Jan Foster's Blog

The Scottish Gaelic Origins Behind the Queen of the Witches

“The only cure for Vinexplicity was the blood of a Banrigh—the Queen of the Witches.”
– Discovering Destiny

Fantasy readers often ask whether titles like Banrigh are simply invented because they sound magical. In the case of the Naturae Series, and specifically the latest release ‘Discovering Destiny’, the answer is no.

One of my favourite parts of writing my magical realism series is weaving genuine history, language and folklore into the story. When I’m talking to readers at events, I’ll often say, history forms the backbone of the plot which my characters have to contend with. So, while the magical island of Naturae is fictional, many of the words, traditions and ideas that shape the creatures within that world are inspired by real cultures and real history.

The title Banrigh is one of those examples.

A Queen by Another Name

The word Banrigh comes from Scottish Gaelic, where it simply means queen (pronounced BAN-ree).

It combines bean (woman) with rìgh (king), creating the feminine form of the title. Modern Irish uses the closely related word banríon, reflecting the shared ancestry of the Gaelic languages.

Like English, however, Gaelic has changed over hundreds of years. Medieval scribes rarely agreed on spelling, pronunciation varied from region to region, and written forms evolved over time. That means you’ll often encounter several versions of the same word in historical sources. As an author, that’s wonderful, as it reminds us that language is alive. You only have to listen to teenagers talk to each other today to realise they are speaking in an almost entirely different language to people 50 years their senior! If we had a time machine, would we be able to understand how the Tudors spoke? Doubtful, unless you had studied it extensively.

Language changes, written or verbal, yet still carries echoes of the people who first spoke it.

Why Scottish Gaelic?

Readers occasionally ask why I chose a Scottish Gaelic title rather than an Irish one (which is perhaps more commonly used in fantasy), and that’s a far simpler answer – the setting of the series. Although hidden by magical mist, Naturae lies among the Orkney Islands, off Scotland’s north coast. The island itself doesn’t appear on any map, but I wanted it to feel as though it belonged naturally within the landscape and history of northern Britain.

Orkney has one of the richest histories in Europe. Long before Scotland existed as a nation, the islands were home to Neolithic farmers who built monuments such as Skara Brae and the Ring of Brodgar (the rings of faeth, I call them in the books). Later came the mysterious Picts, followed by Norse settlers (see Risking Destiny set in 800AD) who ruled Orkney for centuries before the islands passed to the Scottish Crown in 1472.

The Ring of Brodgar, Orkney Islands

Image credit – https://www.orkney.com/listings/ring-of-brodgar

By the sixteenth century, the period in which Discovering Destiny takes place, the people of Orkney largely spoke the Scots language, while Scottish Gaelic remained closely associated with the Highlands and western Scotland.

Naturae, however, has never followed ordinary history. Hidden from the human world, its magical communities have preserved traditions that would otherwise have been forgotten. Scottish Gaelic therefore became one of the cultural threads I used to give the witches their own identity, one rooted in the landscape of Scotland, shaped by centuries of magical isolation.

Using Banrigh instead of Queen quietly tells readers that the witches possess their own customs, traditions and history. Although they share the same world as humans in Tudor England, they are not simply another people. They are older. Their rituals are older. Their understanding of good leadership is therefore more experienced. Even before readers know anything about the witches, a single Gaelic word hints that this is a culture with centuries of forgotten history behind it.

Historical fantasy isn’t about recreating history exactly as it happened, but about asking a different question: What if one hidden corner of history had followed another path?

More Than a Crown

From the vision, Hope realised with absolute clarity why she saw what she saw – the crown did not care about expectations, nor who had worn it before. It sought the right person for the times ahead, no matter the cost. And somehow, her loved ones were contenders as well.

It couldn’t be. Hope didn’t wish for her father or Nemis to suffer the inevitable cost. Someone else had to bear it, for she couldn’t lose them. Nor did she want it to be herself. She was barely grown; what possible wisdom could she bring to witchkind?

(Discovering Destiny)

One of the easiest choices would have been to call the witches’ leader simply Queen. Instead, I wanted the title itself to tell part of the story. A Banrigh isn’t simply someone who sits on a throne – they protect their people, preserving ancient traditions while guiding them towards the future and leading in times of uncertainty.

That isn’t so different from the expectations placed upon real sixteenth-century monarchs. Whether ruling England, Scotland or France, a ruler’s greatest responsibility wasn’t wearing a crown – it was holding together a kingdom threatened by political unrest, religious division and shifting alliances. The same could be said of any ruler in Europe, then and now.

The Banrigh carries that same burden, but the authority comes not simply from power, but from the trust placed in the chosen one by those she serves. This is why there isn’t a ‘birthright’ but more of a democratic process to choose the ruler – the many have to decide who they think is best and then the crown (magical of course!) follows the majority’s decision.

Aioffe stepped forward, smoothly pulling out the bundle of dark cloth. “Lord – Banrigh – Bothwell would likely have sent his regards, but, my daughter recovered this at his passing.”

She slowly unwrapped the parcel, so the band lay atop the fabric. The silver-inlaid thorns seemed to glow. Luckily, the glory of the crown distracted the witches from asking quite how or why Hope was present at his death.

Beba gasped as the Banrigh crown caught the light and vibrated. “See how it reacts to the gathering,” she said, in a slightly awestruck tone.

As Aioffe approached, offering it to them, the band’s vibrations quickened, almost bouncing itself from her palms.

“Oh, it’s a live crown,” Becca murmured. “And, it’s in a mood.”

“The crown of the Banrigh does not have moods,” Fidelma scoffed.

“It absolutely has moods,” Beba countered. “Every living thing does. It was none too happy resting on Lord Bothwell’s fat head, but there we are. He was the obvious choice at the time. The bigger question is why it’s in a mood now.” Her eyes narrowed, then she pointed at Hope.

(Discovering Destiny)

Building a World That Feels Real

One of the greatest compliments a fantasy writer can receive is when readers say, “It felt real.” Ironically, that often has very little to do with magic. It comes from details: a believable language; a ceremony with genuine purpose; and a title that has historical roots.

Those small language choices quietly convince readers that a fictional world has existed long before the story begins, which is what I hope to achieve with Naturae.

If you’re interested to find out more, you can find information here, or read Discovering Destiny here.

Further Reading

Campbell, Mike. Behind the Name: Scottish Gaelic Names.

Dwelly, Edward. The Illustrated Gaelic–English Dictionary. Gairm Publications (1901).

MacBain, Alexander. An Etymological Dictionary of the Gaelic Language. Stirling: Eneas Mackay, 1911.

Thomson, William P. L. The New History of Orkney. Birlinn, 2008.

Historic Scotland. The Ancient Monuments of Orkney. HMSO 1995

The Electronic Dictionary of the Irish Language (eDIL). Royal Irish Academy & Queen’s University Belfast. https://dil.ie

Chapter 1 – Wings of Expectation

1567 June 12th, Summer Solstice, Island of Naturae

Hope cut into the sky too fast. She knew it the moment she jumped – the updraft caught her wings awkwardly, lifting her higher than the formation allowed, scattering the careful symmetry of the soldier fae below her.

Someone shouted. Someone else swore. They should have been on either side of her, but, with wings twice the size of others in her troop, leaving her enough space to fly was always an issue whenever she was assigned a position in the middle.

As the soldier fae hurriedly flapped to reach her lofty heights, they panicked. Wings fluttered, collided, further unbalancing what was supposed to be an ordered block arising as one.

Spear tips pricked her calves. Hope twisted instinctively, letting the wind roll her instead of fighting it, her red wings flaring wide as she corrected.

“Take off is everything,” Captain Rúan roared. “If you can’t rise together, how will you fight together?” He growled, “Return.”

Around her, the soldier fae dropped in clean, disciplined lines to the new training platform. Six, eight, twelve of them, a mixture of brown and grey wings snapping shut in perfect unison. She landed, just not where she was supposed to, and on the edge of the group. Her wings folded a second too late. Sloppy.

The Captain turned slowly to face the troop. He didn’t need to raise his voice. He never did.

“Again, Sigma squad,” he ordered. “And this time, Princess…”

“Hope,” she cut in before she could stop herself. “I know the formation, I mean, I… we know this formation, I just…”

A ripple of noise ran through the trainees. Both the Naturae fae and their European counterparts, who were supposed to be learning to work as a single unit, rustled and fidgeted. All of them were destined, created, for soldiering, and despite superficial differences between both factions – from language to appearance – the troop struggled to accommodate the oddity which was Hope.

Rúan’s eyes flicked to her cheek, to the faint red birthmark she couldn’t quite hide, no matter how flatteringly her hair fell, then back to her wings. Blood-red, catching the morning light like embers.

“Again,” he repeated. “And this time, stay in your assigned airspace. Slow down, control your lift, Hope.” He glanced along the line. “And give her wings enough space, for your own safety.” He repeated the order in Latin, for the benefit of the Europeans who had yet to get to grips with English.

She swallowed as the group awkwardly shuffled down the planks.

The flight training platform was nestled in the canopy, at treetop height and with a limited view. It had been built during Henry Fitzroy’s brief rule, she’d been told, hastily erected to prevent people landing on the ornate stone tower he was so proud of. His statement of dominion jutted rigidly above the treeline in an almost human fashion. Few people went there now, although from its lofty heights, one could see all of Naturae spread outward in layers – the treetop dwellings and the Palace stitched together with walkways and bridges, down to the distant glimmer of the protective veil-mist clinging to the island’s edge like a second horizon. Beyond, the coastline blurred into shadow.

“Lift!”

The command came while she was still distracted by the view. She jumped and flapped.

This time she counted. One, two – wings open, catch the current cleanly. She matched the formation as instructed, held her turn tight, her speed measured, her altitude exact.

Flight with a hand at her throat.

The spiral completed, when the whistle blew, she landed precisely where she was meant to.

No one spoke.

Rúan nodded once, his gaze lingering just a second too long on her. Approval, thin as paper. “Better.”

Hope bit back the urge to say no, it wasn’t.

***

By midmorning, her shoulders ached and her wings burned, not from effort, but restraint. Army drills weren’t so much about strength or endurance; they were instructions in obedience: to air, to order, to each other. Flight as function.

Hope understood, after weeks and months of training with the newly integrated army, that the acrobatic, eye-catching wheels and turns, the twists and lethal spins which thrilled her in ceremonies, were not the result of freedom. Techniques were honed with endless practice. The Europeans followed each other, flying instinctively like birds, whereas the Naturae fae perfected their formation with repetition. In theory, the fighting styles of both tribes of fae were similar, but refining the swirling cyclone which could cut through a land or air-borne army as easily as a hot knife cuts butter required complete trust and collaboration. They were supposed to act as a single unit – a terrifying, deadly and purposeful swarm.

Unfortunately, Hope was the one who most frequently broke ranks or caused the entire vortex to crumble.

As they paused for a rest break, she edged toward the training platform’s outer edge, staring north. There lay hidden groves, territory which had been forgotten. To fly there wasn’t forbidden, but discouraged. Even the Europeans avoided claiming those spaces with their tents. All patrol routes, farms and working areas were displayed visually on maps for those who could not read, which was most of the army, but nothing showed what was there.

“You fight the air,” snapped a voice behind her.

She turned to see Lethar, an older European fighter assigned to Sigma troop, with wings a muted moss colour. Like his fellows, he was built for endurance rather than display – tall, narrow-shouldered, and sinew’d like a drawn bow. His skin held the pale cast of northern winters, but it was the fine tracery of dim, threadlike scars across his hands and throat that drew the eye, reminders of battles which had once tried to unmake him. His eyes were a cool grey. Hope didn’t know if they softened when he smiled, because he almost never did. His hair, white as hoarfrost, was worn unbound more often than not, falling in uneven lengths that suggested he cut it himself, and rarely.

“You drift,” he went on, his guttural tone complicating the pronunciation of words foreign to him. “That why Captain keeps correcting you.”

“I don’t drift,” Hope said. “I listen. I feel.” As if in response to herself, her wings rose to catch the breeze.

Lethar frowned. “Air not something you listen to. It something you command.”

Hope looked back out over the island.

Below, near the lower boughs, movement caught her eye: fabric flashes, wingbeats out of sync, a loose spiral of figures lifting and settling again. The European worker fae had shifted camps overnight. Again. “Why do you shift your tents all the time?”

Lethar followed her gaze, his expression tightening. “Not lucky to stay too long in one place.”

“Not true,” Hope said, before she could soften it. “You’re supposed to settle here. To join with us.” She stopped herself; her mother and father had explained the plan to everyone in the community time and time again. It wasn’t her place to…

“That the problem,” he replied. “We never stopped moving before. Journey, flight, is what we are used to.”

Hope thought of how it felt to hold a turn too long, to deny a current its shape or direction, but said nothing. Her wings sensed a disturbance in the air and her head whipped around.

Her father, Prince Joshua, alighted on the upper walkway, flanked by Thane, the Leader of the Worker Fae and her parents’ most trusted advisor. Even at rest, Joshua looked like a fortress given form. As his huge black wings dropped behind him, his gaze swept the platform, pausing briefly, on her.

“Training ends early today,” he called, addressing the crowd. “The mist has coloured, warning us of ships sailing close by.”

Thane added, “No unsupervised flight, and increased patrols please, Captain. The workers will also be advised to return to the safety of their dwellings.”

Dismissed, the European fae, including Lethar, darted into the air and scattered over the forest. They never hung around to talk or polish their armour and wind down like the Naturae fae. The remaining members of her troop slapped each other on the shoulders and joked about whose turn it was to fetch the cleaning supplies, and whose accommodation they’d gather in later.

Hope’s chest tightened. She folded her wings and tried not to look bothered by the lack of invitation to go with them.

“Hope?” Papa walked towards her. “Your mother and I would like you to join us in the pupaetory. Leave the patrols to observe and we’ll learn more at the council meeting later. A good opportunity for you to observe statecraft.”

“Yes father,” Hope said. He never ordered her, but her education was expected.

“And then Nemis has asked if you can help her with restocking our medicinal herb supplies tonight, if you’re not too tired.”

Hope nodded. A moonlit walk to gather herbs was always a welcome end to her day.

“I’ve already drained you some fresh rabbit blood,” he whispered, reaching for her hand. “Can’t have you going hungry and getting grouchy while the Council meets.” He smiled at her. “Sorry it’s not deer, but we’re still replenishing the herd.”

There were few enough advantages of being royal–and her particular requirements for blood as sustenance meant she alone was provided with a supply of rabbits and other warm-blooded beasts, whilst the other soldiers and the workers made do with fish. Come to think of it, she was starving. “That sounds wonderful.”

ORDER YOUR COPY NOW AT www.books2read.com/discoveringdestiny

Releases Sept 2026

Welcome to Elizabethan Hardingstone – a small village in Northamptonshire, where magical mishaps and unlikely heroines are about to explode. Below is Chapter 1 of of my cosy historical fantasy, As Above, So Below, for you to enjoy.

30th July 1566

Though the linens should be white, the nightgown Becca swirled with her paddle had inexplicably turned purple. Almost as if the colour poured into the sudsy lye solution and grabbed onto the material like a monk to a relic. She squinted, unsure if it was her failing eyesight or perhaps a trick of the morning sunlight against the buck tub.

Definitely purple.

With a swift pluck, she removed the bothersome gown, then squeezed out lilac-tinted water. Her heart thudded as bubbles dribbled over the back of her hands, fizzing slightly on her skin. The garment remained a vivid, eye-catching violet hue. Certainly, the fabric had entered the soak off-white, but, without some kind of miracle, it would likely dry the kind of colour Becca would have been thrilled to wear, if dyeing it had been intentional, and she were allowed.

Worse, Becca couldn’t imagine a less appropriate shade for dour old Mistress Turner’s delicates. Unbidden, an image of the older lady, prancing around for her husband, the miller, popped into her mind. Clad in nothing but the frills of her now violet nightwear. Becca scrunched her eyes closed, hoping the picture would disappear and turn into a practical solution, but instead, Mistress Turner twirled and dipped in her mind’s eye, as if practising a jig.

Unable to banish the vision, Becca opened her eyes and then squeezed more water out. Caught air puffed through the fabric, billowing up with two breast-like lumps. She giggled. Maybe the sensuous purple would ignite the flames of passionate reconciliation in the old, oft-arguing couple? Imagine. Master Turner, looking on at his wife with a glint in his eye… Her sour expression lighting up for once… Eww.

As she shook out the nightgown, cracking it to send any remaining water to the ground, her giggle grew into a cackle. She really oughtn’t think of such things – lust was a sin, was it not? Perhaps not, as long as you were married. Becca had little inkling of such matters, being resolutely unattached and completely disinterested in the ways of married life. Besides, prospective suitors were few in a small village when the entire Clish family line was known for magical powers. Except for Becca, who’d never been so blessed with power, nor feminine grace. She was now past usual child-bearing age, so her chances of a match were almost nonexistent.

She draped the gown over the edge of the tub, catching sight of her fingers. They’d turned purple too! This was ridiculous. She straightened her back and reached for her staff with a groan. First, the Lammas bread dough this morning had positively glowed pink as she kneaded, which she’d put down to bad wheat fermenting. Now this material mishap. What in the good Lord’s name was going on? She grasped the elm stick, automatically wrapping her fingers around its familiar knobbles as she leaned on it to stand up from the stool.

As she stared down at the water, glinting darkly in the sunlight, Becca wondered if the problem was the piss? Someone eating too much beetroot? It hadn’t looked purple when she’d poured it over the ashes and clothes earlier, although her eyesight was unreliable. Surely she’d have noticed the hue?

Nor could it be a floral issue – the lavender she used to scent her wealthier clients’ clothes had never left a mark before. Besides, she’d not yet rinsed the nightgown in the scented solution. Perhaps, if she tried, it might neutralise whatever had poisoned the suds?

She dunked the gown in and out of the rinse water, valiantly hoping for a shift in fortune and tone, but to no avail. If anything, the colour brightened, although the rinse water ran clear when she squeezed it out.

She grimaced. For sure, she wouldn’t be going near the iron today; why invite a third disaster?

Wiping her hands on her skirt, faint hints of lilac smeared on the dark yellow fabric. Becca groaned. It was hardly her best dress, but when you only had a choice of three and your livelihood was laundering, any stain would draw attention. Wet was acceptable, expected even, but stains were a sure sign of incompetence. Or a messy eater.

Dried, her fingers remained a lurid purple as if there was some kind of infestation causing everything she touched to change colour, including herself. Her heart sank as she willed herself Not To Touch her face.

As Hardingstone’s main – only – laundress, or ‘lavender’ as the village liked the call her, her reputation and income would suffer if anyone found out clothes in her care were liable to be returned an entirely different shade. She prided herself on spotless whites, perfectly pressed. This was usually eminently achievable without the need for the magical intervention her Ma would have used, just because she could.

It wasn’t as if Becca was popular with the villagers, anyway. Never invited to gatherings, she only showed up if she felt like it. No-one really paid her any heed or asked her to dance, and she quite liked that. Her hearing had always been temperamental, so conversing over music only led to misunderstanding. Worse, a jig with her uneven gait simply looked silly, the result of a childhood accident attempting to rescue a puppy who’d fallen down the village well. She’d been so sure that pup had spoken to her. Urged her to climb down and help it, like the Devil beckoning her down to hell.

Her Pa had loudly dismissed the idea of a talking dog as whimsy, and not just for the villagers’ benefit as they gathered to mount her rescue. He suffered enough being married to a known witch. Talking animals was a sign of witchcraft, and no-one openly acknowledged that if they could help it.

As for Becca, the resulting broken leg healed poorly, despite her mother and grandmother’s ministrations, which was hardly a good reflection of their abilities. Her limp was proof that she wasn’t a witch, because if she were, then she’d be fine. Even now, years later and fully grown, her knee and hip ached if she walked too far.

She glanced at the sheets, already laundered in the same buck tub of water, now hanging on the many lines which criss-crossed her garden, whitening in the sun, without a hint of hue or stain. So what else but magic could have caused such a violent, violet colour?

Everyone knew she didn’t have magic…

Until she did, perhaps?

She frowned. As a girl, her Ma, Isolde, had often comforted Becca about her missing magic by reminding her, despite their blessed bloodline, ‘Magic isn’t a crown to wear. It’s a candle to hold. And some candles take years to light.’ After the well incident, and her subsequent suffering, Becca came to believe herself unworthy of having the powers her fore-mothers yielded.

Besides, she was absolutely, perfectly, entirely content with the life she’d got – lacking in dangerous adventure and fulfilling with routine. She’d no need of magic. Up until today, she’d survived without it, as did all the other humans.

She didn’t want it.

Becca shook her head to rid herself of the ludicrous idea, then dropped the wet nightgown on her good foot. Its coldness might slap some sense into her. Instead, all she felt was a tepid dribble soaking through her stockings and into her boots. She held her hands out in the sunshine. Wrinkled, smelling slightly of aged piss… and unmistakably purple. As she could find no other plausible explanation, perhaps there was a flicker of something happening to her.

But, oughtn’t she to have ‘felt’ something?

She wished fervently that Ma, or even her maternal grandmother, Mabel, had told her more before they passed to the other side. Becca looked again at her coloured fingers, huffed then shook her head. She hadn’t wanted to know, so the blame for her ignorance rested only with herself.

Their magic had been measured. Controlled and precise. If someone wanted a spell for keeping the fire burning all night, or a tonic to soothe a crying babe, the solutions were dispensed with ease, a smile and no recourse. Without complaint, on the assumption they worked. People came back, for different solutions, again and again.

Purple clothes, hands and pink bread, however… that would be an issue. Purple may be her favourite colour, but it held dangerous connotations as well. Only royals were allowed to dress themselves in such a glorious shade. By law. And she’d no money for a fine and no time for the stocks.

She grabbed the offending item and stomped inside. As she shoved it into a sackcloth bag for disguise, she knew whatever ‘this’ was must stop before she got herself in trouble. Becca scratched her head. Who would know how to make it go away? Her mother and grandmother were cold in their graves, and Pa wouldn’t have a clue. The Vicar was out of the question, for obvious reasons, and she hadn’t any friends.

So, in the absence of family, she probably should ask the nearest witch for some guidance. Who better to explain than the local coven leader, charm-maker and herbalist? Besides, she needed soapwort from the woods, to try to remove the purple.

Cosy, chaotic, and full of charm, As Above, So Below is a feel-good Elizabethan historical fantasy romp about late-blooming magic, village mishaps, and discovering that found family has a habit of turning up uninvited and refusing to leave, no matter how purple or flatulent things become.

http://www.books2read.com/asabove

Every August, as summer began to tip toward autumn, Elizabethans marked a feast that was older than Christianity itself: Lammas, or in Old English “hlāf-mæsse” meaning “Loaf-Mass.” By the 1560s, England was a Protestant nation under Elizabeth I, yet villagers still carried echoes of pagan and Celtic ritual into their daily lives. Lammas was one of those liminal festivals where old magic, Christian faith, and folk tradition overlapped, making it one of the most evocative celebrations of the seasons of an Elizabethan year.

Origins of the Feast of First Fruits

Lammas fell on or around August 1st, timed with the first cutting of wheat. Its roots lay in Lughnasadh, a Celtic festival dedicated to the god Lugh and the harvest. Lughnasadh (pronounced LOO-nuh-sah, also called Lughnasa or Lúnasa) is an ancient Gaelic festival marking the beginning of the harvest season around August 1. Its name comes from the god Lugh and násad meaning “assembly” or “gathering” or possibly nás “death.” It was one of the four great Celtic fire festivals with Samhain, Imbolc, and Beltane which marked seasonal transitions.

500 years or so later, after the rise in Christianity, in Elizabethan villages, the day was marked by bringing the first loaf baked from new grain to be shared or blessed. This was often at a Church service (yes, another adopted ancient festival!). The bread was a symbolic offering to ensure the rest of the harvest would be plentiful.

Afterwards, tables were set with early fruits and berries, cheese, butter, pigeon pies, and honey cakes. Ale brewed from last year’s barley flowed freely. Villages often held fairs, wrestling matches, races, and even trial marriages called handfastings, a practice with distinctly pre-Christian undertones.

This misericord at Ripple in Worcestershire shows the first Lammas loaf in the communal oven, being guarded by armed men – such was its importance.

The Lammas loaf itself doesn’t appear to have been any different from a normal cob-style loaf – it’s significance was more symbolic by the Elizabethan age.

(Image credit – Hugh Williams – The Mystery of Mercia)

Magic, Belief, and Witchcraft in the 1560’s

The Elizabethan world was still alive with folk magic. For the ordinary villager, the success of the harvest was not only a matter of hard work and weather, it was also tied to the unseen forces that governed luck, fertility, and the favour of God.

– Charms & First Sheaves: The first bundle of wheat, tied and set upright on Lammas, was believed to hold protective power. Farmers might keep a Lammas sheaf in the house or barn to safeguard against bad luck. I can’t speak for how successful it was, because during Elizabeth’s reign there were frequent and long spells of bad or freezing weather.

– Bonfires & Spirits: Nighttime bonfires, a survival of pagan solstice rites, were thought to drive away malevolent spirits who might blight the fields.

– Witchcraft Fears: The 1560s followed decades of suspicion, which built up to a frenzy of witch hunting under James VI’s rule. A poor harvest could easily spark whispers of witchcraft. An unlucky cow, spoiled butter, or mouldy grain might be blamed on a neighbour “with the evil eye.” Lammas, with its focus on fertility and crops, was a time when such fears bubbled close to the surface. The Elizabethan state itself was deeply concerned with sorcery. Statutes against witchcraft were passed in 1563, making the practice punishable by death if harm was proven. At the very moment villagers were singing, dancing, and offering sheaves in thanks, Parliament was debating how to punish those accused of using “invocations and conjurations.” Lammas therefore existed in a tense religious landscape: a joyful communal feast shadowed by anxiety about the supernatural.

In Elizabethan England, Lammas was more than a rustic feast. It was a ritual moment where pagan memory, Christian practice, and fear of witchcraft met on the same stage. For the village, it meant food, song, and celebration. For the anxious, it meant a time when magic might tip the scales of fortune. For us, it is a window into the complex world of the 16th century — where every sheaf of wheat carried both nourishment and mystery.

Bringing Lammas to life in ‘As Above, So Below’ – a cosy historical fantasy

I came across the festival while searching for a suitable time of year to position my cozy fantasy story and it immediately felt right. A community gathered, celebrating an ancient tradition but with a ‘modern’ Protestant Church twist. The book is set in late 1566, a year when England’s harvest, for once, was reportedly better than previous years had been.

Cozy fantasy, as a genre, often takes place in a small community, and I based my book in the old village of Hardingstone in Northamptonshire, not least because it has a 1000-year-old church (pictured above) and an interesting historical past with the Delapre Abbey close by. I visited the village to ensure I could portray its essence as well as its geography correctly, and found myself utterly charmed by it.

In As Above, So Below, Becca, the village lavender (laundress) encounters some difficulties when her magic appears midlife. She’s forced to seek help from the local witches to try and rid herself of her unwanted power and solve the disastrous effects of her affliction. She’s invited along to the witches’ (pagan) blessing (honouring the old ways), but it’s during the village’s Lammas celebration that the problems really rise to the surface, culminating in an immediate (and stinky!) embarrassment which lingers to affect the entire harvest. You can find out more and enjoy a slice of magical realism and Elizabethan life by reading the book at www.books2read.com/asabove

(Below image is of a vast wall hanging in the newly restored Delapre Abbey, near Hardingstone) showing the estates and villages which the Abbey served/owned. I highly recommend a visit as it is also the site of a historic battle during the Wars of the Roses, and played a significant part in the healing of wounded soldiers during WW2 – including having a plane crash land in the meadows to the front!)

 References & Sources if you’d like to know more:

– Statute of Witchcraft (1563), made witchcraft punishable by death if harm was caused.

– Thomas Nashe, *Summer’s Last Will and Testament* (1592)  references to seasonal rituals.

– James Frazer, *The Golden Bough* (1890) a later folklorist tracing Lammas and Lughnasadh customs.

– Ronald Hutton, *The Stations of the Sun: A History of the Ritual Year in Britain* (1996).

– Keith Thomas, *Religion and the Decline of Magic* (1971) a classic study of witchcraft and belief in early modern England.

Recently, I wrote in a new genre, for me, AND co-authored in order to write the second in a series of books exploring the French Resistance in Occupied Paris. I had already written a historical suspense for adults, but, as I prepared to publish it, I couldn’t shift the idea that the story also needed to show a child’s perspective, and be read by children of that age. I stopped the publication process and gave my idea some more thought.

My intention grew into an idea – create a pair of stories which an adult could share and discuss with a child, but each could read a story written in a style which would appeal to them. A way to share a love of reading, together, but also offer parents a mechanism to talk with their children about WW2 – a key part of the UK curriculum in both primary and secondary education. The stories would both detail the experiences of wartime, but also how to stand up for what is right, and to resist oppression, in an exciting tale of espionage and adventure. I felt strongly that the overriding message needed to be one of hope.

The challenges

Writing a single compelling narrative is a feat in itself, but crafting two interconnected books that tell the same story from distinct points of view presented me with a unique set of challenges and opportunities, which I felt I couldn’t do justice to entirely on my own. “Sewing Resistance” delves into the perspective of Hannah, while “Boy, Resisting” provides the narrative through the eyes of her young son, Freddie, and it was his story which needed another pair of expert eyes on it.

So after my first draft of ‘Freddie’s story’, I approached a middle-grade author-illustrator to help and co-author with me. Thus, J.H. Foster (a new pen name for me to write historical fiction with), and my friend and co-author, James Warwood, tackled “Boy, Resisting” together. Luckily, James was 100% on board with the idea to offer readers a rich, multi-layered experience of wartime Paris. With over 30 books published between us, together, we felt ready for the challenge… and what a journey it has been.

One of the primary challenges was managing information asymmetry between the two protagonists. Hannah, as an adult Resistance operative working a day job under the noses of Nazis, is privy to classified information, adult conversations, and the harsh realities of their Jewish identity and illegal immigration status. Her understanding of events, such as assassination plots or the specifics of intelligence gathering, is detailed and strategic. Conversely, Freddie (aged 8-11 during the period) experiences the war through a child’s lens, often interpreting fragmented adult remarks or simply playing dumb to avoid suspicion. His narrative frequently highlights what he doesn’t understand, or how he misinterprets situations based on limited information. This contrast meant we had to carefully pace revelations, ensuring key plot points unfolded naturally within each character’s knowledge sphere without undermining the other’s narrative.

Expressing emotion

Furthermore, the differing emotional and psychological responses to shared traumatic events demanded sensitive handling. For example, a convent attack was experienced by Hannah with frantic urgency to protect Freddie and a clear understanding of the murders. Freddie, however, recalled it through the trauma of seeing dead bodies and the specific fear of the Nazi soldier’s voice, which haunted him and led to his self-imposed silence.

The practicalities of narration also differed significantly. Hannah’s story is told through her internal thoughts and interactions, including her secret work as a chambermaid gathering intelligence at the Ritz. Freddie’s account, particularly given his silence and reliance on drawing, necessitates conveying much through observation, internal monologue, and his “spy club” notes and maps. ‘Boy, Resisting’ is written in a diary style, which was a choice we made early on in the process to appeal to younger readers who like ‘Diary of a Wimpy Kid’ type of narrative. James also provided light-hearted illustrations to emphasise Freddie’s abilities and break up the narrative with humour.

Ultimately, crafting such a duology, and indeed co-authoring, was akin to viewing a complex mosaic through two different, yet complementary, peepholes. Each perspective reveals unique details and emotional textures, but only by engaging with both books does the reader gain the full, intricate picture of resistance and survival in Occupied Paris. Each of us authors tried to bring with us our experiences of writing for the historical fiction/middle grade market to ensure we hit the right notes. And, importantly, each story had to standalone in its own right.

Working together – how we handled the practicalities

Authoring is usually a solitary job – you sit at a computer, type words and generally the characters live in your head until you bring them to life on paper. Working WITH someone required sharing that vision of the story, talking about the characters. This wasn’t my first experience of co-authoring, but I hoped to bring my knowledge of what works well (for me and the other author) to the table when I approached James. I had already drafted Boy, Resisting but, when he got his hands on the manuscript, he immediately spotted some flaws in my thinking for middle grader readers. Luckily, he then took the time to rework bits, cut through the stuff which kids might find dull and turn it into something far more appealing. We decided on style (writing and illustration), which illustrations and formatting might work best, and got to work.

We started talking on GoogleMeet on a weekly basis, which then, in the build up to the Kickstarter, became a fixed Monday morning meeting to plan and plot the next steps. For months, we swapped documents, edited and suggested, to develop all the materials we would need.

Practical tips which ensured our co-authoring worked smoothly:

Before we got too far into the project, James and I signed a partnership agreement which specified how we would publish, who took responsibility for what and how royalities would be shared. Getting these decisions out of the way and decided made it a lot easier to move forward, despite our very British reticence to talk about money. Publishing is a business, at the end of the day.Left our egos at the door. It’s hard to take criticism, but we achnowledged that we each had our own specialisations and that an expert is only the person who knows one more thing than the others in the room. Asked for help when needed. Where we didn’t know how to do something, we sought others’ help. Anthea Sharpe’s book and the Kickstarter for Authors group on Facebook was a godsend. Other author friends and family chipped in their support as well, realizing the size of the mountain we faced climbing. They read advanced copies, left reviews, shared about the project, and we couldn’t have done it without them.Created a shared drive where we stored all information, easily accessible to us both. Style guides. I created a style guide with fonts and logos and generic images on Canva. I took out a CanvaPro subscription which paid for itself with the resize and switch function – invaluable for creating the Kickstarter project.Lots of lists and spreadsheets – including who had agreed to do what and by when, expenses, etc. Trying to be SMART about the project. This included understanding who had access to which programs and ways to publish. Publication: James uses BookFunnel and I use Story Origin as ways to deliver books, but we decided both books would be ‘published’ by my company, So Simple Published Media, as there can be only one publisher. Both books were listed early on with KDP (Amazon) and Ingram Spark (for wider distribution) to ensure we could collect early reviews which we would later use in the Kickstarter.Set ourselves reasonable, doable timescales for completion. We started working together early in 2025, and by the time Boy, Resisting was completed, we knew we’d still need a long run in to sort out the Kickstarter, so we decided to launch the project in September. Both of us were working around children and holidays! Even then, it felt like the 3 month lead time from listing the project, to gather followers, to writing it was a push.Launching a concept

Despite much research, we couldn’t find any other examples of a pair of books for different audiences. This meant we were launching not just books, but a reading concept. Branding the series became even more important. Because the idea of ‘sharing stories’ in this way is unique, we decided to launch them on Kickstarter first (September 2025), then they would go live in all good booksellers in the winter of 2025.

Why Kickstarter as a crowdfunding platform? Simply because there was already an established precedent on there for publishing. There were other platforms we could have used, but Kickstarter seemed to be the one which focused on raising money for creative projects over personal fund-me-to-do-XYZ. Launching on Kickstarter also enabled us to offer bonus goodies to reward backers for taking a chance on us!

Branding

I had already, earlier on in the writing process, realised I’d need to ‘brand’ the series. It needed to be simple, accessible to both audiences and convey the essence of what the books were about. Developing the Kickstarter really honed in on what the Rebels and Resistance Series was trying to do. I think, if I hadn’t had to refine exactly what the offering was (including all the extra books/printables/teaching resources) for the Kickstarter, it possibly wouldn’t have been as well constructed as a package.

When I look at it now, I hadn’t fully realised before, just HOW much I’d written to develop the idea of the Rebels and Resistance series. A pair of books had turned into 3 books, a workbook/printable for children, and about 20 documents to support the project (teaching resources, bonus chapters etc). I think in the end we had close to 200 images (different sizes for different parts of the project listing) because Kickstarter is so visual, and that’s on top of the 50-odd illustrations James did for Boy, Resisting.

Writing this as the Kickstarter has successfully funded, I now find it so much easier to talk to readers and teachers about the concept. Being able to share these additional reference materials only adds to my enthusiasm (and theirs) to read the books and use them as intended. Even before the official launch of the duology on online marketplaces like Amazon, at book events I’ve found the concept has been well received and people are excited by it.

The teaching bundle was even tested in classrooms to be sure it was age appropriate and the children liked the activities!

Final Thoughts

Would I do it again? Co-authoring, absolutely. I found sharing the journey so much more enjoyable with someone else to lean on for motivation when things got tricky.

Kickstarter? Tricky question. Yes, we funded. I absolutely will take that win. But, when you look at the breakdown of who funded us, it is largely comprised of people who we directly knew or approached for support. The concept had the potential to ‘go big’ but somehow never took off. We’re still not sure why – the experts we spoke to who reviewed the project before we went live loved it (including the lovely head of publishing at Kickstarter), but we didn’t get the organic push from the platform which we hoped for.

It was a lot of work. Months and months of it. Would I repeat the exercise? Maybe. I’m certainly more confident about the platform than I was.

Check out the books…

A gripping and emotional tale of courage, love, and resistance.

After witnessing the brutal nature of the Nazi regime, Hannah, a quiet Jewish girl with a rebellious streak, escapes Germany with her traumatised young son. Leaving behind her dreams, she seeks refuge in Paris with a childhood friend, Kat, in the hopes that this tie to her past will provide a desperately needed sanctuary for them both. Though reluctant because of her own precarious situation, Kat agrees to help. 

But when the war reaches Paris, Hannah’s heritage once again puts them all at risk. Lacking the right papers, fleeing is out of the question. When Kat’s Nazi cousin demands to move in, the family turn to a dangerous life of disguise and subterfuge just to stay alive.

In Occupied Paris, they are the invisible, unseen and unheard, until an opportunity to resist appears. Will Hannah have the courage to find her voice and rebel, even if it means risking her heart, her family and her dreams? And how far will Kat go to take back what’s rightfully hers?

For fans of “The Nightingale” and “All the Light We Cannot See,” this historical suspense novel takes readers on a journey through the Occupation, re-imagining well-known figures such as Coco Chanel and her Nazi lover, the staff of the Ritz Hotel, as well as the brave individuals who worked for the Resistance and the SOE. Inspired by true stories and the powerful film documenting Paris’s liberation, “Sewing Resistance” is a gripping story of courage, sacrifice, and the resilience of the human spirit.

Buy now at www.books2read.com/sewing resistance

Silence was supposed to keep me — and my secrets — safe.
So I accidentally became a spy…

I was just supposed to stay hidden. Keep my head down. Don’t get noticed by the Nazis. Simple, right? Yeah… not so much.

Getting to Paris to stay safe was hard enough — then the Nazis came, and suddenly it wasn’t safe there either. Turns out, when you’re good at sneaking around and listening when you shouldn’t, people start asking you to do things. Dangerous things. Like delivering secret messages. Hiding spy equipment that can’t be found. Taking photos that could get you arrested — or worse. Oh, and I still have to go to school…

Now I’m part of the French Resistance. I know the hiding places. I know the codes. I know which soldiers to avoid. One wrong move means capture. Or worse. And every time I sneak through the city — even underground through the spooky Catacombs — I wonder: will this be the mission I don’t come back from?

One mistake could mean none of us — me, Mama, or Kat — survive.

If you like danger, secret missions, close calls, and real history — this is my story. Just don’t tell anyone you read it.

Buy now at www.books2read.com/boyresisting

You can find out more about the series, and check out the Kickstarter project here: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/janfoster/exciting-uplifting-ww2-french-resistance-duology

Beneath the City of Light, a World of Shadows

Beneath the picturesque boulevards and charming cafés of Paris lies a darker, more mysterious world: over 200 miles of catacombs, quarries, and ossuaries. While the Paris Catacombs are best known for their macabre walls of human bones, they also played a lesser-known but dramatic role during World War II. Today, the wartime history of the catacombs remains a subject of fascination, speculation, and secrecy—blurred by time, myth, and fiction.

I was inspired to write a novel featuring these mysterious tunnels after reading a historical fiction book by Gayle Ferrer/Yves Fey (Floats the Dark Shadow), where the heroine is taken to a concert held in one of the Ossuary chambers. The spooky atmosphere described in the novel led me down a rabbit hole of research, and the inspiration for my characters to use the tunnels for their work in the shadowy world of the French Resistance and the black market during WW2 was born.

A Labyrinth with a Past

Originally limestone quarries, the Paris catacombs began their transformation in the late 18th century when the city, overwhelmed by overflowing cemeteries, relocated the bones of millions into the underground tunnels. By WWII, the catacombs had become a sprawling and partially mapped maze—one that few Parisians dared to enter.

But for those fighting a secret war—the French Resistance and, later, the Nazi occupiers—the catacombs offered both refuge and danger.

The Catacombs During WWII

The German occupation of Paris began in June 1940, and the Gestapo wasted little time in establishing control over the city’s infrastructure. Though official records are scarce, there is credible evidence that sections of the catacombs were used by the Nazis as hidden bunkers and storage areas. Some accounts suggest that a secret Nazi base existed beneath the 6th arrondissement, accessible via a bricked-up entrance. The exact details remain elusive, in part due to postwar destruction and a lack of reliable documentation.

At the same time, the French Resistance saw the catacombs as an ideal place to hide from German patrols, coordinate attacks, and move discreetly between districts. However, navigating the dark, unmapped tunnels was perilous, even for those who knew the city well. Many Resistance members reportedly used the catacombs in coordination with the Parisian cataphiles—urban explorers who had long mapped and memorized the labyrinthine underground.

One dramatic example occurred in 1944, just weeks before the liberation of Paris: a Nazi bunker hidden in the catacombs was reportedly discovered and infiltrated by Resistance fighters. Though rarely mentioned in official wartime histories, this episode has become part of underground legend.

Why Researching This Is So Difficult

There are several reasons why the wartime history of the catacombs remains murky:

Lack of Official Documentation: Many Resistance cells operated with extreme secrecy, avoiding written records that could be captured by the Gestapo. Similarly, Nazi activities underground were compartmentalized and rarely documented.Physical Inaccessibility: Most of the catacombs are closed to the public and monitored by the Inspection Générale des Carrières (IGC). Unauthorized exploration is illegal and dangerous.Post-War Modifications: After the war, many entrances and pathways were sealed for safety. In some cases, Nazi installations or Resistance hideouts may have been deliberately destroyed or buried.Urban Legends vs. Reality: Over the decades, stories have grown—some rooted in truth, others exaggerated or imagined. Sorting fact from fiction requires painstaking research, interviews with aging witnesses, and sometimes a bit of luck.

For my research, I found the most amazing map – compiled from many other maps, which showed me clearly where the streets were in relation to the tunnels. This map formed the basis of the tunnel map which Freddie, the hero of the forthcoming middle grade novel, ‘Boy, Resisting’ draws as a result of his explorations.

Together with my co-author and illustrator, James Warwood, we highlighted where the bunkers we used in the storyline of this novel, and it’s companion, Sewing Resistance, to bring to life the dangerous routes which Freddie, Hannah, Kat and of course, the FFI and Nazis used during the Occupation. I find it fascinating that one of the main bases for the FFI’s plans to re-take Paris was co-ordinated from a bunker so close (under a mile!) to the Nazi shelter.

The Legacy Lives On

Today, Paris’s cataphiles continue to explore the forbidden underworld, some of them mapping undocumented tunnels or preserving graffiti and artifacts from WWII. But the deeper truths of what occurred beneath Paris during the war—collaborations, resistance, espionage—are largely still shrouded in darkness, waiting for discovery.

As interest in urban exploration and alternative history grows, so too does the curiosity about what lies hidden in Paris’s depths. The catacombs remain a place where the boundary between history and legend is as porous as the limestone walls themselves.

Fiction Inspired by the Catacombs

The Paris catacombs have inspired numerous works of fiction that blend history and myth:

“The Devil’s Cave” (2012) by Martin Walker – While set in rural France, the series frequently touches on Resistance themes and secret wartime hideouts.  “Down in the Catacombs” by Thomas Greanias (short story) – Blending speculative fiction with wartime intrigue, it imagines lost Nazi technology hidden beneath the streets of Paris.“Catacomb” (2014) – A horror-thriller film (also known as As Above, So Below) uses the catacombs as a setting for psychological terror, rooted in the area’s real-life history of death and mystery.“All the Light We Cannot See” by Anthony Doerr – Though not set in Paris or the catacombs, its focus on hidden resistance networks and secret wartime locations resonates with the mystique of the catacombs.

Even video games like Call of Duty: WWII and Medal of Honor: Underground have toyed with the idea of Resistance fighters and Nazi bunkers hidden in Paris’s underworld.

Further Reading and Resources

“Parisians: An Adventure History of Paris” by Graham Robb – Offers insights into Paris’s underground world, including WWII anecdotes.“The Catacombs of Paris” by Félix Nadar – A historical look at the tunnels, from one of the first to photograph them.Urban Exploration Websites and Cataphile Reports – Many modern explorers have posted maps, findings, and theories about the catacombs’ WWII past.Great article about the history Paris Catacombs by Yves FeyYouTube has lots of videos of explorers taking on the challenge of the underworld!

If you are interested in reading Freddie and Hannah’s experiences in the Catacombs, where Kat deals on the black market, and danger lurks around every corner, why not follow the Kickstarter or read the books (available from Winter 2025). The Kickstarter also offers a reward of a printed copy of James’s original illustration of the map of the Catacombs which Freddie draws.

Guest Post By Jackie Lapin

Chester, the locale of Jan Foster’s Anarchic Destiny book  2 in the Naturae Series, is a town where Roman legions once marched and medieval merchants once bustled under timbered eaves. Its red sandstone walls and narrow streets tell stories of emperors, bishops, and artists who have left their marks across centuries—not to mention a vampire named Henry Fitzroy.

Nestled on the banks of the River Dee, the real Chester is a treasure trove for the history lover and the curious wanderer alike.

A City Steeped in Time

Founded as the Roman fortress Deva Victrix in the first century AD, Chester was a vital outpost in the Roman Empire’s conquest of Britain. The legionaries who built its massive walls and amphitheater laid the foundations for a city that would thrive long after their empire faded. When Rome’s power ebbed, Saxon and Norman rulers claimed the city as their own, leaving behind a patchwork of styles and stories that still echo through the winding lanes.

By the medieval period, Chester had become one of England’s busiest market towns. Merchants from across the country and beyond traded wool, salt, and spices in its bustling rows. Timber-framed houses rose above stone arcades, creating the unique covered walkways that define Chester’s city center today. Pilgrims and traders alike would pause at the grand cathedral or gather at the Cross, where heralds once read royal proclamations and minstrels sang ballads of faith and fortune.

In the centuries that followed, Chester’s walls protected it from both Scottish raiders and the tides of time. The Industrial Revolution came late to this ancient town, sparing it the rapid transformations that reshaped so many English cities. Today, Chester’s preserved walls and half-timbered buildings offer a rare glimpse into a world where the past still feels vividly alive.

A Thriving Townscape

Chester’s history can be traced not only in its grand landmarks but also in its lesser-known corners. The Water Tower and Bonewaldesthorne’s Tower, built in the 14th century, once defended the city’s vulnerable river approaches and today offer breathtaking views of the Welsh hills. Hidden beneath the streets, the Roman hypocaust of the former bathhouse speaks of ancient luxury and innovation, a marvel of engineering that hints at the daily lives of the legionaries stationed here. The medieval Guildhall, now home to the Chester History and Heritage Centre, preserves the city’s civic records and illuminates the stories of merchants who shaped the city’s prosperity.

Nearby, St. John the Baptist Church stands as a testament to Norman power and faith, its 11th-century architecture blending seamlessly with later additions that bear witness to centuries of devotion. The Bishop Lloyd’s House on Watergate Street, an ornate half-timbered building adorned with elaborate carvings, offers a window into the life of a 17th-century merchant. The carvings tell tales of kings, saints, and everyday life, each beam a chapter in Chester’s evolving story.

Central Marketplace

Chester’s medieval Watergate once saw bustling trade, where goods from across the known world flowed in and out of the city’s gates. Salt from Cheshire’s ancient mines, wool from the rich pastures of the countryside, and spices from the far reaches of the world were all bartered beneath the Rows’ carved arches. As the centuries passed, Chester’s strategic location near the Welsh border drew not only merchants, but also soldiers and nobles who sought to command the land and its wealth. The city was frequently a pawn in the power struggles between England and Wales, a frontier town where loyalty and ambition were tested by the clash of cultures.

River‘s Role

The River Dee itself has been both a lifeline and a stage for Chester’s history. In medieval times, the river bustled with flat-bottomed barges carrying cargo and pilgrims, while the Old Dee Bridge stood sentinel over travelers heading into the Welsh hills. Even today, its graceful arches evoke the romance of centuries past. The nearby Chester Racecourse, known as the Roodee, claims to be the oldest still-in-use course in England, where nobles and commoners alike have gathered to cheer on galloping hooves since the 16th century.

Outside Exploration

Beyond the city walls, Grosvenor Park, created in the 19th century, offers a green oasis where the gentle curves of Victorian landscaping frame views of the cathedral’s spires. Nearby, the Grosvenor Museum houses Roman tombstones, medieval artifacts, and Georgian portraits that together trace the evolution of this remarkable city.

Here’s are the other historic highlights to see:

Chester Cathedral: Rising from the heart of the city, this magnificent structure began as a Benedictine abbey in 1092. Its red sandstone walls and Gothic spires soar above centuries of worship and wonder. Inside, the choir stalls are carved with mythical beasts, and the cloisters whisper of quiet contemplation. Chester Cathedral is more than just a place of worship; it is a repository of history. The medieval quire, the delicate Lady Chapel, and the soaring nave hold centuries of artistry and devotion. The cathedral’s refectory, once the dining hall of Benedictine monks, now welcomes visitors seeking quiet reflection. In the cloisters, light filters through ancient glass, and each step seems to echo with the prayers of those who came before.The City Walls: Chester’s sandstone ramparts are the most complete in Britain, encircling the city in a 2-mile walk through history. As you stroll along their top, you’ll see the city’s ancient towers and the gentle flow of the River Dee below. These walls have stood for 2,000 years, witnessing invasions and pageants, prayers and protests.The Rows: These covered medieval galleries blend commerce and community. Timber-framed shops line the streets in layers, where merchants once sold wool and spices to travelers from afar. Today, boutiques and tearooms fill the same spaces, their wooden beams holding centuries of whispered deals and warm conversations.Chester Roman Amphitheater: Step back into the days of gladiators and imperial spectacle at this remarkable Roman site. The largest amphitheater in Britain, it once hosted thrilling contests and ceremonies that echoed with the roar of the crowd. Though weathered by time, the site still hums with the memory of empire.Eastgate Clock: Often called the second most photographed clock in the world, this ornate timepiece was built in 1899 to mark Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Perched atop the city’s ancient Eastgate, it marries Victorian elegance with Roman roots. Each chime seems to echo across centuries, a melody of past and present.Chester Cross: The ancient heart of the city, this medieval market cross has long been a place of gathering and proclamation. From here, heralds would cry the king’s decrees and minstrels would sing songs of love and valor. Today, it remains a vibrant hub where history and daily life meet.The River Dee and the Old Dee Bridge: Follow the gentle sweep of the River Dee to the Old Dee Bridge, whose stones have carried travelers for more than 600 years. From here, watch the river’s rippling surface mirror the spires and clouds above. It’s a place where time slows, and the stories of the city seem to flow with the current.

The Spirit of the Past

Chester is a town that has refused to fade, even as centuries have come and gone. Its Roman walls and medieval alleys, its quiet cathedral cloisters and bustling Rows, all stand as proof that history is not just in books but in the streets beneath our feet. In every stone and every story, you’ll find the soul of a city that has lived a thousand lives and still greets each new day with open arms.

Recommended Reading:

“Medicus” by Ruth Downie — Gaius Petrius Ruso is a divorced and down-on his luck army doctor who arrives in Deva (Chester)  and after a straight 36 hour shift at the army hospital, succumbs to a moment of weakness to rescue an injured slave girl, Tilla, from the hands of her abusive owner. The first in a highly entertaining series.“DS Proctor” by James Churchill — In the city of Chester it is said to be legal to kill a Welshman in cold blood. Now it has happened, a Welshman lies dead, shot in the back from atop the city walls. Tasked with finding the killer, D.S Proctor is painfully aware that, even if he succeeds, there may be no hope of bringing the killer to justice. This murderer may have committed no crime at all.“Anarchic Destiny” by Jan Foster —Set against the tumultuous backdrop of Tudor England, Anarchic Destiny weaves a rich tapestry of history and fantasy. Henry Fitzroy—Edward VI’s illegitimate vampire brother—awakens in Chester to his destiny in ruins. Denied his rightful place at King, he seeks to claim what he believes is owed, regardless of the cost to those who once stood by him.“The English Medieval Town” by Colin Platt – A perfect companion for understanding the Rows, the market squares, and the enduring legacy of England’s medieval urban life.“Chester: A History” by Simon Ward – This book offers a comprehensive overview of Chester’s history, from Roman times to the 20th century.“Chester Through Time” by Hurley and Morgan – This book explores various aspects of Chester’s history, It’s beautifully illustrated and highlights the enduring beauty and heritage of the city across the centuries. “Old Chester” by H Hovell Crickmore – As its title suggests, this book immerses readers in the older parts of Chester and the period before significant changes transformed the city’s character. “The Great Siege of Chester” by John Barratt – Focusing on a pivotal event during the English Civil War, this book illuminates how the siege shaped the city’s fate and left its mark on the centuries that followed.“Haunted Chester” by David Brandon – Exploring the paranormal tales of Chester, this book brings to life the legends and lore that have haunted the city for centuries.

About the Author

Jackie Lapin is the Historic-Traveler-in-Chief at The Historic Traveler, a media outlet and membership community for history lovers offering article features, travel resources, and stunning photo galleries, alongside carefully curated recommendations for historical novels, history books, biographies, films, museums, and more that illuminate some of history’s most treasured stories. An avid historical reader herself, Jackie shares highlights from more than 500 destinations she has visited and photographed, presented through a quarterly e-magazine, website, newsletter, and the Historic Traveler International membership community—a dynamic network of like-minded travelers and readers. There is no charge for membership! Go to www.TheHistoricTraveler.com. Get Jackie’s Guide to the 20 Great International Cities Where You Can Immerse Yourself in History …and the Books That Make You Feel as if You Lived It! – A Guide to What You See, Learn, Read and Imagine

In the shadow of World War II, as Nazi occupation gripped Paris, acts of defiance emerged not just from the expected places of male bravery, but often from the most unexpected corners of society: its women. While writing the Rebels and Resistance duology, I have been constantly struck by how overlooked the role women played in the Resistance movement has been. Although many stories emerge from research, they often focus on the exploits of the male fighters, but, as readers of historical fiction know, that is only half the story. The narrative of “Sewing Resistance” vividly illustrates how women, navigating a world that often underestimated them, leveraged their unique positions and perceived limitations to become vital forces in the French Resistance.

The Everyday as a Weapon: Seamstresses, Chambermaids, and Socialites

The women of “Sewing Resistance” are based on real life heroines and exemplify how ordinary roles could be transformed into extraordinary tools of defiance during wartime.

At the heart of the story is Hannah Edelstein, a young Jewish orphan who, to survive, was raised a Catholic in a convent. Her initial identity as a “mousy” and quiet figure, adept at sewing and alterations, which becomes her ultimate disguise. As a chambermaid at the luxurious Ritz Hotel in Paris, Hannah has unparalleled access to Nazi officers’ private suites, allowing her to gather crucial intelligence, copying letters ordering an increase in usage of airborne poison gas or details of troop movements. Her perceived invisibility as a servant – “no-one pays the servants a second glance” – is a powerful advantage, and her ability to speak both German and French a distinctive asset. To aid the Resistance, she ends up sewing disguises, altering uniforms so that agents can gain access without too many questions being asked.

Hannah’s oldest friend, Katarina, with her “Parisienne elegance” and high social standing, also plays a critical role. Despite her privileged background, she becomes involved in the black market to distribute vital supplies, run by Nazis under the nose of Nazis. Although well educated and connected, she lacks work experience, but her intelligence and love of puzzles, coupled with an unusual ability with electrical and mechanical items, makes her the ideal person to network with the higher ranks of Nazi officers. She is trained by the SOE to operate a clandestine radio which she uses to send coded information to the Allies. Her ability to appear unthreatening and blend into high society provides a crucial cover for her dangerous activities.

The Convent’s Conspiracy of Silence: Even before Paris falls, German resistance to Nazi oppression is sewn into Hannah’s upbringing. At the convent where she shelters as the Nazi party grips control over Germany and Austria, her role models of Mother Superior and Sister Luisa demonstrate early acts of resistance by hiding a printing press, distributing anti Nazi propaganda. Their convent secretly shelters Jewish children, operating under a “conspiracy of silence”. Sister Luisa’s bold confrontation with Oberführer Pieter Weisz, where she defends the convent’s art and is ultimately murdered for her defiance, highlights the immense personal cost of such resistance.

The Unseen Network: Beyond individual acts, a larger network of women operated in the shadows. Blanche Auzello, co-manager of the Ritz, actively ran subterfuge operations, including harbouring fallen Allied airmen in secret rooms and helping them to escape. Her arrest and imprisonment at Fresnes, where she was subjected to torture, did not break her spirit; upon her release, she determined to “shout about our part in forcing them out”. Female resistance operatives in the secret FFI base underneath the streets of Paris are shown training fighters. Perhaps most famously, the SOE Agent, American Virginia Hall, is portrayed managing Resistance cells, posing, as she did, as a reporter. Some 3000 members of her network, trained by her, were involved in numerous acts of sabotage to hinder the Nazi’s and aid the Allies.

Virginia Hall – S.O.E agent

Overlooked and Underestimated: A Covert Advantage

The effectiveness of these women was often rooted in societal perceptions and legal statuses of the time, which inadvertently provided them with cover:

Legal Disadvantages in France: Although they could vote, French law at the time dictated that women could not own property. This legal status, along with other restrictions introduced during the Occupation, for example, they could not buy cigarettes or wear trousers (though creatively circumvented by wearing culottes for cycling), placed women in a less outwardly powerful position. However, being seens as second class citizens often meant they were underestimated by the male-dominated Nazi regime. The antagonist Nazi Officer, Pieter Weisz, makes a dismissive comment: “What? Women, nuns even, have produced this pamphlet preaching rubbish?”, which encapsulates this underestimation.

Nazi Ideology and Persecution: In Germany, and by extension occupied territories like France, the Nazi regime imposed severe restrictions on women but particularly on Jewish people. Aryan ideology was modeled on a patriarchal society, and women were encouraged to stay at home and raise children rather than work. Later, women and Jew’s were excluded from various professions, and Jew’s were additionally saddled with mandatory registration and identification with a “Juif” stamp on identity cards and the requirement to “purchase yellow cloth stars, and sew them onto their clothes”. This systematic dehumanization and control meant that those resisting, or simply trying to survive, especially Jewish women like Hannah, were often forced into covert lives, disguising themselves or feigning a alternative identities essential for survival and resistance.

The Auzellos of the Ritz, Paris

The Illusion of Innocuousness: This allowed women to engage in subtle yet powerful acts of defiance. As Madame Auzello notes, Hannah’s “very quietness is your strength”, enabling her to be “watching. Remembering the details”.

In a world where overt male power defined the conflict, women in the French Resistance quietly, yet powerfully, disrupted the status quo. Through their everyday lives, their skills, and their willingness to exploit the blind spots of their oppressors, they demonstrated that strength and courage could be found “beyond the seams,” in the most unexpected and vital ways. Their stories remind us that resistance truly came in many forms, often hidden in plain sight.

Sewing Resistance – A gripping historical suspense set in Occupied Paris – launches on Kickstarter in September 2025 and widely published from November.

Follow the Kickstarter Project to find out more!

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Chapter 1 – The Voice

My name is Frederick and I have a secret. Wanna know what it is? Of course you do IF YOU’RE SNOOPING AND READING THIS!
My Mama gave me this book for my birthday. “So you can keep a record,” she said. “It’s important to remember who you are, and what happened to you. Write in it. Doodle. Whatever you want.”
I think she meant write about the Nazis, because they’re why we came to Paris. Because they were after us.
That’s the secret… not really!
You see, I’m a nobody. Insignificant. Just a boy. If you knew me at all, then you’d also understand, I’m not so stupid. If I did know anything dangerous, I wouldn’t write it down. There’s nothing important, no secrets you’d be interested in here.
Unless, I am the secret… got you again! Or have I…

Mama’s not so good at reading and writing. She says the words all jumble together, so I’ll write what happened here, for us both. I doubt could ever forget, because I’m good at remembering, but maybe she will. Someday we might read this notebook together and remember. Maybe she’ll disappear, because that happens to people too, and then what happened to us won’t matter. Except to us.
Or, maybe I’ll die and she can use this book to remember me by, like a story.
I’ve seen dead bodies before. Perhaps someone will look at mine, feel sad and say, he was a nice boy. A kind boy. And, they’d read this diary and feel like they knew me. I hope so, because I know that’s what Mama asks me to be, above all else. “Be kind, safe but curious, Freddie. That’s all I’d ever want you to be,” she always says.

I was born in a convent in Germany, well, Austria which was a part of Germany then. I liked it there with the other children, my friends Zachariah and Emily. And Gustaf and Wilhelm, until they both went to new families. Last year, lots more children arrived, but hardly anyone went to new families. Before you knew it, the bunk beds were full! The nuns were pretty nice and tried really hard to look after us all. We had lessons with Sister Marta every day, except Sundays. We played in the gardens and learned how to grow vegetables to eat, and how to take care of the goats.

On Sundays, we all walked into the town to go to Mass at the big church. Twice. As everyone lined up before leaving the convent, Mother Superior reminded us, “You must be good Catholics now,” as if we weren’t always. Sometimes, the newer orphans would be confused during the service. The nuns would whisper to them, to keep their heads down, be quiet and do what the rest of us do.
I quite liked the singing and the pictures on the walls, even if I didn’t understand what was being said half the time. The smoke from the incense got in my throat sometimes and made me cough – usually at the worst time! I coughed and spluttered and everyone would look at me as if I was doing something terrible, even though I couldn’t help it.

I knew I was the lucky one though. My Mama lived with me at the convent. Almost all the other children had to leave their parents. Not, I think, because they wanted to. Some people’s parents died and they had to live with us. Having never had a Papa, I don’t miss having one. It’s always been me and Mama, a tiny family within a bigger family of nuns and the orphans. Perhaps we were the largest family in our small town.

Mama wasn’t a nun, because the nuns can’t have babies. She did all the sewing and some cleaning, gardening and cooking. By the courtyard window in our bedroom was her sewing machine, with the big pedal underneath to make the needle whirr and chomp through the fabric. Sewing was probably the only time she sat down, altering clothes so they fitted everyone with a little smile on her face. Sometimes, she was given whole strips of material to sew new dresses, and that made her happiest. I suppose, because of her work, that’s why she and I had our own room. All the other children slept in the bunk beds, which seemed more fun. When I asked if I could sleep with the other boys too, Mama said, “And leave me all on my own?” She looked so sad.

“Of course not,” I said. “I never want to leave you.” And I thought of all the other children who cried because they missed their families. “I’ll never leave you.”
She smiled then. “When you grow bigger than me, you might think differently. But for now, I’d like to share your childhood.” Then she looked down at her clenched hands and I remembered how her parents died when she was little and she had to grow up with another family, who didn’t really want her.
“I’ll never grow up,” I replied. “I’m Peter Pan.”
Mama laughed. “I hope not. How awful to never grow up.”
At the time, I didn’t think anything of it, but now I wonder if she knew what was going to happen.

My favourite nun was Sister Luisa. She didn’t try and make me remember bits from the Bible, like Sister Marta and Mother Superior did. When Mama gave me my camera, a Zeiss Ikon Box-Baldur, she looked at the photographs I took and said, “You’ve got a really good eye, Freddie.”
“I have two eyes,” I replied and blinked, because who doesn’t have two eyes? “Which is the good one?”
She laughed at that. When I took the camera apart to clean it, she helped me figure out how to put it back together again. She lent me a screwdriver which was better than the knife I used to unscrew it, and a soft cloth to clean the lens with.

I’ll never forget her. She told me to hide, and that kept me alive. Hers was also the first dead body I ever saw. You don’t forget a thing like that.

We were taking pictures in the chapel when it happened. Over breakfast, Sister Luisa asked if I would help her with some paintings, given to us for safekeeping. They had been piling up next to the confessional booths for months and needed cataloguing. “Bring your camera.” I nodded then nearly choked on my porridge when she handed me a new roll of film and said I could miss lessons!

It was a lovely morning, just Sister Luisa and I, in the quiet chapel. I helped her bring out the paintings in their heavy frames and she told me I was a strong boy. We wiped off the dust then propped each one against the plain stone walls, in a shaft of sunlight so I could take a clear picture of it.
Then, we both heard strange, muffled pops from the courtyard. She pushed back her wimple and told me, “Hide in the pulpit Freddie while I find out what’s happening.”
Only the priest was supposed to go in the stone pulpit. “I’m not allowed,” I said, still wondering what the pops outside meant.
“It’s the safest place,” Sister Luisa said, then she glared at me. She didn’t usually frown. “Take your camera.”
“Well if you say so,” I replied, and grabbed it.
“Hurry child.”
I ran across the tiles and crouched inside. It smelt musty and a little bit like stale socks.
Then I heard Mama’s voice. “Freddie?”
I stood up and called back to her.
“Get down,” she hissed. I thought she must be angry because I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. I was about to tell her that Sister Luisa told me to, but she pushed me against the pulpit wall. “Stay silent until it’s all over.”
It was her eyes which shut me up more than what she said. They were wide and her face was white. She and I huddled against the cold walls and her arms shook. My camera rattled and she clamped her hands on it just as I heard a man’s voice.

It sounded deep and sharp, all at the same time, talking about the paintings. I didn’t really understand what he said, as if there was a layer behind what he said, in that way grown ups do when they say one thing but really mean another.

Mama craned her neck to see out of the entrance gap in the pulpit, but her hand kept my head in her shoulder so I couldn’t move.
The man talked about taking the paintings for an exhibition, for Hitler. Sister Luisa said, “They belong to us.”
Mother Superior was there too, and tried to argue with him as well.

But the man’s voice turned hard as he disagreed. His footsteps grew closer to the pulpit, and Mama’s arms tightened around me.
A loud bang made me flinch.

***

You can read more of Freddie’s story in ‘Boy, Resisting’ which will launch in September 2025 on Kickstarter.

Subscribe to my newsletter for launch news, to follow the Kickstarter and more stories HERE!

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Chapter 1

March 23rd 1937. Austria.

My foot pauses on the pedal when I hear the rumble of trucks pulling into the convent’s courtyard below. I glance down at the beige shirt held by the needle of my trusty Kohler sewing machine, then through the small window next to me. Adjusting the shirt to fit the smaller chest for one of the orphans will have to wait, as two jeeps, a covered truck and a long-nosed black car fill the yard below.

Soldiers scramble out, guns cocked. A tall officer steps from the back seat of the car. His face is hidden to me as he pulls his cap low, then straightens his long, black SS coat. I draw away from sight, mouth dry, mind racing. With so many armed men accompanying a senior Nazi, this cannot be a cursory check. As if confirming my fears, the barked order echoes up: “Überall suchen.”

Would they search everywhere? I doubt they will leave out my room. My gaze sweeps around the neat, narrow space. It was once a corridor, but now my bedroom-come-workroom has a chest for clothes and a bed. On the shelf near the machine, I store sewing supplies and fabric remnants. Superficially, it’s just an ordinary room. But, in the middle of the long wall is a faded wall tapestry, which appears to be decoration. The hanging has another purpose – behind it is the locked entrance to the room which the corridor once provided proper access to.

If my bedroom, then the next, are searched, explaining away the printing press would be difficult. The scruffy-looking man who rested there for a few days departed last night, using the knotted rope hanging from the window tucked into the ivy which grows up the side of the building. I pray he left no evidence of his presence behind, but, hearing the hammer of boots marching across the flagstones, I’ve no time to check.

As I push my stool aside and stand, I catch sight of Freddie’s holey socks on the bed – my next project. Where’s my son? My stomach clenches as I dash across the room. Wasn’t it today the children are supposed to be learning about tending to vegetables? I fling the tiny bedside window open and stick my head out, searching for our ever-growing group of orphans and Freddie in the gardens and vegetable patches. No small capped heads are bent over the beds, no sound of chatter or laughter drifts on the breeze.

Under the shadow of the mountain, the grounds seem deserted, but then, I spot grey intruders stalking through the beans. The muzzles of their guns poke through the leaves like wolves’ black noses, peering, searching for prey. What can they be looking for? This is a small convent, dedicated to taking care of orphaned children, although, for the last year, it’s been hard to ignore the comings and goings of late night visitors, and whispered conversations which cease whenever I walk in.

The classroom – the children must still be there. I close my eyes briefly as I shut the window and cross myself, sending the Lord a prayer for us all. The simple action does little to calm me, but then, not born to this Catholic faith, it’s the best I can offer. I have learned the hard way that appearances matter, and, with my sallow skin, dark hair and eyes, I’m accustomed to visibly demonstrating how not Jewish I am now. After being orphaned ten years ago, in this second decade of my life, I follow the religion of my childhood benefactor and current home, and have forgotten everything I was born to. In dark times, Catholicism is safer, or so Herr Franz Weisz said, when he begrudgingly undertook my parents’ wishes and provided a roof over my head. Until, I disgraced myself and ended up here, sheltered by the nuns. I have no desire to take vows, nor could I, but in return for mine and Freddie’s board, I sew, cook and clean.

A cursory, almost habitual, check reassures me there’s nothing to suggest wrong-doing visible, unless you count an old, much-treasured copy of Harper’s Bazaar nestled on top of my clothes in the chest. Satisfied, I rush through the corridors towards the schoolroom at the other end of the building. When I open the door, Sister Marta’s eyes widen and her mouth tightens at the interruption. The children’s fearful white faces swivel to see who’s entered, so I imagine she must know our sanctuary swarms with Nazis and has warned her charges to behave. My gaze is drawn to the front table where Freddie usually sits.

He isn’t there. My throat tightens. “Can I help, Hannah?” Sister Marta’s voice wavers slightly. How hard it must be to stay calm for the children when we both know what’s at risk.

My speech sounds thick as I replied, “I just wanted to….” To what? Check on my son, when all the other children here have no parents to care for them? My stomach knots with shame. I should be protecting them all, like the good Sister is.

“If you are looking for Freddie, he was helping Sister Luisa with his camera, cataloguing paintings in the Chapel. All other children are accounted for here, safe with me.”

I throw her a grateful smile and close the door behind me.

As I look back up the corridor, a soldier stands outside my room. He’s young and skinny, barely a man, and probably no older than I. His expression changes from bewilderment to decisive. “Halt!”

I freeze, my hand still on the classroom doorknob. “Can I help you?” I doubt it, but I must draw him away.

“What’s in these rooms?” He grips the gun slung over his shoulder and waves the muzzle at the doors as he strides towards me.

I want to tell him it’s none of his business, but Mother Superior’s voice floats through my head. “Rebellious behaviour will only get you noticed. Know your place, speak only of what you know and all will be well, Hannah,” was her wise advice upon my arrival here, six years ago and pregnant.

“Dormitories for the orphans,” I said, my head low. “And this is their classroom. They aren’t locked. You can go in them, if you like.” They are kept spotless and I’m certain the worst he’ll find in there is a contraband catapult toy. Go into these rooms, I pray, not mine.

His lips pinch together as I urged, “But please, lower your rifle if you enter the classroom. I’m sure there’s no need to frighten the children.”

He nods at me curtly, then flings open the door nearest him. I take the opportunity to dash downstairs. My steps slow as I cross the stone flags of the entrance hall and sneak towards the Mother Superior’s office. Through the doorway, I glimpse the officer’s leather coattails, flapping as he paces.

“Father Tomas only read what he was given,” Mother Superior said, in a prim voice. Last weekend, the whole convent, including the children and myself, had attended the Mass in the larger Church in town, upon Mother Superior’s instruction. We had all been shocked at the strong opinion – an abject condemnation of the Nazi regime, in what he’d titled, ‘Mit brennender Sorge’. The edict, written by Pope Pius himself in German, was delivered from the pulpit to the congregations of all Catholic churches simultaneously on Palm Sunday. I recall the sharp intakes of breath when Father Tomas paused after reading out, ‘The experiences of these last years have fixed responsibilities and laid bare intrigues, which from the outset only aimed at a war of extermination.’

For those of us from the convent in the congregation, it echoed Mother Superior’s daily caution – each Jewish child we house here must be protected. Their very lives depend on our conspiracy of silence about their origins.

She invokes the authority of the Papal office, said primly, “A Papal Encyclical must be delivered to the public as soon as it is received.”

“I know it must, I was brought up a Catholic myself,” the officer said. “But it is one thing to have an opinion, but quite another to act upon it, as you have.”

A shiver runs through me as I recognise the deep, clipped voice of Pieter Weisz, son of my benefactor. I have not seen him in years. He’d already moved into the accommodation provided for him by the state, when his cousin – and my only childhood friend – Katarina and I faced the consequences of our actions, back in 1932. Pieter would surely know of my dismissal from his family estate, perhaps even why. And, he knows I’m Jewish.

Hide, my instinct reacts, before he sees me. Before I can be his undoing, for he would surely shoot me down rather than risk me telling anyone his father housed a Jew, let alone built the family fortune by taking over my parents’ business upon their unfortunate demise.

Mother Superior sounds indignant. “Act upon what? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Perhaps within these walls, you do more than pray.”

“Of course. Aside from our work in the community, we have orphans to care for.”

“If I should find any of them are Jewish, there would be consequences,” Pieter said.

“All children are innocents. Surely you can agree, Oberführer?”

“Not all children are, and a Jew is a Jew.”

This antisemitic stance is well known to me. He has clearly risen the SS ranks in my absence, as well as cast aside the teachings of compassion from his faith. His coveted position was the very reason Herr Weisz was so keen to remove me from his house. The SS must be beyond reproach, generations of pure Aryan blood proven, with no hint of association with a Jew.

I should run – now – but my feet refuse to obey. My hands shake… I cannot leave without Freddie.

Inside the office, the paces cease. Pieter said, “I’m under orders to expose those who assisted delivering the Encyclical, then deal with them appropriately.”

Find Freddie and go, I decide, mentally repeating it over and over until my feet finally comply. As I creep past the doorway, Pieter’s voice reminds me of the cold deliberation of his father. “You can imagine my surprise when last night, my men captured a known dissident on the road, close by to this very convent, with copies of the Encyclical on him. A man known for spreading disinformation, for resisting. A radical who seeks to disrupt order in this province.”

Mother Superior gasps. “Whomever he is, whatever he’s done, that’s nothing to do with us. We are a simple religious order, seeking only to do God’s work.”

“After ‘questioning’, the traitor admitted he’d been housed at this very convent.”

Just past the door, I freeze. Under torture, I imagine most people would say anything to make it stop. But, there was a man here, until last night…

Mother Superior said, “We have no men here, Oberführer. Apart from a few young male orphans, there are only women living here, of course.”

“Then it is women, nuns even, who have produced this pamphlet preaching rubbish, which we also found on him?”

The implicit sneer in his voice makes my blood run cold. Whatever was printed, I can only assume the contents are critical of the regime we live under. Why else would it be of concern to the SS?

I clench my hands together to stop them trembling. How had I not seen what was right under my nose? But I know, deep inside, the answer to my own question. Fearful, I had suppressed my curious, rebellious nature. For Freddie’s safety was why.

In the silence I imagine Mother Superior is wrestling her usual inclination to voice the truth with the need to protect us all.

But Pieter isn’t done. “Not only are you harbouring criminals, but abetting their pathetic cause. Which makes me think, what else are you hiding here?” He snarled, “Shall we see? How about the chapel? Lots of hiding places there.”

Urgency to find my son overrides my caution. As I dart down the passage towards the chapel, the office door creaks behind me.

“There’s nothing there,” Mother Superior squeals, unnaturally high pitched. Her voice and the shuffle of her shoes are too close for comfort, but I don’t look back as I slip into the cool recesses of our sanctuary.

I scan the empty pews, chewing my lip. On one side of the chapel, a selection of paintings I’ve never seen before are propped against the wall by the confession booths. “Freddie?” My whisper grows urgent as I tiptoe towards the altar. “Freddie? Where are you?”

“Mama?” He calls from inside the limestone pulpit. As he then stands, his hair pokes above the stone rim, white-blond wisps caught in the sun streaming through the windows.

“I’m coming, stay there!”

Pieter’s voice echoes down the hallway. “There’s rarely nothing in my experience. Where there’s one rat, there’s a nest.”

“Get down,” I hissed as I run towards the pulpit and up the few steps to reach him. “Stay silent until it’s all over.”

He crouches, arms wrapped around his knees, white-knuckled fingers grasping his camera. Relief floods my body as I drop inside the stone booth and clutch him into me. Freddie’s hands shake and I place my fingers over his on the camera in case it rattles. His most precious possession, his only one, is this old Zeiss Ikon Box-Baldur. The metal box was all the rage in Hitler Youth, and passed on to me as a hand-me-down by Katarina just before she left for finishing school. I suppose it might have been Pieter’s once upon a time. Freddie formed an attachment to it from a young age, although we rarely have money for film or to have his photos developed. Of course, he knows nothing of its providence, just likes to take it apart and put it back together again, twiddling the knobs and pressing the trigger with a very satisfying click.

“Resist any more, and you’ll learn the consequences,” Pieter said, closer now.

I bury my head over my son and hold my breath.

There’s an audible bump from by the doorway, then Mother Superior squeals.

“How dare you?” Sister Luisa calls out. She must have been hiding in a confession box, but as I turn my head to look through the pulpit’s entrance, she steps directly into my eyeline. “This is a place of worship.”

“It’s alright, Sister,” Mother Superior replied, but it sounds forced.

Pieter’s shoes click across on the aisle tiles. “Looks like you do have something to confess, Sisters. A fine collection of paintings, I see. Not the usual sort of pictures one might expect in a chapel. These look far too modern. Being something of an enthusiast, I’m always on the look out for works for the Entartete Kunst. That’s the ‘degenerate art’ exhibition, which will soon be held in Munich. Something of a hobby for our Führer, and he looks kindly upon those who support his vision. Let’s see now…”

“See it or seize it?” Sister Luisa snaps back. The woman has no fear. “I’ve heard what you’re doing, taking paintings from people, from Churches even.”

“But it’s so important to show the people the right kind of art, wouldn’t you say? So they might see the truth within. And, you never know what kind of filth you’ll find in unexpected places.”

“I assure you,” Mother Superior’s voice wavers. “You’ll find nothing of interest here.”

“Then why, pray tell, are all these paintings – showing nothing to do with the glory of God – displayed here?”

There’s a shuffle of feet as Sister Luisa disappears from my view, then she said, “I’m simply cataloguing them. They were donated to us, for safe-keeping.”

“Ah, but who did they belong to before, I wonder?” His shoes tick-tick-tick as he crosses the flagstones, closer to our hiding place.

“Stop!” Sister Luisa said. My arms tighten around Freddie.

“Therefore, I conclude these can only be stolen. Or maybe given in exchange for something. Harbouring Jewish children, perhaps, or fugitives. Either way, they don’t belong here, do they, Sister?”

“They are ours,” Mother Superior interjects. Her voice sounds feeble behind us, then she whimpers. I crane my head around so I can see out of the pulpit better.

Pieter faces Sister Luisa, who stands in front of the paintings like a guard dog. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“I would never…” Sister Luisa blusters.

“Oberführer, no!” Mother Superior calls.

“No-one cares what you say. It’s what I say that matters.”

My heart is in my mouth as Pieter’s arm rises. Then I see what was obscured before – the black snub of a revolver blends seamlessly with his dark leather gloves.

“No!” Sister Luisa’s exclamation is drowned out by the shot booming around the room. Before my eyes, she crumples to the ground. I register the click of Freddie’s camera as Pieter swivels on his heel, arm still extended.

“This lawlessness is unacceptable – even for the Gestapo!” Mother Superior exclaimed.

But he sweeps the gun past the pulpit and aims it towards the doorway at the back. I clap my hands over my mouth and clutch Freddie into my chest.

“Resisting arrest, Sister? What if there’s no-one left to tell?”

Bang! The noise echoes briefly, replaced by the receding tap-tap of his shoes as he strides out.

Freddie whimpers in my arms, breaking my shocked silence. I’ve been clutching him so hard it must hurt, but for the life of me, I cannot release my boy. Framed by the pulpit’s carved sides, I can only stare at Sister Luisa’s body. Blood saturates her white wimple. Despite me silently willing her to get up, she is utterly still.

Freddie wriggles. “Shh,” I whispered into his hair.

I am frozen in fear, until I hear a groan at the back of the chapel. Mother Superior! Her moans galvanise me – perhaps she still lives? “Stay here,” I ordered Freddie as I uncurl myself from him. As I stand, he looks up at me. Watery blue eyes meet mine and his fingers tighten around his camera as if it can replace my warm body comforting him. I tear myself away from his gaze and dash to the doorway.

Mother Superior lies, leg twisted awkwardly, on the floor. She holds her hand to her chest, but blood seeps out between her fingers. “Oh no!” I drop to my knees and push my palm over her bloody hand.

Her eyelids flutter open. “Run Hannah!” She croaks out. “Never look back.”

“Don’t try to speak.” I bear down in a vain effort to stem the bleeding.

A gurgling noise comes from her chest and she tries to cough.

Her other arm twitches, fingers reaching for me as if she is desperate to say something more. I bend closer, folding my other hand over her cold fingers. As I grip her, I remember these arms of hers held me as I birthed Freddie. Comforted me as I accepted I could never go back to the Weisz’s and life as I knew it. I long to feel the strength of her embrace again, but, I fear all I can do now is hold her in her final moments. Despite my best efforts, her blood pools around my knees as I sense her heartbeat slow. “Please stay with me, Mother,” I pleaded, “Lord, heal your servant, I beg you.”

But my prayer falls on deaf ears. I cannot call out for help. Can do nothing but hold her hand and be with her.

Her last breath drifts silently from her lips, soft and shallow. Her head lolls, and I know she is gone.

Before I can do more than bow my head with sorrow, gunshots sound from the courtyard. They are the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns, not the calculated aim of a pistol. I cannot imagine what is going on out there, and I don’t want to find out. We must heed Mother Superior’s warning, so I dash back to the pulpit.

Freddie hunches against the stone, shivering. There’s no time to comfort him; I grab his arm and pull him out. He resists, shaking his head, but I’ve no choice. I scoop him up, into my chest, and, like a limpet clinging to the rock against the waves, his legs wrap around my waist. My bloody palm holds his face into my collarbone so he does not see the terrible cost of resisting. The camera slung around Freddie’s neck bangs against us with every step as I run past Sister Luisa’s body, then Mother Superior’s, and into the empty hallway.

Mindful of the danger outside, I dash up to my bedroom. My heart thumps a warning, my breath fast and too shallow to calm me as I’m greeted by confirmation of my fears: the tapestry has been pulled down, and the door behind it kicked in.

Stunned, I stand motionless, listening to the wind whistle through from the chamber beyond. In the stillness, I sense we’re alone. They have made their discoveries, passed judgement on us all and delivered the punishment, all in a matter of minutes.

Run, Mother Superior said, but, in a moment of clarity, I understand the intention behind her instruction – we can never return. Still clutching Freddie on my hip, I accept in an instant we’ll never come home and make my peace with it. One handed, for I’m not letting go of Freddie for anything, I sling my old school satchel over my shoulder. I rummage through my chest then stuff my papers into the front pocket. Not knowing what’s ahead for us, I grab my mother’s yellow scarf, Freddie’s holey socks, and shove what few pieces of clothing will fit into the bag. I fix the straps with shaking fingers. Sliding everything we now own across my back, I glance out of the window to the courtyard. Freddie whimpers as I turn his head into my shoulder, but I do not want him to see what I fear I must witness.

Below, the flagstones are strewn with bodies, mown down as they tried to flee. Children, nuns. Innocents. Soldiers stand around the walls, lighting cigarettes as they survey their morning’s work. Guessing what happened sickens me.

Then, Oberführer Pieter Weisz emerges from the front door and orders them to pile the corpses and douse them in petrol. The young soldier I met in the hallway approaches him and points towards my window. I pivot away – a mouse does not wait for a cat to pounce, and they will surely come for the press before long.

As I head through the smashed door, my eyes fall on the dog-eared Harpers Bazaar left on the bed in my haste to pack. Girlish dreams I have to leave behind now our mere survival is in question. I reach beyond the windowpane and drag out the knotted rope from the ivy. Then, I climb onto the windowsill, take a deep breath and swing us out. As I rappel down with Freddie on my back, step by careful step, my mind flashes to recall the pages of that magazine, fallen open on a report from Paris’s Spring Collection. I know then where we have to go.

* * *

Sewing Resistance will be launching in September on Kickstarter, along with a companion read for middle grade children – Boy, Resisting – which tells the tale from Freddie’s point of view.

Subscribe to my newsletter for launch news, to follow the Kickstarter and more stories HERE!

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