4 Historical Novels Set In Medieval England [March 2023]

Historical novels set in medieval England from Next Chapter [March 2023]

Medieval England refers to the period between the 11th and 15th centuries, characterized by significant political, economic, and social changes. The Norman Conquest in 1066 marked the beginning of this period, when William the Conqueror became the first Norman king of England. The feudal system dominated medieval England, with the king as the supreme ruler and the lords as his vassals.

During this period, England saw significant advances in agriculture, trade, and the economy, which led to the growth of towns and cities. The development of trade routes, such as the wool trade, brought prosperity to the country, and the emergence of a middle class created new opportunities for social mobility. However, this period was also marked by conflict, including the Wars of the Roses, which lasted from 1455 to 1485 and resulted in the Tudor dynasty taking the throne.

Religion played a significant role in medieval England, with the Church serving as a powerful institution that influenced all aspects of life. The building of grand cathedrals, such as Canterbury Cathedral and York Minster, reflected the importance of religion in the lives of the people. Despite the challenges of the period, medieval England laid the foundations for the country's future political and economic development, and it remains an important chapter in British history.

If you’re a fan of historical fiction and looking for a book set in the medieval ages, look no further. Below, we’ve collected four of our recent historical book releases, all set in this particular time period.

We hope you like the stories on this page - and if you do, please take a moment to leave the author a review :) Don’t agree with our choices? Leave a comment below and let us know what books are your favorites in the medieval fiction genre!

Novels featured on this page

• Perfecta Saxonia by John Broughton

• Da Vinci's Last Supper - The Forgotten Tale by Paul Arrowsmith

• Crowned By Love (The Yorkist Saga Book 1) by Diana Rubino

• Shadowland (Shadowland Book 1) by C.M. Gray

Perfecta Saxonia by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Sondwic, Kent, 895 AD

“We should take a ship down the Temes and up the Lygan,” the Aetheling Edward said. “You have a choice of ships moored here in the Stour.”

I blanched at the suggestion. Cowering against my father’s cloak on the roaring, ice-cold sea, comforted by his protective arm was a thing of the past. To command a long-ship over the horizon amid the salt waves tossing was another matter.

“Do I see fear in your face, Lord Ecgwulf?” Edward jibed.

Hot denial burnt in my cheeks, for I held back rash words, bitten off by a blessed residue of good sense. At least his request came in late spring with the weather set fair, I reasoned.

“There are several seaworthy vessels,” I agreed when I found my voice again.

“Then we should take as many around the Thanet ness and into the Temes as you can spare crews for. Our reception in the River Lygan might be warm,” he chuckled.

The next three days passed in a bustle of preparations. I decided to leave Osbald behind, charged with protecting the settlement in our absence. He could still call on a hundred men, most of them used to fighting. On the fourth morning, with the quickening tide, we cast off, our heartfelt farewells, in my case, soon forgotten in the dread I felt as the sails unfurled. The wind-ruffled feathers of terns swooping around the masthead caught my eye, and for a foolish moment, I wished to fly away with them. Instead, two fearsome adversaries awaited me, or so I persuaded myself: the sea and the Norsemen. In truth, my real opponent stood in my own shoes – the obstacle to overcome being insecurity due to lack of experience and immaturity. If anyone dared question these things to my face, I’d draw Breath Stealer on him.

The prows of our warships cleft through the grey-brown waters at the mouth of the estuary, and we headed into the open sea. My arrangement to save face was with one of Father’s thegns. Beforehand, in private, I told him to make silent signals to me so I should appear to be in command. To my relief, the message of his gnarled, scarred hand, hidden from general view, was clear.

A swift glance at Edward, who was staring back at the outlet whence we had sailed, convinced me he had not noticed. So, with a leap on a bench at the base of the mast, my arm clinging to the latter, I called to the steersman to veer northward along the Thanet coast. My voice rang out to him in the stern with ease, and he signalled his acknowledgement. How gratifying to see the look of approval on the face of my wife-brother. This first test of my leadership mastered, I glanced back to see our six other ships veer in our wake. The voyage to the mouth of the Temes passed without incident. The harmless passage of merchant vessels, invariably hailed in greetings from our decks, broke the monotony of the ocean’s heave.

The unseeing eyes of the wolf-head prow, we fitted as a signal of our warlike intentions, pitched over the choppy approach where the river embraced the sea. The intensity of its wooden gaze scarcely matched that of Edward as we searched warily for enemy craft. But we sought in vain. Within the hour we were amid the cries and odours of the bustling port of Lundenwic.

“Father keeps talking about repairing the stone fortifications,” said Edward pointing back downstream to where the ruins of Londinium stood. “The Danes stayed there four winters past.”

“Regarding the Norsemen, where is the mouth of the Lygan, do you know?”

Edward shook his mane of chestnut-brown hair.

Without continuing the conversation, I strode over to my old sea-dog adviser and bent over his grey-haired head to exchange words.

Satisfied, I straightened and roared, “Man the oars!” I cupped my hands and shouted the order to the other ships from Sondwic.

In reply to Edward’s quizzical look, I explained, “One of our greybeards knows it well. We cannot enter the river under sail, and it flows into the Temes another two bends to the west, upstream.”

Da Vinci's Last Supper - The Forgotten Tale by Paul Arrowsmith

Book excerpt

The mere mention of Father Rodrigo of Salamanca was enough to strike fear into the hearts of many an honest Catholic. Amongst the Spaniard’s various papal duties was that of ‘Inquisitor’, a role he relished as he traversed Italy with a license to condemn those he perceived guilty of crimes against the Church. He had ordered the execution of more souls than he could recall. It had only been a few winters previous, when still in Spain, Father Rodrigo had been called upon to investigate allegations of heresy and witchcraft.

Late one November night, he had arrived with a small band of soldiers under his command during a heavy downpour at the ancient town of Cartagena. Abbot Ferdinand, who had sent for him, was waiting with a remnant of faithful monks and nuns in a state of desperation inside a small stone church on the outskirts of the port when Father Rodrigo arrived. Abbot Ferdinand told their sorry tale of blood and feathers on the floor of the Monastery of the Blessed Virgin atop the hill overlooking the town. A jewelled crucifix had been torn from the wall above the monastery altar and positioned in a pentagram, upside down and dipped in blood. The monks and nuns occupying the monastery were drunk and naked and indulging in all manner of Devil worship and licentious behaviour.

‘The vile song of witches has been heard throughout the night, terrifying the townsfolk,’ the Abbot had claimed. ‘Many have fled along the coast to relatives.’

Father Rodrigo considered their comments carefully, along with the horrific accounts the Abbot and his companions told of how Satan had seized the minds of many they once considered brothers and sisters in Christ.

Of the weeks that followed it was Abbot Ferdinand, along with the poor frightened monks and nuns Father Rodrigo had first encountered, who were the first to be found guilty of heresy. It was Father Rodrigo who signed their death warrants and who stood proudly to the right of the hangman when each one of these innocent Catholics was executed. The power he wielded, he did so with zeal, deriving satisfaction from the fear he struck into innocent and guilty alike. Such a reputation proved invaluable to the Pope when sending the surly Spanish priest on diplomatic missions.

Having been thwarted on several occasions by Il Moro’s powerful brother Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, who was Vice-Chancellor of the Holy Roman Church, the notorious Inquisitor had a particular disdain for the House of Sforza. The conniving Cardinal had used his influence to hinder the Inquisitor when he had laid accusations of heresy against several prominent individuals, who Father Rodrigo suspected had paid handsomely for the Cardinal’s protection. Therefore, when he was informed by His Holiness that his next diplomatic mission was to Cardinal Sforza’s usurper of a brother, Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, his black heart beat with menace.

Even Il Moro was not inclined to look the blood-stained Priest in the eye when he arrived in Milan one windswept winter’s day to fulfil his business from Rome.

‘If you wish the Holy Father’s blessing, we would like to see a commission of deep religious significance handed to an artist in whom there is evidence of piety,’ said Father Rodrigo of Salamanca.

‘Leonardo is my artist in residence, I am sure he is worthy,’ Il Moro said with the slightest quiver in his voice, one not lost on the smirking Inquisitor.

‘Leonardo is a bastard and a sodomite!’ was Father Rodrigo’s terse reply.

‘Every artist in Italy is either a bastard, a sodomite or both,’ replied Il Moro.

‘My Lord, rumours abound that Leonardo secretly uses cadavers. Any man practising such diabolism cannot be considered worthy to depict Christ.’

‘I have also heard it said that Leonardo flies around the rooftops of Milan with a broom between his legs, but in all my nights observing the stars from my balcony I have yet to see such a sight. If I paid attention to every piece of tittle-tattle that swept past my ears, then I’d be more worried that either the Pope or the King of France has designs to take my land.’ Bowing slightly, Father Rodrigo continued in a more conciliatory tone.

'Well, my Lord, if you will vouch for the man, I will pass your recommendation to His Holiness.’

Crowned By Love (The Yorkist Saga Book 1) by Diana Rubino

Book excerpt

Denys sat under the elm tree at the edge of the palace grounds, Chera grazing at her side. After munching on an apple, she began a missive to the Archbishop of Canterbury, telling him of her possible connection to Malmesbury. “Your Excellency, I solicit your help in finding out more…” she wrote as the words flowed easily, her penmanship steady and confident. Oh, to finally take action and trace her origins, after all those years of hushed whispers.

At the sound of thumping hooves, she looked up, expecting a royal page to accompany her back to court. But her breath caught and held as the rider came closer. The streak of white played through his windblown hair, puddling round his shoulders as he halted his mount.

“I am otherwise engaged at the moment, my lord,” she stated. Her fist gripped the pen; the quill point pierced the parchment. She didn't want to betray the sparks of excitement he elicited. “Good morrow to you.”

“Despite what you wish, I did not deliberately seek your company, nor shall I give you the satisfaction of knowing how I managed to return to the palace yestereve with dignity intact.” He stared her down with narrowed eyes, yet a smile played upon his lips.

“Be grateful you escaped with anything intact, my lord.” She forced her gaze back to her pen and parchment. “Mayhap you will think before maligning someone you know not.”

“If my raiment is out of reach, I certainly shall. I shall think afore disrobing for any reason from now on. Especially in present company.” He unhorsed and approached her. She now sat at eye level with his knees and furtively observed the embroidered tunic molded to his torso, his flat abdomen tapering to squared-off hips. Tight hose outlined his masculinity.

The breeze carried his woodsy scent. Moonlight hadn’t done him the justice of the bright sun. The cover of night had shadowed the sky-blue eyes she'd marveled at in the outer court. She focused on those eyes once more, still radiant with the innocence of youth, untouched by the hurt of lost love. Her eyes swept over the broadness of his chest now that it wasn't submerged in water or encased in armor.

“Removing yourself at this moment would give me greater pleasure than ever removing your clothes in my company again, my lord.” It was no surprise when he took a step closer.

“Come now, don’t be so disagreeable. We are even. I vexed you somehow and you inconvenienced me. I admit I started it. I thought I was delirious . . . when diving into the river for a solitary swim, I never dreamed I'd open my eyes to that same vision I encountered in the outer court. You must admit it would knock the senses from any healthy man. Can we not start afresh?”

If she refused, he would no doubt mount his stallion and call it a day. Something told her not to dismiss him. Aye, he'd talked about her to Richard, but he didn’t yet know it. That was forgivable.

“I suppose there is no harm in our being civil, as I am a . . . a friend of the court, as you are. But I would inform you, I am betrothed,” she added, to maintain her distance, in case he intended to narrow it further, as she was unchaperoned.

His smile vanished but he didn't move a muscle. “A nobleman, I presume?”

She nodded. “Aye, of course, a nobleman. Titled and landed.”

“And when is the wedding date?” he prodded further.

Shadowland (Shadowland Book 1) by C.M. Gray

Book excerpt

Usher shivered, sneezed and then wiped a long smear of snot on the grass beside him before returning his attention to the hawthorn branch.

‘It’s going to rain again,’ observed Cal, his voice as gloomy as the weather. ‘Do you think we have enough dry wood for the fire later?’

‘Wood we have. All we need is to catch something to cook over it and we’ll be sorted for tonight.’ Meryn pulled his line in, inspected the offered worm, and then cast it out into the pond again. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a breeze chased ripples across the surface of the pond.

‘I don’t remember the last time that I wasn’t miserable,’ said Cal, then sniffed loudly, ‘my fingers are too cold to tie this stupid thing. Usher... ’

‘In a minute, I’m nearly done.’ Usher sneezed again then dragged his sleeve across his nose.

‘What are you messing about with, boy, didn’t you ever fish before?’

Usher glanced up at the grinning face of Meryn Link and decided to ignore him. The knack of tying a hawthorn hook was firstly to cut the thorn from the branch properly, which he had now carefully done, and then to make sure that you tied not one, but two parts of the thorn securely, that way the fish wouldn’t be able to pull free of the line when it was snagged. It wasn’t easy, especially when the line you were using was a strip of thin bark plaited patiently by the light of a campfire. Of course, Meryn had produced a carefully rolled line of plaited horsehair for his own use, along with some well-carved bone hooks, which was the reason he was putting on that superior air. It was really beginning to annoy Usher.

‘Pass me a worm,’ he said, still concentrating on flattening his final knot.

Cal poked about in the muddy clay bowl and produced a fat worm that curled and rolled lazily in his fingers.

Usher glanced over. ‘Do you have a smaller one, one of those red ones? They move a lot better.’

Cal sorted through; inspecting the various worms they had found and finally saw what Usher was looking for. He passed it over then returned to setting up his own line. The hawthorn kept pricking his fingers as he tried to tie it but his hands were so cold he couldn’t feel a thing, anyway.

‘You two really think you’ll catch anything? I would have lent you one of my good bone hooks, but... ’

‘We’ll be fine,’ interrupted Usher. ‘Why don’t you just concentrate on your own line?’ Satisfied the worm was firmly lodged on his thorn; he hefted the rolled line and swung the wriggling offering close to a patch of ragged lily pads, close to where a stream of bubbles had just broken the surface.

‘You’ll be into a tench if you put your worm there. Nasty taste, all mud ’n slime they are.’

Usher glanced across at Meryn, and then back at where his line was slowly disappearing below the cold green surface of the pond. He was too cold and despondent to answer.

‘I’m so hungry,’ muttered Cal, ‘I’m sick of porridge and dry old oat cakes. We have to catch a fish.’ He shivered and blew on his hands trying to revive some feeling so he could tie his line round the fiddly thorn.

‘Don’t eat them worms, boy.’

There we have it: four historical novels set in medieval England, as of 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the stories - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. It would mean a lot to us!