The Herb Knot

Today, I’m delighted to host The Herb Knot by Jane Loftus. The book is on a blog tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club, and you can read all about it here:

https://thecoffeepotbookclub.blogspot.com/2025/07/blog-tour-the-herb-knot-by-jane-loftus.html

About the Book

The Hundred Years’ War comes to life in this spellbinding tale of love, betrayal and conspiracy…

A quest born on the battlefield will change a young boy’s destiny…

Rafi Dubois is five years old when his mother is murdered after the Battle of Crecy in 1346. Alone and lost, Rafi is given a token by the dying Englishman who tried to save his mother’s life: a half-broken family seal which he urges Rafi to return one day to Winchester.

Years later, when Rafi saves a wealthy merchant’s wife from a brutal robbery, he is rewarded with the chance to travel to England, taking the seal with him.

But when he reaches Winchester, Rafi finds himself in a turbulent world full of long-held allegiances, secrets and treachery. His path is fraught with danger and with powerful enemies working against him, Rafi falls in love with Edith, a market apothecary. But in doing so, Rafi unleashes a deadly chain of events which threatens to overwhelm them both…

The Herb Knot is a sweeping and passionate novel set in one of the most tumultuous times in English history, from a powerful new voice.

Reviews

“Loved this. The greatest historical fiction immerses you in the past. The Herb Knot is a superb debut novel, with a story that grips you from beginning to end”.

“The amount of research that has so obviously been undertaken is quite phenomenal. I don’t believe I’ve ever read a book so absorbing. The narrative is both intriguing and captivating. I found it hard to put this book down and each evening looked forward to going to bed so I could immerse myself once again”.

Buy Links

https://books2read.com/u/bzN6Z2

The Book Details

Book Title: The Herb Knot

Audiobook Narrator: Matt Addis

Publication Date: May 8^th, 2025

Publisher: HQ Digital

Pages: 336

Genre: Medieval Historical Fiction

Any Triggers: Domestic abuse/violence (not much, but two short depictions), implied sexual assault, attempted murder, actual murder.

Excerpt

They were almost at the top of the hill. If the going were not so sticky, Rafi would enjoy himself more. It might not be particularly warm, but it was bright and Hampshire was so . . . so green. If he could capture that colour in paint, imagine the illuminations he could have made. Alas, he had to watch his step rather than the scenery. Blast this mud! He feared for his toes.

‘Flanders, then,’ he said. ‘If they can believe I am from London, then surely they can . . . oh my!’

They had begun the gentle descent almost without noticing, and as they rounded the last of the trees, Rafi lifted his head and gasped. Below them, sitting in a peaceful valley in the loop of a river, was the city he had dreamed of for fifteen years. The sun bounced off the honeyed walls of the cathedral, and the spires of the churches were so many he could not begin to count them. The light sprinkled gold on the walls of the castle, sitting snug at the western entrance, the gate open to Aetheling Street, the road that entered from Somborne and Wilton, with its travellers, merchants, friars, priests and apprentices.

Adam turned, his eyes shining. ‘Home!’ He began to canter down the hill.

Rafi devoured the view. It was quite magnificent. The cathedral was a wonder. How could this city be in decline, as he had heard it said? And if it was in decline, what must it have looked like in its pomp?

I am here. Maman, Christophe. I am here. I will find who did this to you.

Winchester. England. Three days ago, he had been on a quayside in Ghent with nothing more than dreams. He had imagined the path he would take, the places he would go for information – the same as in any other great city in Europe. Guildhall, castle, churches, abbeys. They were all there in front of him, but this was not his city and he did not know where to start.

What a great multitude of spires. So many of them. Enough to make his hopes plunge like a stone down a well. Big religious houses received endowments and offered spiritual services and masses in perpetuity for the rich and powerful, but it was not just the cathedral. Smaller churches also held secrets. They would have seen plenty of marks and seals.

Which one should he ask at first? What were they all called? Would the priests be helpful or hostile? Would they offer information willingly or would he have to pay? It would take days – weeks, maybe even months. And then there were the merchants, and lawyers. Where would he stay? Would his money last? What if he was robbed? What if . . .

Stop making it worse. None of these things have happened, and none of these things may ever happen.

‘Halloooo!’ Adam was beckoning to him from halfway down the hill.

Adam . . .

Adam was his only friend in this strange place. Rafi ran, then slid down the hill on his backside, eyes on Adam, the purse of pretty golden florins bumping against his hip. The castle drew closer as he hurtled onward to join his friend.

They entered through the Westgate, their eagerness speeding them downward until they joined the bigger, main thoroughfare that ran from Salisbury and through to Stockbridge and then into the city. There was more traffic on the road now, carts, horses, servants pushing barrows filled with goods. His feet were sucked into the chaos of the mud, breeches soaked by the spray kicked up from a heavy cart. Well, that was that. No point trying to save his clothes now. The drapers had better be as good as he had been told they were, for he sorely needed them.

‘Come, this way!’

They were well inside the gates now, standing in front of the castle, looking down the main road, which ran west to east through the city. Shops, with shutters drawn up and wares displayed, lined the route. Saddlers, skinners and goldsmiths to the left, cutlers and shoemakers to the right. There was so much choice and here, just what he needed: a shoemaker. Soft shoes of calfskin, sturdy boots, for riding maybe. Fancy shoes with scalloped rims and decorated strips of leather for contrast. All very nice but too extravagant for his tastes. Perhaps there were plainer styles inside. He was about to poke his nose through the open shutter of the next shop along when Adam grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away.

Now they passed along Spicers’ Row. What was this smell? A perfume so strong it made the nose prickle. Spikenard, that was it! And galangal, warm and sharp too. There was something else, something he couldn’t catch. His nostrils had the memory of it but . . . ah. Sweat and drying goatskin. That would be from the skinners and the parchment makers. But these spices, the quality was exquisite. And the colour here, the brightness of the saffron in particular – how many times had he used paint like that in the scriptorium?

He would expect to see no better fare even if he travelled to Spain or the Levant. One day, maybe he would, once his search here was over. He would eat rich, dark olives, shiny like beetles in glistening oil, and there would be no Van Loo to call him to work. He longed to tarry, but Adam pushed him on further down the high street towards a row of bright canopies and open windows that jutted further into the road than the rest.

About the Author

Jane Loftus gained a degree in 16th-century European and British history from Surrey before taking a postgraduate degree in modern political history. As a lone parent, she worked in Winchester Waterstones before returning to IT once her son was older. Hugely passionate about the Middle Ages, she drew inspiration for this novel from the medieval layout of Winchester, which has been painstakingly documented.

Jane is originally from London but has lived in Winchester for over twenty years. When not writing, she is usually out walking or watching costume dramas on Netflix – the more medieval the better. She also plays far too many rpgs.