feel free to explore the Flight Deck and check out my books and website.
Then fasten your seatbelts, sip a glass of something sparkling and let's chat awhile!
I hope you'll stop by again for guest authors and spotlights from time to time.
Beloved Enemy joined Starquest and Children of the Mistto continue the DestinyTrilogy and I'm thrilled to announce was shortlisted for the R.N.A. RoNAAwards 2017, awarded 2nd Runner up in the RONE Awards 2017 and was the winner in the SF/Fantasy category of the 'Best Banter Contest'.
Hello my lovelies! I hope you're staying safe and well and managing to survive 'lock down'. Last week I told you about Merlin's Oak, in which I mentioned the owl, 'Blodeuwedd'. This is the legend of Blodeuwedd:
Lleu Llaw Gyffes' own
mother, the goddess Arianrhod, tried to prevent her son Lleu from receiving his
birthright to become the king, by saying he would never have a a name,
unless she gave it, he would not receive his arms, other than from her
and, he could never marry a mortal woman. Thus, he could not become
king, unless she willed it. The Celts were matrilineal; a person was born to their mother’s line, not their father’s. Therefore, the son of the king’s sister and not the son of the king and the queen was seen as the heir to the Kingship. Often the queen held the actual power, with her husband being a warlord rather than a king in the true sense of the word. In order to be a king, he had to 'marry' the land. This was often accomplished by the practice of the symbolic Great Rite between the proposed king and a priestess. However Arianrhod was tricked into giving Lleu his name and his arms but he still needed a wife in order to assure his right to the land.
Blodeuwedd meets Gronw (illustration from Wikipedia)
To overcome this problem, the magicians Math and Gwydion took the flowers of the oak, the broom, and meadowsweet, and from those they conjured up the fairest and most beautiful maiden ever seen. and named her Blodeuwedd, 'Flower Face', and she and Lleu were duly married, although Blodewydd doesn't seem to have been give much actual choice in the matter, so it's perhaps not surprising that while Lleu was away, hunting, Blodeuwedd fell in love with, and had an affair with a warrior, Gronw Pebr, the lord of Penllyn, and the two lovers conspired to murder Lleu.
There was only one way that Lleu could be killed, and Blodeuwedd managed to persuade Lleu to reveal the exact situation that would cause this, by pretending to be concerned about his possible death. He revealed that he could not be killed during the day or night, indoors or outdoors, neither walking nor riding, clothed or naked, nor by any lawfully made weapon. He could only be killed at dusk, wrapped in a net, with one foot on a bath and one on a black goat, by a riverbank and by a spear forged for a year during the hours when everyone was at Mass.
Armed with this knowledge, Gronw and Blodeuwedd prepared a bath on a riverbank, covering it with a thatched
roof, thus making it neither indoors nor out. Lleu was tricked into standing with one foot upon
the edge of the tub and the other upon the back of a goat and wrapped in a net. Gronw threw
a specially-made spear, hitting Lleu in the side, but instead of being killed, Lleu turned into an eagle and flew off.
Gwydion tracked him down and found him perched on an oak tree. The magician lured Lleu down from the oak tree and switched him back to his human form. Gwydion and Math nursed Lleu back to health before reclaiming his lands from Gronw and Blodeuwedd, who fled, but were overtaken by Gwydion. He turned Blodeuwedd into an owl. saying "You will not dare to show your face ever again in the light of day, because of enmity between you and all other birds. It will be in their nature to harass you and despise you wherever they find you. And you will not lose your name - that will always be 'Bloddeuwedd'. Meanwhile, Gronw fled to Penllyn. Lleu refused his plea for forgiveness, demanding that Gronw stand on the bank of the River Cynfael and receive a blow from his spear. Eventually, Gronw agreed on the condition that he be allowed to place a large stone between himself and Lleu. Lleu agreed, then threw the spear with such strength that it pierced the stone, killing Gronw. A holed stone in Ardudwy is still known as Llech Ronw (Gronw's Stone).
FREE AUDIOBOOKS
If you're at a loose end in these strange and rather scary times, there are so many great books out there to be read, try a new author. If you'd like to listen to a book rather than read it, You can get my Destiny Trilogy for FREE.
For insider news and subscriber-only info, subscribe to my occasional Newsletter. I promise not to spam and your in-box will only see an email from me every 3 or 4 months or so - unless of course I have something really Newsworthy to share! I also promise that I never have and never will share your information or email address with anyone or any organisation.http://madmimi.com/signups/196357/join
TITLE – Liberty, second edition AUTHOR – Kim Iverson Headlee
GENRE – Historical Romance (ancient Rome)
PUBLICATION DATE – Dec. 2014 LENGTH (Pages/# Words) – 462 pages/118K words PUBLISHER – Pendragon Cove Press COVER ARTIST – Natasha Brown
BOOK INFO - http://kimiversonheadlee.blogspot.com/p/liberty.html
BOOK SYNOPSIS
They hailed her “Liberty,” but she was free only to obey—or die.
Betrayed by her father and sold as payment of a Roman tax debt to fight in Londinium’s arena,
gladiatrix-slave Rhyddes feels like a wild beast in a gilded cage. Celtic warrior blood flows in her
veins, but Roman masters own her body. She clings to her vow that no man shall claim her soul,
though Marcus Calpurnius Aquila, son of the Roman governor, makes her yearn for a love she
believes impossible.
Groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps and trapped in a politically advantageous betrothal,
Aquila prefers the purity of combat on the amphitheater sands to the sinister intrigues of
imperial politics, and the raw power and athletic grace of the flame-haired Libertas to the
adoring deference of Rome’s noblewomen.
When a plot to overthrow Caesar ensnares them as pawns in the dark design, Aquila must
choose between the Celtic slave who has won his heart and the empire to which they both owe
allegiance. Knowing the opposite of obedience is death, the only liberty offered to any slave,
Rhyddes must embrace her arena name—and the love of a man willing to sacrifice everything to
forge a future with her.
FINGERS CRAMPING AND shoulders aching from having wielded the pitchfork all day, Rhyddes ferch Rudd tossed another load of hay onto the wagon. Sweat trickled down her back, making
the lash marks sting. Marks inflicted by her father, Rudd, the day before because eighteen
summers of anguish had goaded her into speaking her mind.
Physical pain couldn’t compare with the ache wringing her heart.
She slid a glance toward the author of her mood. He stood a few paces away, leaning upon his
pitchfork’s handle in the loaded wagon’s shade to escape the July heat as he conversed with her
oldest brother, Eoghan. She couldn’t discern their words, but their camaraderie spoke volumes
her envy didn’t want to hear.
Her father’s gaze met hers, and he lowered his eyebrows. “Back to work, Rhyddes!” On Rudd’s
lips, her name sounded like an insult.
In a sense, it was.
Her name in the Celtic tongue meant “freedom,” but the horse hitched to the hay wagon
enjoyed more freedom than she did. Her tribe, the Votadini, had been conquered by the
thieving Romans, who demanded provisions for their troops, fodder for their mounts, women
for their beds, and coin to fill the purses of every Roman who wasn’t a soldier.
If those conditions weren’t bad enough, for all the kindness her father had demonstrated during
her first two decades, Rhyddes may as well have been born a slave.
She scooped up more hay. Resentment-fired anger sent wisps flying everywhere, much of it
sailing over the wagon rather than landing upon it.
“Hey, mind what you’re doing!”
Owen, her closest brother in age and in spirit, emerged from the wagon’s far side, hay prickling
his hair and tunic like a porcupine. Rhyddes couldn’t suppress her laugh. “’Tis an improvement.
Just wait till the village lasses see you.”
“Village lasses, hah!” Sporting a wicked grin, Owen snatched up a golden fistful, flung it at her,
and dived for her legs.
They landed in the fragrant hay and began vying for the upper hand, cackling like a pair of
witless hens. When Owen thought he’d prevailed, Rhyddes twisted and rolled from underneath
him. Her fresh welts stung, but she refused to let that deter her. He lost his balance and fell
backward. She pounced, planting a knee on his chest and pinning his wrists to the ground over
his head.
Victory’s sweetness lasted but a moment. Fingers dug into her shoulders, and she felt herself
hauled to her feet and spun around. Owen’s face contorted to chagrin as he scrambled
up.
“Didn’t get enough of the lash yestermorn, eh, girl?” Rudd, his broad hands clamped around her
upper arms, gave her a teeth-rattling shake.
When she didn’t respond, he released her and rounded on Owen. “As for you—”
“Da, please, no!” Rhyddes stopped herself. Well she knew the futility of pleading with Rudd.
Still, for Owen’s sake, she had to try. Her father’s scowl dared her to continue. She swallowed
the lump that had formed in her throat. “’Twas not Owen’s fault. I—” Sweat freshened the sting
on her back, and she winced. “The fault is naught but mine.”
“Aye, that I can well believe.” Rudd grasped each sibling by an arm and strode across the
hayfield toward the family’s lodge. “Owen can watch you take his lashes as well as yours. We’ll
see if that won’t mend his ways.” The thin linen of her ankle-length tunic failed to shield her
from his fingers, which had to be leaving bruises. Rhyddes gritted her teeth. Rudd seemed
disappointed. “I doubt anything in this world or the next will make you mend yours.”
“You don’t want me to change. You’d lose your excuse to beat me.” Sheer impertinence, she
knew, but she no longer cared.
“I need no excuses, girl.”
The back of his hand collided with her cheek. Pain splintered into a thousand needles across her
face. She reeled and dropped to her hands and knees, her hair obscuring her vision in a copper
cascade. Hay pricked her palms. Owen would have helped her rise, but their father restrained
him. Owen blistered the ground with his glare, not daring to direct it at Rudd for fear of earning
the same punishment.
Not that Rhyddes could blame him.
Rudd yanked her up, cocked a fist… and froze. “Raiders!”
Rhyddes whirled about. Picts were charging from the north to converge upon their settlement,
the battle cries growing louder under the merciless afternoon sun. One of the storage buildings
had already been set ablaze, its roof thatch marring the sky with thick black smoke.
Rudd shed his shock and sprinted for the living compound, calling his children by name to help
him defend their home: Eoghan, Ian, Bloeddwyn, Arden, Dinas, Gwydion, Owen.
Every child except Rhyddes.
She ran to the wagon, unhitched the horse, found her pitchfork, scrambled onto the animal’s
back, and kicked him into a jolting canter. The stench of smoke strengthened with each stride.
Her mount pinned back his ears and wrestled her for control of the bit, but she bent the
frightened horse to her will. She understood how he felt.
As they loped past the cow byre, a Pict leaped at them, knocking Rhyddes from the horse’s back.
The ground jarred the pitchfork from her grasp. The horse galloped toward the pastures as
Rhyddes fumbled for her dagger. Although her brothers had taught her how to wield it in a fight,
until now she’d used it only to ease dying animals from this world.
But the accursed blade wouldn’t come free of the hilt.
Sword aloft, the Pict closed on her.
Time distorted, assaulting Rhyddes with her attacker’s every detail: lime-spiked hair, weird blue
symbols smothering the face and arms, long sharp sword, ebony leather boots and leggings,
breastplate tooled to fit female curves . . .
Female?
The warrior-woman’s sword began its descent.
From the corner of her eye Rhyddes saw her pitchfork. Grunting, she rolled toward it, praying to
avoid her attacker’s blow.
Her left arm stung where the sword grazed it, but she snagged her pitchfork and scrambled to
her feet. Unexpected eagerness flooded her veins.
As the Pict freed her weapon from where it had embedded in the ground, Rhyddes aimed the
pitchfork and lunged. The tines hooked the warrior-woman’s sword, and Rhyddes twisted with
all her strength. The Pict yelped as the sword ripped from her hand to go flying over the sty’s
fence. Squealing in alarm, the sow lumbered for cover, trying to wedge her bulk under the
trough.
With a savage scream, the warrior-woman whipped out a dagger and charged. Rhyddes
reversed the pitchfork and jammed its butt into the Pict’s gut, under the breastplate’s bottom
edge, robbing her of breath. She reversed it again and caught the raider under the chin with the
pitchfork’s tines. As the woman staggered backward, flailing her arms and flashing the red
punctures that marred her white neck, Rhyddes struck hard and knocked her down.
The warrior-woman looked heavier by at least two stone, but Rhyddes pinned her chest with her
knee. She dropped the pitchfork and grasped her dagger, yanking it free. Grabbing a fistful of
limed hair, she wrestled the woman’s head to one side to expose her neck.
The Pict bucked and twisted, trying to break Rhyddes’s grip. ’Twas not much different than
wrestling a fever-mad calf.
Rhyddes’s deft slice ended the threat.
Blood spurted from the woman’s neck in sickening pulses.
Rhyddes stood, panting, her stomach churning with the magnitude of what she’d done. ’Twas
no suffering animal she’d killed—and it could have been her lying there, pumping her lifeblood
into the mud.
Bile seared her throat, making her gag. Pain lanced her stomach. Bent double, she retched out
the remains of her morning meal, spattering the corpse.
After spitting out the last bitter mouthful and wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she
drew a deep breath and straightened. As she turned a slow circle, her senses taking in the sights
and sounds and stench of the devastation surrounding her, she wished she had not
prevailed.
The news grew worse as she sprinted toward the lodge.
Of her seven brothers, the Picts had left Ian and Gwydion dead, her father and Owen wounded,
the lodge and three outbuildings torched. She ran a fingertip over the crusted blood of her
scratch, and she couldn’t suppress a surge of guilt.
Mayhap, she thought through the blinding tears as she ran to help what was left of her family,
’twould have been better had she died in the Pict’s stead.
The surviving raiders were galloping toward the tree line with half the cattle. The remaining
stock lay stiffening in the fields, already attracting carrion birds.
Three days later, the disaster attracted scavengers of an altogether different sort.
I am Rhyddes ferch Rudd, which in your tongue means Freedom daughter of Red. The blood of
ancient Celtic warriors flows in my veins, though I am a farmer's daughter by the circumstance
of my birth. My life spans much of the reign of the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, one of a
very few men ever to claim that title who did not abuse his power for personal gain—but I care
not who rules and who dies in this gods-cursed empire.
More than anything—even more than my freedom—I yearn to be my lover Aquila’s equal. As a
foreign slave in an empire where citizenship stands paramount, where an arena fighter such as I
can only be considered the equal of other gladiators, actors, undertakers, and whores, this goal
seems impossibly remote. Although Aquila is the son of a powerful Roman, he has declared that
he would renounce his aristocratic status, wealth, and power for me, but I cannot in good
conscience allow him to destroy himself on my account.
And yet the gods have granted the impossible to other mortals. I pray that I am worthy to
receive such a boon from them, for surely divine assistance is the only way for Aquila and I to
bridge the vast social chasm that separates us from enjoying a future together.
AUTHOR BIO
Kim Headlee lives on a farm in southwestern Virginia with her family, cats, goats, and assorted
wildlife. People & creatures come and go, but the cave and the 250-year-old house
ruins—the latter having been occupied as recently as the mid-20th century—seem to be sticking
around for a while yet.
Kim is a Seattle native (when she used to live in the Metro DC area, she loved telling people she
was from "the other Washington") and a direct descendent of twentieth-century Russian
nobility. Her grandmother was a childhood friend of the doomed Grand Duchess Anastasia, and
the romantic yet tragic story of how Lydia escaped Communist Russia with the aid of her
American husband will most certainly one day fuel one of Kim's novels. Another novel in the
queue will involve her husband's ancestor, the seventh-century proto-Viking king of the Swedish
colony in Russia.
For the time being, however, Kim has plenty of work to do in creating her projected 8-book
Arthurian series, The Dragon's Dove Chronicles, and other novels under her new imprint,
Pendragon Cove Press.
Lleu Llaw Gyffes' own
mother, the goddess Arianrhod, tried to prevent her son Lleu from receiving his
birthright to become the king, by saying he would never have a a name,
unless she gave it, he would not receive his arms, other than from her
and, he could never marry a mortal woman. Thus, he could not become
king, unless she willed it. 
Meanwhile, Gronw fled to Penllyn. Lleu refused his plea for forgiveness, demanding that Gronw stand on the bank of the River Cynfael and receive a blow from his spear. Eventually, Gronw agreed on the condition that he be allowed to place a large stone between himself and Lleu. Lleu agreed, then threw the spear with such strength that it pierced the stone, killing Gronw. A holed stone in Ardudwy is still known as Llech Ronw (Gronw's Stone). 
