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#Extract The Tudor Prophecy by Julie Strong

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My guest today on What Cathy Read Next is Julie Strong whose novel The Tudor Prophecy will be published on 25th January 2025 by OC Publishing. It’s described as an ‘epic, literary tale – a Game of Thrones meets Little Women’ and ideal for fans of the Wolf Hall trilogy by Booker Prize winner, Hilary Mantel. Personally, the description also brought to mind the recent film, Firebrand, based on the book Queen’s Gambit by Elizabeth Fremantle.

I’m delighted to bring you an extract from The Tudor Prophecy which is available to pre-order now from Amazon UK.

My thanks to Anne O’Connell at OC Publishing for inviting me to take part in the launch celebrations for The Tudor Prophecy. You can find details of the virtual tour for the book here.

About the Book

Front cover of The Tudor Prophecy by Julie Strong

England, 1541. An ailing Henry VIII reigns from a contested throne. In parallel story lines, The Tudor Prophecy follows two young women, Lady Alice Grantmire and Hester Vaughan, cousins who each suffer greatly from the King’s unjust decrees.

Lady Alice and her mother are evicted from their estate and take residence in a cottage where they earn a subsistence selling herbal remedies – until they are accused of witchcraft.

After being molested by the King, Hester is summoned to her estranged father’s home in Wales. There she becomes betrothed to a Welsh bard whose mentor has visions foretelling the ascendancy of Henry’s second daughter, Elizabeth.

When Hester encounters the eight-year-old Lady Elizabeth, the two forge a relationship whereby Hester can persuade the future queen to temper her own rule with mercy. 

Find The Tudor Prophecy on Goodreads

Extract from The Tudor Prophecy by Julie Strong

The cousins reached the chestnut tree and dropped to the grass, panting, and leaned back against its trunk. A crow, disturbed among the topmost branches, cawed in protest. Had it been interested in living flesh it would have noticed Hester, a young woman with hazel eyes wearing a red woolen dress and a white coif over her hair. It would also have observed Alice, slightly younger, garbed in blue silk and a black satin hood. But the crow, interested only in the dead, flew away.

“I have waited all day to show you,” gasped Hester, withdrawing a parchment from her sleeve. “I have an audience with His Majesty tomorrow!”

Alice’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. “Surely you jest!”

Hester frowned at this response and stared up at the chestnut tree’s canopy of pink and white flowers. The tree had been late to bloom this year of Our Lord, 1541. It had been a harsh winter, and folks whispered this was God’s punishment of England. King Henry VIII should never have defied the Holy Father in Rome and installed himself as Head of the Church. But folks whispered softly, for fear of losing their tongues to a steel blade.

A petal drifted onto Hester’s skirt. “In the legends of King Arthur, the knight always weds the damsel who heals him. And I shall heal his Majesty’s leg ulcers.” She spoke vehemently, then under her breath murmured, “I must, for I have no other recourse.” She twirled the petal between fingers and thumb a moment before crushing it. “Father will send for me soon, and I do not want to return to Wales to marry a gentleman farmer of his choosing.” Wales. The very name sounds dismal.

The young women sat halfway up a hill overlooking Hartbourne, the ancestral home of Sir Hugh, Alice’s father, situated near Richmond, ten miles south of London. The old stone mansion was surrounded by fields in which workers scythed the first of the new hay, sending the fragrance upwards.

“Do you forget the King has a wife already?” asked Alice, taking out her embroidery.

“Cat Howard?” Hester sniffed, grimacing. “They are wed near a year and she is not yet with child. She is barren.” Hester dropped her voice. “And ’tis said she has a paramour at court.” She looked around to ensure they were alone, then louder asserted, “Besides, she was penniless when the King wed her, so he will not mind my being so.” Hester stared above at a solitary cloud that drifted, white and fluffy, in a perfect blue sky. Blue was the colour of the Virgin Mary’s mantle, and it seemed fitting that the month of May was dedicated to Our Lady.

“I know you are doing this for Dickie,” said Alice, her eyes softening as she touched her cousin’s arm. “If Father comes to grief and Mother and I are forced to leave Hartbourne, we women may find refuge in the remains of a convent, but…”

“Dickie would not be permitted,” concluded Hester, her eye- brows knitted together. “But,” she added with a gnawing of envy in her gut, “you are an heiress, you would not remain there for long.”

“If Henry takes our land, I shall. But I would love to have a family. Mother worries I shall marry a Protestant and damn my soul for eternity.” Alice sighed, then laughed. “I shall not meet any men, Protestant or otherwise, in a nunnery.” She pouted. “But have you thought how any woman could have marital…. The king is so huge larded every prize hog in the land is called Harry after him.” Alice selected a strand of crimson thread for the poppies bordering the figure of Saint Anne teaching her daughter, the Virgin Mary, to read.

Hester pretended not to hear and stretched her arms above her head. This last winter had seen her develop from a wild colt of a girl into a comely young woman. Fresh stitching ran down the sides of her bodice, where the seams had been let out again just the previous week. Hester knew Alice spoke truth about the King’s huge bulk, but she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on enjoying the warmth of the spring sun on her face.

“I am tired, for I was singing lullabies to Dickie until past mid- night. John is a great help, but he does not understand Dickie’s fear of the dark, or that he doesn’t like getting soap in his eyes when his hair is washed.” Hester brushed away a fly that landed on her forehead.

“You have been like a mother to him, bathing him, helping him dress,” said Alice, “but now John can—ouch!”

Hester sat up. “Are you hurt?”

“I jabbed my finger, but it is fine. What I was saying is that John has only been with us a week, and—but look, here comes Dickie.”

About the Author

Julie Strong, author of The Tudor Prophecy

Julie Strong is a soon-to-be-retired family physician in Halifax, Nova Scotia; she has an ongoing shamanic practice where she addresses the spiritual causes of illness. 

Julie was born in Manchester, England, grew up in Wales, Australia, and Ireland, and emigrated to Canada in 1980. Her medical degree is from Trinity College, Dublin University, Ireland, and she holds a BA in Classics from Dalhousie University, Halifax. Her shamanism training is from the Foundation for Shamanic Studies in Marin County, California. 

Dr. Strong has given presentations in Canada, the US, and Europe on the subject of insanity in ancient Greek literature. She presented a three-part series on Greek mythology at Halifax Central Library in spring 2018 and also “Finding Comfort in Difficult Times,” an overview of shamanism, in fall 2021. She is a lecturer with the Senior College Association of Nova Scotia (SCANS) and delivered a six-week course, The Goddess in Antiquity, in spring 2024, which emphasized humanity’s need to reconnect with Nature and the Divine Feminine. 

Julie’s essays appear in several anthologies, including Letting Go (Bacon Press Books, 2016) and Much Madness, Divinest Sense (Pottersfield Press, 2017). Her story “Alice’s Bonfire” won the Budge Wilson Short Fiction Prize from the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia in 2010, and her play, Athena in Love, was awarded “best new play” in the Halifax Fringe Festival in 2012. The Tudor Prophecy is her first novel. Julie is presently working on Keeping it Together Down Under, a memoir of how she and her younger sister were transplanted from their home in the UK to an orphanage in Tasmania, Australia, in the mid-1960s.

Julie, who has three grown children and three grandchildren, plays viola in an amateur string quartet and orchestra and loves dancing and pickleball.

#Extract Lights Along The Interstate by Adam Fike

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My guest today on What Cathy Read Next is Adam Fike whose novella Lights Along The Interstate was published in December 2018 and is available in paperback and as an ebook. It’s described as ‘The Canterbury Tales meets Paradise Lost at a classic roadside diner. Except the apple falls from a needle this time’. Intriguing, huh?

Readers have described it as ‘beautifully written’, ‘powerful’, ‘thought-provoking’ and ‘a fun little novella’. If you love interconnected stories or fancy a quick read, this may be the book for you. There’s an extract below to whet your appetite…

About the Book

Book cover of Lights Along The Interstate by Adam Fike

A retirement home escapee is off to parts unknown. The Devil quits (he’s in love with a waitress). Unexpected gunshots create late-night companions. A traveling salesman gets to choose his own place in the Universe. A wandering ex-priest looks for answers between the lines of a legal pad. Somebody’s flinging pennies at a naked businessman and she’s not at all sorry it hurts. Stranded, a student finds himself, and dinner, in the middle of nowhere. A drunk widow skips the service. A long overdue family reunion solves nothing and resolves everything. Then two lost kids the age of grownups decide something really big for the rest of us. And the Bus Driver? Well, all he’s praying for is a good night’s sleep.

Format: Paperback (136 pages) Publisher:
Publication date: 26th December 2018 Genre: Contemporary Fiction

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Purchase Lights Along The Interstate from Amazon UK or Amazon.com

Extract from Lights Along The Interstate by Adam Fike

I’ll bet the first time he came in it was just for coffee and maybe some pie, the pale man says.

Irene fills the guy in the corner booth’s cup and clomps away.

But it’s that waitress that keeps him coming back, he says. See how she wears one of those pink waitress-type uniforms with the frill at the bottom? That’s his thing, I’m telling you. Irene is the name on her blouse. Irene the mean? Irene the dream? He wants to know. Irene the queen, he imagines, because she looks like a princess to him.

The Reverend chuckles.

Trust me, I’m very, very good at this, he says.

Mitchell’s right. Every time the nervous Trucker pulled into town, he spent a few hours in a corner booth at the diner, just picking up clues about the waitress named Irene. Sometimes, he drove hundreds of miles out of his way, picking up his route the next morning without telling anyone. She got off every night at a quarter until two, so it always worked out, and he never lost time. Earlier that night, he decided to finally make his move.

Irene works her way past the metal-trimmed tables, wiping and cleaning.

Tonight, maybe he’d drop a quarter into the jukebox selector at his booth. Maybe not. What sort of thing would she like? He didn’t know. The Trucker looks at his watch. The place just wasn’t right. Too bright. Too shiny. Behind the counter, the rims around the cushions on the stools, the edges around the walls. Bouncing florescence. Tubes of bees. Not romantic. Windows like big mirrors. Not how it was in his mind. Sitting there looking at himself doesn’t do anything for his courage.

At the counter, the drunk Hunter burps over his eggs. He didn’t bother to take off his big orange hunting vest. Or his sidearm. A fork hits the floor. When Irene bends for it, the old drunk is still sober enough to notice.

The Trucker in the corner booth shifts, agitated as Irene rounds the counter toward him, grinding her gum below a heavy, end-of-day glaze.

Anything else, she asks.

The nervous Trucker locks up tight and skids. Irene stares back at him.

Well, she asks.

Nah, he mumbles, slack-jawed, shifting his eyes between her and the floor. She reaches for his cup.

There’s a noise behind her at the counter, like water out of a bucket. Eggs and bourbon coat both the floor and man, now moaning with his head in his hands. No one moves. A happy, neon-faced clock ticks.

The Trucker in the corner booth blinks up at Irene as she glares at the old drunk in disgust. The Trucker doesn’t know what to do, so he puts his hand on her hand, still frozen to his cup on the table.

Irene glances down at him in surprise. He smiles.

The Reverend drops a few dollars on the table and quickly gathers her things.

Caught off guard, staring down at the Trucker, Irene chuckles. The Trucker hesitates, unsure. First, he laughs a little too. Then a little more. The louder she laughs, the more he laughs. She yanks away her hand and sighs for a long moment.

An explosion beside the counter. Another.

The drunk is on his feet, staggering toward them. Mostly toothless. Angry. Hunting pistol in his hand. Quit your laughing at me, he yells, the shots still ringing in his ears.

The first bullet from the Hunter’s pistol passed directly through the Trucker’s chest. The other through the window over his head. The gum drops from Irene’s mouth as she throws herself back against the counter.

The pale man is stunned, hovering mid-thought at the diner door. The Reverend’s eyes are shut tight, her hands over her face, reflex praying.

Well, I didn’t see that coming, the pale man says.

The Trucker in the corner booth reaches out for Irene to hold him until help arrives. Irene screams, bounding over the counter and through the kitchen door with the grace of a deer. A door slams in the distance. Outside the window, she crosses the parking lot’s circular glow, never looking back.

The Trucker in the corner booth watches her go, confused, then falls dead across the table. The drunk Hunter sits himself up on a stool, puts his gun on the counter and belches.

We should go, the Reverend says and pushes through the door.

The pale man in the suit takes a few steps toward the corner booth.

You might as well come with us, he says.

The Trucker doesn’t move.

Really, it’s no fun watching them cart you off, the pale man says.

The Trucker lifts his head, fuddled.

Come on, the pale man says.

The Trucker stumbles to his feet.

Wait, wait, don’t look down, the pale man says, taking the Trucker by the shoulders and stepping with him toward the door.

Actually, know what, he says. Go ahead and look.

The Trucker gasps at his own dead body.

You would have hated me if I hadn’t let you see that, the pale man says, leading the Trucker out the door and towards the idling bus.

About the Author

Author Adam Fike

Adam Fike co-created Wyndotte Street’s original video library, studied sketch and long-form improv at the Upright Citizens Brigade in Los Angeles and is a former suburban Washington D.C. area newspaper reporter.

Connect with Adam
Website | Goodreads