Horses like the handsome Paso on this page once used to dance past my window in Costa Rica, led down from the farms on the steep slopes above the dwelling where I lived with my husband. His study at the back looked beyond gardens rich with red-and-yellow flowers and hummingbirds to mountain tops undulating with cloud, while mine showed the colour and movement of the lane and San José city glimmering in the valley far below.

 

It was my first room just for writing--a full-time career in publishing meant all my books had been written in corners in my spare time. That year, with five novels out in English and other languages, I took precious time off to dream up the next one. Mind you, it was about Prince Rupert and the English Civil Wars--so what on earth was I doing in the tropics?

 

Somehow that exotic place helped me accept a truth: no matter how far we travel, we can never cross into the past. The past is another country. You and I, dear reader, can never physically walk its streets and highways, hillsides and forests. But we can always summon the powers of research and the imagination! 

 

That very summer I'd tramped across Prince Rupert's battlefields. I'd lugged essential history books with me to Costa Rica. And Sir Frank Kitson, Commander in Chief UK Land Forces, agreed to check The Winter Prince for military accuracy: 'You describe the battles as they might have appeared to Rupert at the time in a vivid and spectacular manner.'

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Every novel is a unique journey and I warmly invite you to ride along with me!