4 stars, Romantic Times
The suspenseful climax kept me on the edge of my seat! -Lynn Austin
Whisper on the Wind
By Maureen Lang
Once there was a young man who came of age just as war erupted, a war reaching farther than the world had ever known. His country, his home, his parents, his very future-all were threatened by an enemy whose power stretched wide. He shared only one belief with his oppressors: that the written word is the immortality of speech. Because of the oppression, he could not roar as they did, but found a way to join a whisper so incessant that even his enemies stopped to listen.
Prologue
Edward Kirkland kicked through the ashes, staring at the black dust as if seeing what it had been just yesterday: his home. All that was left was a pile of charred ruins amid the shell of the hotel his father had managed. And there, not far in the distance, was the university. He could see the vestiges of the library from here, with nothing but rubble in between. Compliments of the German Imperial Army. There wasn't a thing Edward or all of Belgium could have done to stop it. Not that they hadn't tried, but a mouse couldn't fight an eagle.
Edward turned to leave. He shouldn't be out anyway, with German soldiers still roaming the streets, keeping the peace they'd broken with their arrival. He needed to return to his mother and brother in hiding at the church.
Something on the ground glimmered in the faint afternoon light. Though he stopped to investigate, scraping away fragments with the tip of his shoe, Edward knew nothing of value was left. Before they set the fire, the Germans had carried anything of worth out to a waiting cart to be shipped to Germany as spoils of war.
Then he saw the rose and a flash of silver light. With a lump in his throat, Edward bent and picked up the picture frame. He saw that the glass was broken and most of the photo burned away . . . except for the middle, where a shard held it intact. And there, smiling as if the world were a happy place, was Isa Lassone's face.
Isa, his mother's young charge, who'd fled with her parents before the invasion. She was safely ensconced in peaceful, prosperous America. She had both her parents, both her silly, selfish parents, while his father lay dead and the remains of their home smoldered.
The picture might have fallen without the glass holding it down. Bracing the photo in one hand, with the other he brushed away the broken pieces. He should let it go, let it join the wreckage of his home.
But Edward's thumb pressed it back into place, firmly within his grip.
Slipping the frame into the pocket of his coat, he made his way through the brightening streets. The ground was strewn with debris-bricks, glass, even a stinking dead horse here and there, the carcass oozing under the early August sun. Half the city was gone, along with Edward's father. Shooting and looting had lasted all night, but he'd had to see the hotel and university himself before he'd believe that they, too, had succumbed to the fires.
Something inside told Edward he should pray, reach out to God to help him face this day. That was what his father would have done, what he would have wanted his son to do.
Edward turned up the collar of his coat against an ash-laden breeze and walked away, trying not to think at all.
"Halt!"
Edward did so because to refuse a soldier's orders was to be shot. He'd seen it done.
"You will come with me," came the awkward command, followed by a firmer, "Es ist ein Befehl!"
Edward raised his hands, sorry for only one thing: his death would multiply his mother's grief.
Chapter One
"Oh, God," Isa Lassone whispered, "You've seen me this far; don't let me start doubting now."
A few cool raindrops fell on her upturned face, blending with the warm tears on her cheeks. Where was her new guide? The one she'd left on the Holland side of the border had said she needed only to crawl through a culvert, then worm her way ten feet to the right, and there he would be.
Crickets chirped, and from behind her she heard water trickle from the foul-smelling culvert through which she'd just crept. Some of the smell clung to her shoes and the bottom of her peasant's skirt, but it was Belgian dirt, so she wouldn't complain. The prayer and the contents of her satchel reminded her why she was here, in this Belgian frontier the occupying German army strove to keep empty. For almost two years Isa had plotted, saved, worked, and defied everyone she knew-all to get to this very spot.
Then she heard it-the chirrup she'd been taught to listen for. Her guide had whistled it until Isa could pick out the cadence from any other.
She edged upward to see better, still hidden in the tall grass of the meadow. The scant mist cooled her cheeks, joining the oil and ash she'd been given to camouflage the whiteness of her skin. She must have grown used to its unpleasant odor, coupled with the scent she had picked up in the culvert, because now she could smell only grass. Twigs and dirt clung to her hands and clothes, but she didn't care. She, Isabelle Lassone, who'd once bedecked the cover of the Ladies' Home Journal with a group of other young American socialites, now crawled like a snake across a remote, soggy Belgian field. She must reach that sound.
Copyright Maureen Lang/Tyndale House
Please do not reproduce without permission.
Maureen Lang is the author of several novels, including Pieces of Silver (a Christy finalist), The Oak Leaves (Holt Medallion Award of Merit, finalist in ACFW's Book of the Year and Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence contests) and Look to the East (Inspirational Reader's Choice Contest winner and Carol Award finalist). She is also the recipient of RWA's Golden Heart and ACFW's Noble Theme Award (now the Genesis). Maureen lives in the Midwest with her family and their much-loved dog, Susie.
http://www.blogger.com/
http://www.blogger.com/ for the story behind Whisper on the Wind
http://www.blogger.com/
To purchase Whisper on the Wind
Amazon: http://www.blogger.com/
Barnes and Noble: http://www.blogger.com/
Christian Book Distributors: http://www.blogger.com/
Happy Reading!
The suspenseful climax kept me on the edge of my seat! -Lynn Austin
Whisper on the Wind
By Maureen Lang
Once there was a young man who came of age just as war erupted, a war reaching farther than the world had ever known. His country, his home, his parents, his very future-all were threatened by an enemy whose power stretched wide. He shared only one belief with his oppressors: that the written word is the immortality of speech. Because of the oppression, he could not roar as they did, but found a way to join a whisper so incessant that even his enemies stopped to listen.
Prologue
Edward Kirkland kicked through the ashes, staring at the black dust as if seeing what it had been just yesterday: his home. All that was left was a pile of charred ruins amid the shell of the hotel his father had managed. And there, not far in the distance, was the university. He could see the vestiges of the library from here, with nothing but rubble in between. Compliments of the German Imperial Army. There wasn't a thing Edward or all of Belgium could have done to stop it. Not that they hadn't tried, but a mouse couldn't fight an eagle.
Edward turned to leave. He shouldn't be out anyway, with German soldiers still roaming the streets, keeping the peace they'd broken with their arrival. He needed to return to his mother and brother in hiding at the church.
Something on the ground glimmered in the faint afternoon light. Though he stopped to investigate, scraping away fragments with the tip of his shoe, Edward knew nothing of value was left. Before they set the fire, the Germans had carried anything of worth out to a waiting cart to be shipped to Germany as spoils of war.
Then he saw the rose and a flash of silver light. With a lump in his throat, Edward bent and picked up the picture frame. He saw that the glass was broken and most of the photo burned away . . . except for the middle, where a shard held it intact. And there, smiling as if the world were a happy place, was Isa Lassone's face.
Isa, his mother's young charge, who'd fled with her parents before the invasion. She was safely ensconced in peaceful, prosperous America. She had both her parents, both her silly, selfish parents, while his father lay dead and the remains of their home smoldered.
The picture might have fallen without the glass holding it down. Bracing the photo in one hand, with the other he brushed away the broken pieces. He should let it go, let it join the wreckage of his home.
But Edward's thumb pressed it back into place, firmly within his grip.
Slipping the frame into the pocket of his coat, he made his way through the brightening streets. The ground was strewn with debris-bricks, glass, even a stinking dead horse here and there, the carcass oozing under the early August sun. Half the city was gone, along with Edward's father. Shooting and looting had lasted all night, but he'd had to see the hotel and university himself before he'd believe that they, too, had succumbed to the fires.
Something inside told Edward he should pray, reach out to God to help him face this day. That was what his father would have done, what he would have wanted his son to do.
Edward turned up the collar of his coat against an ash-laden breeze and walked away, trying not to think at all.
"Halt!"
Edward did so because to refuse a soldier's orders was to be shot. He'd seen it done.
"You will come with me," came the awkward command, followed by a firmer, "Es ist ein Befehl!"
Edward raised his hands, sorry for only one thing: his death would multiply his mother's grief.
Chapter One
"Oh, God," Isa Lassone whispered, "You've seen me this far; don't let me start doubting now."
A few cool raindrops fell on her upturned face, blending with the warm tears on her cheeks. Where was her new guide? The one she'd left on the Holland side of the border had said she needed only to crawl through a culvert, then worm her way ten feet to the right, and there he would be.
Crickets chirped, and from behind her she heard water trickle from the foul-smelling culvert through which she'd just crept. Some of the smell clung to her shoes and the bottom of her peasant's skirt, but it was Belgian dirt, so she wouldn't complain. The prayer and the contents of her satchel reminded her why she was here, in this Belgian frontier the occupying German army strove to keep empty. For almost two years Isa had plotted, saved, worked, and defied everyone she knew-all to get to this very spot.
Then she heard it-the chirrup she'd been taught to listen for. Her guide had whistled it until Isa could pick out the cadence from any other.
She edged upward to see better, still hidden in the tall grass of the meadow. The scant mist cooled her cheeks, joining the oil and ash she'd been given to camouflage the whiteness of her skin. She must have grown used to its unpleasant odor, coupled with the scent she had picked up in the culvert, because now she could smell only grass. Twigs and dirt clung to her hands and clothes, but she didn't care. She, Isabelle Lassone, who'd once bedecked the cover of the Ladies' Home Journal with a group of other young American socialites, now crawled like a snake across a remote, soggy Belgian field. She must reach that sound.
Copyright Maureen Lang/Tyndale House
Please do not reproduce without permission.
Maureen Lang is the author of several novels, including Pieces of Silver (a Christy finalist), The Oak Leaves (Holt Medallion Award of Merit, finalist in ACFW's Book of the Year and Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence contests) and Look to the East (Inspirational Reader's Choice Contest winner and Carol Award finalist). She is also the recipient of RWA's Golden Heart and ACFW's Noble Theme Award (now the Genesis). Maureen lives in the Midwest with her family and their much-loved dog, Susie.
http://www.blogger.com/
http://www.blogger.com/ for the story behind Whisper on the Wind
http://www.blogger.com/
To purchase Whisper on the Wind
Amazon: http://www.blogger.com/
Barnes and Noble: http://www.blogger.com/
Christian Book Distributors: http://www.blogger.com/
Happy Reading!
* * *
A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE
Book 1, The Monastery Murders
An Ecclesiastical Thriller by
Donna Fletcher Crow
An Ecclesiastical Thriller by
Donna Fletcher Crow
"Donna Fletcher Crow has created her own niche within the genre of clerical mysteries."--Kate Charles, author of Deep Waters
"History and mystery and murders most foul keep the pages turning in A Very Private Grave. . . . A fascinating read." --Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Thorn in My Heart
Felicity Howard, a young American studying for the Anglican priesthood at the College of the Transfiguration in Yorkshire, is devastated when she finds her beloved Fr. Dominic brutally murdered and Fr. Antony, her church history lecturer, soaked in his blood .
Felicity Howard, a young American studying for the Anglican priesthood at the College of the Transfiguration in Yorkshire, is devastated when she finds her beloved Fr. Dominic brutally murdered and Fr. Antony, her church history lecturer, soaked in his blood .
A Very Private Grave is a contemporary novel with a thoroughly modern heroine who must learn some ageless truths in order to solve the mystery and save her own life as she and Fr. Antony flee a murderer and follow clues that take them to out-of-the-way sites in northern England and southern Scotland. The narrative mixes detection, intellectual puzzles, spiritual aspiration, romance, and the solving of clues ancient and modern.
An Excerpt from Chapter 1
Felicity flung her history book against the wall. She wasn't studying for the priesthood to learn about ancient saints. She wanted to bring justice to this screwed-up world. Children were starving in Africa, war was ravaging the Middle East, women everywhere were treated as inferiors. Even here in England-
She stopped her internal rant when she realized the crash of her book had obscured the knock at her door. Reluctantly she picked up the book, noting with satisfaction the smudge it had left on the wall, and went into the hall. Her groan wasn't entirely internal when she made out the black cassock and grey scapular of her caller through the glass panel of the door. She couldn't have been in less of a mood to see one of the long-faced monks who ran the College of the Transfiguration which she had chosen to attend in a moment of temporary insanity. She jerked the door open with a bang.
(Felicity's annoyance dissolves when she sees that her visitor is Father Dominic, her favorite monk, whom she had thought was still on pilgrimage. They visit over tea- taken black by Fr. Dominic since it's Ash Wednesday, a fast day for the community- and before he leaves he gives her a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, which she sticks in her pocket before returning to her studying.)
Two hours later the insistent ringing of the community bell called her back from her reading just in time to fling on a long black cassock and dash across the street and up the hill to the Community grounds.
The spicy scent of incense met her at the door of the church. She dipped her finger in the bowl of holy water, crossed herself and slipped into her seat.
"Miserere mei, Deus. . ." The choir and cantors had practiced for weeks to be able to sing Psalm 51 to Allegri's haunting melody. The words ascended to the vaulted ceiling; the echoes reverberated. Candles flickered in the shadowed corners. She had been here for six months- long enough for the uniqueness of it all to have palled to boredom- but somehow there was a fascination she couldn't define. "Mystery," the monks would tell her. And she could do no better.
What was the right term to describe how she was living? Counter-cultural existence? Alternate lifestyle? She pondered for a moment, then smiled. Parallel universe. That was it. She was definitely living in a parallel universe. The rest of the world was out there, going about its everyday life, with no idea that this world existed alongside of it.
It was a wonderful, cozy, secretive feeling as she thought of bankers and shopkeepers rushing home after a busy day, mothers preparing dinner for hungry school children, farmers milking their cows- all over this little green island the workaday world hummed along to the pace of modern life. And here she was on a verdant hillside in Yorkshire living a life hardly anyone knew even existed. Harry Potter. It was a very Harry Potter experience.
She forced her attention back to the penitential service with its weighty readings, somber plainchant responses, and minor key music set against purple vestments. Only when they came to the blessing of the ashes did she realize Fr. Dominic wasn't in his usual place. Her disappointment was sharp. He had definitely said he was to do the imposition of the ashes and she had felt receiving the ashen cross on her forehead from that dear man would give the ancient ritual added meaning.
Felicity knelt at the altar rail, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." The ashes were cold, a sooty mark of grief, gritty on her forehead.
"Amen," she responded automatically.
The final notes of the postlude were still echoing high overhead when Felicity rose from her seat and hurried outside. Dinner, a vegetarian Lenten meal, would start in the refectory almost immediately and it wouldn't do to be late. If she hurried, though, she could just dash back to her flat and pick up a book of Latin poetry for Fr. Dominic.
She bounded up the single flight of stairs, flung open her door and came to a sudden halt. "Oh!" The cry was knocked from her like a punch in the stomach. She couldn't believe it. She backed against the wall, closing her eyes in the hope that all would right itself when she opened them. It didn't. The entire flat had been turned upside down.
Felicity picked her way through scattered papers, dumped files, ripped letters. Dimly she registered that her computer and CD player were still there. Oh, and there was the Horace book still by her bed. She pulled her purse from under a pile of clothes. Empty. But its contents lay nearby. Credit cards and money still there.
Not robbery. So then, what? Why?
Was this an anti-women-clergy thing? Had she underestimated the extent of the resentment? Or was it an anti-American thing? The American president was widely unpopular in England. Had he done something to trigger an anti-American demonstration? Felicity would be the last to know. She never turned on the news.
Well, whatever it was, she would show them. If someone in the college thought they could scare her off by flinging a few books around she'd give them something new to think about. She stormed out, slamming her door hard enough to rattle the glass pane and strode up the hill at twice the speed she had run down it, her mind seething. If those self-righteous prigs who posed as her fellow students thought they could put her off with some sophomoric trick-
She approached the college building, practicing the speech she would deliver to all assembled for dinner in the refectory: "Now listen up, you lot! If you think you can push me around just because your skirts are longer than mine. . ."
Donna Fletcher Crow is the author of 35 books, mostly novels dealing with British history. The award-winning GLASTONBURY, The Novel of Christian England is her best-known work, an Arthurian grail search epic covering 15 centuries of English history. A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE, book 1 in the Monastery Murders series is her reentry into publishing after a 10 year hiatus. THE SHADOW OF REALITY, Book 1 The Elizabeth & Richard Mysteries, is a romantic intrigue available on Ebook.
Donna and her husband have 4 adult children and 10 grandchildren. She is an enthusiastic rose gardener and tea-drinker. To see the book video, to order A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE, or to see pictures from Donna's research trips, go to www.DonnaFletcherCrow.com
An Excerpt from Chapter 1
Felicity flung her history book against the wall. She wasn't studying for the priesthood to learn about ancient saints. She wanted to bring justice to this screwed-up world. Children were starving in Africa, war was ravaging the Middle East, women everywhere were treated as inferiors. Even here in England-
She stopped her internal rant when she realized the crash of her book had obscured the knock at her door. Reluctantly she picked up the book, noting with satisfaction the smudge it had left on the wall, and went into the hall. Her groan wasn't entirely internal when she made out the black cassock and grey scapular of her caller through the glass panel of the door. She couldn't have been in less of a mood to see one of the long-faced monks who ran the College of the Transfiguration which she had chosen to attend in a moment of temporary insanity. She jerked the door open with a bang.
(Felicity's annoyance dissolves when she sees that her visitor is Father Dominic, her favorite monk, whom she had thought was still on pilgrimage. They visit over tea- taken black by Fr. Dominic since it's Ash Wednesday, a fast day for the community- and before he leaves he gives her a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, which she sticks in her pocket before returning to her studying.)
Two hours later the insistent ringing of the community bell called her back from her reading just in time to fling on a long black cassock and dash across the street and up the hill to the Community grounds.
The spicy scent of incense met her at the door of the church. She dipped her finger in the bowl of holy water, crossed herself and slipped into her seat.
"Miserere mei, Deus. . ." The choir and cantors had practiced for weeks to be able to sing Psalm 51 to Allegri's haunting melody. The words ascended to the vaulted ceiling; the echoes reverberated. Candles flickered in the shadowed corners. She had been here for six months- long enough for the uniqueness of it all to have palled to boredom- but somehow there was a fascination she couldn't define. "Mystery," the monks would tell her. And she could do no better.
What was the right term to describe how she was living? Counter-cultural existence? Alternate lifestyle? She pondered for a moment, then smiled. Parallel universe. That was it. She was definitely living in a parallel universe. The rest of the world was out there, going about its everyday life, with no idea that this world existed alongside of it.
It was a wonderful, cozy, secretive feeling as she thought of bankers and shopkeepers rushing home after a busy day, mothers preparing dinner for hungry school children, farmers milking their cows- all over this little green island the workaday world hummed along to the pace of modern life. And here she was on a verdant hillside in Yorkshire living a life hardly anyone knew even existed. Harry Potter. It was a very Harry Potter experience.
She forced her attention back to the penitential service with its weighty readings, somber plainchant responses, and minor key music set against purple vestments. Only when they came to the blessing of the ashes did she realize Fr. Dominic wasn't in his usual place. Her disappointment was sharp. He had definitely said he was to do the imposition of the ashes and she had felt receiving the ashen cross on her forehead from that dear man would give the ancient ritual added meaning.
Felicity knelt at the altar rail, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." The ashes were cold, a sooty mark of grief, gritty on her forehead.
"Amen," she responded automatically.
The final notes of the postlude were still echoing high overhead when Felicity rose from her seat and hurried outside. Dinner, a vegetarian Lenten meal, would start in the refectory almost immediately and it wouldn't do to be late. If she hurried, though, she could just dash back to her flat and pick up a book of Latin poetry for Fr. Dominic.
She bounded up the single flight of stairs, flung open her door and came to a sudden halt. "Oh!" The cry was knocked from her like a punch in the stomach. She couldn't believe it. She backed against the wall, closing her eyes in the hope that all would right itself when she opened them. It didn't. The entire flat had been turned upside down.
Felicity picked her way through scattered papers, dumped files, ripped letters. Dimly she registered that her computer and CD player were still there. Oh, and there was the Horace book still by her bed. She pulled her purse from under a pile of clothes. Empty. But its contents lay nearby. Credit cards and money still there.
Not robbery. So then, what? Why?
Was this an anti-women-clergy thing? Had she underestimated the extent of the resentment? Or was it an anti-American thing? The American president was widely unpopular in England. Had he done something to trigger an anti-American demonstration? Felicity would be the last to know. She never turned on the news.
Well, whatever it was, she would show them. If someone in the college thought they could scare her off by flinging a few books around she'd give them something new to think about. She stormed out, slamming her door hard enough to rattle the glass pane and strode up the hill at twice the speed she had run down it, her mind seething. If those self-righteous prigs who posed as her fellow students thought they could put her off with some sophomoric trick-
She approached the college building, practicing the speech she would deliver to all assembled for dinner in the refectory: "Now listen up, you lot! If you think you can push me around just because your skirts are longer than mine. . ."
Donna Fletcher Crow is the author of 35 books, mostly novels dealing with British history. The award-winning GLASTONBURY, The Novel of Christian England is her best-known work, an Arthurian grail search epic covering 15 centuries of English history. A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE, book 1 in the Monastery Murders series is her reentry into publishing after a 10 year hiatus. THE SHADOW OF REALITY, Book 1 The Elizabeth & Richard Mysteries, is a romantic intrigue available on Ebook.
Donna and her husband have 4 adult children and 10 grandchildren. She is an enthusiastic rose gardener and tea-drinker. To see the book video, to order A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE, or to see pictures from Donna's research trips, go to www.DonnaFletcherCrow.com
