The Lydiard Chronicles Blog Tour

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The Lydiard Chronicles blog tour includes an exclusive excerpt for my stop. How exciting! Check out this awesome book series, leave a comment for the author, share on social, and subscribe to Sarandipity’s for more book events. Don’t forget to check out the shop and the freebies vault (pw Freestuff).

Book Title and Author Name

The Lydiard Chronicles:

The Lady of the Tower (Book #1)

By Love Divided (Book #2)

Written in Their Stars (Book #3)

by Elizabeth St.John

Blurb:

Duty, passion, and power collide in The Lydiard Chronicles, a gripping trilogy inspired by true events. Follow three courageous women—survivors, strategists, and storytellers—who defy the constraints of society to shape their family’s fate and England’s future. Their voices echo through time. Their legacy changed a nation.

The Lydiard Chronicles is an award-winning, best-selling historical family saga which brings to life the remarkable true stories of the St. John family. Spanning three compelling novels—The Lady of the Tower, By Love Divided, and Written in Their Stars—the series follows the legacy of resilient and intelligent women who lived as spies, courtiers, and diarists during England’s most turbulent century, navigating the quicks and of love and war, political upheaval, and personal sacrifice.

Bound by fierce family loyalty and unforgettable love, the women of The Lydiard Chronicles defy the limits of their time with passion, courage, and unshakable independence. They endure captivity in the Tower of London, exile in the Louvre Palace, and the heart-wrenching divisions of the English Civil War—fighting not just for survival, but for their beliefs, their families, and the right to choose their own fate. Meticulously researched and vividly told, this epic saga reveals how these women created history from the shadows, leaving a legacy of resilience, defiance, and enduring influence.

Rooted in original diaries, letters, and family papers, The Lydiard Chronicles offers an intimate, biographical portrait of women who moved behind the scenes of power. Serving as trusted secret agents, military wives, and confidantes of kings, they were deeply engaged in the political and religious conflicts of their time. Through tragedy and triumph, the women of The Lydiard Chronicles shape their destinies—and the fate of a nation—in this richly researched and vividly told historical epic saga reveals how these women created history from the shadows, leaving a legacy of resilience, defiance, and enduring influence.

Rooted in original diaries, letters, and family papers, The Lydiard Chronicles offers an intimate, biographical portrait of women who moved behind the scenes of power. Serving as trusted secret agents, military wives, and confidantes of kings, they were deeply engaged in the political and religious conflicts of their time. Through tragedy and triumph, the women of The Lydiard Chronicles shape their destinies—and the fate of a nation—in this richly researched and vividly told historical epic.

Buy Links:

Universal Series Buy Link: https://geni.us/TheLydiardChronicles

These titles are available to read on #KindleUnlimited

Hot Summer Reads:

*Each novel is priced at just 99c / 99p July 1st- 15th, 2025*

Author Bio:

Elizabeth St.John’s critically acclaimed historical fiction novels tell the stories of her ancestors: extraordinary women whose intriguing kinship with England’s kings and queens brings an intimately unique perspective to Medieval, Tudor, and Stuart times.

Inspired by family archives and residences from Lydiard Park to the Tower of London, Elizabeth spends much of her time exploring ancestral portraits, diaries, and lost gardens. And encountering the occasional ghost. But that’s another story.

Living between California, England, and the past, Elizabeth is the International Ambassador for The Friends of Lydiard Park, an English charity dedicated to conserving and enhancing this beautiful centuries-old country house and park. As a curator for The Lydiard Archives, she is constantly looking for an undiscovered treasure to inspire her next novel.

Elizabeth’s works include The Lydiard Chronicles, a family saga set in 17th-century England during the Civil War, and The Godmother’s Secret, which unravels the medieval mystery of the missing princes in the Tower of London. Her latest release, The King’s Intelligencer, follows Franny Apsley in the treacherous court of Charles II as she risks everything to uncover the dangerous truth behind the discovery of the princes’ bones.

Author Links:

Website: https://www.elizabethjstjohn.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ElizabethJStJohn/

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/elizabethjstjohn/

Instagram:https://www.instagram.com/elizabethjstjohn/

Threads:https://www.threads.net/@elizabethjstjohn

Bluesky:https://bsky.app/profile/elizabethstjohn.bsky.social

Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/elizabeth-st-john

Amazon Author Page: https://geni.us/AmazonElizabethStJohnGoodreads:https://geni.us/GoodreadsElizStJohn

Excerpt 3

Written in Their Stars

Eyewitness to Regicide

Nan Wilmot stood at Allen’s side, charged by her husband to witness the king’s execution, pinned to the barrier by the silent crowd, frozen in place by London’s stunned citizens and the bitter January weather. No matter she wore her favourite sables, for no luxury could thaw her heart.

“Do not flinch, darling Nan, do not turn your head when the axe falls, for fall it doubtless will,” Henry had written in cypher from his exile with Prince Charles in Paris. “Even at this late date, the prince denies to himself they will dare to execute his father. You must stand strong and capture every moment. What he says, when he kneels, how he lays his head on the block. Listen for his words and look into his eyes. And when the deed is done, dip your handkerchief in his gore, for his is the blood of a martyr. One day, my dearest wife, you will travel here and tell us how the prince’s father died.”

So upon Henry Wilmot’s encrypted orders, Nan fixed her eyes on this hellish scene.

Parliament’s troops stood ten deep in front of the scaffold, crowding the entrance to King Street—how ironic the name—facing them down, horses skittish, men taut. To walk against this sullen horde was nigh impossible.

She would not move. Not even if Oliver Cromwell himself commanded. And Lord knew she’d challenged him a few times, whether he recognized her defiance or not.

She sniffed.

He may consider her a simpering lady of the manor, a grieving widow, a distracted bride marrying his greatest enemy. The Protector’s God would not credit a woman the brain to think beyond planning the next dinner. Let him be content with that ruse all day long.

As before in these difficult war years, her cousin stood by her, as handsome as ever, his shoulders broad under his leather overcoat, his dark hair curling over the collar. But no light in his cloud-grey eyes for her today. This morning Allen had brought his pretty wife, turned out in her fur-trimmed crimson wool. No sad Puritan colours for this beauty, casting aside even a linencap in favour of a demure little hat tipped fashionably over her forehead. Frances Petre, ofDevon. A family of the old religion, favourites at the court of King Charles the First of England and the Catholic Queen Henrietta.

What’s keeping them?” Nan hissed at Allen. “Where is the king? Where is the executioner? Where is John? Is he standing on the roof with the other commissioners?”

Allen remained silent. As he had been all morning. His wife opened her mouth to speak for him. Nan turned away.

London’s citizens surrounded them, the brittle morning laden with sorrow and disbelief. She could not turn, pressed as she was, but the back of Nan’s neck ached with the burden of a hundred thousand eyes fixed in her direction. Never had she witnessed such a pouring of humanity from the alleys and streets. A steady tramp of footsteps, but no words, no talk. Dark clothes against a granite sky, snow threatening again. Ice hid treacherously between the cobbles, frost bruising her feet despite her elegant calfskin boots and warm silk stockings.

She looked up at Allen, his fine profile chiseled against the lowering clouds. “You’ve seen executions before. God knows when you and Luce grew up in the Tower of London, your father’s governance made you no stranger to the scaffold.”

He turned to her, his eyes blank.

She read his thoughts, as only she could.

Today was different. Today, their king was to be slaughtered.

Nan dragged her eyes from Allen to the face of the Banqueting House. A curious location. Here their family had made merry with the court. Enjoyed the masques so beloved by the king and queen. The name of the last one Nan performed in? The Triumph of Peace? How ironic. And here Aunt Barbara Villiers had encouraged their carousing under the masterpiece ceiling of Rubens, glorifying the king’s father, James Stuart, the Sixth of Scotland, First of England, First of Great Britain.

How the ghosts mocked their mood today.

The king’s cause lost. God save the army and the Parliament.

Did Allen remember those times?

“Do you recall the winter we danced here every night in the queen’s entertainments, when John courted Luce?” Surely, he remembered. He must, for Allen and her brother Edward were inseparable then, and Whitehall had been their palace.

He faced forward still. “And Edward is dead and the king-killers compel Charles to walk his last under his painted ceiling.” His voice broke. “Where his father looks down as the guard escorts him to heaven.

”God Almighty. Was there no end to this commission’s cruelty that they made each last moment on earth a sword-thrust in itself?

And now death, the ultimate Lord of Misrule, commanded her to change partners in the masque. Nan would take his bony hand and dance his volta. She cared not who she cavorted with, simply that she survive to the dance’s end.

King. Parliament. King. Parliament. Turn.

Before the Banqueting House, in the direction of Charing, a wooden stage jutted from a tall open window. Nan forced herself to look to the platform, draped in black cloth so at his last the king would have his privacy. Only God and those who leaned on high from the windows and roofs would witness his final breath.

“The executioner. The executioner.” A whisper shivered through the crowd, buoyed by shuffling as the people stepped forward as one.

There appeared the axe-man, with felt hat pulled over his masked eyes. Nan could not see the block. Thank God, for they must have built it low. At least death would come quick, the king prone, neck exposed for the axe’s blow.

And there, crowded at the windows, were the murderers, the men who had signed, whose stroke of a pen was the stroke of an axe, the stroke of death.

There, somewhere, stood Colonel John Hutchinson. With the other king-killers.

And behind him, high in the spectator’s balcony under the painted ceiling, watching with eager eyes, his wife, Allen’s sister, her beloved cousin Luce.

Did she realize at this moment how John’s signature was about to change the world?

Of course she did. Luce had written of the necessity for England’s liberty from the god-king for years.

Nan’s eyes met Frances’s, who stared back at her and gathered Allen tightly to her side. His mouth formed a silent prayer. Was it for the king’s soul, or John’s? Nan could not surmise.

“The king. The king comes.” Next to her a woman sobbed. Nan bit back her own tears.

And now appeared the king, dignified and delicate of stature, with his attendant bishop, and the star of George twinkling on his doublet. The anonymous crowd reduced to the mourners around her. A soldier with silent tears running ragged down his battle-scarred face. A woman clutching a child, holding him aloft to witness. A baby crying, and yet such silence.

The king’s lips moved, and Nan strained to hear the words.