Excerpt: The Midnight of Eights (The Island of Angels #2) by Justin Newland
- Archaeolibrarian
- Mar 25
- 7 min read
Book details:
Book Title: The Midnight of Eights
Series: The Island of Angels (This is book 2 of 2. The first book is called The Mark of the Salamander. Book 2 is written as a stand-alone, or can be read after reading book 1.)
Author: Justin Newland
Publication Date: 28th October 2024
Publisher: The Book Guild
Page Length: 288
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1580.
Nelan Michaels docks at Plymouth after sailing around the world aboard the Golden Hind. He seeks only to master his mystical powers – the mark of the salamander, that mysterious spirit of fire – and reunite with his beloved Eleanor.
After delivering a message to Francis Walsingham, he’s recruited into the service of the Queen’s spymaster, where his astral abilities help him to predict and thwart future plots against the realm.
But in 1588, the Spanish Armada threatens England’s shores.
So how could the fledgling navy of a small, misty isle on the edge of mainland Europe repulse the greatest fleet in the world?
Was the Queen right when she claimed it was divine intervention, saying, ‘He blew with His winds, and they were scattered!’?
Or was it an entirely different intervention – the extraordinary conjunction of coincidences that Nelan’s astral powers brought to bear on that fateful Midnight of Eights?
Author Website (where buyer can enter a dedication): https://www.justinnewland.com/the-midnight-of-eights~193
Wordery (for free UK delivery):
Chapter 1: The Plough Head
The village of Mortlake, near London, England
14th October 1580
… As Nelan watched, the flames sang to him from their cradles.
You are well-come, Ne-lan.
By the Lord, the flames spoke to him. On his journey with Francis Drake, he’d witnessed fiery visions and visited the higher astral realms, but never had he heard the voices of the flames. Engraved with the mark of the salamander, he had a great affinity for the spirit of fire.
“I see you and hear you,” he whispered.
Another horse and rider galloped up the track towards the manor gate house. After a brisk conversation, one of the watchmen ushered the rider into the courtyard and stabled the horse. With the coast clear, Nelan trudged across the meadow.
The hounds announced his arrival. Shoulder to shoulder, the three remaining watchmen sheltered from the rain beneath a narrow lintel at the courtyard gates. Burly folk they were, bearing pikes and swords, black capes and bonnets, with beards and looks to match. The one dressed in a fine doublet, a cap and feather drew his scabbard and snarled, “Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?”
Nelan froze before the man’s cold, empty stare, and in that silent hiatus, with the incessant drizzle, he felt helpless. Before he could answer, the man waved his scabbard beneath Nelan’s chin, and said, “You’re speakin’ ta’ Roger Adden, Steward to the Secretary. So, listen to me, shorty. What with them fine and dandy Frenchies all over London and them Spaniards hidin’ in them priest holes, we’re checkin’ every man who comes to the manor. State your name and your business.”
“M-my name is Nelan Michaels. I come from the Admiral.”
“Got any papers?”
The other watchmen unsheathed their weapons, tapping the ground with the tips of their swords. Barking like the hounds from Hell, the two dogs pulled on the leash.
Nelan retrieved a package from his purse, saying, “See, here’s Admiral Drake’s seal.”
“Before, the Admiral sent a different messenger. Yeah, he was the whistle man. What was his name?”
“Oh, you mean John Brewer?”
“Yeah, what ’appened to ’im?”
“I’m his replacement,” Nelan said, gritting his teeth. “I’m three days out of Plymouth Hoe. I smell of pigs’ shit and manure, and I’m here to deliver the Admiral’s message to your master.”
Roger Adden sheathed his sword, and to Nelan’s relief, the others did the same. “Equerry’ll take your ’orse. You come wit’ me.”
Adden led Nelan through the gates, across the cobbled yard and into the main house. Then, leaving him guarded by a watchman, Adden disappeared into an office. Nelan warmed his hands by the fire. A neatly stacked pile of logs and kindling sat by the fireside.
Nelan felt beyond exhaustion. Sleep would be his solace. Sleep. He’d rest in her sweet arms and drift off into divine bliss. Battered and bruised by the dog of a journey, he melted into the soft fabric of a chair by the fire. But then he heard a crackling whisper. It wasn’t the guard. So, who? Wait. The voice. The fire spoke again.
By the warm,
I’ll be sworn.
He was in Heaven. Not only was the fire talking to him, but the blood coursed through him, even reaching his extremities. The office door crashed open, shaking him out of the comfort of the moment. Adden led another man into the anteroom. His long, black cloak was smattered in mud and bracken. He was the rider who’d arrived a tad before Nelan. The watchman escorted the rider out of the anteroom.
“Come with me, fella,” Adden said, and ushered Nelan into a wood-panelled chamber with a low ceiling. Layers of shelves, full of books, and boxes of manuscripts and scrolls, lined one side. On the other side was the beating heart of the room, a warm fire burning in the hearth. Grey-black smoke billowed up the chimney.
In front of a narrow window was a man sat before a wide, oak desk, covered with papers, scrolls, quills and inkwells, and a miniature portrait. The man wore a black hat and a white ruff tight around his neck. His long earlobes rested on top of the ruff. The thick worry lines on his forehead spoke of long nights and arduous days. His small mouth nestled between folds of a trimmed, black beard while his thin, pointed nose sat poised to sniff out danger. His eyes examined every detail of Nelan’s appearance.
This was Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster. With his dark, imposing manner, Nelan understood why it was said she had nicknamed him her ‘Moor’.
Adden said, “This be Ordinary Seaman Michaels with news from Plymouth, m’lord.”
Walsingham pressed a paper weight down on a document he was reading, crooked his index finger several times, and said, “Pass me the Admiral’s message.”
Walsingham took the letter from him with long, spindly fingers. He broke the seal and studied the document.
“Adden, will you hear this?” Walsingham’s face lit up as he read,
“To Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary to the Privy Council.
As instructed, I have shared the princely sum of fourteen thousand pounds of the Spanish treasure with the crew, who are full of gratitude at Her Majesty’s beneficence.
And today, I began to transport the remaining treasure for safekeeping to Trematon Castle, on a small estuary off Plymouth’s River Tamar.
Signed,
Admiral Francis Drake.
Aboard The Golden Hind on the 11th of October in the year of Our Lord, 1580.”
“Good tidings, m’lord!”
“Yes, Adden. At last!” Walsingham said. “I personally invested in Drake’s expedition, so I am indebted to the Admiral for the bounty I’ll receive.”
“I’m glad you’ll benefit, m’lord,” Nelan said, sensing the Secretary relaxing in the conversation. “Is there a reply?”
“No,” Walsingham said. “But I’d like to see some of the treasure. Do you perchance have some of it on you?”
“I do,” Nelan said, delving into his purse and taking out an item wrapped in a cloth.
“What have we here?” Walsingham asked, raising his eyebrows.
Opening the cloth, Nelan said, “This is a ruby salamander pendant.”
The Secretary’s eyes lit up as he touched the rubies and the gold filigree.
“A salamander is the spirit of fire, hence the rubies,” Nelan said. “Admiral Drake rescued it from the Spanish treasure ship the Cacafuego off the Panama coast. He gave it to me as a reward for my part in helping him find the ship.”
“Exceptional workmanship,” Walsingham purred. Then, staring at Nelan, he asked, “Michaels, was that your name, lad?”
“Yes, m’lord, Nelan Michaels.”
“I’ve heard that name before. Yes, your house burned down. It was near Dr Dee’s mansion in Mortlake.”
“Dr Dee was my personal tutor.”
“Was he now? And, before that, you attended Westminster School.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Nelan swallowed hard, and wondered what else Walsingham knew of his chequered past. Should he keep quiet or tell him the whole truth?
“Yes, what?” Walsingham insisted.
The rhyme played in his head.
By the warm,
I’ll be sworn.
The fire told him to be honest and true.
“I swear,” Nelan blurted out.
“Swear what, lad? Come on, spit it out. I don’t have all evening.”
“Five years ago, the school accused me of killing a boy, but I swear, I did not,” Nelan said, as the emotions gripped him around the throat.
Justin Newland’s novels represent an innovative blend of genres from historical adventure to supernatural thriller and magical realism.
Undeterred by the award of a Maths Doctorate, he conceived his debut novel, The Genes of Isis (ISBN 9781789014860, Matador, 2018), an epic fantasy set under Ancient Egyptian skies.
His second book, The Old Dragon’s Head (ISBN 9781789015829, Matador, 2018), and is set in Ming Dynasty China in the shadows of the Great Wall.
Set during the Great Enlightenment, The Coronation (ISBN 9781838591885, Matador, 2019)speculates on the genesis of the most important event in the modern world – the Industrial Revolution.
The Abdication (ISBN 9781800463950, 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 (ISBN 9781915853271, Book Guild, 2023), is the first in a two-book series, The Island of Angels. Set in the Elizabethan era, it tells the epic tale of England’s coming of age.
The latest is The Midnight of Eights (ISBN 9781835740 330, Book Guild, 2024), the second in The Island of Angels series, which charts the uncanny coincidences of time and tide that culminated in the repulse of the Spanish Armada.
His work in progress is The Spirit of the Times which explores the events of the 14th Century featuring an unlikely cast of the Silk Road, Genghis Khan, the Black Plague, and a nursery rhyme that begins ‘Ring a-ring a-roses’.
Author, speaker and broadcaster, Justin gives talks to historical associations and libraries, appears on LitFest panels, and enjoys giving radio interviews. He lives with his partner in plain sight of the Mendip Hills in Somerset, England.
Author Links:
Website: https://www.justinnewland.com/
Twitter: https://x.com/JustinNewland53
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/drjustinnewland/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/jnewland
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/Justin-Newland/author/B06WRQVLT8
Tour hosted by: The Coffee Pot Book Club
Hey Melissa and Debbie, many thanks for hosting this excerpt from my novel, The Midnight of Eights. And many thanks to Cathie of the Coffee Pot Book Tours for organising all this.
Thank you so much for hosting Justin Newland today, with an enticing excerpt from his new release, The Midnight of Eights. Take care, Cathie xx The Coffee Pot Book Club