BOOK SYNOPSIS
A haunting medieval time-slip
Echoes of the past resonate through time and disturb medievalist Dr DuLac as she struggles with misfortune in the present. She and Rev Rory have escaped to the island of Madeira on a secondment from their posts, yet they are not to find peace – until they can solve the mystery of the shard of azulejo and the ancient ammonite. Viv’s search brings her into contact with two troubled women: a noblewoman shipwrecked on the island in the 14th century and a rebellious nun at the island convent in the 16 th century. As Viv reaches out across the centuries, their lives become intertwined, and she must uncover the secrets of the ominous Dragon Tree in order to locate lost artefacts that can shape the future.
For fans of Barbara Erskine , Pamela Hartshorne, Susanna Kearsley, Christina Courtenay.
The Dragon Tree is the story of Viv and Rory's escape to the island of Madeira on a secondment from their posts, after a tragedy. Yet they are not to find peace - until they solve the mystery of the strange artefacts. Viv's search brings her into contact with two troubled women from the island's history, a noblewoman shipwrecked on the island in the 14th century and a rebellious nun from the 16th century. As Viv reaches out across the centuries, their lives become intertwined, and she must uncover the secrets of the ominous Dragon Tree in order to locate lost artefacts that can shape the future.
This Extract from my book The Dragon Tree is from the second chapter where Dr Viv and Rev Rory (the 'hot priest') have arrived in Maderia on secondment from their jobs. Viv is exploring the area when she begins to feel someone reaching out to her.....
… it was refreshing to walk along by the sea, feeling the gentle warm breezes , breathing in the fresh salty air, and watching the blue fishing boats drifting lazily beyond the rocky shore. She thought of the vastness of time and space: the way she had reached out before, across the centuries, touching other lives, other times.
“Hey, lady!” The shout awoke Viv’s senses in the present and, quickly sidestepping a motorbike that swerved around her, she leapt back onto the pavement.
Viv had retreated so much into her own world that she realised she had wandered off the main promenade into a little street lined with squashed street cafes, all vying for attention, their posters and menus jostling with each other, all apparently offering the identical espada fish, salads, traditional skewered beef espatada , the same beer, coffee and bolo de mel cake.
She had clearly wandered into the Old Town, to the tiny medieval fishermen’s cottages, many now remodelled as bars. Waiters, hovering outside, one after the other called to her, gesturing, inviting her to their fresh-linen draped tables nestling on the pavement. She smiled, shaking her head, tentatively murmuring, “não muito obrigada” as she weaved her way through the noise, glad that she’d learned a few guide-book phrases.
Finally, she found herself in a quaint enclosed square, bordered with a long row of little houses, no more than cabins really, packed together, quiet but for the gentle warm breeze rustling through the leaves of the silver-green laurels and the spreading jacaranda. At the centre of the square a dark strangely-shaped tree reached out its branches like claws. A brief wisp of déjà vu trailed across her mind, and then was gone. She glanced desperately around her, trying to catch it, but it was gone.
She was standing in front of a small white stone church. The wooden notice by the gate outside told her that it was the Capela do Corpo Santo. It had the plain simple look of a tiny medieval chapel that had served the local people, the fishermen, for many years, solid and reassuring in the midst of their dangerous lives. She stood for a moment, calming herself and reading the board. It said that this ‘chapel of the body of Christ’, dating from possibly the early fifteenth century was the oldest surviving church in Funchal.
She looked up to its roof, breathing in its history. The bell in the simple, undecorated tower above the wooden door stood silent, presiding over the cobbled square as it had done for centuries, waiting. Maybe it had rung out to warn of disaster and danger, or to celebrate a marriage or birth. It made her think of the many fishing folk who had passed by here, entering the chapel with hope, or maybe despair, in their hearts . She could feel them around her, brushing past to disappear into the darkness of the interior. A cold shiver slowly rose up her spine. The air drifted over her, thick, suffocating, as the words on the board blurred and juddered.
A silent formless presence at her back seemed to push her through the iron gate. The wooden church doors were standing open under their gothic style architrave and she moved onwards into the dimness of the chapel. It was chilly inside and she shuddered, aware that it was not only the physical cold that numbed her body so.
The walls of the simple wooden nave closed in upon her. Highly decorated across the floors and up the height of the walls with those Moorish azure blue and white tiles she’d seen pictures of in the guides, they pressed the breath from her chest . Frescos and ceiling paintings between the heavy dark beams felt oppressive. Her eyes were drawn to the altar: above it was a huge medieval mural of Christ, or maybe a saint; it was hard to tell as he seemed to be dressed in peasant clothes, although with a glowing gilded halo. Beside him was a local fisherman in what she guessed was a traditional tunic and cap, hauling a large net, and, in the background, a Portuguese cog with its distinctive square rigging. It was oddly beautiful yet somehow a shiver of apprehension brushed the length of her spine.
She anchored on the edge of a rough wooden pew. The chapel was deserted, and she slipped onto the hard seat for a moment to steady her breath.
Light-headed, she sat there losing all sense of time, letting the silence of the church enfold her. But gradually she felt a colder chill drift around her, and something seemed to be drawing her back to the cog. Her vision blurred and she rubbed her eyes. As she looked across the nave, a mist seemed to swirl around her, the chancel swayed dizzily and, alarmed, she blinked furiously, trying to clear her mind. But the dizzy patterns of the Moorish tiles seemed to clash and struggle with each other, a migraine across the walls and floor. The framed paintings and plaster icons seemed to stretch out towards her. An anguished Madonna caught her eye with a wretched plea. Viv realised she was holding her breath and heard her own heart thrumming in her chest.
Desperately, she swung around, searching for something stable, solid. But something was pulling her back again and again to the mural of the cog. Her brain seemed to have shifted gear, her head hurting, and thoughts jumbled, scrambled.
The air around her stilled, waiting …
AUTHOR INFO
Her books will appeal to fans of Barbara Erskine, Pamela Hartshorne, Susanna Kearsley, and Christina Courtenay. Her readers say: ‘Julia’s books captured my imagination’, ‘beautiful story-telling’, ‘evocative and well-paced storylines ’,‘brilliant and fascinating’ and ‘I just couldn’t put it down’.
SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS.....
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Julia-Ibbotson/e/B0095XG11U/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1499443387&geniuslink=true
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PURCHASE LINK.....
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dragon-Tree-haunting-medieval-time-slip-ebook/dp/B09MMB6S5W/ref=sr_1_9?crid=VBPWLJFR17NG&keywords=the+dragon+tree&qid=1645491960&s=books&sprefix=The+dragon+tree%2Cstripbooks%2C391&sr=1-9
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Thank you for featuring my book, The Dragon Tree, today on your blog, and thanks for taking part in my book tour with the Dr DuLac series.
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