Blurb:
Orphan boy Oric inherits an ornate key, along with a dire warning to keep it out of wrong hands at all costs.
Unaware that ownership of the key poses great danger an evil moneylender, Esica Figg, determines to seize it. With this idea in mind, he employs scoundrels and scallywags to help achieve his aim.
In his quest to unravel the mystery behind the puzzling inheritance, Oric is pursued by Figg’s mercenary killers. Deep winter snow, and summer drought conditions add to his many difficulties.
Ichtheus the apothecary, and kitchen maid Dian, assist Oric as best they can, and deep trusting friendships are formed between the trio. Together they experience many adventures, some life-threatening, some hilarious. They are helped, but more often hindered, by Ichtheus’ recalcitrant donkey, Braccus, and an overenthusiastic wolfhound named Parzifal.
Can Oric solve the mystery surrounding Deveril’s key, and how many people meet their maker in the process?
Buy links:
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Excerpt:
The apothecary’s departure from Kilterton was undignified. A goose, led by Ichtheus on a long cord around her neck, hissed and flapped. She spooked Braccus, causing him to buck. Ichtheus clung on. Oric was soon in trouble, too. He sneezed repeatedly as feathers from two chickens in a wicker cage flew up his nose.
Folks sniggered and nudged each other, some barely able to contain their mirth as they watched the spectacle.
Parzifal, thinking it all a wonderful game, ran in and out of the donkeys’ legs, yapping and snapping.
“Get out of the way, bonehead,” Oric yelled. The new donkey, unsettled by the noise, skittered sideways. Oric lost his grip on the coop and the chickens crashed to the ground. The donkey continued to prance and Oric joined his feathered friends.
“You need to get a firmer grip on yon animal,” wheezed an old farmhand. The man’s weather-beaten face creased with humour as he grabbed the donkey’s bridle.
Seated on a bench outside the inn, Dian observed Oric’s struggles. Oric scrambled to his feet and came almost nose to nose with her. Two dimples indented Dian’s rosy cheeks as she tried not to giggle. The blood rushed to Oric’s face, and again he felt foolishly inadequate. Ye gods! Whatever must the girl think of him?
“What ails you now, boy?” Ichtheus reviewed their scattered possessions. “Pick up the coop and carry the chickens. I will lead the donkey. You can follow along at your own pace, on foot, and for goodness sake keep Parzifal out of my way.”
Sighing, Oric obeyed. “So much for me riding home,” he said, giving Dian a sickly grin.
Dian reluctantly trailed back to her parents’ cottage. Her father, Eadbald Cole, earned his living doing odd jobs around the village; he would soon return from the inn to demand his dinner. Finding nothing to eat, he would beat his wife. Well aware that her father’s earnings were paltry, Dian wished that he did not spend so much of his income on ale. Her mother, Frida was little better, for she also liked a tipple. With few funds left over to buy food, the Cole family often went hungry. Depression settled upon Dian like a dark cloak and she longed to escape; but where could she go?
-oOo-
Anticipation stirred Figg’s innards as he watched the Horzefells leave the village in pursuit of the apothecary and his apprentice. If everything went according to plan, he would soon have his hands on the apothecary’s takings, the boy, the alchemist’s key and, for all he knew, a vast fortune. Finished with the market, he stowed his table away and locked up his shop. Mounting his mare, he set off for St Griswald’s Church.
Figg had discovered St Griswald’s whilst out collecting loan repayments from farm-tenants and cottagers. The regular priest had abandoned the church, and its nearby manse, in favour of greatly superior lodgings beside Kilterton’s new priory. Deserted, the old buildings had soon fallen into overgrown disrepair. A gloomy crypt beneath the church provided an ideal place for what Figg had in mind. As part of Sir Edred’s estate, the buildings, hidden by a thick copse of trees, were only a short distance from Bayersby Manor.
A few days after finding the church, Figg had hidden most of his money there. He imprinted upon his brain each and every headstone above the graves in which he had buried his silver. Relieved that he had found a safe place to store his wealth, Figg relaxed for the first time in many moons. He instructed the Horzefell family to move from their hovel on High Moor into St Griswald’s crypt, and informed the remainder of his band of villains that they had a new meeting place.
-oOo-
Lavender twilight descended upon Oric and Ichtheus as they made their way home from the market. Damp mist rose from the earth and seeped into moorland hollows, transforming them into milky-looking pools. Bracken grew head-high on either side of the road and, hampered by the chicken-coop, Oric soon lost sight of his master. Whoever would have thought that two chickens could weigh so much? For two sticks he would release the wretched creatures and dump the cage.
Parzifal gazed at the birds and drooled.
Oric stopped to rest awhile and rubbed his sore arms. The day had been interesting, medically speaking, but the opportunity to try Deveril’s key in any of Kilterton’s locks had not presented itself. At his current rate of progress, the mystery might never be solved.
The memory of Dian’s laughing face temporarily wiped all thoughts of the key from Oric’s mind as he blushed scarlet for the third time that day. How he wished she had not witnessed his embarrassing mishap with the chickens and the donkey. He would like to know the girl better, but would she wish to befriend such a buffoon?
Hersica and Zebediah decided upon Digby Ford across Roxdale Beck as the ideal ambush site. Outside the village, they left the main road and took a shortcut. Unhampered by baggage, they soon came to the shallow crossing. Tall bracken gave them adequate cover as they settled down to await the apothecary and his apprentice.
Ichtheus and his animal entourage arrived at the ford. In the middle of the crossing, the new donkey’s leading rein pulled taut.
Exasperated, Ichtheus looked back. “Pish! What is the matter now?”
The new donkey, it seemed, had an aversion to water. Ichtheus tugged on her rein, but she steadfastly refused to enter the swiftly flowing beck.
“Where the devil is Oric?” Ichtheus muttered. “The lad is always missing when I need him most.”
Let’s meet Leslie:
NA: What book(s) are you featuring today?
LW: Oric and the Alchemists Key
NA: How did you come up with the idea for your book?
LW: One of my hobbies was doll making. I formed a medieval apothecary on a wire armature, and named him Ichtheus. As I needle-sculpted his facial features and fingers, he began talking to me. I talked back, and a lasting, hilarious relationship developed between us. Kind of spooky, but such is my author’s zany imagination. The rest is history.
NA: What sort of research did you do to write this book?
LW: My research is nonstop and ongoing. When writing medieval genres I dare not relax, for fear I add something that wasn’t in use during the fourteenth century. Since the story’s main protagonists are an apothecary and his apprentice, I often refer to Culpeper’s Complete Herbal, and the Reader’s Digest’s Magic and Medicine of Plants. I also have a small library of historical reference books for all manner of other queries that I need to follow up. Good old Google provides extra back up when all else fails.
NA: A fun fact about writing your book.
LW: My books portray a plethora of fascinating characters, all of whom talk to me. The little blighters take over, plunging me into the madness and mayhem that raged across the rugged, wild splendour of fourteenth-century North Yorkshire. Much of the history I write about is still there, albeit in a state of ruin. A cast of zany animals add fun, colour, and humour to my stories; Parzifal, an Irish wolfhound, who is a law unto himself, and a recalcitrant donkey named Braccus, who provides elderly apothecary,
Ichtheus, with questionable transport, to name but two. Both familiar and new characters, plus more animals, appear in the following two books in the Oric series, and I love them all. As long as I am able to write, I will never be lonely.
NA: Do you have a day job? What was your job before you started writing full time?
LW: I am now retired. As for occupations – I have had too many to list. From fashion model to cleaning lady, with all manner of things in between. Might be a book about my nefarious endeavors one day. LOL.
NA: What do your friends and family think about your being a writer?
LW: I was a duffer at school, so I think surprise was their first reaction. That said, everyone is supportive, and most love to read my stories.
NA: The biggest surprise you had after becoming a writer.
LW: The thrill of achievement, and meeting so many like-minded people, in real life, and online. I was surprised how many wonderful indie authors there are.
NA: Do you outline books ahead of time or are you more of a by-the-seat-of-your-pants writer?
LW: I have always been a seat-of-the-pants writer but, after a particularly difficult edit and umpteenth re-write with my latest book, I’ve promised myself to be more organised in future. Time will tell, LOL.
NA: What has been one of your most rewarding experiences as an author?
LW: Standing in a supermarket queue, a fellow customer ran up to me and shouted, ‘You’re the Oric Lady, aren’t you? I love your books, they’re fantastic!’ Ahh, fame at last! 😊
NA: What do you like to do when you’re not writing?
LW: Travel, though my wanderings have been severely curtailed – thanks to the Covid virus. Apart from that, I love reading, reviewing, gardening, embroidery, craftwork, entertaining friends, socializing with other authors, and cooking hearty meals for my family on Sundays.
NA: A pet peeve.
LW: Any kind of injustice, or cruelty, involving animals or humans.
NA: First thought when the alarm goes off in the in the morning?
LW: 4am, every day… I’m gonna kill that noisy darned bird! Of course, I wouldn’t, but I have been out with a torch and a hose pipe on a few occasions, lately.
NA: What famous person would you like to have dinner with?
LW: Ooh, that’s a curly one – there are so many. Maybe, as an ex-pat Yorkshire woman, Captain James Cook might be my first pick, especially if he brings his wife along.
NA: What are you working on now?
LW: The Final Twist, a psychological thriller/romance c early 1960s set in England and Europe.
NA: What is any question we didn’t ask that you would like to answer?
LW: I think you pretty much covered it all. Thank you.
NA: Thank you, Leslie for joining us!
Leslie:
Lesley Wilson was born in North Yorkshire, UK and educated at St Martin’s Preparatory School Grimsby, Lincolnshire, Mill Hill School, Middlesbrough, and Pickering’s Commercial College, Middlesbrough, Yorkshire. She completed a course in Journalism with the London School of Writing, and has been an active member of a writers’ group in Australia.
In 1957, she met a young man on holiday in Italy. A whirlwind courtship followed before he joined the British Army. Fifteen months and hundreds of letters later, Lesley, aged seventeen, boarded a troop ship bound for Singapore, where she married the love of her life. She worked as a fashion model in Singapore for two years before returning to the UK. A three year posting to Germany with her husband followed.
Returned to the UK after her husband left the army, Lesley worked as Girl Friday for a well-known racing driver/motor dealer. She underwent training in London at Helena Rubinstein’s London Salon, and worked thereafter as a consultant for five years. Her other careers have included ownership of a sauna and health studio, and market research, which involved many miles of driving throughout North Yorkshire in all kinds of weather.
In 1982 she migrated to Australia with her husband and small son. She ran a craft shop for several years in which she manufactured all the items for sale. During this time she was also a volunteer in a Maritime Museum. Hunting wrecks off the coast of North Queensland became an absorbing a hobby, and she helped to rescue an ancient, decommissioned lighthouse for the city in which she lives.
Today she is retired and enjoys spending time with her grandchildren. She is also a member of an active quilting group who involve themselves in charitable endeavours from time to time. She reads and reviews books for other authors but writing is her major passion. When she isn’t glued to the computer keyboard she loves to travel, entertain friends, and work in her large garden in North Queensland.
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What Inspires Me
Meet Lisabet:
Excerpt:
Someone asked me a while back if my book, Burning Bridges, was romance or women’s lit? She said the description sounded like women’s lit, and she doesn’t review that genre. Gosh, this was something I hadn’t considered before. I thought of my book as romance. I think of women’s lit as centered around a woman and how she solves her life problems, but with elements of romance. In fact, so many books I read as “women’s lit” were actually (in my mind) romances. The woman’s problem was so often being alone (after a long-term breakup or a failed marriage) and finding a new partner while solving her problems. I fail to see how that is different from most romances.
there is very little romance or bonding with someone else? Is that women’s lit? 
Award-winning author Linda O’Connor started writing romantic comedies when she needed a creative outlet other than subtly rearranging the displays at a local home décor store. Her books have enjoyed bestseller status. When not writing, she’s a physician at an Urgent Care Clinic. She shares her medical knowledge in fast-paced, well-written, sexy romances – with an unexpected twist. Her favourite prescription to write? Laugh every day. Love every minute.