It is a delight to welcome historical novelist Eleanor Swift-Hook back to the blog. I have managed to persuade her to share an excerpt from her new novel, The Fugitive’s Sword. Thank you for this Eleanor. I know my readers will be delighted to have a chance to read a bit of your most recent gripping novel.
The Blurb
Autumn 1624
Europe is deeply embroiled in what will become the Thirty Years' War.
A young Philip Lord, once favoured at King James' court, has vanished without a trace, under the shadow of treason.
Outside the besieged city of Breda, Captain Matthew Rider faces the brutal reality of wintering his cavalry in the siege lines, until he crosses paths with Filippo Schiavono, a young man whose courage and skill could change everything.
Kate, Lady Catherine de Bouqulement, arrives in London prepared to navigate the dangerous politics of King James' court to ensure troops are sent to her mistress, the exiled Queen of Bohemia.
Within Breda’s walls, a foundling named Jorrit unwittingly stumbles into a lethal conspiracy when Schiavono hires him, supposedly to help sell smuggled tobacco. But Schiavono’s plans go awry and they are compelled to flee the city, only to be captured at sea.
If Schiavono is unable to prove his loyalty and ruthlessness to a savage Dunkirker privateer captain, both he and Jorrit will face certain death.
Meanwhile, in London, Kate is forced to fight her own battle against those seeking to coerce her into their schemes and finds herself trapped in a terrifying and deadly power struggle.
Driven by violence, treachery, and the sea's merciless tides, their fates collide.
The Excerpt
The Fugitive’s Sword is set in the turbulent years of the 1620s when all of Europe was engulfed in what would become the Thirty Years’ War. In September 1624 Matthew Rider, a mercenary commander in Spanish service at the Siege of Breda is sitting outside a tavern, smoking a pipe and reading a letter from his sister in London…
One of Matt’s corporals, an Irishman called Ardghal O’Byrne, was riding towards the tavern, with four of his men. A cloaked figure mounted on a fine-looking bay rode with them, presumably part of the ongoing army expansion. As the independent captain of one of the few cavalry forces working with the siege troops, Matt was used to being sent all the flotsam with no specific allegiance, who were seeking to join the army and arrived equipped with a horse.
O’Byrne dismounted and started toward Matt. “We found this one, captain.” He put his hands on the table and leaned in, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t carry. “Well, I found him so can I have his horse? You’ll be wanting his sword yourself, I’m sure.”
Matt rapidly reassessed the mounted figure from recruit to prize. It was his rule that anything of value taken by a member of his company was brought to him so it could be put with the spoils and divided fairly. An essential rule as it both helped to provide for the company’s greater needs and prevented the kind of covetous envy that led to feuds and fights between the men. Any who did not abide by it knew he would at best be turned off or at worst hung for theft.
Folding his sister’s letter, Matt carefully tucked it away in his coat and looked over the figure on the disputed horse. The man wore a broad-brimmed hat low over his face and a heavy fustian travelling cloak that made it hard to see much of what lay beneath; but the horse was a fine creature, well furnished too, and that bespoke a wealthy owner—or perhaps a thief.
“You’d better bring him over then,” Matt said and tapped out his pipe on the table. He sat back on the bench leaning his shoulders on the wall of the tavern as the man dismounted.
Then he realised he was mistaken.
This was not a man, it was a boy. A boy no older than fifteen or sixteen if he was even that. Although he was well-grown, taller than many men already, his characterless face was smooth-skinned, waiting to be etched and moulded by life. His turquoise eyes were compelling and distinctive. His gaze was direct, confident, almost challenging, not that of any sort of petitioner. His bearing was bold—arrogant even—that of one used to being obeyed.
Beneath the heavy, encompassing cloak, which he threw back as he strode over, he wore clothes Matt thought would be more fitting for a court than the battlefield: fine brocade silk with slashed sleeves faced in a muted peacock blue. Silver points, two with tiny gemstones winking from them and the spurs on each of his finely-tooled boots were easily worth a month’s pay for any of Matt’s regular troops. Most outstanding was his hair. Long and straight and as white as an old man’s yet imbued with the lustre of youth. But for all that, it was his sword that drew Matt’s attention, and he knew the tug of covetous desire. No wonder Ardghal O’Byrne had said he would want it.
Matt started refilling his pipe thoughtfully, then looked up as the boy reached the table and stood frowning down at him.
“Are you in charge here? I wish to join the army.” He spoke impeccable Spanish. His voice had reached its lower, adult range, and now when he was closer, a thin tuft of hair that passed muster for a beard was visible on his chin.
Glancing at him briefly so the boy knew he had been heard, Matt went back to filling his pipe and tamping down the tobacco.
“I want a post in the cavalry. I have a horse.”
Matt lit his pipe and pulled on it a few times to be sure it had caught, exhaling the rich smoke with satisfaction. He could see O’Byrne and his men grinning where they stood by the horses.
“What post do you want?” he asked, wondering what he should do. This boy was clearly the son of some nobleman, who had stolen his father’s finest mount and favourite sword and ran away from home. It was most likely that the nobleman was already out looking for him—no man would want to lose such a blade or such a mount no matter what he might think of the child.
“An officer’s place,” the boy said, his expression showing he intended no jest by it. “I would be a cornet or a lieutenant.”
O’Byrne chuckled and there was a ripple of harsh laughter from his men.
“But not a captain?” Matt asked, ignoring the laughter.
“I understand I am not yet experienced enough to be a captain. That may take a few months. I am prepared to learn and wait.”
The laughter grew louder and the boy whipped around glaring at the men.
“And your name?” Matt was curious to hear what invention the boy might have.
“Schiavono,” he said, turning back to face Matt. “I am Filippo Schiavono.”
The Author
Eleanor Swift-Hook enjoys the mysteries of history and fell in love with the early Stuart era at university when she re-enacted battles and living history events with the English Civil War Society. Since then, she has had an ongoing fascination with the social, military and political events that unfolded during the Thirty Years’ War and the Wars of the Three Kingdoms and loves writing stories woven into the historical backdrop of those dramatic times. She is the author of the Lord’s Legacy series and lives in County Durham. You can find her on her website eleanorswifthook.com, or on Twitter/X @emswifthook
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