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Post by dreamy on Sept 8, 2007 22:49:13 GMT 10
Oh my, Elly - I forgot you recommended those books already. I came across them in the book store and posted a review in the other thread. Sorry, but isn't it funny we both grabbed them and loved them? ;D I loved the trilogy and agree with you that they are a very enjoyable reading. Just finished reading the first two books in trilogy of ancient Scotland around AD 80. The author seems pretty accurate and really enjoyed the first 2 books. www.juleswatson.com/index.htm' The White Mare' - AD 79 and Agricola, the ruthless governor of Roman Britain, is turning his attentions to the last unconquered territory in Britain - Alba, Scotland. Rhiann is a courageous and beautiful Scottish princess and priestess scarred by her violent past. Of noble blood, she faces what for her is the ultimate sacrifice - a forced marriage - to protect the freedom of her people. Eremon is an enigmatic Irish prince, an exile, who must seek an alliance elsewhere to regain his throne. Will he prove himself the man who can unite the squabbling Celtic tribes against the more ominous threat of Rome? With war and chaos looming for her people, Rhiann finds herself drawn into an unexpected journey of the spirit and heart, which will reveal the true purpose of her life. 'The Dawn Stag' - For Rhiann – a Celtic priestess and queen in ancient Scotland – and her warrior husband, Eremon – an exiled Irish prince – the prospect of a peaceful and free future is wrecked by the threat of a Roman invasion into the north. Theirs was a political marriage, but from it has emerged a passionate love as well as a powerful public alliance. Now in them lies the hope of a nation. For there is a new Emperor in Rome, Domitian, and he has commanded Agricola, Governor of Britain, to crush the troublesome realm of Scottish Alba once and for all. The predestined day draws near: the armies of Alba and Rome will meet in an epic battle to decide the fate of a country. Rhiann searches for guidance in the spirit world, little realizing how big a part she will play in this endgame. Eremon knows only that he must risk – and sacrifice – many lives, perhaps his own.
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Post by dreamy on Sept 29, 2007 3:14:38 GMT 10
I'm reading "When Christ and his Saints slept" by Sharon Kay Penman, oh what a great great book! She is such a terrific writer; I'm getting lost in that book easily.
"Sharon Kay Penman begins a new trilogy with When Christ & His Saints Slept. Set in the 12th century, William the Conqueror's grandchildren clash swords over the English crown, the sound-waves resound from Scotland to France, and Penman plunges her readers into a maelstrom of plot and counter-plot, oath making and breaking, phenomenal determination and fortitude, appalling deprivation and disaster.
She lays firm foundations in the initial chapters on which to build the quirks of Fate and character-forming happenstance of the main protagonists. A young Stephen of Blois is profoundly affected by his father's interpretation of honour and duty; later, there is a frank discussion between Count Stephen and his nephew Ranulph, youngest bastard of King Henry I, the echoes of which reverberate on several levels as the story unfolds. We are privy to the bright-burning passion between Ranulph and his fiancé Annora, and we witness the bitter public and private battleground of a marriage between Geoffrey of Anjou and Maude, the daughter and controversial heir of Henry I of England.
The death of the old king unleashes a disastrous and prolonged fight for the crown between his nephew, Count Stephen of Blois, and Princess Maude, Countess of Anjou. The civil war tears England asunder, the desperate needs of each claimant allowing unscrupulous nobility to play one off the other while profiting from both. The battles and sieges fought across the land impoverish the country folk, who cannot till the fields, and the townspeople, whose homes and shops are burned and ransacked. The Church can neither protect its own nor the lives or virtue of those seeking sanctuary.
Stephen is a mild-mannered, honourable, easily influenced man, as well as a likeable and trustworthy husband, father and friend, but his admirable qualities make for irredeemable failings as a monarch. Maude is an unforgiving, contentious, prideful and obstinate woman, but those traits, which make her undeniably her father's daughter, serve to alienate and unsettle those who would otherwise support her. She is determined to recover the dignity, wealth and independence she feels to be her due. Stephen seizes the throne, aided by the Church and noblemen who believe it to be against nature to be under the regal domination of a mere woman. Maude, incapable of taking to the field of battle in person, is further compromised by bearing Geoffrey's children and being dependent upon him and her loyal brother Robert to wage war on her behalf.
When Christ & His Saints Slept is a large and fascinating tapestry depicting of one of the darkest episodes of English history, interwoven with the myriad colours, textures and depths of the characters inhabiting the era. The reader focuses first on Stephen, then on Maude, but each is surrounded and enhanced by a retinue of nobility and servants, clergy and concubines, all of whom have their own part in the picture and their own tales to tell. One can sympathise with each antagonist, empathising with Stephen's desire to do right by his court and his subjects and also with Maude's struggle for recognition as the rightful queen, hampered by her gender in the medieval atmosphere of misogyny. Had Stephen the ruthless, ambitious and unequivocal personality of Maude, he would have been the monarch the country needed and expected; had Maude not been a woman, she would have been an acceptable and successful heir to Henry. Each equally courageous, impulsive and insecure, the combination of their differences would have formed an indomitable personality, tempered by honour and decency, that could have ruled over a strong land. Fate was not accommodating, and so England lay wasted, as factions fought and alliances altered and its citizens were caught between ruin and riot.
It takes a little while to sort out the complexities of the varying degrees of kinship, the loyalties and the large geographical spread as one steps into a time When Christ & His Saints Slept. Once this is achieved, the 909 pages seem to turn themselves as one is held in Penman's spellbinding story. When the final page is turned, rather than drawing breath and returning to the 21st century, one is already reaching eagerly for its sequel, Time & Chance!"
I already got "Time and Chance".... ;D
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Elly
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Post by Elly on Jan 11, 2008 15:12:07 GMT 10
I loved both these books Dreamy, but all her books are excellent Another book which is good is'Penmarric' by Susan Howatch she actually uses all the characters from this era and it is pretty effective book. I recently finished 'The Shadow in the Wind' by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, a Spanish writer, it really is a great book, its a novel about the love of books. Young Daniel is taken on his 11th birthday by his book shop owner father to the "Cemetery Of Forgotten Books", a hidden library where forgotten titles are lovingly preserved on a labyrinth of shelves. Daniel is told that he must keep this place a secret, but that he's allowed to take one book - any book - from the shelves, and protect it for life. He selects "The Shadow of the Wind" by Julian Carax. That night he reads the book and is spellbound from the first page. From there on you follow Daniel's life and his search for the author and any more of his books but no one knows anything much about him, save for rumours that he disappeared following a duel in Paris. Its a really interesting book I found hard to put down with a lot of twists and turns.
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Elly
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Post by Elly on Jan 11, 2008 15:14:35 GMT 10
Oh my, Elly - I forgot you recommended those books already. I came across them in the book store and posted a review in the other thread. Sorry, but isn't it funny we both grabbed them and loved them? ;D I loved the trilogy and agree with you that they are a very enjoyable reading. Just finished reading the first two books in trilogy of ancient Scotland around AD 80. The author seems pretty accurate and really enjoyed the first 2 books. www.juleswatson.com/index.htm' The White Mare' - AD 79 and Agricola, the ruthless governor of Roman Britain, is turning his attentions to the last unconquered territory in Britain - Alba, Scotland. Rhiann is a courageous and beautiful Scottish princess and priestess scarred by her violent past. Of noble blood, she faces what for her is the ultimate sacrifice - a forced marriage - to protect the freedom of her people. Eremon is an enigmatic Irish prince, an exile, who must seek an alliance elsewhere to regain his throne. Will he prove himself the man who can unite the squabbling Celtic tribes against the more ominous threat of Rome? With war and chaos looming for her people, Rhiann finds herself drawn into an unexpected journey of the spirit and heart, which will reveal the true purpose of her life. 'The Dawn Stag' - For Rhiann – a Celtic priestess and queen in ancient Scotland – and her warrior husband, Eremon – an exiled Irish prince – the prospect of a peaceful and free future is wrecked by the threat of a Roman invasion into the north. Theirs was a political marriage, but from it has emerged a passionate love as well as a powerful public alliance. Now in them lies the hope of a nation. For there is a new Emperor in Rome, Domitian, and he has commanded Agricola, Governor of Britain, to crush the troublesome realm of Scottish Alba once and for all. The predestined day draws near: the armies of Alba and Rome will meet in an epic battle to decide the fate of a country. Rhiann searches for guidance in the spirit world, little realizing how big a part she will play in this endgame. Eremon knows only that he must risk – and sacrifice – many lives, perhaps his own. I have to try and see if the third book is out yet, it should be, not that I forgot or anything
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Post by dreamy on Jan 30, 2008 3:26:18 GMT 10
No, you never, Elly!! ;D I read a fascinating book recently called "The Chemistry of Death" by Simon Beckett. Wooooow... "Finding refuge in a quiet rural backwater, Dr David Hunter hoped he might at last have put the past behind him. But then they found what was left of Sally Palmer... Once he'd been a high-profile forensic anthropologist and all too familiar with the many faces of death, before tragedy made him abandon this previous life. Now the police want his help. But to become involved will stir up memories he's long tried to forget. Then a second woman disappears, plunging the close-knit community into a maelstrom of fear and paranoia. And no one, not even Hunter, is exempt from suspicion. Gruesome and gripping, this startling new British crime thriller has an unnerving and original twist. " I really couldn't put it down; you should give it a try! The second book of the "David Hunter" series is out, it's called "Written in Bone" and you can bet your ...well, whatever you prefer ;D...that I will get this one, too!
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Elly
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Post by Elly on Jan 30, 2008 12:52:40 GMT 10
I like the sound of that book Dreamy, will have to get it, always on the look out for new authors
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Post by LLady on Feb 29, 2008 7:41:03 GMT 10
I just finished He fell asleep as the moonlight shortened into a slit along the raw silk curtains, dreaming of fire and boiling water, of the sun reflecting off the sea. And when he woke a few hours later, something had changed. The air felt different, charged somehow, a heaviness eating down through his bones, crackling the hair on his arms and legs. He lay very still a moment, breathing slowly, the sheets at his waist, smelling and tasting and measuring that subtle, smoking sting like gunpowder lingering at the back of his throat. The doors were still open, the night was still sweltering, but that wasn’t it. Someone was here in the mansion. Someone new, someone with power. Someone he had never felt before. A drákon. He rose, folding back the sheets, his toes pressing the warm maple floor. He wouldn’t Turn—too obvious—but he could hunt without Turning. In the quiet, in the heat, in storm or total blindness, Kimber knew he could hunt. In his drawers and bare feet, his hair a heated weight down his neck, he padded to the door of his chamber, pushed it ajar. A breath of more temperate air washed along the length of his body, cooling the moisture on his skin. The beast within him stretched into sinew and blood, eager to surface. Downstairs, it whispered. Chasen Manor had been built with an eye for grace and updated for luxury, another cunning ruse in his family’s presentation of itself to the world. The main hallway of the upper level yawned wide and open, floored with checkered stone tiles; skylights of clean, polished glass illumed the corridor and allowed in the night. Kim avoided the brighter patches. He stole through shadows to the grand staircase, pausing to listen, but heard nothing beyond the usual background of distant snores, and the creaks and groans of timber beams cooling with the dark. But he was not mistaken. Despite his guards, despite his vigilance, Chasen had been breached. Yes, murmured the dragon, flexing, growing. Danger. Destroy it. He moved utterly without noise. His foot found the first step down the white marble stairs, and then the next. He reached the base swiftly and fell again into shadow. The scent, the rippling of fresh power, was coming from the music room. He wondered briefly where Rhys was, why he hadn’t sensed the threat as well, but there was no time to wake him. The stinging charge was nearly electric at this point, the friction of thunderheads against ether, remarkably strong. He approached the open doors and, his back to the wood, glanced in. Faint moonlight still rinsed through these windows, tracing black and blue and charcoal across the furnishings. Frozen elegance, the drapes and rug and cream agate mantel framing the hearth, the pianoforte—the chamber appeared empty. The fire was feathered ash; there weren’t even any dust motes to settle with a draft. The only sound to be heard was the bracket clock ticking, very loudly, atop the cabinet in the corner, its grinning cherubs just visible in a gleam of dull metallic blue. The air was oppressive. The heat, the living friction, the sting against his skin. He was burning inside, expanding: the dragon writhed to be free, to taste blood. Kimber stood motionless. He waited. And in the blackest of the corners he saw at last the something he had sensed, a slight, languorous movement that seemed almost joined with the night, just as sultry and silky slow. It resolved to become a shoulder, a bare pale arm. The curve of a neck and cheekbones and lips; a wash of moonlit hair; dark-lashed, amazing clear eyes—eyes like water, like the light—watching him without blinking. A woman. And now the dragon became an exhalation, hissed hard between his teeth. Great God, what the hell— “I know who you are,” said the woman in French. Her voice was soft, melodious; it sent fresh shivers across his skin. She hesitated, then walked closer. Against the rigidly polished lines of the pianoforte, he realized she wore no clothing at all. “Do you know me, Lord Kimber of Chasen?” He took an involuntary step forward. A thousand stories raced through his mind, explanations, excuses. There could be only one answer here, only one female in the world who could steal into his home undetected— She lifted one hand, her fist closed. Without looking away from him, her fingers opened, and she inverted her palm. Twin flashes of metal fell to the rug, bounced against the woven flowers with a muffled tattoo before rolling flat. She’d dropped rings, a pair of them. Signet rings. Tribal rings. Exactly like the ones worn by Jeffery and Luke and Hayden. Kim raked his eyes back to hers. “I’ve brought you a gift, as you can see.” The Princess Maricara gave a small, chilly smile. “But perhaps we might make this an exchange instead. Is there something you wish to tell me?”
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Post by LLady on Feb 29, 2008 7:46:38 GMT 10
That was such a wonderful read that now I'm reading, Both books are by Shana Abe! He fell asleep as the moonlight shortened into a slit along the raw silk curtains, dreaming of fire and boiling water, of the sun reflecting off the sea. And when he woke a few hours later, something had changed. The air felt different, charged somehow, a heaviness eating down through his bones, crackling the hair on his arms and legs. He lay very still a moment, breathing slowly, the sheets at his waist, smelling and tasting and measuring that subtle, smoking sting like gunpowder lingering at the back of his throat. The doors were still open, the night was still sweltering, but that wasn’t it. Someone was here in the mansion. Someone new, someone with power. Someone he had never felt before. A drákon. He rose, folding back the sheets, his toes pressing the warm maple floor. He wouldn’t Turn—too obvious—but he could hunt without Turning. In the quiet, in the heat, in storm or total blindness, Kimber knew he could hunt. In his drawers and bare feet, his hair a heated weight down his neck, he padded to the door of his chamber, pushed it ajar. A breath of more temperate air washed along the length of his body, cooling the moisture on his skin. The beast within him stretched into sinew and blood, eager to surface. Downstairs, it whispered. Chasen Manor had been built with an eye for grace and updated for luxury, another cunning ruse in his family’s presentation of itself to the world. The main hallway of the upper level yawned wide and open, floored with checkered stone tiles; skylights of clean, polished glass illumed the corridor and allowed in the night. Kim avoided the brighter patches. He stole through shadows to the grand staircase, pausing to listen, but heard nothing beyond the usual background of distant snores, and the creaks and groans of timber beams cooling with the dark. But he was not mistaken. Despite his guards, despite his vigilance, Chasen had been breached. Yes, murmured the dragon, flexing, growing. Danger. Destroy it. He moved utterly without noise. His foot found the first step down the white marble stairs, and then the next. He reached the base swiftly and fell again into shadow. The scent, the rippling of fresh power, was coming from the music room. He wondered briefly where Rhys was, why he hadn’t sensed the threat as well, but there was no time to wake him. The stinging charge was nearly electric at this point, the friction of thunderheads against ether, remarkably strong. He approached the open doors and, his back to the wood, glanced in. Faint moonlight still rinsed through these windows, tracing black and blue and charcoal across the furnishings. Frozen elegance, the drapes and rug and cream agate mantel framing the hearth, the pianoforte—the chamber appeared empty. The fire was feathered ash; there weren’t even any dust motes to settle with a draft. The only sound to be heard was the bracket clock ticking, very loudly, atop the cabinet in the corner, its grinning cherubs just visible in a gleam of dull metallic blue. The air was oppressive. The heat, the living friction, the sting against his skin. He was burning inside, expanding: the dragon writhed to be free, to taste blood. Kimber stood motionless. He waited. And in the blackest of the corners he saw at last the something he had sensed, a slight, languorous movement that seemed almost joined with the night, just as sultry and silky slow. It resolved to become a shoulder, a bare pale arm. The curve of a neck and cheekbones and lips; a wash of moonlit hair; dark-lashed, amazing clear eyes—eyes like water, like the light—watching him without blinking. A woman. And now the dragon became an exhalation, hissed hard between his teeth. Great God, what the hell— “I know who you are,” said the woman in French. Her voice was soft, melodious; it sent fresh shivers across his skin. She hesitated, then walked closer. Against the rigidly polished lines of the pianoforte, he realized she wore no clothing at all. “Do you know me, Lord Kimber of Chasen?” He took an involuntary step forward. A thousand stories raced through his mind, explanations, excuses. There could be only one answer here, only one female in the world who could steal into his home undetected— She lifted one hand, her fist closed. Without looking away from him, her fingers opened, and she inverted her palm. Twin flashes of metal fell to the rug, bounced against the woven flowers with a muffled tattoo before rolling flat. She’d dropped rings, a pair of them. Signet rings. Tribal rings. Exactly like the ones worn by Jeffery and Luke and Hayden. Kim raked his eyes back to hers. “I’ve brought you a gift, as you can see.” The Princess Maricara gave a small, chilly smile. “But perhaps we might make this an exchange instead. Is there something you wish to tell me?”
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Post by LLady on Feb 29, 2008 7:48:18 GMT 10
I found out that I'm not reading this series in the incorrect order but it's too late now!
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Post by LLady on Feb 29, 2008 7:49:19 GMT 10
Oh my, Elly - I forgot you recommended those books already. I came across them in the book store and posted a review in the other thread. Sorry, but isn't it funny we both grabbed them and loved them? ;D I loved the trilogy and agree with you that they are a very enjoyable reading. I have to try and see if the third book is out yet, it should be, not that I forgot or anything This series is on my list!
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