta survives by committing a crime that will force her to go on the run. A world away, Russia's young ruler, Tsar Peter I, passionate and iron-willed, has a vision for transforming the traditionalist Tsardom of Russia into a modern, Western empire. Countless lives will be lost in the process. Falling prey to the Great Northern War, Marta cheats death at every turn, finding work as a washerwoman at a battle camp. One night at a celebration, she encounters Peter the Great. Relying on her wits and her formidable courage, and fuelled by ambition, desire and the sheer will to live, Marta will become Catherine I of Russia. But her rise to the top is ridden with peril; how long will she survive the machinations of Peter's court, and more importantly, Peter himself?

 

Praise for Tsarina


"Makes Game of Thrones look like a nursery rhyme..."

Daisy Goodwin


"Alpsten's colourful narrative does full justice to her extraordinary career..."

Sunday Times


"A vivid page-turner of a debut..."

The Times



Excerpt


Prologue

In the Winter Palace, 1725                                                                                                                                           

He is dead. My beloved husband, the mighty Tsar of all the Russias, has died – and just in time.  Moments before death came for him, Peter called for a quill and paper to be brought to him in his bed-chamber in the Winter Palace. My heart almost stalled. He had not forgotten, but was going to drag me down with him. When he lost consciousness for the last time and the darkness drew him closer to its heart, the quill slipped from his fingers. Black ink spattered the soiled sheets; time held its breath. What had the Tsar wanted to settle with that last effort of his tremendous spirit?  I knew the answer. 

The candles in the tall candelabra filled the room with a heavy scent and an unsteady light; their glow made shadows reel in corners and brought the woven figurines on the Flemish tapestries to life, their course faces showing pain and disbelief. Outside the door, the voices of the people who’d stood there all night were drowned out by the February wind rattling furiously at the shutters. Time spread slowly, like oil on water. Peter had pressed himself into our souls like his signet ring in hot wax. It seemed impossible that the world hadn’t careened to a half at his passing. My husband, the greatest will ever to impose itself on Russia, had been more than our ruler. He had been our fate. He was still mine.    

The doctors – Blumentrost, Paulsen and Horn – stood silently around Peter’s bed, staring at him, brow beaten. Five kopeks-worth of medicine, given early enough, could have saved him. Thank god for the quacks’ lack of good sense. 

Without looking, I could feel Feofan Prokopovich, the Archbishop of Novgorod, and Alexander Menshikov watching me. Prokopovich had made the Tsar’s will eternal and Peter had much to thank him for. Menshikov, on the other hand, owed his fortune and influence to Peter. What was it Peter had said when someone tried to blacken Alexander Danilovich’s name to him by referring to his murky business dealings? ‘Menshikov is always Menshikov, in all that he does!’ That had put an end to that. 

 Dr Paulsen had closed the Tsar’s eyes and crossed his hands on his breast, but he hadn’t removed the scroll, Peter’s last will and testament, from his grasp. Those hands, which were always too dainty for the tall, powerful body, had grown still, helpless. Just two weeks earlier he had plunged those very hands into my hair, winding it round his fingers, inhaling the scent of rose water and sandalwood.   ‘My Catherine’ he’d said, calling me by the name he himself had given me, and he smiled at me. ‘You’re still a beauty. But what will you look like in a convent, shorn, and bald? The cold there will break you, your spirit, even though you’re strong as a horse. Do you know that Evdokia still writes to me begging for a second fur, poor thing! What a good job you can’t write!’ he’d said, laughing.  

It had been thirty years since Evdokia had been banished to the convent. I’d met her once. Her eyes shone with madness, her shaven head was covered in boils and scabs from the cold and the filth, and her only company was a hunchbacked dwarf to serve her in her cell. Peter had ordered the poor creature have her tongue cut out, so in response to Evdokia’s moaning and laments, all she was able to do was burble. He’d been right to believe that seeing Evdokia would fill me with lifelong dread.  I knelt at Peter’s bedside and the three doctors retreated to the twilight at the edge of the room, like crows driven from a field: the birds Peter had been so terrified of in the last years of his life. The Tsar had called open season on the hapless birds all over his Empire. Farmers caught, killed, plucked and roasted them for reward. None of this helped Peter: silently, at night, the bird would slip through the padded walls and locked doors of his bedchamber. Its ebony wings blotted the light and in their cool shadow, the blood on the Tsar’s hands never dried. His fingers were not yet those of a corpse, but soft, and still warm. For a moment, the fear and anger of these past few months slipped from my heart like a thief in the night. I kissed his hands and breathed in his familiar scent of tobacco, ink, leather, and the perfume tincture that was blended for his sole use in Grasse. 

I took the scroll from his hand, it was easy enough to slide it out, although my blood thickened with fear and my veins were coated with frost and rime like branches in our Baltic winter. It was important to show everyone that I alone was entitled to do this – I, his wife, and the mother of his children. Twelve times I had given birth.  The paper rustled as I unrolled it. Not for the first time, I was ashamed of my inability to read and I handed his last will to Feofan Prokopovich. At least Menshikov was as ignorant as I. Ever since the days when Peter first drew us into his orbit and cast his spell upon us, we had been like two children squabbling over their father’s love and attention.  Batjushka Tsar, his people called him. Our little father Tsar. 

Prokopovich must have known what Peter had in mind for me. He was an old fox with a sharp wit, as comfortable in heavenly and earthly realms. Daria had once sworn that he had 3,000 books in his library. What, if you please, can one man do with 3,000 books? The scroll sat lightly in his liver-spotted hands now. After all, he himself had helped Peter draft the decree that shocked us all. The Tsar had set aside every custom, every law: he wanted to appoint his own successor and would rather leave his empire to a worthy stranger over an own, unworthy child. 

Pick up your copy of

Tsarina

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Ellen Alpsten



Ellen Alpsten was born and raised in the Kenyan highlands, where she dressed up her many pets and forced them to listen to her stories.


Upon graduating from the 'Institut d'Etudes Politiques de Paris', she worked as a news-anchor for Bloomberg TV London. While working gruesome night shifts on breakfast TV, she started to write in earnest, every day, after work, a nap and a run. So much for burning midnight oil! 


Today, Ellen works as an author and as a journalist for international publications such as Vogue, Standpoint, and CN Traveller. She lives in London with her husband, three sons, and a moody fox red Labrador.


'Tsarina' is her debut novel.

 

For more information about her literary life follow her on social media:

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Check out B.K. Bass' fabulous book — What Once Was Home #sciencefiction #Thriller #GreatReads @B_K_Bass




What Once Was Home

By B.K. Bass



When his world is torn apart, one man must learn to survive in

 What Once Was Home.

Jace Cox’s life is changed when an overwhelming alien force invades the Earth with no warning or provocation.  In the years that follow, he must not only fight to survive; but also learn what it means to be a man and a leader.  As the situation grows more dire, he realizes that his greatest challenge isn’t the alien invaders or even his fellow man; it is holding onto his own humanity despite living in a world gone mad.

 

Excerpt

 

He looked up at her, his cold eyes piercing everything he gazed upon. “What’s wrong, mom?”

She thought for a moment, then said, “We’ve lost so much. And there doesn’t seem to be any hope. They’ve been here for eight years, Jace. They still haven’t even tried to talk to us.”

Jace held an old radio, turning it over as if pondering whether it could be salvaged. That was another sign that he had changed. He no longer looked upon anything with joy or curiosity. He only saw what was practical. Every time he looked at something—or someone—he was only evaluating for usefulness. He tossed the radio onto the table in frustration. “Did we talk to ants when we put poison on the mound? How is this any different?”

“How can you say that?” she gasped.

“How is it any different?” he repeated. “It’s obvious they simply thought that we were a nuisance and wanted to get rid of us. Now that there’s so few of us left, we’re not in the way anymore.” Jace looked around the cabin where he had spent the only quality time with his father one last time. “Let’s go, Mom. There’s nothing for us here.”

 

Pick up your copy of

What Once Was Home

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B.K. Bass



B.K. Bass is an author of science fiction, fantasy, and horror inspired by the pulp fiction magazines of the early 20th century and classic speculative fiction. He is a student of history with a particular focus on the ancient, classical, and medieval eras. He has a lifetime of experience with a specialization in business management and human relations and served in the U.S. Army. B.K. is also the Acquisitions Director for Kyanite Publishing, the Editor-in-Chief of the Kyanite Press journal of speculative fiction, and the Writing Department Chair for Worldbuilding Magazine.

Connect with B.K.: WebsiteTwitterFacebookYouTubeGoodreads.



Wednesday, 1 July 2020

Do you love #HistoricalRomance? Check out this fabulous excerpt from Melissa Oliver's #NewRelease — The Rebel Heiress and the Knight @melissaoauthor @MillsandBoon @HarlequinBooks



The Rebel Heiress and the Knight

By Melissa Oliver


 

She must marry the knight.

By order of the king!

Widow Eleanor of Tallany Castle knows her people are broken by the taxes demanded by King John. So when she’s ordered to marry Hugh de Villiers, a knight loyal to the king, she’s furious—even if he is handsome! As gallant Hugh begins to heal the scars of Eleanor’s abusive first marriage, she’s even more determined to keep her secret: she is the outlaw the king wants to send to the gallows!

 

 

Excerpt


 

Hugh de Villiers threw her wry, detached look, probably wishing he were far away. She too wished she were anywhere but here in her hall having to listen to Father Thomas. She’d rather be knee–deep in pig manure, or made to stitch a dozen linen shirts or mulch a dozen barrels of apples for cider or to…

 

An audible collective gasp echoed in the hall and snapped her to attention. She tried to recall a few snatched words heard moments ago. Did she hear correctly or could it be her imagination?

 

What had Father Thomas just said? ‘Lady Eleanor Tallany...As decreed by King John…Marriage…’

 

By God she hoped she had imagined it but knew instinctively that she hadn’t. Marriage? Marriage? But to whom? Heart pounding, Eleanor glanced around the room and landed on Sir Hugh de Villiers who looked ashen.

 

No, no, no! Please not him.

 

There had to be a mistake! Someone else seemed to voice that…

 

‘Pardon me, Father, what did you say?’ she whispered as she turned to face her kindly priest, a shadow of concern conveyed in his eyes.

 

‘Our Lord and sovereign King John has decreed a betrothal between you, my lady, and….’ Father Thomas gulped. ‘Sir Hugh de Villiers. The bringer of this joyous message.’

 

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes darted back to Hugh de Villiers, horrified. A ringing noise in her ears drowned out all other sound in the room. She could feel sweat on her brows; her palms clammy. Dear Lord, this could not be happening! Not again. She closed her eyes trying to find an inner strength, her inner calm. She could faintly hear someone calling her, through the dull roar in her head.

 

‘Lady Eleanor?’ It was Father Thomas’ soothing voice from far away.

 

‘My lady?’

 

She opened her eyes and searched his old lined face for support and assistance.

 

‘Do you understand what this means, Lady Eleanor?’

 

She dug her fingers into her palm, embracing the sharp pain. She took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders and straightened her spine.

 

‘I do!’ she ground out in a clear voice, as the hall erupted into cheers, except it seemed, her husband to be. Hugh strode towards her; his jaw clenched tight and knelt in front of her, bowing his head. Just as quickly he got up and without a backward glance stormed out of the hall.

 

Pick up your copy of

The Rebel Heiress and the Knight

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Melissa Oliver


 

Melissa Oliver is from south-west London where she writes historical romance novels. She lives with her gorgeous husband and equally gorgeous daughters, who share her passion for decrepit, old castles, grand palaces and all things historical.

When she's not writing she loves to travel for inspiration, paint, and visit museums & art galleries. 

Connect with Melissa:

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Join #HistoricalFiction author, Steven Veerapen, as he explores The Death of England’s Elizabeth and the Stuart Succession. Pick up Steven's book, Succession, for only 0.99 on #Kindle for a Limited Time. @ScrutinEye @SharpeBooks



End of an Era: The Death of England’s Elizabeth and the Stuart Succession

By Steven Veerapen

 

Certain moments in history are considered turning points – recognisable shifts from one era to another. One of them is the closure of England’s Tudor age and the birth of its Jacobean period. Armed with the luxury of hindsight, we think of it as inevitable now that, when the famous Virgin Queen died, the throne sat waiting for her Scottish cousin, James, to finally ride south from Edinburgh. However, as I discovered through my research (my primary job involves researching and teaching early modern literature), the succession of King James VI of Scotland as James I of England was not quite as certain as it might seem to us. Or, at least, not until it happened.



Allegory of Elizabeth

 

In the first year of Elizabeth’s reign, she famously declared before parliament that ‘this shall be for me sufficient: that a marble stone shall declare that a Queen, having reigned such a time, lived and died a virgin’. This did not deter parliament from trying to convince her to marry and produce an heir and, realising that no one was taking her preference for the single life seriously, she played the marriage game for all it was worth. However, despite her many flirtations and mooted political alliances, the queen did not wed. In the early 1580s, with the departure of her last chance at marriage (for by then she was ageing at a gallop, and the menopause put paid to any useful political alliance), debates about the inevitable were re-energised. They had always existed, of course. Mortality in the Tudor era was a constant worry. Despite her legal prohibition of texts discussing the nation’s future and her haughty demands that parliament not abuse its privilege to discuss such matters, a plethora of texts circulated weighing up the potential candidates. As the 1590s wore on, and as Elizabeth aged, the names of those candidates changed, the pressing question of what would happen on her death became more acute, and the competitors were hotly debated, promoted, wooed, and discounted.



James VI and I.

 

Foremost was James VI of Scotland, a Protestant descendant of Henry VIII’s elder sister, Margaret Tudor. But James was a foreigner – and legal niceties had already been invoked to bar his mother’s claims of inheritance (though the lawyers and Puritans had been satisfied with her execution in 1587) which declared that, as it was a piece of English property, no foreigner had the right to inherit the crown. His cousin, Lady Arbella Stuart, had at least the benefit of English birth, and was seriously considered by those who could stomach another female ruler. Attempts to marry her off to a descendant of Henry VIII’s younger sister, Mary, only served to make her look all the more palatable. In addition, there were Spanish claims through John of Gaunt, Lancastrian claims in the Hastings family, and a clutch of others. All of them, of course, are largely forgotten now – but at the time the issue of the succession was very much alive, even if discussion of it had to take place behind closed doors. It mattered. In the early modern period, the monarch was sovereign – he or she was a modern prime minister, president, and church leader all rolled into one.



Arbella Stuart.


The plot of Succession involves Ned Savage, a servant of the Revels Office (which approved or censored London’s plays and oversaw the queen’s private entertainments) and spy, tasked with discovering and foiling a plot to bar King James’s accession. Both he and the plotters, a band of English nationalists stirred up by a corrupt MP, are on the trail of a mysterious secret document containing a dark secret from the king’s past.

 

In the novel, however, I wanted to explore more than just the plots and politics of those last few weeks of Elizabeth’s life.


London.


We think of the age of Elizabeth as the quintessential golden age, and no doubt for some it was. Yet, by 1603, the gilt was looking distinctly tarnished. Of the great personalities who rose to prominence at the height of her reign, almost none were still alive. Sir Francis Drake, the earl of Leicester, Francis Walsingham, William Cecil, Mary Queen of Scots, the earl of Essex – all were dead by fair means or foul. Elizabeth, at the end, stood alone, and it was popularly said that England was ‘weary of an old woman’s government’. The war with mighty Spain dragged on, the harvests had failed repeatedly in the 1590s, and a generation of malcontent young men found little service in the court of a single old lady. Elizabeth, her greatest accomplishments behind her, was becoming a choke on reform. Her motto, Semper Eadem, had become more of a threat than a promise of stability.

 

The people were ready for change. But what would it mean for them?

 

The prospect of civil war was real. Doors were locked against uprising and mob violence. As the queen entered into her final illness and the coronation ring was sawn from her finger, London entered a period of watchful fear and suspicion. Sensible citizens kept their ears open and their mouths shut, waiting on events. Life was brutal, grubby, and uncertain enough – and nothing guaranteed that what was treason one day would not become a necessity the next.


Robert Cecil.

 

Overseeing all of this, and prominent as both spymaster and politician in Succession, was Sir Robert Cecil. Son of the late Lord Burghley, Elizabeth’s most famous chief minister, Cecil is for me one of the most interesting political figures of the entire early modern period. This is mainly because I find him surprisingly modern; he would fit neatly into an American political drama or a gangster film as easily as he would a Cold War spy thriller. Lacking the strict religious fanaticism of his father and the gung-ho, adventurous wiles of, say, Thomas Cromwell, Cecil is probably the first really modern statesman in English history. He was, as Leanda de Lisle points out in her Tudors: The Family Story (2013: Random House), corrupt.

 

Yet Cecil is not the only real character to rub shoulders with the fictional Ned Savage. I had a tremendous amount of fun incorporating a plethora of real-life figures who straddled the great transfer of power from England’s Elizabeth to the ferociously British James. In the pages of the novel, readers will, I hope, enjoy their glimpses of Ned’s theatrical friends and foes, including Ben Jonson and William Shakespeare; a prickly King James, who provides an audience during a visit to the Scottish court; a waning Sir Walter Raleigh, conspicuous by his feigned indifference to affairs; and the rather sad figure of Arbella Stuart, kept locked away under the care of her grandmother, the redoubtable (I have never seen her described by any other adjective, except perhaps ‘formidable’) Bess of Hardwick.


William Shakespeare.

 

All that remains to be said is why I embarked on this book. For years I have studied the plays of the period, with an academic interest in those which touched, however obliquely (for playwrights were hardly free to be overly political) on the vexed succession question. As a Scot, I have long been interested in Mary Queen of Scots (who pops up in virtually everything I’ve had published – included, most obviously, my nonfiction study of her relationship with her brother!). However, I find that fiction is the closest thing we have to a time machine; it is the most evocative way of capturing the experiences, sights, sounds, and smells of what living through this fascinating period must have been like. I noticed, too, that the myriad of exceptional masters of Elizabethan historical fiction (Paul Walker, Anna Castle, Peter Tonkin, Patricia Finney – I could go on at great length) tend to focus on the great dramas and religious horrors of the 1580s. Those who work in the growing subgenre of Jacobean fiction (Tracey Borman, Elizabeth Fremantle) tend to focus on King James’s court during or after the infamous Powder Plot of 1605. With Succession, I hope that readers will enjoy the scandal and conspiracies attendant on the moment of change. More than that, I hope they will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


 

Succession: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

By Steven Veerapen



1603.

The Virgin Queen is dying. She has yet to nominate an heir.

The crown looks set to fall to James of Scotland.

But it is far from inevitable.

Gowrie, a sinister Scottish traitor, has arrived in England. On him is a document containing a shocking secret that will compromise King James.

Languishing in prison, artful thief Ned Savage is freed by his patron, the queen’s principal secretary, Sir Robert Cecil. His mission is to find the document before it can be made public. If he succeeds, his life will be spared.

But he is not alone in seeking Gowrie.

On his trail are a ruthless gang of conspirators. The Red Cross Plot aims to prevent any foreigner from taking the English throne. And the Knights of the Red Cross will kill to secure the document.

In a journey that will take him from London to Derbyshire and Scotland, Savage must foil the Red Cross Plot, protect King James’s darkest secret, and keep himself safe from execution.

And he must do it all before the curtain falls on Elizabeth’s reign.

 

Praise for Succession: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

 

‘A twisting fast-paced plot.’ Jemahl Evans, author of Becket: Warrior

‘A gripping and finely-crafted account.’ Paul Walker, author of State of Treason

 

Pick up your copy of

Succession: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

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Steven Veerapen 


 


Steven Veerapen was born in Glasgow and raised in Paisley. Pursuing an interest in the sixteenth century, he was awarded a first-class Honours degree in English, focussing his dissertation on representations of Henry VIII’s six wives. He then received a Masters in Renaissance studies, and a Ph.D. investigating Elizabethan slander. Steven is fascinated by the glamour and ghastliness of life in the 1500s.

 

Connect with Steven: Twitter Instagram • Goodreads

 

 


 

Check out Tonya Ulynn Brown's fabulous book — The Queen’s Almoner #HistoricalFiction #mustread @MrsBrownee2U



The Queen’s Almoner

By Tonya Ulynn Brown



Sometimes loyalty to the queen comes at a cost.

Thomas Broune is a Reformer and childhood friend of the young queen, Mary Stuart. When Mary embarks on a new life in her estranged homeland of Scotland, Thomas is there to greet her and offer his renewed friendship. But the long-time friends grow closer, and Thomas realizes his innocent friendship has grown into something more. Yet he is a man of the cloth. Mary is the queen of the Scots. Both of them have obligations of an overwhelming magnitude: he to his conscience and she to her throne.

When he must choose between loyalty to his queen or his quiet life away from her court, he finds that the choice comes at a high price. Driven by a sense of obligation to protect those he loves, and crippled by his inability to do so, Thomas must come to terms with the choices he has made and find a peace that will finally lay his failures to rest.


 

Excerpt

 

“Thomas, you were always so full of good advice and instruction for me. But you know I never cared for all those useless facts. Why can’t you just enjoy the flowers?” she laughed. “Sometimes beauty does not need an explanation.”

 

“No, it does not,” I replied, looking away quickly. Then I explained, “I felt it was my duty, Your Majesty. From the day you were born until now, I have been mandated to look out for you and help you in any way, when it is within my power to do so. If that means providing you amusement with my useless facts as well, then so be it.”

 

This time she laughed out loud. A soft, yet hearty laugh that let me know that it was truly felt and not given out of obligation. She turned fully toward me then and I saw a glint of merriment in her eyes.

 

“You took that obligation very seriously if I do recall. I seem to remember a time when I had gotten injured and you carried me all the way home to get help, then didn’t leave my side until our mothers shooed you away.”

 

“You were bleeding,” I said in my defense.

 

I recalled very vividly the incident that she was referring to. On that particular day, we had decided to play in a cave I had found. I spread a blanket on the ground as the queen and the four Marys, set about dressing their dolls. A boy who had also accompanied us, dumped a satchel of apples out onto the blanket and then proceeded to draw out a small dagger that he had found. The girls’ eyes lit up when they saw the shiny object and the boy carelessly whisked it back and forth as if to fight some unseen enemy.

 

Later in the day, in the process of packing up, she scraped her arm on the tip of the boy’s dagger. Blood spurted all over her dress and the sight of it made Mary limp. She let out a small gasp before collapsing on the ground. I immediately grabbed the blanket and wrapped her arm as the girls began to wale. The boy, standing there stupidly, looked as if he himself could cry at any moment. He knew his fate once it was discovered that he had caused the young queen harm.

 

Returning to the conversation I said, “I’m the one who took us up to that cave. It was my obligation to make sure that no harm befell you while you were with me.”

 

“Yes, but you didn’t cause the injury. What was that boy’s name? Frederick? Francisco?”

 

“Ferdinand,” I supplied.

 

“Ferdinand! Yes, that was it.”

 

“Aye, and I took care of him when I saw him a day later.”

 

Her eyes grew round as goose eggs at that and she laughed delightfully. “What did you do, Thomas?”

 

“I snatched him up by the collar and shook him as hard as I could. I told him if he ever did something as stupid as that again I would have his head on a platter.”

 

Mary covered her mouth with her hand as she doubled over in laughter. “He was the Italian ambassador’s son. You could have been severely punished! I’m surprised he didn’t tattle on you.”

 

“That was a chance I had to take.” I fought to keep the corners of my mouth from curling up. She was getting too much enjoyment out of this, but I loved to see her delight. “Besides,” I continued, “I threatened him about that as well. I reminded him that it was his indiscretion that caused your injury, and if he told anyone about our conversation, that I would tell all I knew about how you got hurt.”

 

“Thomas!” she gasped.

 

“Aye, I felt bad about it later, but I didn’t tell him that. It was my task to protect you, so…I did what I had to do.”

 

Pick up your copy of

The Queen’s Almoner

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Late November Literary

 

Tonya Ulynn Brown



Tonya Ulynn Brown was born and raised in Columbus, Ohio. Although she has also lived in Indiana, Virginia, and Belarus, she now calls southeastern Ohio home. She spent her younger years right out of college, living in Europe and teaching English as second language. She attributes her time in Eastern Europe as being one of great personal growth, where her love for history, the classics, and all things European was born. Tonya holds a Master’s degree in Teaching and is now an elementary school teacher where she uses her love of history and reading to try to inspire younger generations to learn, explore and grow. Along with all the historical characters that she entertains in her head, she lives with her husband, two sons and a very naughty Springer Spaniel. Her mother has also joined their home, making for a cozy and complete little family.

 

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