Guest post by REGAN WALKER
I'm delighted to welcome author, Regan Walker, to my blog. As a writer, Regan has followed a similar path to myself: she wrote stories as a child but the serious business of making a living intervened - in Regan's case she entered the legal profession. But true calling wins out in the end and now Regan writes historical romance that often involve a demanding Prince Regent who thinks of his subjects as his private talent pool.
Regan lives in San Diego with her golden retriever, Link [what a fantastic name!] whom she says inspires her every day to relax and smell the roses.
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| Welcome! Regan Walker |
So without further ado, here is Regan's post!
ENGLAND'S LAST REVOLUTION – When Mere Villagers Fought “Against the Wind”
On June 9, 1817, a group of
village men from Pentrich in Derbyshire, England rose in rebellion against the
Crown. Dubbed “the Last Revolution in England,” it might have more accurately
been called a government-inspired provocation to action, designed to justify repression. Why
did the villages fight “against the wind” that was the power of England?
After the war with France ended
in 1814, England suffered from great social, economic and political problems.
Many of the major issues were the direct result of the war, but others were the
necessary product of the changes occurring throughout society. The discontent
and the distress in the lives of the common people culminated in the series of
events between 1811-1819, including the Pentrich Rebellion of 1817, which is
the backdrop for my historical romance novel, Against the Wind.
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| Pentrich Revolution plaque. |
The uprising in the Midlands in 1817 was
just what the leaders of the British government needed to justify sending a
strong signal to the masses that no rebellion, such as occurred in the French
Revolution, would be tolerated in England. The hundreds of villagers who rose
up with the pikes and crude weapons on that day in June two hundred years ago were
ignorant of the true fact—that the government itself was behind their actions.
The year 1817 began with a rally held in London in
January, perhaps inspired by the political clubs that advocated the vote for
all men. The mood of the masses was rebellious and ended with stones being thrown
at the Prince Regent’s carriage as he left Parliament. While
the Prince wasn’t harmed, with memories of the French Revolution still vivid in
their minds, and the political clubs becoming more and more popular, especially
in the Midlands and the North, the House of Lords adopted a
spate of laws designed to control the stirrings of rebellion, including the suspension
of Habeas Corpus, and the infamous Gagging Acts. All public meetings were
forbidden, except under license from local magistrates. Pubs and coffee houses,
as especially notorious places for radical gatherings, were covered by the
Acts. Sedition, that is to say opposition to the government, whether by
speech or written word, was to be severely punished.
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| Gent....No Gent....Re gent!! |
In
March, there was a protest by thousands of depressed Manchester workers. With a
view to descending on London to petition the Prince Regent to do something to
relieve their economic depression, they marched peacefully carrying blankets to
sleep in. Thus, it became known as the March of the Blanketeers. It rained
violently on the day the march began. As five hundred of the men
marched towards Derby, they encountered masses of troops at the Hanging Bridge
over the River Dove at Ashbourne. Most of the Blanketeers were turned
away, but twenty-five were arrested. Only a few got to Derby and only one
marcher reached London to present his petition. However, the Manchester
expression of discontent served to keep alive the government’s fear of
revolution.
Concerned
about the growing unrest, Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary sent spies
throughout England, including the Midlands, to keep watch on the “centers of
discontent.” Since these spies were informers paid by results, they
quickly became agents provocateur, stirring rebellion where there was
none so they would be paid. Among the spies was one William Richards,
better known as William Oliver, or “Oliver the spy,” who incited open rebellion
in the Midlands. He is one of the characters in my novel.
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The head of Jeremiah Brandreth - one of the ringleaders
of the Pentrich uprising. |
Oliver traveled
to Pentrich in Derbyshire, disguised as a depressed worker (he had previously
been in Fleet Prison), encouraging the villagers to armed rebellion. He assured
them there were thousands in London ready to join them in rising against the
Crown. The villagers, in their ignorance, believed him. They were simple men
who thought they were joining a great cause for democracy where every man would
have a vote. They would soon learn they were wrong.
At the
same time that Oliver was making arrangements with the villagers for an armed
march to air their discontent, he informed the local militia of the planned uprising,
even giving them the date. Due to Oliver’s lies, the hundreds who marched on
that rainy night in June had no idea they stood not a chance of accomplishing
their objective. When the dawn came, the men faced a regiment of the King’s Own
Dragoons and were soon scattered or captured.
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| A gruesome depiction of the execution of the ringleaders. |
Notwithstanding the circumstances
of the uprising and the involvement of the English government, the powers in
London decided to make an example of the rebels. Forty-five men were tried for high
treason. Three were hanged, including Jeremiah Brandreth, Isaac Ludlam and
William Turner, the “ringleaders”—all characters in my novel. Fourteen were
sentenced to transportation to Australia, including one young man of whom my
heroine was quite fond.
Years after the events, in a letter written in 1831,
Lord Melbourne, a former Home Secretary, recalled that there was "much
reason to suspect that the rising in Derbyshire...was stimulated, if not
produced, by the artifices of Oliver, a spy employed by the Government of that
day.”
My story begins in London where a young
noblewoman flees a fate worse than death and runs unknowingly into the arms of
a spy for the Crown.
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| Click for link |
Excerpt: AGAINST THE WIND
Chapter 1
London, April
1817
She is dead.
Katherine, Lady Egerton, stared at the still form lying on the bed.
Beloved sister, friend of the heart…Anne was gone. One minute she was
struggling for breath, the next she lay silent and still. The only person in
the world Kit loved more than life had left her.
They are all gone now. The sudden
solitude tore at her heart.
Kit
smiled sadly, gazing through eyes filled with tears at the frail body lying
before her. The brown mouse. Anne’s
name for herself. Delicate even as a child, she had not long survived her
marriage to the cruel Earl of Rutledge. Kit knelt at her sister’s bedside,
assailed by grief and guilt, and reached for Anne’s hand. Could she have done
more to save her sister from the dread disease? Could she have done more to
protect Anne from the heartless man who was her husband?
Pale
in death, Anne was still beautiful. Kit had often sketched that heart-shaped
face. Not a mouse, but a much-loved
sister with a kind, unselfish heart.
Kit
had seen the end coming in the last few months, months through which she’d
faithfully cared for Anne. The coughs that wracked her sister’s slight frame
had grown worse as Anne seemed to fade before Kit’s eyes. Kit knew she was
losing her even as she willed that weak body to heal. The physician said he could
do nothing; each time he left shaking his head and telling Kit to make “the
poor girl” comfortable as best she could. Kit had tried to save Anne, doing the
only thing she knew by giving her syrup of horehound and honey. But such a
small measure was not enough. Then, too, her sister had seemed to welcome
death.
Suddenly,
the room grew cold. Kit felt his presence,
a looming evil behind her. She took a deep breath and summoned her strength.
“Leave
her and come to me.” Rutledge’s tone was harsh and demanding. Kit had no need
to see him to know his face would be twisted in an odious scowl, his lips drawn
taut. “It is time.”
“I must see to
my sister.”
“You
need do nothing. I have arranged for the burial. Come away now.”
Kit
knew what he wanted, for she had seen the lust in his dark eyes. What at first
had been sideways glances became leers and unwanted touches. Though she’d lived
in his home since the death of her husband the baron, Kit had avoided the earl,
rarely leaving her sister’s bedside. She had been thinking of a way to escape,
but her exhaustion in caring for Anne these last days left those plans
incomplete. With meager funds, her options were few.
When
she failed to rise at the earl’s direction, his hand roughly gripped her
shoulder. She stiffened at the pain of his fingers digging into her skin.
“I
have waited long for you, Katherine, enduring that mockery of a marriage to
your sister while all the while it was you I wanted, you I was promised. Now I
shall have what is mine.”
“No!”
She rose swiftly, stepping back as she turned to face him. Revulsion rose in
her throat. What did he mean by those words? She never had been promised to him!
His
smirk transfigured what many thought of as a handsome face. Hadn’t Anne at
first been fooled by his aristocratic features and wavy brown hair? One had
only to look closely to see his nature reflected in those thin lips and narrow
eyes now focused on Kit. A deep furrow between his brows bore witness to his
long having insisted upon having his way. When Kit sketched him, it had been as
an attacking hawk.
“What
will you do?” he asked smugly. “Where will you go, m’dear? You are alone and
without funds. I am the one who has provided food and shelter for both you and
your weak sister, though I wanted only you. You are mine, Katherine, and I will have you.”
Terror
seized her. Cornered, her eyes darted about like an animal snared in a trap.
His tall figure blocked the door to the corridor; the only way out led through
his adjacent bedchamber. She fled toward it.
She hastened
into the room as he stalked after her, knowing she had but seconds, and her
eyes searched for a weapon, something to hold him at bay. At the side of the
fireplace were tools, short bars of iron that could fend off a man. But could
she reach them in time?
He
lunged for her just as she ran toward the fireplace. His body collided with
hers, and she fell upon the wooden floor with a thud. Pain shot through her
hip. His body crashed down upon hers, forcing the air from her lungs. She
gasped a breath just as his mouth crushed her lips, ruthlessly claiming
dominance.
Tearing away,
she pushed against his shoulders with all her might, but his greater strength
held her pinned to the floor. His hand gripped one breast and squeezed. She
winced at the pain, but that was quickly forgotten the moment a greater terror
seized her: His aroused flesh pressed into her belly.
Violently she
struggled, but to no avail. His wet lips slid down her throat to her heaving
chest as his fingers gripped the top of her gown and yanked at the silk. Kit
heard the fabric tear as he ripped her gown and the top of her chemise, and she
felt the cool air on her naked breasts. Frantic, she mustered strength she did
not know she had. Twisting in his grasp, she reached for the iron poker now a
mere foot away.
His
mouth latched onto her breast where he voraciously sucked a nipple. Lost in his
lust, he did not see her grasp the length of iron, raise it above him and bring
it crashing down on his head. Stunned by the blow, he raised up, his eyes
glazed. Kit let the bar fall again, this time with greater force. Blood
spattered her chest and face as his body went limp. He slumped atop her.
Kit’s
heart pounded in her chest like a bird’s wing beating against a cage.
Frantically she shoved his face from her breast and rolled his body to the
floor.
Unsteady
at first, her breath coming in pants, Kit rose and looked down at the crumpled
form lying before her, every nerve on edge as she gazed into that evil face,
now deathly pale. Blood oozed from a gash in the earl’s left temple. There was
no sign of life, no movement.
I have killed him!
Fear
choked off her breath as she wiped blood from her face with a sleeve, and with
one last look toward her sister’s bedchamber she raced from the room. Footsteps
sounded down the hall. Alarmed at the prospect of encountering one of the
earl’s servants who would summon a constable, Kit knew she must find a place to
hide, and there was nowhere to hide in the house. Quietly stealing into her
bedchamber, she grabbed her cloak and reticule, stuffing inside it the one
piece of her jewelry that could be sold to sustain her, and fled the dwelling.
Out
on the street, she paused to draw her cloak tightly around her, desperate to cover
her torn and bloody gown. Where could she go? Who would shelter her in the
state she was in, given the deed she had done?
Only one name
came to her.
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