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.”
