On A Sword’s Edge by J R Tomlin

Today, I’m delighted to host On A Sword’s Edge by J R Tomlin. The book is part of The Swords of Scotland series and is on a blog tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club: https://thecoffeepotbookclub.blogspot.com/2024/09/blog-tour-on-a-swords-edge-by-j-r-tomlin.html

About the Book

Scotland. 1263. The scent of rain mingles with the smoke of campfires as word spreads: the Norse are coming…

As tempers rise between King Alexander and the Norse King Haakon, at the center of it all is sixteen-year-old William Douglas, a squire in service to Sir John Stewart, Lord High Steward of Scotland.

When Haakon’s fearsome fleet is espied approaching Scotland’s shores, carrying the greatest invasion force the Norse have ever mustered, the dread of battle settles over the land. Summoned to Ayr Castle, William joins the Scottish forces in a desperate defense. Now tasked with serving his newly knighted brother, Hugh, William has little time to dwell on the fear – or thrill – of his first real taste of war.

And once the Norse’s menacing line of ships finally touches shore, Scotland’s fate may rest on more than noble titles and knightly deeds— it’ll take the mettle of every soul on the ground for them to triumph.

Set against the wind-swept coast of medieval Scotland, On a Sword’s Edge takes you right into the center of The Battle of Largs alongside a mere – yet fearless – squire.

Reviews

“Exciting and full of action. Unique in its descriptions of the Scottish landscape and traditions, the story brings the ancient history back to life.”

“I enjoyed every page of this book one of the best I’ve read in a while. J R Tomlin has a knack of making our Scottish history come alive.”

Buy Link

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/3R7l8D

The Book Details

Book Title: On a Sword’s Edge

Series: The Swords of Scotland

Author: JR Tomlin

Publication Date: November 16^th, 2024

Publisher: independently-published

Pages: 159

Genre: Historical Fiction / Scottish Historical Fiction

Any Triggers: Some fairly bloody fights.

Excerpt from On A Sword’s Edge

The rain was like icy needles, stabbing, driving into our skin as we struggled to take down our lord’s tent. The wet canvas fought us like a living thing, flapping and bucking in the wind. My clothes were already sodden, so I threw myself belly down on top, trapping it beneath me. Nigell did the same. Working together, shivering, we bunched it up, wrapped ropes around it, and heaved it onto a waiting sumpter.

Thick, black clouds cut off the sun. It was dark, although it was still mid-morning. The castle showed only as a black smear, high on its mound. Sir John shouted, “Mount up! Mount up!”

It took another hour with sergeants threatening and bellowing curses if the men did not hurry but, at last, we were on the march, following a miry track beside a flooding ditch.

Sir John sent me to ride with my father and brother. The forces of Douglasdale trailed behind us. For once, Hugh and I had no time or energy for jests. Cold rain dripped from my hair and down the back of my neck, but at least we had turned our backs to the rain so that it no longer scoured our faces. I found it hard to believe that the rain pounded down hard. The track was a mire, with the puddles hock deep.

The ground was like thick porridge, and there was no way to see if there were holes beneath. Two horses went down, and their riders fell. We were soon mud-spattered, our mounts covered to their bellies, and the foot soldiers slogging through ankle-deep sludge.

At last, we reached the River Garnock. It rushed high over its bed but, as Sir John had said, the hills beside it cut off much of the wind. Low, black clouds tangled with the bare trees at the summit. I wondered how our king was handling the battering, but he was too far ahead to tell.

I was shivering, and my teeth chattered. Surely, we would be allowed a few minutes to warm up when we reached the castle. Our horses and the foot soldiers were exhausted. We had ridden across muck and mire without stopping, but there was not much further to travel. Before us rose Glengarnock Castle, a modest place on a low mound, a single stone tower within a palisade of closely placed, standing tree trunks sharpened at the top.

The gate was thrown open when they saw who approached. We stopped there. The king and lords went to take shelter within the keep, while the rest of us were happy with just stopping and trying to get warm. We picketed our mounts in a waterlogged field on the lee side of the walls. While the grooms did their best to rid the horses of mud and clean their hooves, we squires and the foot soldiers searched for sticks in the debris under the nearby broom.

When I had an armful of sticks only a little wet, I protected them under my mantle and ran with them to the shelter of the wall. Like most squires, I carried a bit of shredded kindling and flint in my scrip, so I made a little pile of a few of the sticks and bent to shelter them with my body. After striking my dagger with the flint a few times, a spark fell on the kindling. A trace of smoke arose. Father’s squire squatted and gently puffed on it. Hugh joined us, and we watched anxiously. It sputtered out.

With a groan, I started again. This time, it grew to a small fire. I piled more sticks on. When they’d caught, Hugh added larger sticks. They hissed and crackled, but I called Father to join us. We held out our hands to warm them. For the first time since we set out, I stopped shivering.

Other small fires had been built along the wall and huddled men at them all shared the warmth. Father handed out some dried beef to us and then to his men. I took a slightly stale bannock to share. Soon, most pulled out the bits of food they had carried with them. The rain had even lessened, raising hopes that the storm was passing.

The relief was short-lived. Sir John rode out, followed by the king, shouting to mount up. Scouts who could travel faster than a moving army were sent ahead. Where was the enemy?

About the Author

J. R. Tomlin is the author of more than twenty historical novels, set for the most part in Scotland. Her love of that nation is traced from the stories of King Robert the Bruce and the Good Sir James her grandmother read to her when she was small to hillwalking through the Cairngorms where the granite hills have a gorgeous red glow under the setting sun.

Later, her writing was influenced by the work of authors such as Alexander Dumas, Victor Hugo, and of course, Sir Walter Scott.

When JR isn’t writing, she enjoys spending time hiking, playing with her Westie, and killing monsters in computer games. In addition to having lived in Scotland, she has traveled in the US, Europe and the Pacific Rim. She now lives in Oregon in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.