The Coffee Pot Book Club: Shining a bright Release Day Book Spotlight on The Throne of Ash by Lissy Porter #HistoricalFantasy #RecommendedReading

The Throne of Ash

The Throne of Ash Series, Book #1

by Lissy Porter

A Queen. A Princess. And a Consort who must be chosen to ensure the future of the Throne of Ash.

The Queen's Face masks all—even the woman who wears it. None may see her without it, not even her Consort responsible for ensuring she brings forth a healthy daughter to succeed her. If he fails, being cast aside is the most favourable of outcomes.

When Queen Cecily unknowingly determines on her sister's lover as her Consort, ambition, jealousy, and the demands of courtly etiquette threaten the stability of the Throne of Ash.

Princess Bess knows only too well her responsibilities towards her sister, the queen, but when one of the powerful noble families attempts to ensnare both sisters with one lover, there can only ever be one winner.

The Throne of Ash is a Tudor-esque fantasy in which women rule, and men are kept in the background, of little use, aside from when a Consort must be chosen. Then, court intrigues, and politics come to the fore in a deadly game of politics and etiquette that sets sister against sister.

The Throne of Ash has never been more on fire.

Praise for The Throne of Ash:

'Very well written fantasy novel in a land ruled by women, who only use men for procreation. Only a daughter will be acceptable but complications will upend everyone’s lives...'
~ Julie, 4* Amazon Review

The opening chapter for The Throne of Ash in which we are immediately introduced to Princess Bess, and her sister, Queen Cecily.

The clothing’s far too tight and restrictive. I wonder how my sister, Queen Cecily, can even sit on the Throne of Ash in such rigid fabric. Her waist is cinched so tightly, my hands, covered in gloves but roughened by time with brushes and canvas, could encircle it.

For now, I hold my gloved hands before me, trying to do as my mother ordered me. The Queen Mother, Lady Grace, has never loved me as she does my sister. I’ve never loved her with the same ferocity either. My father, Prince Edmund, has been the guiding light throughout my life. But, soon, my mother’s interference will be a thing of the past. As will my sister’s. All I need do is stand here, beside my sister, and the hideous Throne of Ash, with its dragon and key symbolism depicted all over it and wait for Queen Cecily to determine on her Consort during this Choosing Day. Then, if all is as it should be, in less than a year I’ll be free of the need to ever don such restrictive clothes and shoes again. Then, I can fulfil my dreams and ambitions, and never step foot in the royal court throughout my lifetime.

‘Stand still,’ my sister, Queen Cecily, urges me, from her position within the grey Throne of Ash. The sound’s a barked whisper. Her lips don’t move, and neither does her face. She’s protected behind the Queen’s Face of white lead powder, dark eyebrows and vivid red lips, all painted onto her face by her women of the inner bedchamber. Aside from her family, it’s only those few people who are able to see her without the Queen’s Face. Her defining and singular feature is her unusual grey eyes which crown the mask worn by every queen since time immemorial.

It’s a strange ritual. There are few here today who didn’t know my sister when she was younger. They’ll recall her looks easily enough. But now she’s the queen of the kingdom of Ash she must wear the Queen’s Face.

‘Apologies, your grace,’ I mutter, attempting to alleviate the tension in my shoulders from wearing such heavy and rich fabrics. The dress bells around my waist so I can’t even see the hideous shoes into which I’ve been forced to thrust my feet. I miss my boots and their dependability of flat soul and heel. I must stand throughout the selection process this Choosing Day. Already I fear teetering on my heels. My sister has assured me, in the privacy of her apartment, as I watched her attendants mark her as the queen, I’d survive the ordeal easily. But she doesn’t know me as perhaps she thinks. I’d sooner have no shoes at all than these tiny things with delicate heels. They provide no support.

The royal court has been a hubbub of activity for weeks, if not months. Every noble House, from the highest to the lowest, has sent their most eligible male relatives to be presented before the queen. Every great lady has ensured she’s seen promenading with her male offerings whenever Queen Cecily has been about her courtly business.

I’ve seen many men bowing low over objects allegedly dropped by the matriarch of their House to show off their pleasing backsides in tight hose. Not, my sister has chuckled to me in lighter moments, that a fine flank is to be necessarily desired. Those special women of my sister’s inner chambers have done little but speak of the men as specimens to be picked over. I can’t say I like it.

‘The younger the better,’ my sister informed me, as though she knows of such things. In those words, I’ve heard merely my mother’s repeated statements. ‘The younger men will be more virile, although, alas, they’re often unproven.’ Which is, of course, another issue. Not only have the men been on display for weeks, but for those who’ve already been Consorts to other noble women, their offspring have also been exhibited, from the youngest mewing babe, to the brightest young women, themselves about to enter their first Consort arrangement to produce an heir.

I’ve eyed the swirling mass of ornamented males with barely concealed distaste. The brightest plumes, most flattering of hose or largest of vibrant yellow codpieces can’t truly show the nature of any of these potential Consorts. That’s in the hands of the Royal Genealogist, Lady Barbara, who has meticulous records detailing every child born to the Houses running backwards for centuries. Some would say the records stretch all the way to the Dark Ages of our people.