I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE MARK OF THE
SALAMANDER by Justin Newland Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Author: Justin Newland
Pub. Date: September 28, 2023
Publisher: The Book Guild Ltd.
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 256
Find it: Goodreads, https://mybook.to/MarkofSalamander
1575: Nelan Michaels is a young
Flemish man fleeing religious persecution in the Spanish Netherlands. Settling
in Mortlake outside London, he studies under Queen Elizabeth’s court
astrologer, conjuring a bright future – until he’s wrongly accused of murder.
Forced into the life of a fugitive, Nelan is dramatically pressed into the crew
of the Golden Hind.
Thrust into a strange new world on board Francis Drake’s vessel, Nelan sails
the seas on a voyage to discover discovery itself. Encountering mutiny, ancient
tribes and hoards of treasure, Nelan must explore and master his own mystical
powers – including the Mark of the Salamander, the mysterious spirit of fire.
The Mark of the Salamander is the first in The Island of Angels series: a
two-book saga that tells the epic story and secret history of England’s coming
of age during the Elizabethan era.
Book Trailer:
1
The
Fire
The
village of Mortlake, near London, England
31st
March 1575
Nelan stepped carefully over the planks of the wooden
jetty, moist from an early morning shower. He boarded the wherry bobbing
in the flow of the spring tide. The wherry master grinned, showing
a tranche of rotting black teeth behind a ragged salt-and-pepper beard.
As far as Wenceslaus was concerned, this passed as a morning
salutation.
Wenceslaus let go of the rope and kicked the jetty with
the sole of his tattered boot, shoving the boat into the flow of the River
Thames. As usual, the wherry master’s breath stank of ale, and to enhance
the delights of the morning, he let out a huge fart. As with everyone
else in England, more vacant air than solid food filled the wherry
master’s guts. Well, it was Maundy Thursday, the last day of Lenten
fasting. Wenceslaus eased out the oars and bent his back to the task, and
with each pull he emitted a low grunt, like the wild boars that roamed
the woods near Nelan’s Mortlake home.
“Tide’s on the full, little master,” said
Wenceslaus.
“’Tis that,” Nelan said.
Reaching the middle of the flow, Nelan glanced back at
his house.
Next door and nestling on the bank was their neighbour’s
place – a large, rambling house just west of the church between it and
the river. The natural philosopher and celebrated astrologer to the court
of Queen Elizabeth, Dr John Dee, lived there. Dr Dee was a great
friend of Nelan’s father Laurens, who had encouraged Nelan to visit
Dee’s house for private tuition in matters both sacred and secular. Just
the other week, Dee had agreed to cast Nelan’s horoscope, but before
he could reveal his findings, Dee’s second wife had died. And on the
day of her funeral, the Queen herself had paid him a surprise visit.
How Nelan mixed with such exalted company!
Today was a special day: the last school day before
Easter. Nelan
pulled out a crumpled broadsheet that Dee had recently
given him. It was dated March 1575, and depicted an elegant city with
tall spires protruding into the heavens. One more term at school, and
Nelan would be off to university and strolling down Oxford’s alleys. The
time was ripe for him to make his own way in life.
They passed wherries tacking upriver, and avoided
ferries crossing from bank to bank. Wisps of mist rose from the
glassy swell. Wenceslaus stopped by the hamlet of Sneakenhall to
pick up two other boys from Nelan’s school. Dressed in doublets of
fine Spanish cloth, leggings, and leather shoes, they stood behind their
stepfather, St John of Southampton, or San Juan de Antón in Spanish. They
sniggered and pointed their fingers at Nelan, but that wasn’t unusual.
The brothers climbed into the wherry. Nelan had been born in Sangatte,
Picardy, Northern France, while Guillermo and Pedro harked from Seville,
Spain. They attended the same school and were of a similar age. They had
that in common. But Nelan couldn’t stand the boys; nor they him. They had
that in common too.
Wenceslaus disliked their rivalry. “Now, be civil to them
both, young Nelan,” he warned.
“I’ll try,” Nelan murmured.
“You do just that.”
Nelan said, “Good morrow, Guillermo, Pedro. The Lord be
with you both.”
“I want nothing to do with your Lord!” Guillermo snarled.
“Now move over, you stupid!” He pushed Nelan off the seat.
“Oi!” Wenceslaus intervened. “Stop it. Hell’s teeth.
Every mornin’, every month, every year. Always the same. You two spar like
a pair of fightin’ cocks. An’ old Wenceslaus gotta keep yous
apart.”
He was right, Nelan thought. But what could he do? In
Queen Bess’s England, the law compelled ordinary folks to follow the
new Protestant religion and forgo the old Catholic one. Nelan was
Protestant. The brothers were Catholic. He and they were like oil and
water. They fought in words on the wherry, just as their respective
armies warred in Europe and clashed all over the New World.
A pall of silence shrouded the rest of the trip around
the Barnes–
Chiswick oxbow. As Wenceslaus grunted and groaned,
passing more air from his orifice, he rowed the wherry past Putney and
then Battersea Fields. Nelan stretched his legs. He was a shorty, and
they barely reached half the length of Guillermo’s, who sat, arms folded,
avoiding eye contact. Pedro mimicked his older brother, brooding beneath
a dark, forbidding frown.
As the wherry moored by the Westminster jetty, Nelan
and
Guillermo stood up at the same time, rocking the boat.
Wenceslaus scowled at them, which annoyed Guillermo, who took a leap. The
jetty was still moist from the overnight rain, and he slipped and
smashed his knee.
As Guillermo winced with pain, Wenceslaus passed comment
and more air. “Silly boy. Serves you right; it does that.”
Rubbing his knee, Guillermo snapped at the wherry master,
“Me,
I am Guillermo. You ferry me and my brother to school and
back. You speak to me like that again, I tell my stepfather. You know he
is very important man, ¿cierto?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, young master,” Wenceslaus said,
doffing his cap and clutching it to his chest.
As far as Nelan was concerned, this was more respect than
the boy deserved for his rudeness and arrogance. But Guillermo’s
stepfather was a senior figure with influence at Elizabeth’s court. A
word in the local constable’s ear, and Wenceslaus could easily have spent
the day battened down in the stocks at Putney market.
Pedro jumped out of the wherry and helped his brother
hobble along the landing quay. Passing the woodshed, they headed towards
an imposing brick building boasting tall, graceful spires and elegant
stone etchings: Westminster Abbey. Next to the abbey lay the entrance to
the newly formed Westminster School. There, the school’s steward, a burly
man with a black beard and black cap, stood by and greeted them one and
all.
Nelan joined the rest of the school for the church
assembly.
Pastor Christopher, the school’s minister, conducted the
morning service, which concluded with the singing of Psalm 23, ‘The Lord
is My Shepherd’. Nelan mouthed a silent prayer to the Lord. If only
He would shepherd him to the place where he could deal with
Guillermo. Because of late, the Spanish boy had grown increasingly
hostile towards Nelan, and it frightened him.
After Mass, Nelan attended lessons in Greek, Latin and
French.
Then came rhetoric, astronomy, and classical studies
touching on the School of Athens and the philosophers Plato and
Aristotle.
On another day of fast, Nelan’s stomach rumbled like the
eruption of Vesuvius. Dusk drew in its gentle wings. To celebrate the end
of term, all the boys ran out of class and jumped in the air with
elation. Nelan said a prayer of thanksgiving in the abbey, then headed
towards the river to find a wherry to take him home. He spotted
Guillermo talking to Pastor Christopher by the school entrance, and then
the boy turned and headed Nelan’s way. To avoid any confrontation, Nelan
darted into the woodshed.
In the shed stood a solid oak table. Its numerous
scratches and indents bore testament to a life of long and dedicated
service. It was as old as King Henry VIII, the father of Elizabeth, the
present Queen. In the middle of the table was a ceramic bowl, like the
fruit bowl on the cedar table in Nelan’s home, except that this one had
no fruit in it. Twists of straw and a scattering of dead leaves bedecked
the top of the table. The shed was crammed on both sides with logs,
kindling and twigs, various tools, saws and axes.
Nelan’s right palm itched. He scratched the source of the
irritation: three wavy vertical lines beneath his middle finger. His
father had scolded him when he was a child, saying that, because he never
washed his hands, the lines were like three wisps of smoke rising from
his smelly paws. Nelan was unconvinced. Either way, he scratched
his palm. He’d always wondered how he’d got the lines. Were they a
kind of birthmark? His father had never told him. And what did it mean
when they itched at certain times, like now?
From outside the shed, he heard the distinctive sound of
Guillermo’s limp. His heart sank. The door squeaked open. Nelan ducked
beneath the table.
Too late, because he heard a voice crow, “Come out, muchacho!”
Nelan crawled out from under the table. Guillermo lurked
on the other side.
“I’m not a baby. I’m a man!”
“You not a man! A man, he stand up like a pole. He face
the world.
Insects, they creep along the ground!” Guillermo
thundered, smashing his fist on the table with so much force that it
shuddered under the impact.
“What’s got into you? Are you possessed by a diablo?”
Guillermo put his palms on the table and leaned towards
Nelan, his eyes glaring like fire. “My stepfather says all Protestants are
heretics, and we must cleanse the world of their sin.”
“You Spanish do that anyway. All around the world you
spread torture and cruelty! Spain is pain.”
“No! Spain is top, highest country in world. You, you’re
a low
country boy. You’re from the nether regions. Ha!”
Guillermo laughed at his pun.
“Yes, I lived in the Netherlands… until you Spanish
invaded, forcing my family to seek refuge here!”
“Bah!” Guillermo gritted his teeth, rubbing his
forefinger and thumb together. “You are a flea, a tiny flea, and I,
Guillermo de Antón, am going to squash you!”
“I may be small, but I’m not that small,” Nelan
said, trying to make light of the insult.
“You’re – how you say? – seventeen years old. I meet you
when you come here six years ago. But after that, you never grow. Not like
me and Pedro. We big, strong Spanish boys. For King Felipe, we build
a world empire.”
The spite flowed thick and fast. As much as he wanted to
fight, Nelan swallowed his bile and lurched around the table.
“Ha! You cobarde!” Guillermo sniped, blocking his
way.
Nelan faced his nemesis. “Enough! I’m no coward!”
Quick as a flash, Guillermo pulled out a small canvas
bag from the pouch hanging from his belt. He emptied its contents, a
brownish powder, into the ceramic bowl. The powder whiffed of
sulphur.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“You’ll see, amigo,” Guillermo scowled. With both
hands he scooped up the twists of straw and dried leaves and dropped them
on top of the brown powder.
“Wait. You’re not going to…?”
Guillermo pulled two strike-a-light irons and a flint
from his pouch and brandished them in front of Nelan’s face. “Sí, amigo.
I am,” he said with a mischievous grin.
“Let me out!” Nelan cried, and tried to push past the
Spanish boy again.
With a demonic expression on his face, Guillermo shoved
him aside, and Nelan fell against the log pile, but got up as quickly as
he could.
“It’s gunpowder! You’ll kill us both!”
“No! I run out the door. You heretic, you die! It’s
Easter. It’s the time to cleanse the world of sin!” Guillermo crushed an
iron against the flint. A solitary spark leapt from the flint, but didn’t
catch the strands of straw and leaves. He shoved one of the irons back
into his pouch, then crunched the other against the flint, squeezing out
another spark.
Thankfully, the gunpowder failed to ignite – or so Nelan
thought.
But he smelled burning. A spark had lit a piece of straw
next to the ceramic bowl. Again, he rushed at the madman. Flint in
hand, Guillermo raised his fist. Nelan ducked to avoid the blow.
Guillermo lost his balance and fell, dropping the iron and flint. He
winced with pain as he clutched his knee, then crawled along the
floor.
The door was flung open. Two men stood there: the
school’s steward and Pastor Christopher. Nelan swept up the iron and
flint. The gunpowder was going to ignite. The men blocked the exit. A
small blue flame leapt from the straw across the open space and, as if
drawn to the bowl of gunpowder, dropped into it. The shed was about to
explode. Think. Quick. Nelan crawled across the floor and dived
between the men’s legs before scrambling through the open door.
The world ground to a shuddering halt. Everything slowed,
like the actor he’d seen at one of those new theatres in the city who
moved at a snail’s pace. A burst of flame followed a massive explosion.
The force of the blast threw him backwards. Winded and half blinded,
he crawled away from the scorching heat. Hungry flames devoured the
kindling, sending orange-yellow embers into the dusk. Had it not been so
frightening, it would have been beautiful. The flames crackled and spat
as the logs caught fire. Nelan’s ears were ringing, but the sound was
muted. His head spun like a top. The burning seared into his mind’s
eye.
As the flames engulfed the shed, it rained hot embers,
covering the steward in soot. The pastor crouched on the ground, holding
his head. The explosion must have thrown them clear. The blast had
also ejected Guillermo, but only just. Smoke rose from his ruined
clothes into the dry, early evening air. The Spaniard lay on the ground
near the blazing shed, his mouth open as if he were shouting or crying.
Nelan could hear no sound coming from his mouth. Pedro hared across the
yard towards them.
Dazed and confused, Nelan hugged his knees, rocking back
and forth. It eased the pain. Because in his imagination, he saw
painful, destructive pictures from his past. In this vision, he was in an
earlier time, another town, a different country altogether. It felt
strange, unreal. It was as if he watched the scene unfold from a
distance. He stood at the edge of a crowd. They yelled and shook their
fists. They shouted, but not in English. He was young and small. Even on tiptoe,
he couldn’t see over the tops of the heads of those in front of him. He
climbed on top of a barrel to get a better view. Before the heaving
crowd, soldiers lashed two men and a woman to three wooden posts. They
tied the woman to the middle one. She wore a black headscarf from which a
loose strand of brown hair protruded. Nelan yearned to tuck it into her
scarf, but he couldn’t. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her chin trembled.
She glanced towards him and then turned away. She moved her shoulders,
wrenched her arms, and twisted her legs, but then fell as still as a
scarecrow. Had she accepted her fate? No. She must never do that. She
must keep struggling to get free. Nelan desperately wanted her to escape
and take him with her.
A wooden crucifix hung from the top of each post. Perhaps
Jesus peered down from the cross at what was about to transpire. Did
He know that this was being done in His name? Why didn’t He stop
it? A crow glided over the heads of the crowd – once, twice – and
then squatted on top of the woman’s post. Black wings, black beak,
black squawk; an omen that the woman’s soul was about to fly off into
the beyond. She was going to surrender her soul. But was it to Jesus or
to the black crow? No one answered that question. Nelan wished they
would.
A military cohort appeared from behind him. Pikes
pointing up and frowns pointing down, the soldiers pushed through the
crowd. Following them came a man wearing a black cloak. A pair of
narrow eyes looked out from two tiny slits in the hood. The cohort
stopped by the woman tied to the pole. Nelan stared at the pole and the
woman. It was no ordinary pole. She was no ordinary woman. Kindling,
logs, bits of rags, and curved struts from broken barrels nestled at the
base of the post. It was a fire in waiting. This was an auto-da-fé or
an act of faith, though he doubted there was much faith involved.
The image of the woman and the pole shattered, and he was
jolted out of his reverie.
“Nelan! Nelan Michaels!” someone called.
Nelan turned around.
“Hell’s teeth,” the steward said. “What are you doing
sitting there like a stone?”
The huntsman accompanied him, along with a clutch
of schoolmasters and a legion of boys drawn by the roar of the
explosion and the spectacle of the fire. The huntsman’s wife tended to
Guillermo. Pastor Christopher got down on his knees and prayed for the
boy. Pedro cradled his brother’s head in his hands. Wisps of smoke
rose from Guillermo’s jerkin as he shrieked in agony.
“Quick. Move the boy to the infirmary. Get a hand cart,”
the steward said to the huntsman, and then added, “Boys, get in a
line. We need water.”
They passed buckets from hand to hand, scooping water
from the river and dousing the fire, then sending the empty vessels back
to be refilled. The woodshed resembled the burning bush; an eternal
flame, a testament to the Lord’s fury and His power to cleanse the
furious and bring down the proud. From where he stood, at twelve paces,
Nelan felt the heat of the fire. He didn’t move as wave upon wave
scorched his face and arms. The flames were a marriage of reds, yellows and
golds. Deep within the inferno’s inner sanctum, they were coloured a
lithe violet blue.
Pedro confronted him, his face a picture of anguish.
“You. You let my brother burn!”
“I did?” Nelan murmured.
“¡Sí! I saw it with my own eyes. My own brother.
His clothes burn. And you. You did nothing to help him. You wanted to give
pain to my brother!”
Guillermo screamed and writhed on the ground. The flames
didn’t care. They burned anything and everything. They were
ravenous, with neither mercy nor pity.
Nelan shook himself and said, “I-I don’t know. I-I
would’ve done.
I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what happened to
me.”
“You always hate him,” Pedro said, jabbing a finger at
him. “You want him to suffer. Happy now?”
The huntsman approached with a rickety handcart and said,
“You boys, help me get the lad onto the cart.”
Nelan went to help. Pedro blocked him.
“Let me help. I want to.”
“Stay away from him!” Pedro said, staring him down.
Carefully, the men lifted Guillermo. He yelled as they
loaded him onto the cart. Nelan had heard screams like that before – from
a fox snared in a trap.
“You will pay for this!” Pedro growled.
Nelan shrank back. I defended myself. And that
dreadful vision… Why doesn’t anyone understand that?
The huntsman hauled the cart across the courtyard towards
the infirmary, followed by his wife and Pedro.
“How could you ignore the boy’s distress?” the steward
said.
“It… It wasn’t my fault,” Nelan stammered. “Guillermo’s
mad. He wanted to blow me up. He lit the gunpowder and wanted to leave
me in there.”
“Is that what you saw, Pastor?” the steward asked. But
before
Pastor Christopher could answer, the steward added,
“Because that’s not what I saw.”
“But… he started the fire. He wanted to kill me,” Nelan
murmured.
“No! When I arrived, you stood over Guillermo, who lay on
the floor. You’d hit him!”
“I didn’t. You must believe me.”
“I saw you clutching the strike-a-light iron and flint.
You must’ve started the fire.”
Nelan bit his lip. A silent scream rose from the depths
of his being.
“No! It wasn’t like that!”
“Go home, and don’t come back!” The steward shooed him
away like a fly.
“What d’you mean?”
“You’re expelled.”
“But I’ve only one more term before—”
“We don’t want the likes of you at Westminster
School.”
Nelan slouched off towards the river, as low as he’d ever
felt since arriving in England. He found Wenceslaus and slumped down on
the wherry seat. Plunging his hands into his purse, he fingered the
iron and the flint – a lot of good they’d do him now.
By the time they pulled into the jetty at home, the cloak
of sadness and misfortune weighed heavily on his shoulders. He hauled
himself out of the wherry. He felt like a creature dredged up from the
ocean’s depths, thick with sludge and bound with seaweed. Now he had
to gird himself to tell his father. With hard steps on grassy soil, he
trudged along the path from the jetty to his house.
The maidservant told him that his father had gone to the
city on business and would return early the next day. Nelan waited in
his room. His clothes stank of fire and smoke, evoking memories of
the explosion. Images of the woman tied to the stake flashed through
his mind. Her screams beat against his ears… or were they
Guillermo’s yells of pain? From his north-facing room, he could hear the
swishing, gurgling sounds of Old Father Thames as it raced towards its
destiny in the estuary. The river had ferried him to Westminster School
and back for nigh on seven years. And in this, his last school year, his
dream to attend university in the autumn had gone up in flames. His head
sank low. The Lord was pitted against him. For this to happen to him,
he must have committed some awful sin. Either way, he needed
justice and a pardon, and quick. Damn Guillermo. And once and for all,
he needed to know the identity of the woman tied to the
Inquisition’s stake, lest her image haunt him for the rest of his days.
He must have dropped off to sleep, because when he awoke,
the first slithers of dawn slanted across the river, and he heard his
father’s booming voice echo around the rafters of the house and the front
door slam shut.
Nelan knocked on the door of his father’s study. Laurens
Michaels was a bulk of a man; as tall as an oak tree and just as thickset.
His bald head showed his years. Dressed in his favourite dark green
velvet doublet, he dominated his desk.
When Nelan had explained what had happened, his father
got up and adjusted his flat, black Anglican hat. Pacing the floor, he
asked, “Nelan, what’s happened is terrible. But why did Guillermo
threaten your life? Tell the truth, as God is our witness.”
“He said his father wanted him to cleanse the world of
heretics.”
“So, it concerned religion. I might have known,” Laurens
said with a sigh. “I’ve always tried to be neighbourly to the St John
family, but to no avail. By coming to England, I hoped we’d escape
Spanish persecution. I was wrong.”
“We left the Netherlands… what about…?” For a moment,
Nelan’s
head spun. He turned away from his father’s gaze and
instead stared at the painting behind his father’s head: the hamlet of
Sangatte with its white, sandy coastal dunes. It brought back memories of
his mother; her smell and her touch. He felt her staring at him from one
of the cottages in the painting. He jerked his head away and looked
through the study’s solitary window. On this cloudless day, he could see
all the way to the bank on the other side of the river.
“What about what, Nelan?” his father repeated.
Once and for all. Nelan’s
voice broke in his throat. “Mother.”
“What about your mother?”
“What happened to her?”
“I told you already. She was English. Her maiden name was
Pickford. She fell into the arms of Our Lord before we left the
Netherlands.”
“Yes, I know, Father. But you’ve never told me how she
died.”
This time, his father averted his gaze and studied the
wainscoting.
“I’m seventeen; you don’t need to protect me
anymore.”
“I’m going to tell you—”
There was a loud rapping on the front door. The door
opened,
squeaking on its hinges. Footsteps marched up to the
study door. The footman hauled it open.
“Sir.”
“Yes? Who is it?” Laurens asked.
“Dr Dee.”
“Dr John Dee?”
“Yes, sir, the same. He’s on the porch.”
“It must be important for him to call at this time of the
morning.
Well, don’t stand there, man. Show him in.”
“Sir.”
Dr Dee had a milk-white beard and was a tall, wiry man
with the stare of a lighthouse. He wore a black cap and a long black gown
with hanging sleeves, crisp in the morning’s rays. “Good morrow to
you both,” he said in a husky voice. “May the Lord be with you.”
“And with you, Dr Dee,” Laurens replied.
“I cannot stay long; I must return to my experiments,”
Dee said.
He appeared to drift around the room, touching the spines
of the books on the shelves and then examining a portrait of Laurens
attending a Low Church Calvinist meeting.
“Our condolences over the demise of your dear wife,”
Nelan’s father said.
“Thank you. I’ve been in mourning these last days.”
“She’s resting in the arms of Our Lord,” Laurens
said.
“Have you been able to cast my horoscope, m’lord?” Nelan
asked.
“I’m so excited to hear your interpretation of it.”
“Yes, I’ve just finished it, and that’s why I come
bearing urgent news,” Dee said. Every word he spoke sounded like a Sunday
sermon. “I’m here to warn you that over these two days – yesterday and
today – the planets Mars and Saturn figure prominently in your chart.
Has anyone in the family recently died violently?”
“That’s extraordinary! No, not in our family,” Nelan
said, “but yesterday evening an explosion badly hurt one of the St John
boys.”
“I see.” Dee nodded. “There’s also an unfortunate
opposition in
Libra, the scales of justice.”
“What does that mean?” Nelan asked.
“I suspect it means that the law is now involved in this
case, and that there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
“What? That’s not justice; that’s injustice,” Nelan
yelled.
“So, we’ll wait for the constables, then,” Laurens
said.
“Father, they can’t arrest me. Only the pastor and the
steward witnessed the incident. On their evidence, they’ll hang me. I’m
sorry, but with the news Dr Dee has brought, I must leave.”
“If you’ve not sinned, the Lord will protect you.”
“The Lord might, Father, but the law might not. I must
clear my name.”
There was a loud knock at the front door. A cry rang out:
“The Queen’s constables here. Open up in the name of the law.”
“Well, that was prescient, Dr Dee,” Laurens said.
“They’re here already.”
There were voices at the front door, and then a knock at
the study door. It was the footman.
“What is it?” Laurens asked him.
“The constables are here with a warrant to arrest Master
Nelan for murder.”
“Let them in,” Laurens said.
“No, don’t!” Nelan cried.
“Let. Them. In,” Laurens snapped.
The footman left the study.
“Then I must go,” Nelan said.
“No,” his father replied. “We are visitors here.
Refugees. England is renowned for its adherence to the law. You must
surrender to the constables.”
“Quickly, Dr Dee, what do I do?” Nelan asked.
“There are other significant elements in your horoscope
that suggest you have a part to play in the future of this country. That’s
why I’m here to help you escape: because you can’t do that while
confined within a prison. So, you must run away and avoid capture for as
long as possible. Then you can absolve yourself of this unjust
accusation. Now, you must go,” Dee said, pointing to the window.
Nelan opened it.
“Do not go,” his father said. “You must defend yourself,
and my honour.”
“Father, I must. The constables—”
Laurens squeezed himself between Nelan and the window.
There he stood, legs astride, arms folded, glaring at him. At times, he
had a fearsome presence. This was one of them. “You are staying here,”
he said through gritted teeth.
“But, Dr Dee, even if I run, they’ll catch me,” Nelan
said. “It’s broad daylight outside.”
“Not anymore,” Dee murmured, nodding his head. “Look out
the window.”
Outside, a mist as thick as pea soup hung over the river.
Where’s that come from? Did it arise naturally, or did Dr Dee conjure
it out of the ether?
“Where is he?” an unfamiliar voice boomed from the
corridor.
“Nelan, be a man,” his father said, “and account for your
actions.
If you flee, you will dishonour the Michaels’ family
name.”
Nelan clenched his fists. “Father, I have to find another
way to clear my name. I’ll not end my days in Newgate or Marshalsea for
a crime I didn’t commit. Besides, if anyone’s guilty, it’s Guillermo.
Now, move, please!”
“I will not!”
“This time, I’ll not bow to your wishes. I’m innocent
and disappointed that you don’t believe me. I beg you, get out of my way.”
“No.”
The study door burst open, and Laurens glanced towards
the intruder. In one swift, agile movement Nelan darted between his
father’s legs and came out the other side. He scrambled onto the
windowsill and jumped down to the ground outside before his father had
time to stop him. Finally, he’d found an advantage to being small. The
ground was moist and soft from the mist. A light breeze swirled vapour
around him, adding a ghostly effect to the scene. From the study he heard
muffled voices: those of the constables, his father, and Dr Dee.
He knew the paths leading to and from the house like he
knew the course of the river. He felt invisible to the world, and in a
way, he was. Leaving one life behind and taking the first frightened,
tentative steps into a new one, he concentrated on every footstep. He
could barely see the path, but he knew that the river flowed by some
fifty paces in front of his house.
There he met an extraordinary sight. He stepped out of
the swirling mist and into broad daylight. Apart from his house,
everywhere was clear: the north bank of the river in Chiswick, the
monastery of Syon Abbey to the west, and to the east the city of London,
where filaments of woodsmoke snaked into the dawn skies on the horizon.
The mist had settled around his house, but nowhere else. He’d never
witnessed such a strange phenomenon in all the years he’d lived there.
He still didn’t know the identity of the woman in his vision. During the fire, she had made him freeze at the crucial moment. Providence had spoken. So had Dr Dee, and so had Nelan’s horoscope. Dee had told him that he had a part to play in England’s future. What on earth did that entail? If only he could have had more time with Dr Dee. But time was the one thing he didn’t have, so, after one last Parthian glance at his old home, he set off along the riverbank away from the mysterious cloud of mist and into a new life.
About Justin Newland:
JUSTIN NEWLAND’s novels represent an innovative blend of
genres from historical adventure to supernatural thriller and magical
realism. His stories explore the themes of war and religion, and
speculate on the human’s spiritual place in the universe.
Undeterred by the award of a Doctorate in Mathematics from
Imperial College, London, he conceived his debut novel, The Genes of
Isis (Matador, 2018), an epic fantasy set under Ancient Egyptian
skies.
The historical thriller, The Old Dragon’s Head (Matador,
2018), is set in Ming Dynasty China in the shadows of the Great
Wall.
The Coronation (Matador, 2019) was another historical adventure and
speculates on the genesis of the most important event in the modern world
– the Industrial Revolution. The Abdication (Matador, 2021) is a
mystery thriller in which a young woman confronts her faith in a higher
purpose and what it means to abdicate that faith.
The Mark of the Salamander (Book Guild, 2023) is the first in a two-book series, The
Island of Angels. Set in the Elizabethan era, it’s an epic tale of
England’s coming of age. His WIP is the second in the series, The
Midnight of Eights, the charting of the uncanny coincidences that led
to the repulse of the Spanish Armada.
Author, speaker and broadcaster, Justin appears on LitFest
panels, gives talks to historical associations and libraries and enjoys
giving radio interviews and making podcasts. Born three days before the
end of 1953, he lives with his partner in plain sight of the Mendip Hills
in Somerset, England.
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub
Giveaway Details:
1 winner
will receive a finished copy of THE MARK OF THE SALAMANDER, US & UK Only.
Ends May 7th, midnight EST.
Tour Schedule:
Week One:
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4/8/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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4/9/2024 |
Excerpt |
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4/10/2024 |
Excerpt/Twitter Post |
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4/11/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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4/12/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
Week Two:
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4/15/2024 |
Excerpt |
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4/16/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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4/17/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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4/18/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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4/19/2024 |
Excerpt |
Week Three:
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4/22/2024 |
Review |
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4/23/2024 |
IG Review |
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4/24/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/25/2024 |
IG Review |
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4/26/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
Week Four:
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4/29/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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4/30/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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5/1/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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5/2/2024 |
IG Review |
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5/3/2024 |
IG Review |
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