A Bit About Gwyn

In days of old, when knights were bold, and women naught but chattel,

In quiet ways, they spent their days, and sent their men to battle.

They farmed the land and took a stand to keep the home-fires glowing,

Silk gowns concealed their spines of steel, their blissful lords unknowing.

Hail and well come.

I’m Gwynlyn MacKenzie, but you can call me Gwyn.  I currently write historical romance rimed with a touch of magic set in England during the latter half of the fifteenth century.

“Why that time period?” you ask.  “Why not Elizabethan, Georgian, Regency, or Victorian?  Those are the popular eras.”

True, but while living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, The Red Rose City, I heard York, Pennsylvania called The White Rose City.  There had to be a story there given the geography, so I did a little research and became fascinated by the English houses of Lancaster and York and the War of the Roses, a war still being debated today.  The rest is, well, history, some of which ended up in my books.

The War of the Roses wasn’t a war as we tend to think of war.  It was, rather, a collection of battles (a surprisingly small collection considering they span more than three decades) mounted as the York and Lancaster camps jockeyed to claim England’s throne.  The most interesting things actually occurred between battles as men—and women—plotted and schemed in a quest for power.

Fodder aplenty for good storytelling even without a paranormal twist that brings its own brand of complications.

Like this:

A young seer, devoid of both memory and voice, risks everything to ensure a lord’s destiny—and her own.

Or this:

She doesn’t trust men and hides a dangerous gift.  He doesn’t trust anyone and lives for revenge.  To save a king, preserve a throne, and unmask a traitor, they must set aside their differences and risk forfeiting everything —including their hearts.

The third book in the series is not yet written, but here is a hint where it’s going at the moment:

To fulfill an ancient prophesy, a blind healer must trust a man she doesn’t know–a man who may have been sent to destroy her.

I hope you will join me as I travel back to an age when vestiges of power lost still existed, a time when men were men—and women knew just how to handle them.

An unrepentant shoe slut with a penchant for red,  Gwynlyn MacKenzie has been married to her personal hero for forty years, is the mother of three grown children, and Mom-mom to a beautiful granddaughter and three handsome grandsons.
Family aside, the only thing Gwyn loves more than history is music.  In her younger days, she played trumpet, French Horn, and organ, and after a childhood singing harmony with her family on her grandmother’s front porch, sang in numerous choral groups and ensembles.  Now more a listener than a participant (unless you count lullabies), her classical favorites include her Russians and Vivaldi.  Classic rock faves include Neil Diamond, Gordon Lightfoot, Pat Benatar, Bob Segar, ELO, BTO, CCR, Moody Blues, Eagles, and many more.   Add Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Benny Goodman, The Four Seasons, Celtic Woman, Celtic Thunder, Clann an Drumma—you get the idea.
She can often be found singing along with the canned music in her local grocery store.  
While no poet, Gwyn composed the wee rhyme above when writing the original content for this page because it still amazes her how many people believe all medieval women were downtrodden and oppressed.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Her discerning friend and critique partner declared the rhyme an accurate representation of Gwyn’s heroines; strong, capable women bound but not bowed the by the social mores of their day.  Thus, while the rhyme still appears here, it also welcomes everyone who visits the site, celebrating the often overlooked or unacknowledged strength of women throughout the ages.

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