Historical Writers Jolablokaflod


So the blog hoppers from the Historical Writers Forum have come together this December joined by the spirit of the Icelandic tradition of giving books away. So now its my turn and here is a little about me and my books.

You can see the past and future blog posts if you follow this link

I am Paula Lofting and by day I am a psyche nurse and in my spare time I like to write and blog about a particular century that totally fascinates and intrigues me. I love all things historical but my period of interest is the eleventh century, in particular the epoch that saw the tide turn for the early pre-Norman Conquest English. I am also a re-enactor of what is notably referred to the Dark Ages which although a delightful hobby, I take as seriously as I can! My one biggest insistence that I carry into my books and writings is that I aim to be as accurate as I possibly can both in facts and the world in which my characters inhabit and whilst I make it my mission to ensure the narrative of the period is as factual as possible, I want my readers to feel as immersed in eleventh century England as they can be from a thousand years away.

Some years ago, but later in my life, I decided, at a time when I had gone through a lot of difficulties, that I could sit back on my laurels and wallow in my misery, or I could pick myself up and make a life for myself that was far less ordinary. I would not wait for fortune to find me, I would make of my life what I could and I went to college, then to university to study mental health nursing, and it was at this time that I rekindled my love of reading and writing, which had always been my biggest love.

To cut a long story short, and not to be boring you with drawn out details, I became inspired by a re-enactment of the Battle of Hastings and two books. One was written by Ms Helen Hollick called Harold the King, the other was by famous historian, David Howarth. Hollick’s book gave ne the impetus to write about this period, though not solely about Harold Godwinson, but more focussed of the period as a whole and through the eyes of a semi-fictional character named Wulfhere for whom I have created a narrative of what might have happened to a family caught up in the turmoil of the times. The idea was for the reader to get to know them, invest themselves in them emotionally and then hit them with the barbaric conquest that comes to tear their lives apart so they can experience the devastation of what happened to the English people after the invasion.

And so the first book, Sons of the Wolf, was first published with the help of Silverwoods Assisted publishers in 2012, and then I decided I wanted to go it on my own and revised the cover and the contents using my own imprint, Longship Publishing, in 2016 and that was when I published the second book in the series which has since recently been also been revised and streamlined to a less drawn out tome. I did this without changing the structure of the book I might add, The Wolf Banner is still, and will always remain, the same story.

A bit about Sons of the Wolf (book 1) – which is also the name of the series.

The story begins in 1054 as Wulfhere a king’s thegn, ambles home from warring in the north with his righthand man, Esegar. King Edward sits on the throne, content to leave the running of his kingdom in the capable hands of Harold Godwinson,the Earl of Wessex, whilst he enjoys more pleasurable pursuits such as hunting, story-telling, music, and praying.
When Wulfhere’s daughter strikes up an illicit love affair with Edgar, the son of her father’s arch enemy, Helghi, it rekindles an old bloodfeud that threatens to spill over the county. In order to dispel the feud, the Earl of Wessex, orders that Wulfhere’s daughter, Freyda and her lover, Edgar, be betrothed to bring peace between the two families.
But Wulfhere, although he reluctantly agrees, fears that Freyda will suffer at the hands of his enemy and has to find away to extricate himself from the bargain without compromising his honour and loyalty to his Lord Harold.

And so, Wulfhere has to navigate the machinations and intrigues of the court and the hell of the battlefield as well as look out for the enemy at home.

Here is an excerpt from Sons of the Wolf

Wulfhere is alerted to a fire over at the steading of his enemy Helghi and reluctantly takes his men to help them put it out.

Despite his loss of vigour, Wulfhere saw that Helghi fought like a mad boar for his home that night. Everyone in the village capable of hauling a bucket full of water was there, both young and old. Wulfhere suspected, with humour, that the prospect of having their lord as a house guest was enough to inspire the villagers to do their best to save the hall. Helghi was a surly man at the best of times. At his best, even, he was a cruel drunk with a head full of resentment for anyone and anything. He would not make a pleasant guest.

Wulfhere move towards him nervously. In front of him, flames lit up the early morning sky. He paused with some distance between them. He was unsure about the response his presence would provoke, or from any of the others for that matter. So far, there had been a lot of mixed reactions. Some were stunned to see the men of Horstede there; some silently accepted their presence unquestioningly; a few others asked what had alerted them, but none had made any objections. Most likely all were relieved and too busy with the task in hand to concern themselves with their mysterious arrival.

For a moment he stood almost enthralled, as Helghi fought like a mad bull to save his hall from the fire. He summoned up the nerve to approach. Around him was chaos. Men were yelling as they ran from burning houses, salvaging what they could whilst their women chased the livestock here and there to safety. As Wulfhere edged tentatively closer to his neighbour, he was suddenly aware of a woman screaming, somewhere near to the far end of the hall. It was bloodcurdling; he had heard the like before in Dunsinane.

A dishevelled middle-aged woman, her hair uncovered, ran toward him. She grabbed him desperately. “Come help us, good sir,” she cried and then exclaimed, “Oh Lord, save us! What are you doing here, Lord Wulfhere?”

“I and my men have come to aid you,” he reassured her gently.

“Then help my lady save her child!” the woman gasped.

He followed her as she ran around the side of the hall to where a group of women were restraining a younger woman he knew to be Mildrith, wife of Helghi. She was on her knees in the grass, screaming as her women prevented her from running into the burning hut.

“My baby!” she screeched, her hands clawing her face and hair. Every time she made to break free, they held on to her fast, sobbing and begging her to cease struggling. Looking at the hut, Wulfhere assumed that some embers from the byre, fuelled by the wind, had fallen onto the roof of the building and set it aflame.

“Why did I think it would be safe to leave her in there?” Mildrith was crying. Her shoulder-length hair was matted, her face tear-streaked and dusty. “I should have known that the hut was too close to the hall.”

Wulfhere shook his head and looked at the distraught women. He knew instantly that he had to do something. If he walked away and did nothing, he would never forgive himself for leaving a child to burn. “Get me a blanket or something doused in water,” he shouted at the woman who had brought him there. “Your cloak will do!”

The woman nodded and dashed off to do his bidding. The other women looked at him, their mouths dropped open in surprise as they recognised him. Wulfhere reassured Helghi’s hysterical wife that he would get her baby for her. He grabbed her shoulders, put his face close to hers and spoke earnestly to her. She seemed to look right through him and Wulfhere realised there was great fear for her child. He glanced round at the hut and saw why. The fire had taken hold with a firm grip, and the chances of the building collapsing in on him were ominously high. Just then, the woman returned with the cloak doused in water, and he threw it over his head ready to enter the burning hut. For a moment, he marvelled that only two nights ago, he’d returned home after surviving a bloody battle with the Scots; now, here he was, risking his life to save the child of a man whose hatred for him rivalled any enemy he had ever met on the battlefield.

He said a quick Paternoster, and gazing upwards, added, “I hope you reserve a nice comfortable seat for me up there, oh Lord!” Then he kicked the door of the hut, which came away easily, and entered, gingerly.

The intensity of the heat was overpowering. His eyes streamed and stung with the smoke. He was coughing and spluttering and smoke-blind, fearing he could not go in but when he heard a baby’s whimpering, he knew he could not give up.

Flames burned on the front right side of the hut. This was the area of the little building that was nearest the hall. As he tried his best to focus, he heard the child choking from a corner of the hut somewhere behind the flames. He had to get there quickly, for the flames were growing and if she wasn’t burned to death, the smoke would fill her lungs and kill her. As he peered tentatively from underneath the protection of the cloak, he could just about see her outline; the baby was bouncing in fear, and his heart lurched. She was a little thing of no more than a year or so, same age as his Drusilda. She was pressing herself against the wall. Her piercing wails broke his heart as she cried out frantically in her cot. Within seconds, the flames had moved closer to her. Through the smoke, he tried to see another way round. Above was a loft, the floor of which had just started to burn. He hoped that the timbered base would hold out until he could get to her, for he knew they would be done for if it came down. He thought about running back out for water, but the thatch on the roof in the middle was beginning to burn and he knew there was no time.

“Stay with me, God, and help me,” he prayed. “Lord, if you let me live today, I promise to do more good deeds.” He crossed himself, kissed the little iron crucifix that hung about his neck, and lunged forward.

His outstretched hands felt for her, but he could barely see because of the flames and the smoke. Behind him, he heard something crackle and collapse, and he tried not to think of it. What mattered most at that moment was what was before him. He managed to grab the screaming infant and tucked her under his right arm. With his free hand, he drew the cloak closely over them both. When he turned to get out, he saw that the way was now blocked by the blazing thatched roof which had collapsed into the interior. He felt the heat searing toward them and the smell of burning oak was almost suffocating.  The little girl clung to him, smothered against his heart, whimpering with terror. He had to find a way to get her out.

And here are some reviews to wet your appetite!!

5.0 out of 5 stars Sons of the Wolf Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 20 June 2013Verified Purchase

Paula Lofting transports us back to 1054 England, to a time of political upheavel and warrior kings, religious interference and hero’s. We are introduced to the family of Wulfere, Thegn of Harold Godwineson and father of six. Through this inperfect but loyal subject, we are shown a colourful and vivid picture of life in medieval England, from struggling family life at Horstede to the clash of the political heavyweights of ancient europe. We find wonderfully real characters and family members who feel like our own, to the giants of european history both woven into a rich and vibrant story. With a deep knowledge of the time, Paula leaves no stone unturned, you can feel the atmosphere and smell the changing seasons. Clever sub plots intwined with historical knowledge and a perfectly timed splash of old English help to paint a picture thats trully believable. Having already enjoyed this book twice i find myself drawn to a third adventure whilst writing this, if only to catch up with Wulfere,s twins. i cant wait for the second installment in the series to check what mischief and mayhem Wulfric and Wulfwin will cause, bravo Paula a real gem and the nicest feeling cover i’ve ever held.

5.0 out of 5 stars A pleasure to read…

Showing a comprehensive knowledge of pre conquest Britain, Paula Lofting has taken historical fiction to a whole new level, skilfully interweaving factual and well recorded events with the fictitious lives and loves the thegn Wulfhere and his family, neighbours and affinity. Wulfhere and his neighbour Helghi were real people who appeared in the records. Although the lives they led is unknown, Ms Lofting’s accounts of the family relationships – the marital problems, the bickering between the children, the tantrums of a teenager in love – are all so clearly described as to show a true understanding of human nature throughout the years. The book is carried smoothly by vividly realistic conversations and wonderfully picturesque descriptions which add greatly to the sense of time and place. The reader feels inside the book with the characters, living and breathing and seeing what they experienced. Ms Lofting’s knowledge of the history of the era is as comprehensive as her knowledge of the early language, yet never does the reader feel as if they are reading a lecture. I liked the personal nature of the story and its focus on Wulfhere and his family and their struggles amidst war and personal feuds. Wulfhere also takes part in actual historical events whilst in service to the King.The characters feel like real people, with complex human emotions.

The book itself is beautifully presented with a wonderfully designed eye catching cover and helpfully includes pronunciation and place names guides, as well as a glossary of unfamiliar terms, which is very helpful.

Sons of the Wolf is the first in a series of novels about the Norman conquest of England. I enjoyed this book very much and found it a delightful read. The wealth of historical detail keeps it from being a lightweight. I look forward to reading the next in the series!”

4.0 out of 5 stars A good read – and real life beats fiction. Reviewed in the United States on 3 August 2013Verified Purchase

“Set in the 11th century, a decade or so before the battle of Hastings, the Sons of the Wolf tells the story of Wulfhere, thegn of Horstede and his family. That Horstede had a thegn named Wulfhere is established fact as per the Domesday Book (a very nice touch in my opinion), but the author makes it very clear that apart from the name and the location, her Wulfhere is a fictional hero, however involved he is in the actual events of his time.

The novel has a substantial amount of cameo characters, most of them based on real people. Harold Godwinson, Edward the Confessor, Gruffyd of Wales – they all make an appearance in Ms Loftings novel, and in general I think the author does a very good job in breathing life into these long dead people. In particular, Ms Lofting has done an excellent job depicting the Godwinson brothers – and their sister, Queen Edith. The historical context is rich and well-described, and I was particularly impressed by the description of the Battle of Hereford – Ms Lofting succeeds in conveying the grime, the blood, the sheer terror of fighting hand to hand.”

 5.0 out of 5 stars Trouble at home and on the battlefieldReviewed in the United States on 11 November 2014Verified Purchase

Sons of the Wolf brings us into the turbulent eleventh century where violence is just a breath away and can come from any direction. Wulfhere, our protagonist and thegn of Harold Godwinson, has recently come back from the Battle of Dunsinane in Scotland when he faces his own battles at home. In a Romeo-and-Juliet-style romance, his daughter Freyda has reawakened a generations-old feud between Wulfhere and his despicable neighbor Helghi. In an attempt to keep the peace, Earl Harold insists that the wayward lovers should marry in order to put the feud to rest. Alas, it is not so easy for Wulfhere and matters go from bad to worse as he watches his family fall apart.

At the same time, we are drawn into the troublesome quarrels between Harold and his siblings, and a new conflict arises with Earl Aelfgar, whose resentment of the Godwinson clan boils over. Aelfgar oversteps himself and is outlawed, which drives him to join forces with Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, King of Wales. Together, these new allies descend on the important border town of Hereford. Once again Wulfhere must fight for Harold, and we see the dreadful battle at Hereford where England’s first attempt at cavalry fighting comes to an inglorious end.

Paula Lofting’s historical narrative is gripping, and she effortlessly pulls the reader into the midst of the action. Her characters are well-defined and compelling, and we come out of the novel with an enhanced understanding of just how destructive a bitter feud can be.

So I hope you will avail yourself of a free download of Sons of the Wolf book 1 I can guarantee that you will be in for a real historical ride! And if you are hooked, I am giving away a paperback edition of The Wolf Banner anywhere in the UK all you have to do is leave a comment here on the blog or on the post on our Facebook Blog hopper’s page

And if you enjoy both books, coming soon, the third in the series is coming soon in the new year!

The Coffee Pot Book Club: Author’s Inspiration ~ Paula Lofting #HistFic #mustread @paulalofting

On September the 17th I had the privilege of visiting the blog of Mary Anne Yarde author of the The Du Lac Chronicles to talk about what inspired me to write.

Author’s Inspiration ~ Paula Lofting #HistFic #mustread @paulalofting

I have historical fiction author, Paula Lofting, on the blog today. Paula is going to share with us her inspiration behind her fabulous series…

Sons of the Wolf


Books have always been more than just words on a page and paper in a binder, for living inside those pages, is the magic that exists inside all of us. Everyone has within them the power to create anything they wish – worlds with all kinds of amazing wonderments: islands, cities, undulating hills; snow-capped mountains surrounded by lush forests with their hidden magic; sun-reflected lakes; waterfalls that cascade into deep blue lagoons that stretch into rivers that snake through valleys of green marshy slopes. I could go on, but it would take forever to list all the amazing things that a story or a fairy tale brings to our imaginations. These were the places inhabiting my mind as a child finding escape and adventure in a book.

Eagle of the 9th


I was a huge bookworm. I remember Dad would take me to the library on a Saturday, and I spent ages there, looking at the books and grabbing the ones with covers that caught my eyes. I would choose books by Rosemary Sutcliffe, C.S. Lewis and anything that looked fascinating with a historical element and I especially loved stories about dragons, faraway places, and animals that could talk, like in Rupert Bear.


By the time I was a teenager, I had discovered one of my most favourite authors. I was still reading books by Rosemary Sutcliffe, stories I adored. She kindled the spark that would one day turn into a fierce love of all things past. But by now, I had found Leon Garfield, who managed to captivate my imagination, and took me from the post Roman-British world of Rosemary Sutcliffe to the streets of London in the 18thc. Sutcliffe and Garfield both wrote books in historical settings for adolescents, and these books were extremely erudite for my tender years, even for a seasoned reader, but oh how they sparked my imagination, leaving me to fulfil my desire for more, by creating stories of my own which I would write down in an exercise book. I went on to read and discover many more wonderful authors as I grew older.

To read the whole article click the link below.
Thank you for visiting!  Layout 1




An Excerpt from my WIP _Wolf’s Bane_, third book in my Sons of the Wolf series about the years leading up to the Battle of Hastings.


The curtain was drawn and he peered into the chamber. A woman, clothed in a plain brown woollen robe sat on a bench, sewing. A white wimple framed what he could see of her face, which was not much, since she was looking downwards watching her needle as it undulated through her embroidery. She did not look up, and it appeared she neither heard nor sensed his presence. The room was dark and gloomy, but she had candles that seemed to allow her enough light with which to see. He watched her for some moments, not knowing how to approach her for he was nervous, and did not know if he could stand to be with her again.

Suddenly, he felt the bile rise in his gullet and felt the urge to run. He had come all this way only because his sister had begged him to go make his peace with her.  On the journey, he’d promised himself that he would not think of peace until he had heard what she had to say – and now, he did not want to hear what she had to say. Nonetheless, he fought the urge to run, because when all was said and done, he needed her to hear what had burned in his heart for so long.

Finally, he coughed to get her attention. Her gaze hovered at his feet before slowly drifting to meet his eyes. He saw the alarm in her face. Felt her fear. It gave him a sense of power.

“Mother…” he said with a faint smile.

She stood up, a jerky motion, and lost her embroidery to the floor. “I prayed that you would come to see me,” she said. And the smile she gave him was genuine, unlike the mocking smile that he had given her.

“And I prayed that I would never see you again… And yet… here I am…” The words slipped off his tongue gently, much more gently than he had intended.

“Aye, here we both are.” She took a step forward holding her arms out to him as if she would embrace him. He hoped that she would not. He could not bear for her to touch him. The thought made him flinch and he stiffened, visibly.

Her smile weakened. “You have grown so tall. Now you are taller than I,” she said. She was nervous, he thought.

As she wittered on, making observations of how well he looked, his eyes swept around the room. He did not know why, but it mattered to him how she was living. Apart from the bed against the back wall, a closed wicker basket, a small table, and the bench on which she sat, the furnishings were sparse. It seemed strange to see her without her beloved wall hangings and those other pretty worldly things that had once given her such pleasure.

She stepped closer to him, and he could see her better. She had changed since he’d last seen her. Her face was less sharp around her cheek bones, and her jaw line sagged slightly. In her once vibrant green eyes, he saw the same haunted look that his father had worn in his; the look of the guilty.

“You must be in need of refreshment, come, I have some ale here. Come sit with me and tell me your news.”

She put a hand under his elbow to guide him into the room, a touch that was light enough to shake off. She ignored the rebuff and picked up her sewing to put it on her bed, then poured the ale into two cups and sat down on her bench with her drink in her hand. She patted the space beside her, and he stared at it, thinking to himself that nothing on this earth would make him sit with her. Instead, he moved into the room, cautiously, and leant against the wall by the door. With one leg bent, and the sole of his shoe supporting him on the plaster behind, he folded his arms and stood, impassive.

“Come, my son, get your ale and come sit with me. I can order some food to be brought… if you are hungry…” Her voice was encouraging and light.

“I don’t want any ale… I don’t want any food…” He gave a slight chuckle. “I don’t know why I came.”

She was looking at him with hurt eyes and he couldn’t stand it. He unfolded his arms, dropped his leg and was about to go through the doorway when she called him, “Tovi. Please don’t go, for the good of us both, please stay.”

He felt his heart leap, though why he did not know. “Why, Mother? What good will that do me?”

She was on her feet, cup still in hand. “Why did you come all this way, if you will not speak with me?”

“I came because Freyda asked me to… I promised her… I would…”

“Then please, do not let your sister down, at least.” Her eyes looked hopeful. “Listen to what I have to say, if nothing else.”

“Listen to you? I did nothing but listen to you all my life – I listened to your lies, I kept your secret from Father, and you made me suffer for it! Yes, Mother, don’t look so surprised. What do you think that day in Winflaed’s bower did to me? I begged you not to send me away!”

“I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice. “I thought it best for you – you were becoming unruly, and –”

“You wanted to punish me for your sin! You wanted me to pay because I knew what you had done!”


“Aye, Mother! You knew that I never wanted to go to Waltham, but you made me go anyway.”

“All right,” she started, in a whiny voice. “I wanted to punish you – but it was not for that, it was because you nearly killed your sister.” She began to sob.

He took some steps closer to her. “No, Mother! It wasn’t because of Winflaed, was it?”

“No…Yes! I’m telling the truth.”

“It was because of your Francisc lover, wasn’t it?”

“No!” Tears streamed down her face. She struggled to speak as incoherent mumblings spilled out of her mouth.

He was eye to eye with her now, noses almost touching. “You wanted to punish me, because I knew what you had got up to in your bed those nights when Ranulf came with the Francs, and Father was away.”

“No, never – it was because of Winflaed – she could have died.”

He spoke over her as she said the words, feeling such rage. “It was because you lay with another man. Did you think I would be too young to notice? Too stupid, perhaps? Everyone thought I was stupid back then. All of you did! Father, Wulfric, Wulfwin, Freyda… Poor, stupid, stammering Tovi. Well I’m not stammering anymore, Mother, am I?”

He raised his voice over her cries of protestation. “I hope you enjoyed those nights with your lover…”

“All right! Yes… Yes… Yes – it was because of him, Thierry…” She sunk to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, mucus mixing with her tears.

Tovi fell silent. A tear ran down his cheek. His heart was doing somersaults, and his stomach rolled as he stared down at her, wretched, like Jezebel pleading for her life. She lifted a shaking hand up to him. He wanted to lift her and calm her, fold her in his arms and tell her that he forgave her. He almost put out his hand to take hers, but was stopped by a voice in his head that told him, she despises you… she is a trickster… she wants you to forgive her, but she will never forgive you… he could not bring himself to touch her.

Instead, he said, “I hope he was worth it, Mother, because your sin has been my cross to bear. Ever since that night, I have been torturing myself that I should have done something to stop you, to save you from being unfaithful.”

“Tovi – I –”

“Oh, spare me your excuses, I don’t want to hear them. I don’t want to even look at you –”

“Forgive me, Tovi, I’m sorry… I – You’re right, I have sinned, and I made you suffer, but I –

“It’s too late, Mother. You had your chance to make amends, just now, but you justified everything you had done to me. I was just a boy! A boy, Mother – trying to help you – and Father -but instead you have thrown everything I ever did to save you back in my face.” As his words became harsher, the worse her distress. It made no difference. She had not cared how he’d felt… ever. So why should he care about her pain. “I’m going now, Mother. And I am not coming back. I don’t want to see you again – Ever!”

He turned and went through the to the hearth-room. Some of the nuns he’d encountered earlier came hurrying in, coming to her aid. He ignored their reproving looks and walked past them, listening to the hysterical cries of his mother and the nun’s soft voices as they tried to soothe her. As he walked from the guest apartments and out into the courtyard, he could still hear her cries. It was then that the floodgates opened and his tears burst from them. Tears for his younger self, penned up inside him until the moment when he could at last let them go. With them, went the burden of carrying the sins of his parents and a great weight was lifted from him. And the one thing he would remember the most from that day, was that all through his tirade and haranguing, he never once stammered.