Book details:
Book Title: On a Sword’s Edge
Series: The Swords of Scotland
Author: JR Tomlin
Publication Date: November 16th, 2024
Publisher: independently-published
Pages: 159
@cathie.dunn1 @thecoffeepotbookclub
@thecoffeepotbookclub
@TomlinJeanne @cathiedunn
Scotland. 1263. The scent of rain mingles with the smoke of campfires as word spreads: the Norse are coming…
As tempers rise between King Alexander and the Norse King Haakon, at the center of it all is sixteen-year-old William Douglas, a squire in service to Sir John Stewart, Lord High Steward of Scotland.
When Haakon's fearsome fleet is espied approaching Scotland's shores, carrying the greatest invasion force the Norse have ever mustered, the dread of battle settles over the land. Summoned to Ayr Castle, William joins the Scottish forces in a desperate defense. Now tasked with serving his newly knighted brother, Hugh, William has little time to dwell on the fear – or thrill – of his first real taste of war.
And once the Norse's menacing line of ships finally touches shore, Scotland's fate may rest on more than noble titles and knightly deeds— it'll take the mettle of every soul on the ground for them to triumph.
Set against the wind-swept coast of medieval Scotland, On a Sword's Edge takes you right into the center of The Battle of Largs alongside a mere – yet fearless – squire.
As the Norse advanced toward the hillock, their ranks tightened. I heard a voice calling out the steps. The warriors were three deep to strengthen the wedge. King Haakon stood amid his men, his crown gleaming atop his silver helm. With him, a standard bearer waved his huge lion banner overhead from side to side to let us know who we were facing. The Norse hammered blades on their shields and shouted. But they took their time coming in a steady march.
Our horses pawed the ground and snorted. From the rear came the thwap of our own archers, losing arrows. A Norseman who did not raise his shield in time went to his knees. His fellows shoved him aside as they trudged. There was a scream. Another fell. They stepped around the fallen warrior. On they came.
Bolts thudded in front of us.
“Shields!” Sir John called. We all lifted them over our heads, and I bent forward so that it partially covered my horse’s withers. They thumped down on us. Someone cursed, and a horse made a guttural groan of pain further along our line. Its rider shouted as it reared and bolted, blood streaming. Tilting my shield, I could see that the Norse had quickened their pace.
They bellowed, “Fram! Fram, konungsmenn!” Whatever the strange words meant, they also meant our deaths. My guts gripped. I dropped my hand on my hilt. Below the rim of their helms, their bearded faces were filled with fury and a determination to exact revenge for their dead.
Sir John shouted, “Now!” and the front line wheeled their horse’s heads to the right. I turned and spurred to keep Hugh within sight. A spear slammed into the ground, and my mount skittered to the side. I tightened my thighs to steady him and pulled his head to the side. We galloped on. Another spear whizzed past me, just missing.
We curled around the front of the Norse, bypassing the front warriors and their huge axes. The knights hit the Norse flank in a crashing wave of screeching metal and thundering hooves. Hugh’s lance hit a man in the head. It lodged there, so the dying man was dragged along as he turned to another enemy. Blood sprayed, and the body fell off.
Their flank met the charge as a screaming entity, mouths open in snarls, axes swinging, and spears lunging. The slick mud made it hard for the Norse to spread out. They slipped and scrambled in the mud to get traction as they turned to face our charge.
It was a maelstrom of horses and men. A knight to Hugh’s left struck down with his axe and split an enemy’s helm and skull. Blood splashed up his arm, but it left his left side open. A bellowing Norseman with a beard down to his chest hacked an axe blow that buried itself in the knight’s side and pulled him, screaming, out of the saddle. The enemy’s axe was lodged in the body of his victim. As he jerked to free it, Hugh’s lance took him in his open mouth. His bellow turned to a gurgle.
Enemies swinging their axes surrounded Sir Pier. Alan Wallace bellowed a shout and tried to cut his way through, but he disappeared beneath their hacking blades.
Now, there was no line of Scots or Norse but a scramble of stabbing spears, swinging swords, and hacking battleaxes. I dodged a blow by a Norseman, who obviously cared nothing about the fact that I was a squire. Hugh wrenched his lance free and swung it at him so hard that the man was hurled flat on his back under stamping hooves. Sir Alan rode across his body as he rolled, further reddening the trampled and torn mud.
Hugh kept his shield up to protect his left as I moved to his right, where he was open. He landed a blow that rocked a Norseman sideways. Another swung at him from the right, and I caught the blow. Someone thrust a spear at my horse. It reared and lashed out with its iron-shod hooves, knocking the man before me onto his back. Father moved beside me and blocked a sword thrust. His riposte was a looping slash that slammed into the enemy’s chest and sent him reeling.
One knight had his helm stove in with an axe blow to the side of his head. Another blocked an attack, but a rising cut caught him on the wrist. His blood spurted and sprayed as he screamed and fell from his horse, bleeding out. We were in a sea of milling, hacking Norsemen. The fight was stalemated for now, but when one Norseman fell under our blows, another took his place.
Too closely packed to use his lance effectively, Hugh tossed it away and drew his sword. Standing in his stirrups, aided by the height, he cut down two assailants with tremendous right and left slashes. With my shield, I caught a blade that swung at him from behind and finally drew my sword. Father could reproach me for disobedience after the battle.
Then the reserve thundered up, and the king’s trumpeter blew a long, shrill blast. “To me! To me!” King Alexander bellowed. For a moment, with more men, we surged against the line of Norse shields, swords, axes, and spears. We hacked down with swords and axes as they sliced and jabbed at our legs and our horses from behind their shields.
All around was chaos, with no line, nothing certain. There was only blood churned into the mud, snorting horses, and the crash of steel on steel. Even time disappeared into endless slash and block and slash again. My arm moved with no command from me. Only habit and training kept me moving. The faces below the helm rims before me were blood-splattered, and the mouths no longer shouted but pressed in grim lines or grimaced.
J. R. Tomlin is the author of more than twenty historical novels, set for the most part in Scotland. Her love of that nation is traced from the stories of King Robert the Bruce and the Good Sir James her grandmother read to her when she was small to hillwalking through the Cairngorms where the granite hills have a gorgeous red glow under the setting sun. Later, her writing was influenced by the work of authors such as Alexander Dumas, Victor Hugo, and of course, Sir Walter Scott.
When JR isn’t writing, she enjoys spending time hiking, playing with her Westie, and killing monsters in computer games. In addition to having lived in Scotland, she has traveled in the US, Europe and the Pacific Rim. She now lives in Oregon in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.
Author Links:
Website: https://www.jrtomlin.com
Twitter: https://x.com/TomlinJeanne
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/jrtomlin
Tour hosted by: The Coffee Pot Book Club
Thanks for hosting the excerpt.
All the best,
JR
Thanks so much for hosting J R Tomlin with her riveting new novel, On a Sword's Edge, today.
Take care,
Cathie xx
The Coffee Pot BookClub