Jenn Lees's Blog

While admiring Warwick Castle, German tourist Sophia, finds herself inexplicably transported to the Middle Ages. At first, she believes it’s an elaborate adventure performed by the tour guides of this historic castle in England, but the hanging of a peasant, realistic and definitely deadly, brings her to the conclusion she has time travelled.

Finding her way home seems impossible, so she initially settles in to find her own place in this new and very foreign world, with new friends to make and a gorgeous knight to stop herself from falling for if she wants to keep her wedding vows to Steffan, her husband, who is over six hundred years away in the future.

It’s a beautiful and colourful world Hampstead portrays, bringing us right into the Middle Ages with all its customs—some of them barbaric—and culture, which Sophia must learn if she wants to retain her secure place under her benefactor, Richard de Beauchamp.

But all is not what it seems, and the plot twist left me gaping. Truly unique and brilliant.

The fight scenes were great, showing Hampstead’s personal knowledge of HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts) and sword skills. The characters were believable and endearing, especially the hunky Henry, but I must admit the sex scenes were too spicy for me. The story also contains some graphic violence and abuse scenes.

If you enjoy time travel romances—although it’s much more than this—with a forbidden love, a gutsy, brave heroine and a handsome knight—literally—then you’ll love A Code of Knights and Deception the first instalment in Swords of Time.

I received an ARC copy of A Code of Knights and Deception to read and review.

Elven escapades on ice and snow hiding a much darker secret.
In this novel we pick up the story five hundred years after the Summertime Circus troupe retrieved the magic Stone Scrolls from the Shadow Elves. Minding these scrolls has weakened their magic, just as it had done for the Gray Kingdom all those years ago.
Isayah’s twin brother, Osuah, discovers the scrolls have been stolen from the Summertime Circus, along with his youngling daughter. The quest begins to not only return her and the scroll, but to free those still enslaved by dark magic.
S L Dooley’s writing is wonderful with costumes made of living moths, Osuah’s ability to overlay a map in his mind with the terrain before him to find the way, and bread infused with wisdom with every kneading stroke giving the eater much needed energy and joy.
We meet the Cold Moon Carnival troupe: elven escapades on ice and snow, whose performance, antics and magic will not disappoint any fantasy reader. But will they rise to the challenge of assisting the Summertime Circus in finding Ousah’s daughter and destroying the magic Stone Scrolls? Their leader has a shameful secret, and it takes his brave daughter to join with the Summertime troupe, inadvertently exposing this secret.
I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the familiar characters from the previous novel and meeting the new ones in this elven fantasy full of magic, peril and desperate circumstances. All characters were complex and relatable with real relational problems anyone can identify with, all set in S L Dooley’s vividly imagined world. The main standout is the depiction of a father’s love and the lengths a good father would go to save his daughter, all a reflection of a greater Father’s love for all his children.
I can thoroughly recommend this novel. It’s a delight.

S L Dooley’s Summertime Circus fantasy story is just magical.
In this elven world we follow the lives of a performing troupe whose routines would make Cirque Du Soleil members envious. The story, settings, and the troupe’s act are beautifully described, with a natural/elemental magic that delights.
But all is not perfect in the lives of our elven heroes, and a desire for revenge of an act centuries old leads to a misunderstanding of motives, drawing the reader into the angst and guilty feelings of the main character, Isayah, and her desire to put not only things right in her world, but in the life and heart of her young charge.

An exciting read, with characters that stand out from the page. S L Dooley has given us a world in peril so beautifully captured that we want to jump into the vardo and join their quest.

I can recommend this novel to any fantasy lover, and very much look forward to the next instalment.

Dust Song: Len the Wanderer first gives the impression that it is just a retelling of the Cain and Abel story. It alludes to this, but Heywood makes it so much more. Through Heywood’s detailed and eloquent descriptions, the reader follows the life of Len, who through frustration with continued rejection of his best efforts, has accidentally mortally injured his brother and banishment ensues. We wander alone and afraid, enter a desert and taste the dust, feel the heat and the fear strangers bring. This fantasy shows interactions with the spirit realm as close and as real to Len as any physical being. Struggling with the desire for his own lifestyle and his love for growing things, he is always searching for greener pastures, literally.
The world Heywood has imagined is reminiscent of a very young and sparsely populated world. The details are inspiring and paint a clear picture. Heywood’s easy to read and flowing writing style fits the setting and stays in character for the entire novella. I enjoyed this fantasy read which prompted thoughts on forgiveness and redemption, and stubborn self-will. I can thoroughly recommend it and look forward to more stories in the world of Vaporous Realms.

The Crossing (Arlan's Pledge Book One) has just been released and I'm so excited to bring you this story.
What's it about? Well, a lot of things.
It's about two worlds joined by a portal--a long lost magic--that brings Arlan and Rhiannon together. Love is magical after all.
It's about loyal sword-brothers; choices and destiny; the sacrifices needed to take up the challenge and find your place in life.
It's about... well, I'd better not tell you too much.
Here's the prologue where we meet the instigator of the story, Ciaran Gallawain, who sets the events in motion that will affect our heroes in the future, and give us the story I trust you will enjoy.

'Let it be known, in this the third year of my reign as Àrd Rìgh of the Sovereignty of Dál Gaedhle, the four disgraced clan lords now proven to conspire against my rule, be stripped of lands, titles and inheritances, rights and fealty owed, and hitherto be banished from Dál Gaedhle, never to show their faces nor cross our borders on pain of death.

SIGNED BY DONNACH FINNBAR MACENOICHT,
ÀRD RÌGH OF THE SOVEREIGNTY OF DÁL GAEDHLE
6053 POST DRAGON WARS


The World of Dál Cruinne
Post Dragon Wars Year 6053
The Border between the Western Sovereignty of Dál Gaedhle and the Eastern Clanlands of Dál Gallain

Now he was free.
Ciarán rode past the derelict border-fort tower where Dál Gaedhle became Dál Gallain. The wooden wall, long rotted, stretched between squat rough-cut sandstone fortifications dotted along the borderline for the length of the land. If his gaze could reach its end, he would spy the Muir Gallain, the great sea of the south. The guards who had travelled with him stayed back, their mounts tossing manes and jangling tack. The horses reflected their riders’ wishes to be away, no doubt. Aye, eager to leave but requiring certainty of his departure.
Ciarán’s mount slowed and picked his way through the broken cut stone and rubble strewn across the path between two ivy-covered fort towers as the rumble of hooves receded behind him.
Good. Donnach MacEnoicht’s obedient escorts had done their high king’s bidding and turned for home.
The warrior-clansman escort had returned to him his sheathed sword, its baldric’s smooth leather belt wrapped round it tight, addressing him only as Ciarán Gallawain.
Ciarán ground his teeth. Never again would a soul address him by his clan chief title of lord. Neither would he feel beneath his fingertips the patterned surface of his highly decorated chieftain’s belt about his waist. The weight of his sword, Dearg, now pressed down on his back. That insipid àrd rìgh could choke on his mercy, for it only displayed his weakness.
Aye, one day my sword will draw blood and redden the ground at Donnach’s feet.
Ciarán kicked his horse to a gallop. He could not hasten from the border fast enough. Huffing, he pushed further southeast, urging his horse on, leaving Dál Gaedhle… and Alana… well behind.
He swallowed hard against the thickness that threatened to line his throat. Best to leave those thoughts alone. What’s done is…
Grey clouds churned beneath the sun, and the day dulled around him. His legs were heavy from this past week’s ride, as if rocks filled his muscles. Cold rain beat hard on his forehead, running over his jaw and trickling down his chest beneath his fine wool shirt. Weak sunlight angled through the tree foliage, edging the leaves of the forest in silver. Dense undergrowth slowed his pace and encroached on the road now turning into a goat-track.
Narrowing his eyes and sharpening his focus in the dimming surrounds, he dismounted and led his steed at a walk, swiping branches to the side to clear a path. Sprays of water droplets wet his breeches and soaked his plaid. The cold seeped through chilling his skin and burrowing deeper. He must rid himself of the cloth, though he was loath to—the last remnant of his connection to any clan. Even so, some in the east might recognise the tartan of a noble clan of the west.
He could take no chances.
A dim glow showed through the thicket like a beacon. He headed for it, leading his horse through the edge of the forest, which stood like a wall around a small dwelling in the middle of a clearing covered in night. Light shone in the window of the wattle-and-daube cottage— the home of a commoner, and a poor one at that—and smoke rose from its primitive stone chimney. He tied his mount to a nearby post and stood at the wooden door above which hung clumps of rowan, ash and heather—and a shrivelled raven’s foot.
He grunted and lifted his baldric from his shoulder and strapped the belt around his waist. His blade must be ever ready.
He raised a fist to the door. It swung open, his knuckles hitting air. A hag with long silver hair matted to knots and hanging over humped shoulders, stood in the doorway. Her face, as crinkled as summer-dried fruit, opened to a toothless maw. Her breath wafted to him—vomit, rotted meat and the reeking pile of excrement at the bottom of the long-drop of The Keep on a sweltering day. His throat tightened, threatening a gag, but he swallowed against it.
“Come, young man, ye have wandered far.” The crone’s head bobbed her welcome.
He lowered his fist slowly. The crone seemed harmless enough, and with no other dwellings nearby—and the gnawing in his belly—he stepped in. A fire filled the hearth, its heat bathing his face and raising vapour from his clothing.
Her withered fingers drew the length of plaid from his shoulders. Strands of his long hair dragged with the woollen cloth, flicking his cheek. “Ye have the fair hair of a noble clan, young man.”
Ciarán stiffened. “Ye are bold, old woman.” Taking a step back, he drew his sword, its ring filling the tiny dwelling.
“I meant nae harm, my lord.” She dipped a shaky bow then lifted her head, her gnarled hands caressing his tartan clasped to her breast and her eyes glimmered. “Just wishing to show kindness to a weary traveller, is all.”
The woman stood by the rough-hewn wooden table sitting in the centre of the room, illuminated by squat candles placed on any available flat surface, their melted wax leaving deformed sculptures in their path. Far, indeed, were the comforts of a caisteal. Yet warmth seeped through his damp clothing, chasing away the chill. A pot bubbled over the coals, the aroma more palatable than the woman’s breath.
Her gaze followed his. “Ye will be hungry, my lord.”
She draped his plaid over the chair nearest the hearth, then ladled broth into a wooden bowl and placed it on the table. His stomach growled.
Ciarán re-sheathed his sword and approached the chair, never lifting his gaze from the old crone. She was familiar. Not in physique, but in spirit.
I… have… known this before.
Ciarán sat on the creaking chair and, steadying himself, poked the contents of the bowl with a wooden spoon. Sparse chunks of meat floated in the thin brown liquid.
He ate, the gamey flavour of rabbit scarce throughout the soup, and let his gaze wander the one-roomed dwelling. Herbs hung to dry above the grey stone fireplace. Cooking pots of assorted sizes sat stacked on the hearth and next to them, a neat pile of firewood.
“Ye should go further east tomorrow when ye resume your travel, my Lord Ciarán Gallawain.”
He stopped the spoon inches from his mouth, sloshing out the contents with a jerking halt.
By the antlers of Cernunnos! His plan of wandering through the land incognito was now impossible if even this isolated old hag had recognised him. He returned the spoon to the soup and scooped once more, narrowing his eyelids.
But how does she know?
The woman stood with her green eyes fixed on his, and the back of his neck prickled.
“Ye must go to where ye find the ends of the world.” A tremor to her tilted head accompanied the instructions. “That is the way to the one who truly possesses the power.” Crinkled hands rested on the tabletop; on their backs thin translucent skin revealed a river delta of veins. “Ye will receive more than you first perceive, for ye have tae trust Cumhachd adhar.”
Ciarán’s brow tightened. The hag had spoken the old tongue, and he had heard the name—a long time ago. The Power of the Air.
He tightened his grip on the spoon, digging the handle into his palm as his heart leaped within his chest. He required power to gain what, in truth, was his.
He lifted his chin. I, Ciarán Gallawain, was born to rule.
His wet-nurse had spoken often of his destiny. He saw it now, as vivid to him as his present surroundings—she stood by the great fireplace in the caisteal of his birth, chanting to herself and pricking his finger then flicking his blood into the hissing flames.
Bile rose in his throat and burned. For he was now a wandering exile and coming second to Donnach MacEnoicht in Tòireadh—the Quest for the High Kingship—had thwarted all. A dull, thick sensation returned to his belly, like a pot of stew set on low coals, brewing slow and long since losing his love, his quest and his dignity. The grumble in his gut had been an intimate friend for three years, and now he would name it—resentment, and he would suppress it no longer.
His life had changed indeed. He must start from naught wherever he landed, and much hard work lay ahead.
“I have a word for you, Lord Ciarán Gallawain.”
His vision refocused and the woman’s gnarled hands came back into view, the river delta melting to smooth youthful skin.
His gaze rose to hers. She stood taller, a whispering caress of cloth slipping over skin accompanied her patched garment’s slide to the floor. Transformed, a shining mane of golden curls cascaded across smooth skin, pouring over perfect breasts on its path to curved hips.
Ciarán gasped. A mage disguised as a crone—that explains all.
The sudden appearance of her home, her knowledge of him, and her enigmatic advice.
The mage raised slender youthful arms above her head and the hearth’s blaze lit the room in an orange glow. She lifted her hands higher, as if in supplication, while candles blazed as bright as lightning. A stunning younger version of those green eyes locked with his, and he sat, unable to move.

“When sunlight bids farewell to day
Or with morning tide enlightens,
A crossing to other worlds at bay
With magicked power opens.
Then shuts the gates for those to stay
Until the orb-illumined run
Its courses of the worlds then done.
Where light caresses land as one
There, travellers’ journeys fill their sum.”

The air rang with her rich voice, her tone holding the glimmer of a chant, verging on a wail.
Ciarán’s thundering pulse joined the candled-lightning of the room and his breathing staggered with a heaviness pressing on his shoulders, as if the eyes of the universe weighted their stare upon him.
The mage’s arms slowly lowered, her youthful form retained, and her lips curving.
It was a riddle. A conundrum. A challenge… A command.
Power lay behind it, whatever it may be. And this striking beauty before him a messenger only.
He shook the weight from his shoulders and, rising to his full height, stepped to the mage. His face was inches from her delicate lips, her apple-scented breath invading his own.
“Where is this place? I will find it.” He blinked at the earnestness of his own voice.
“Not one but many, my Lord Ciarán.”
His breath caught in his throat.
Here was his new start. His chance to begin afresh.
But to have it—a chance I must take.
“So be it.” A heat ignited within him, as sparks ran to his fists and swirled in his mind. “Tell your master I wish to enjoin my goals with his.”
“Nae, my Lord Ciarán Gallawain, for ye yourself shall inform him.”

So the first novel in the Arlan's Pledge series is finally about to be published and I'm so excited.
It's taken years to get to this, and I feel the story is finally ready for you all.

So what is the story about?

Here's the back cover blurb:

A warrior fighting his destiny.
A woman desperately seeking hers.
And a magic portal that joins them both.

Dál Cruinne is a world of warriors and mages, clan kings and sages.
Asleep since the Dragon Wars of millennia past, the beasts have now awoken.

Arlan, warrior son of the High King of the Sovereignty of Dál Gaedhle, is destined to be the war chief of his clan. But the cost is a future that ignores his desire to choose his own path.

Scottish librarian, Rhiannon, adrift after losing her job due to economic cuts, now lives a second-rate life, feeling more out of place than ever. When Arlan bursts into her world on his war horse and brandishing weapons, he turns her existence up-side-down.

He thinks he’s found the perfect woman. She can’t understand why he’s delaying his return.
Now with his world on the brink of war, and Rhiannon challenging his attitudes, Arlan must choose between his growing feelings for her and his responsibilities to his people.

Will the call of his home world be stronger, and is her desire to fight beside him even possible?

The Crossing is a portal fantasy romance featuring dedicated sword-brothers and love that fiercely protects. It explores the meaning of destiny and what it costs to grab hold and make it your own.

If you like romance, sword and sorcery, portals and dragons, then you’ll love the action-packed series Arlan’s Pledge.

Hi, as you can see, I haven’t blogged in a while and this post will be a detour from my usual blog posts about locations that have inspired my writing.
I have been busy writing my stories and I’m excited to share with you my fantasy romance novels that are coming up.

They are a bit different from my Community Chronicles Series, which is set in a possible future Scotland after a worldwide disaster that changed everything.
This fantasy romance trilogy entitled Arlan’s Pledge, is set in two worlds: Scotland in 2016, and a fantasy world, Dál Cruinne, which is a Gaelic older type world with clansman warriors and sages, high kings and mages, set in their time 6083 years after their Dragon Wars.

But what about my characters and their story?

Arlan, second son of the high king of this world, is running from his destiny. Rhiannon, a retrenched librarian in our world, is trying to find hers. And it’s a fantasy romance… So, you can guess… They must cross paths somehow… But how?

I’m really excited to be getting on with publishing this after working on it plus the two other books in the series for the past almost four years.
My ‘cartographer’ is converting my scribbles of a map of Dál Cruinne into a digital masterpiece to place in the front of the books.

And the first book, The Crossing, will soon be off to the editor. I can’t wait to share this story with you. An earlier manuscript has made the finals in the OZMA Book Awards for Fantasy Fiction. And I’ve just heard a very early manuscript of the second book, The Quest, has placed in the Top Ten of Ink & Insights 2021 Competition.

I’ve also just started another story in the world of Dál Cruinne. A different part of this world and different characters.
Watch this space. I’ll try to keep you up to date (when I’m not too distracted by writing it).

Continuing my blog on places in Scotland visited and well-remembered (and even lived in) that have provided the settings for my novels.

I love castles!
You’ll already know that if you follow me.
Ravenscraig is a ruin but, with a little imagination you can see how it would have been when intact.

The Historic Scotland information boards help too.
The ruins were on the original cover of The Crash, the culminating scene occurs in its historic grounds.

Travel Journal Scottish Summer 2017
‘On Thursday we ventured out and drove to the Kingdom of Fife, a district of Scotland allowed to retain its title of kingdom. It has a beautiful coastline, and this day, wonderful weather. We stopped at Ravenscraig, a castle ruin sitting on a spine of sandstone jutting out into the sea. A beautiful place. I could have stayed there for hours. The sea breeze, fresh and salty, soothed me, and the waves gently crashed on the shore below o-so-closely, and gulls cried overhead. Hmm…very evocative.’

From The Crash

Martin followed Davy and Shona as they walked through the arched gateway of the castle ruins; the thick stone walls emitted a chill. After the tunnel-like entrance, the ruin opened to a long and narrow space, the castle complex having been built on a high spine of sandstone jutting out above the beach below. The tide was in, and the waves crashed in a constant rhythm. The cool salty breeze brushed through Martin’s hair and he pushed his long fringe out of his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. Night birds called in the wooded parklands beside the castle ruins.
The area in front of him was mostly green grass and low stone walls, the remains of the castle now a floor-plan of the fortress. Ahead, and out to sea, the original inhabitants would have seen their enemies approaching. But Martin’s enemies would come from the other direction. He turned, in the moonlight a sandstone structure ran along behind them, the remnants of the castle’s round towers and main keep. Doors of wrought iron kept tourists out of rooms still intact with a roof. Back toward the sea, rubble and a half-demolished round tower and wall stood closer to the cliff’s edge, its sandstone glowing a soft yellow in the moonlight.
“We could shelter over there.” Shona pointed to a broken wall at the edge of the sandstone spine, nearest the water, with the beach far below it.
“Aye, but we’d have to jump over the edge if they came.” Martin turned to inspect the entrance once more. “We’ll have to keep an eye out that way.”
“I’ll do that,” Davy offered. “You need to rest now, Martin.”
“Aye, ye look exhausted, Martin.” Shona placed her warm hand on his forearm. It was the only part of his body that didn’t hurt.
“Take the rifle, Davy. In case they come.”
“No, no, no.” Davy waved his hands in front of him, a panicked expression on his face. “I know nothing about guns.”
Martin sighed and walked closer to the wall nearest the sea, drawn by the rhythmic crash-and-receding song of the waves below. The moon was behind him, beginning its descent. His limbs dragged, and a heaviness settled in between the flashes of pain. Sitting on the grass, its softness lured him to rest lying on his side. He placed the rifle at his head. Davy’s footsteps receded to the stone archway entrance.
“We need food.” Shona sat beside him, her body-heat radiating toward him in the cool night.
He shook his head. “We have higher priorities. Like surviving.”

I have often admired bridges. I’m not an engineer but I like checking out the design of a bridge. I especially like the bridges that span the Firth of Forth, near Edinburgh. Three of them now.
I think they’re beautiful. Can a bridge be beautiful?
If you look closely at the cover of Saving Time, you’ll see the Forth Rail Bridge in the background.

Journal Entry 2017.

‘We made our way to South Queensferry on the Firth of Forth to see the new bridge. Very elegant, I think. The other two bridges remain. The red Victorian engineering marvel, the Rail Bridge. And the Road Bridge—a wire suspension bridge that had to be replaced as the thin wires, which make up the very thick steel cables that hold it up, are fraying and they haven’t yet (at that point) decided on a way to repair it.
Worrying.
A lot of establishments situated within sight of the bridges had within their name, two bridges (an inn for example) and would, I assume, now have to change to Three Bridges. The official name of the new bridge is the Queensferry Crossing.’
I suppose some people have opinions on bridges. Well, a couple of my characters do. In Saving Time: Community Chronicles Book 3, Rory and his younger brother Murray, have taken a trip back in time. They both view the bridges quite differently.

‘They travelled over the Queensferry Crossing and Rory glanced sideways. Murray’s mouth hung open as he fixed his gaze on the red tubed, Meccano Set-type structure to their far left. Murray would see the angles and geometry of the Forth Rail Bridge. Rory recognised how indefensible these bridges were, and it only needed a troop of good militia to block one end and it would be theirs. Well, three troops, he’d take all three bridges at once. Explosives would be helpful too.
History recorded, in the same year as The Stock Market Crash, a spate of terrorist attacks worldwide had severely crippled many major cities of the world. Newspapers were scarce and digital information no longer accessible. What had been the fate of the Forth bridges? They were a logical target. Rory glanced again at the elegant, white pillars and the straight, thick, steel cables as he drove past them on the newer road bridge, the Queensferry Crossing. His own thoughts had been speculative, but maybe someone had done it—destroyed these intriguing structures.
“You know when they finished the rail bridge in 1890, it was the longest cantilever-spanned bridge in the world, at that time?” Murray’s voice echoed off the window as he continued his gaze to the left.
“How do you know all this stuff?” Rory screwed up his face.
“I read.”
“Well, I read.”
“Yeah, but The Art of War by Sun Tsu won’t help us much today, will it?”’

Scotland inspires me. It always has.
My grandmother came from a small town in North Yorkshire but her claim to fame was that her grandmother was a Scot— a Hannah Langdale Bruce…yes, that’s right. The same clan as The Bruce, King of Scots (1306-1329). Or so Nana used to boast, and boast very proudly. She also used to boast about a great great—not too sure how many greats—uncle, James Watt.
Yep, the steam engine guy.
Or so Nana, again, proudly said.
I have no documents to prove either of these claims—but a Scottish heritage of a sorts was enough for me, and I fell in love with Scotland at the age of ten.
Not just tartan and bagpipes.
But castles.


(Go to my website for accompanying photos www.jennleeswriter.com)

Oh, how I love castles!
And still do (as those of you who read my novels will discover).
And the mountains…And the accent…I could go on.
I would like to share, in the following blogs, some places in Scotland visited and well-remembered (and even lived in) that have provided the settings for my novels.
I will show the scene, then relay the place, and briefly my experiences there.
I trust that you, dear reader, will, indeed, read on.

Here’s a wee snippet from Saving Time: Community Chronicles Book 3. Just some thoughts of Rory’s.


‘On top of this Munro, the peaks of lower mountains, those less than three thousand feet, surrounded Rory and his crew. The fresh wind blew the grass flat over grey rock-covered hills and funnelled its way down to Loch Maree, which reflected the bright blue sky and nestled itself between the elevations of the Finnach mountain range. Rory gazed out at this land—his place on this planet—took a breath of the Highland air and smiled to himself.
This was where his soul sang. Whatever went on in the wild world out there, he was content to be here—and nowhere else.’