Sunday, March 8, 2026

Shining a bright Book Spotlight on Rachel Elwiss Joyce's compelling new novel – Lady of Lincoln: A Novel of Nicola de la Haye #HistoricalFiction #WomenInHistory #InternationalWomensDay #RecommendedReading



Lady of Lincoln:
A Novel of Nicola de la Haye,
the Medieval Heroine History Tried to Forget


(The Nicola de la Haye Series, Book 1)

by Rachel Elwiss Joyce




A true story. A forgotten heroine. In a time when women were told to stay silent, could she become the saviour her people need?

12th-century England. Nicola de la Haye wants to do her duty. But though she’s taught a female cannot lead alone, the young noblewoman bristles at the marriage her father has arranged to secure her inheritance. And when an unexpected death leaves her unguided, the impetuous girl shuns the king’s blessing and weds a handsome-but-landless knight.

Harshly fined by Henry II for her unsanctioned union, Nicola struggles to salvage her estates while dealing with devastating betrayals from her husband… and his choice to join rebels in a brewing civil war. Yet after averting a tragedy and gaining the castle garrison’s respect, she still must face the might of powerful men determined to crush her under their will.

Can she survive love, threats, and violent ambition to prove she’s worthy of authority?

In this carefully researched and vividly human series debut, Rachel Elwiss Joyce showcases the complex themes of honour, responsibility, and freedom in the story of a remarkable heroine who men tried to erase from history. And as readers dive into a world defined by violence and turmoil, they’ll be stunned by this courageous young woman’s journey toward greatness.

Lady of Lincoln is the gritty first book in the Nicola de la Haye Series historical fiction saga. If you like richly textured female heroes, courtly drama, and fast-paced intrigue, then you’ll adore Rachel Elwiss Joyce’s gripping true-life tale.


Praise for Lady of Lincoln:

"Lady of Lincoln, authored by Rachel Elwiss Joyce, is a profoundly moving debut novel that weaves a tale of heartbreak and resilience.
Joyce’s portrayal of Nicola de la Haye is strikingly vivid and captivating, skilfully bringing to life the remarkable story of a woman whose legacy has been overshadowed by her male counterparts. Set against the backdrop of the tumultuous late 12th and early 13th centuries, this story not only illuminates Nicola's extraordinary life but also sheds light on the broader societal attitudes toward women during this period. 
Joyce’s vivid prose and masterful storytelling immerse the reader deeply into the emotional landscapes of her protagonists, making their struggles and triumphs resonate long after the final page has been turned. This debut is not only impressive in its narrative depth but also remarkable in its ability to evoke thought and reflection long after the final page is turned."
~ The Coffee Pot Book Club, 5* Editorial Review

"Lady of Lincoln is a towering, epic saga that sweeps through 12th century England and France with power, action, love, and honor. Rachel Elwiss Joyce has taken the historical figure of Nicola de la Haye, whose amazing and heroic exploits had been consigned to the back pages of historical record by men, and given them life, flesh, blood, and rich emotions. Because this story is based on real events and the author’s research is so detailed, this is more than a historical novel. It is also educational in showing readers the era, not just from the perspectives of the wealthy and the nobility, but also the humble peasant. This combination of historical record and social commentary marks this book as one of the greats in this genre."
~ Readers’ Favorite, 5* Review

"Lady of Lincoln by Rachel Elwiss Joyce is an extraordinary book that shows a woman successfully overcome the constraints of her time, not with a sword in battle but with wits, will and an unbreakable spirit. Fans of immersive historical fiction as well as readers who enjoy character-driven dramas with romantic entanglements will be highly engaged. Additionally, readers who have an appetite for history beyond the well-trodden stories of kings and queens in medieval history will not want to miss it."
~ The Historical Fiction Company, 5* Editorial Review

"This is a gripping tale of bravery, loyalty, and defiance in a turbulent medieval world. Lady of Lincoln is well-researched, and the author skillfully depicts how women were perceived and treated in this period. Characterization was top-notch, and Nicola de la Haye shines through the narrative with her determination and indomitable spirit. The conflict felt real to me, and Nicola de la Haye’s internal struggles and her confrontation of institutionalized discrimination against women propelled the narrative forward in unexpected directions. The conflict is compounded by mob threats on Jewish residents and political machinations involving Nicola’s suitors. The prose is good, and the vivid descriptions capture scenes in a cinematic manner. The dialogues are well-crafted, and the historical setting is explored. This book captivated me from the first to the last page."
~ Readers’ Favorite, 5* Review




The Barracks, Lincoln Castle, Lincoln, England, April 1168

Nicola coaxed a fragile flame from the hearth’s dying embers, the taper trembling in her grip. The air inside the barracks clung to her throat—thick with sweat, spilled ale, and damp straw. She raised the light. Its glow barely pierced the gloom stretching over the pallets sprawled out in uneven rows.

Her gaze locked on a solitary shape in the corner. It had to be Suardinc, his bed set apart from the others, half-swallowed in shadow, its young occupant curled against the stone wall as if trying to vanish.
She set her jaw. This couldn’t continue. She had to help.

The low drone of snoring and heavy breathing filled the air. Good. The taper hadn’t woken them. Lifting her skirts, she stepped between the beds, her boots silent on the straw-strewn floor.

A guttural snore cracked the stillness. Nicola gasped. The taper slipped from her hand, hit the straw, flared briefly, and died. The barracks plunged into darkness.

Heart pounding, she froze. The men didn’t stir. Their breathing continued, heavy and undisturbed.

Moonlight from a narrow window painted a pale path through the murk. She edged forwards and knelt beside the shadowed pallet. The boy lay with knees drawn to his chest. It was Suardinc. Her chest tightened. She couldn’t undo the others’ cruelty, but she could try to help.

She could still hear Miles’s taunt whilst the squires were at swordplay in the training yard: “Your father mistook you for a boy!” the older squire had mocked. “You can’t ride without holding onto the reins.” He bashed his wooden sword against the younger boy’s. “You can’t hold a lance… you’re nothing but a girl in men’s clothes!”

Suardinc had winced, his freckled face burning crimson. His footing faltered, and he sprawled in the mud. The other squires, and even some sergeants, laughed as Miles forced Suardinc’s submission.

Nicola had watched from the other side of the fence. Miles was twenty-one and full-grown, whereas Suardinc was thin, thirteen, and only just grown facial hair. Her hands had gripped her eating knife until her knuckles whitened. She couldn’t help feeling protective. She might only be a fourteen-year-old girl, dismissed as weak like Suardinc, but this was her father’s castle, and she had a duty to do best by these boys.

She lowered herself onto the edge of the pallet and clamped a hand over his mouth. “Wake up,” she whispered.

Suardinc jolted beneath the blanket. His eyes flashed open; wide and startled. “Lady Nicola?” he mumbled against her palm, voice thick with sleep.

She pulled her hand back and glanced around. No movement. “Thank God. I couldn’t be sure in the dark.”

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!”

“Two hours before dawn,” she corrected. “Keep your voice down. There are two horses saddled on the Lawn. The gate-ward has let out the bridge. We’re stepping up your training. Now.”

“Training? Now? With you?”

***

Two hours later, Nicola sat astride her grey mare, Moonbeam, grinning at the pale crimson fingers of sunlight fanning out across the sky and casting a golden glow on the Lawn. A lone sergeant appeared on the battlements above the gatehouse, looking their way.

She squinted. “It’s only Leif. He won’t tell.”

Suardinc, gangly and flame-haired, sat on her father’s spare gelding. He nodded. Leif, a common soldier, had become Suardinc’s only friend. He’d keep their secret. They were safe until the breakfast horn.

Nicola’s spear rested in her hand; her reins draped loosely across the pommel. Suardinc clutched a training lance, his freckled arm straining under the weight. His mount tossed its head, restless. They’d trained hard; but she wasn’t done with him yet.

She tugged her skirts higher and tucked them under her thighs. Her gowns always got in the way when she was riding, as if ladies’ clothes were designed by men to keep their women from galloping free.

“Your riding’s stronger,” she said. “You’re holding the lance better. But knights don’t ride with reins. They hold a shield in one hand, a lance in the other.”

Suardinc shifted nervously. “Sir Edwin’ll have me thrashed if I’m late.”

Nicola flicked a braid over her shoulder. She had to teach him. If he didn’t earn respect now, he never would. “You grip the reins like you’re afraid to fall. You need to guide the horse with your legs and hips. In battle, you ride hands-free, knee-to-knee with your comrades.”

Suardinc’s horse pawed the ground nervously, rolling its eyes. Suardinc looked even more nervous, but she was sure her instructions were correct. She’d spent years watching Edwin drill the squires and soldiers, and, as the constable’s daughter, she’d probably heard more of the garrison commander’s lessons than anyone else alive; certainly more than her sister Julia, whose only interest was dressing in fine clothes and perfuming her golden hair.

“Before we finish,” she said, “you’ll learn to ride without hands.”

Suardinc hesitated, then nodded and looped the reins over the saddle horn. “No hands,” he murmured. His lance wobbled.

Nicola wheeled Moonbeam in a tight circle. “We’ll ride together in close formation. When we’ve mastered that, we’ll try it with shields.”

Suardinc gaped. “With you?”

She raised her chin, feigning confidence. “Why not? I know I’m only using a spear, not a lance, but I’m a competent rider.”

“But your father… If he found us riding so close together.”

She winced. Papa would be furious. “Nonsense. We’re only training.” And Papa would never need to know. “Control your horse with your body. Grip with your thighs. Let your hips move with his stride. Use your left leg to keep him close. Match my pace and keep formation—your knee close to mine. Ready?”

“Aye,” he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Walk on,” she called, pressing her calves to Moonbeam’s sides.

Suardinc nudged his mount forwards, his lance quivering as he matched her pace. Their knees hovered inches apart, his gelding’s shoulder brushing her mare’s.

“That’s it!” she called, forcing herself to sound confident. “Sit deep, nudge left, hold steady!”

Suardinc’s horse sidled closer. The lance held.

“Now!” Nicola kicked Moonbeam into a trot, moving with her mare’s rhythm. She kept the spear level.

Suardinc kept pace. His lance wobbled, but he smiled.

“Deeper in the saddle!” she shouted over the thunder of hooves and wind shrieking in her ears.

Lances level. Horses tight. Knees brushing.

“Faster!”

Moonbeam surged into a canter. Suardinc’s gelding leapt forwards. The pair galloped as one; flanks grazing, legs pumping, riders balanced and bold.

“Yes!” Nicola cried.

The world blurred into a wild smear of green grass and castle walls. The wind roared, sharp and alive, tugging her braids and stinging her cheeks. Her heart pounded in time with the thundering hooves, each beat a drumroll of pure, reckless joy as her mare surged beneath her, powerful and wild, mane whipping back like a banner. Nicola leaned low, her body one with her mare as the two riders and the two horses thundered across the earth.

She’d never felt so alive. She laughed, a wild, unladylike sound bursting from her chest. If a knight’s life was like this—full of boundless, reckless freedom—why had God made her a weak woman, confining her to a world of endless, boring duties?

“Lady Nicola!” a man’s voice called.

Nicola kept riding.

“Lady Nicola!” the man repeated, bringing her back to her senses.

She slowed Moonbeam. Suardinc followed suit.
A thickset figure stood at the far end of the bridge, arms crossed. Edwin.

“You did well,” she said to Suardinc. “Next time we use shields.”

Suardinc opened his mouth, then closed it.

Edwin stalked towards them, shoulders rigid beneath his surcoat. “Suardinc,” he growled, “get off Lord de la Haye’s horse and return to the barracks. Now.”

“Aye, Sir Edwin.” Suardinc dismounted, face flushed, and led the gelding towards the bridge.

Nicola, still breathless, smiled down at Edwin.
He frowned, but his eyes sparkled with reluctant amusement.

“You taught me well,” she said. “We rode in close formation.”

He scowled. “You’re not a man, Lady Nicola. And you never will be. You’ve women’s duties to perform. The whole castle’s looking for you. Your father may have a male heir before the day’s out. Your mother’s travail’s begun. You’re expected at the birth.”




This title is available to read on #KindleUnlimited.


Rachel Elwiss Joyce


Rachel may have come to writing historical fiction later in life, but her love of history, storytelling, and the forgotten voices of women has been lifelong. She writes meticulously researched, immersive fiction that brings overlooked heroines out of the shadows and into the light.

Her fascination with the past began early. At six years old, she was already inventing tales about medieval women in castles, inspired by her treasured Ladybird books and other picture-rich stories that transported her to another time. By the time she discovered Katherine by Anya Seton as a teenager, she knew the joy and escape that only great historical fiction can bring.

Rachel’s two grown-up children still tease her (fondly) about childhoods spent being “dragged” around castles, archaeological sites, and historical re-enactments. For Rachel, history and imagination have always gone hand in hand.

There was, however, a long gap between the stories of her childhood and her decision to write her own novel. The spark came when she discovered the remarkable true story of Nicola de la Haye—the first female sheriff of England, who defended Lincoln Castle against a French invasion and became known as “the woman who saved England.” Rachel knew she had found her heroine, and a story she was destined to tell.

Rachel lives in the UK, where she continues to explore the lives of women who shaped history but were left out of its pages.

Connect with Rachel:





Thursday, March 5, 2026

Have a sneak peek between the pages of West of Santillane, an enthralling historical novel by Brook Allen #HistoricalFiction #WomenInHistory #RecommendedReading



West Of Santillane


by Brook Allen



Desperate to escape a mundane future as a Virginia planter’s wife, Julia Hancock seizes her chance for adventure when she wins the heart of American hero William Clark. Though her husband is the famed explorer, Julia embarks on her own thrilling and perilous journey of self-discovery.


With her gaze ever westward, Julia possesses a hunger for knowledge and a passion for helping others. She falls in love with Will’s strength and generous manner, but, like her parents, he is a slave owner, and Julia harbors strong opinions against slavery. Still, her love for Will wins out, though he remains unaware of her beliefs.


Julia finds St. Louis to be a rough town with few of the luxuries to which she is accustomed, harboring scandalous politicians and miscreants of all types. As her husband and his best friend, Meriwether Lewis, work to establish an American government and plan to publish their highly anticipated memoirs, Julia struggles to assume the roles of both wife and mother. She is also drawn into the plight of an Indian family desperate to return to their own lands and becomes an advocate for Will’s enslaved.


When political rivals cause trouble, Julia’s clandestine aid to the Indians and enslaved of St. Louis draws unwanted attention, placing her at odds with her husband. Danger cloaks itself in far too many ways, leading her to embrace the courage to save herself and others through a challenge of forgiveness that will either restore the love she shares with Will or end it forever.



Praise for West of Santillane:

'"West of Santillane" is not just an account of historical events but also a story of love, resilience, and self-discovery. Brook Allen successfully blends romantic, historical, and adventurous elements, offering readers a captivating and memorable reading experience. The book is a warm recommendation for those who appreciate well-documented historical fiction and engaging life narratives.'
~ The Historical Fiction Company

'Brook Allen’s novel West of Santillane is guaranteed to tug at your heartstrings, so have some tissues nearby. This book is so captivating that it begs to be adapted into a movie. Seeing these characters brought to life on the big screen would be amazing. This book will definitely be remembered as one of my favourite reads of the year.'
~ Ellie Yarde, 5* Editorial Review, The Coffee Pot Book Club



Major and Mrs. Christy lived across from us along the river. They were wonderful neighbors and also the owners of Christy’s Tavern.

Martha Christy was a quiet, private sort, but she made me a lovely satin pillow for the baby’s cradle. Even more thoughtful was her assumption that her visiting niece would suit me as a friend. Once we were acquainted, Polly came over daily by midmorning, full of sunny smiles and long, thick golden blond hair cascading over her shoulders. Dimples punctuated a nearly permanent smile that made her hazel-gray eyes twinkle. She was a few years younger than me, but I was dumbfounded that this tender-aged girl knew more about what was to happen in childbirth than I did since her mother had allowed her to assist at family births.

A week before Christmas, she came for her midmorning visit. I was so weary and sore that she soaked and massaged my feet, helped me into my nightgown and robe, then settled me on the settee downstairs, adding a log to the fire before covering me with a quilt and slipping out the door.

I must have slept a good two hours when I heard someone lightly knock.

“Will?” I murmured.

“No, it’s Meriwether,” he responded, apologetically peering in at me from the half-opened door.

“What time is it?” Blinking, I pulled myself up to a sitting position.

“Half-past the noon hour. I’m sorry to have awakened you.”

“No apology needed. Please come in.” 

He chose a wingback chair across from me that I’d fallen in love with in Louisville on the day we’d gone furniture shopping. “Not long ago, William mentioned that after leaving Jonathan’s family last June, you missed a play you’d wished to see.” 

“Mmm. The Taming of the Shrew. It was advertised while we were visiting. If only it had played while we were there. You of all people know how much I love Shakespeare.”

“A disappointment indeed—one I’d like to remedy.”

“How’s that?” Intrigued, I sat up straighter.

“I’ve prepared a little Shakespearean monologue for you. Consider it an early Christmas gift for a young lady who has everything—except tickets to a drama in Louisville, that is.”

I grinned broadly at his thoughtful surprise. Two words would never be associated with Meriwether Lewis: those being inconsiderate and uncreative. “Tragedy or comedy?” I queried.

“I won’t spoil the fun. You have to figure out which play it’s from and what character I am. Ready?”

“Yes, please!”

Meriwether showed me his back briefly, assuming character. When he turned about, he stood straighter and was no longer looking at me, but out toward an imaginary audience.

“I shall have glory by this losing day
More than Octavius and Mark Antony
By this vile conquest shall attain unto.”

I couldn’t help but interrupt. “One of the Roman plays, then—Antony and Cleopatra?”

Meriwether shook his head, diving back into character.

“So fare you well at once; for Brutus’s tongue
Hath almost ended his life’s history—”

“Julius Caesar! I remember this part. You’re Brutus.”

Meriwether grinned, nodding and slipping back into the soliloquy.

“Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest,
That have but labored to attain this hour.”

Since I knew it, I jumped in to help, playing the minor roles. “Fly, my lord, fly!”

“Hence!” He gestured as if sending the man ahead. “I will follow.”

I shook my head in rapt amazement.

“I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord:
Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it:
Hold, then, my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?”

Without hesitation, I took on Strato so he could finish. “Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord.”

Meriwether grasped my hand with his left. “Farewell, good Strato,” he breathed.

He made a jerking movement, as though a real blade was piercing him. Slowly, like a tree falling after being cut, he collapsed sideways, not moving a muscle.

I sat breathless, deeply moved that he’d memorized and performed it especially for me. Once the pause of respectful silence had passed, I applauded. “Get up now. I don’t wish you dead any more than Strato wished it upon Brutus.”

He grinned from ear to ear as he rose in one fluid motion, brushing off his trousers and sweeping my hand into his before giving it a light kiss. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Clark. I pray this gift was adequate.”

I smiled at him. What a kindhearted person was Meriwether Lewis. I had to admit that we had such similarities it was a wonder that he and I hadn’t wound up together. But Meriwether held no attraction to me the way Will did. William Clark was all muscle, brawn, and rugged strength. Meriwether was more refined. Perhaps it was true that opposites did attract.

“It was a most appropriate gift,” I praised. “And what talent you possess, Governor.”

This Christmas wouldn’t be like any other I’d ever had. Because of my advanced pregnancy, we’d remain here at the house. But the New Year was knocking and would be so full of blessings—a new home of our own, a child to raise in love, and returning home to Santillane.




This title is available to read on #KindleUnlimited.



Brook Allen


Author Brook Allen has a passion for history. Her newest project, West of Santillane spotlights history from a little closer to home in Botetourt County, Virginia. It’s the story of Julia Hancock, who married famed explorer, William Clark. Each character of this thrilling, adventurous period was researched throughout southwest Virginia and into Kentucky, Missouri, Montana, Idaho, and North Dakota. It launched in March of 2024.
 
Brook belongs to the Historical Novel Society and attends conferences as often as possible to study craft and meet fellow authors. In 2019, her novel Antonius: Son of Rome won a silver medal in the international Reader’s Favorite Book Reviewers Book Awards, then won First Place in the prestigious Chaucer Division in the Chanticleer International Book Awards, 2020. West of Santillane garnered international attention in Summer 2025 by becoming a Silver Medalist in the Independent Publishing Book Awards for best Mid-Atlantic Fiction. Also, it was a finalist for the Virginia Romance Writers Holt Medallion. Most recently, Brook appeared in Season 8 of Blueridge PBS’s WRITE AROUND THE CORNER.

Though she graduated from Asbury University with a B.A. in Music Education, Brook has always loved writing. She completed a Masters program at Hollins University with an emphasis in Ancient Roman studies, which helped prepare her for authoring her award-winning Antonius Trilogy.

Brook recently retired from public education and her personal interests include travel, cycling, hiking in the woods, reading, and spending downtime with her husband and big, black dog, Jak. She lives in the heart of southwest Virginia in the scenic Blue Ridge Mountains.

Connect with Brook:
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