When the Stones Held: Yarde Book Promotions
When the Stones Held is a historical novel inspired by the remarkable true story of William Edwards, the self-taught Welsh stonemason who built one of the great bridges of the eighteenth century.
Growing up in rural South Wales, William lives in a world of hard physical labour, dangerous rivers and limited opportunity. From an early age, he develops an instinctive understanding of stone, balance and the possibilities hidden within the landscape around him.As the coal trade begins to transform the valleys and the need for safer routes grows, William accepts an extraordinary challenge: to build a bridge across the River Taff at Pontypridd. He is twenty-seven years old and has never built a bridge before. What follows will test far more than his skill as a stonemason. Flood destroys his first bridge. Later attempts bring new failures and new problems to solve. With his reputation, livelihood and family affected by every decision he makes, William must decide how much he is prepared to risk for something no one can promise will succeed. Set against a South Wales beginning to experience profound change, When the Stones Held is a story of ambition, family, community and resilience, and of an apparently ordinary man whose determination would leave a legacy that survives more than two and a half centuries later.
Praise:
‘When the Stones Held’ is a beautifully written novel that celebrates perseverance, faith, love, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. It reminds us that the greatest achievements are rarely built by one pair of hands alone, but through the courage, kindness, and support of those who stand beside us.
Yarde Book Promotions
Buy Link:
This book is available on #KindleUnlimited
Excerpt
1741
Outside, the night air was cold and clean. Stars hung over the dark bulk of the castle, and somewhere a dog barked. William drew a breath deep into his lungs, but the tavern clung to him with the talk of gangs, Ewan’s sneer, and the unexpected presence of Myfanwy’s nearness. He set his feet for home, several thoughts echoing in his mind.
The door banged open behind him.
“Leaving already?” called Ewan’s voice, thickened with ale and sharpened by something meaner.
A loud ripple of noise spilt out of the tavern behind him, as men began to follow, drawn by the scent of trouble. Even the fiddler came, bow dangling at his side. They gathered behind Ewan, who swaggered and grinned with the attention.
William turned.
Ewan stepped forward, coat open, hair fallen loose across his brow, cheeks flushed. His friends fanned behind him, with other men grouped behind them. Myfanwy appeared between them a moment later, cloak drawn close, her face pale in the starlight, eyes bright with interest.
“You’re a bold one, William Edwards,” Ewan called, stepping into the yard. “Bold in chapel with the old man and women, and bold out in the fields with the sheep. But you’re quiet enough when a man asks what you are.”
He came closer, boots grinding on gravel.
“Which are you, William Edwards? Builder? Preacher? Or coward?”
The yard tightened. Men spread into a rough circle without speaking, the tavern light spilling out to mark its edge.
William felt the instinct to answer insult with fist. His father had not raised him to be trampled. His jaw hardened.
Ewan stopped an arm’s length away. “I’ll tell you what you are,” he said, voice dropping. “You’re a man who hides behind walls and prayers. You speak of courage when you’ve never risked a thing.” He took a step forward and shoved him.
A sound of interest moved through the crowd, shuffling forward, expecting escalation.
William rocked back half a step.
Ewan’s grin spread, his hands restless at his side, bunching, ready to punch.
“Hit him,” someone called.
Myfanwy watched, a smile beginning.
William straightened, and for a heartbeat, he saw red, saw the path laid out clean before him. One blow, then the ring would close, and the night would roar.
Instead, he lifted his chin. “You’re mistaking your drunkenness for courage,” he said quietly.
Ewan blinked.
“Shouting about wars you have not fought is not bravery,” William went on. “Nor is goading others to bleed in your place, for you’ll never fight for this country. You’ll be bought out.”
A murmur shifted through the circle. “The lad’s right. He won’t fight!” called someone.
Ewan’s face darkened. “You calling me a liar?”
“I’m calling you loud.”
A hiss of laughter cut through the yard, quickly smothered.
Ewan lunged again, this time swinging with his fist, aiming at William’s head.
William stepped aside. The punch cut air. Ewan overbalanced and stumbled hard to his knees in the gravel. A harsh bark of laughter broke from the crowd before it was swallowed. Ewan rose too quickly, passions enflamed, stumbling.
“Take him home, before he hurts himself!” someone called.
Myfanwy moved, her gaze flicking from one to the other. “Enough, Ewan,” she said sharply, but she couldn’t hide a smile.
Ewan swore at Myfanwy and stumbled forward again.
Then another voice cut in.
“That’s enough.” It was the grey-haired drover from inside. He stepped forward. “You want to fight, fight the French. Not each other.” He grabbed Ewan’s shoulder.
Ewan tried to shrug it off, but the drover’s grip was firm. His eyes burned as he stared at William. “You walk away now,” Ewan said to William, teeth bared, “and they’ll call you coward.”
“Let them,” he said. He stepped back, out of the circle.
No one blocked him.
The ring loosened as suddenly as it had formed. Men coughed and shuffled back into the pub. The night reclaimed its space.
William walked toward the road.
Behind him, Ewan’s voice rose once more, brittle now. “Run then!”
Footsteps fell into pace behind him.
He did not turn at once, but he knew it was not Ewan; the footsteps were lighter and steadier.
Two girls who had been sitting together in the corner of the pub came level with him after a few yards: Mary Jones with Bronwen Lloyd, a step behind.
“That was brave. You could have struck him,” Mary said.
“Aye,” Bronwen added. “Most would have.”
William kept his eyes on the path ahead. “Aye, most probably would have,” he said. “Maybe I should, but there was no point.”
Mary studied him in the starlight. “You were right not to. He was too drunk. And stupid.”
They walked on together a little way in silence. Behind them, the tavern noise resumed, thinner than before.
At the fork where the path split toward Bryntail, Mary slowed. Then she and Bronwen turned off toward Groeswen, waving goodbye, leaving him with the road and the cold stars overhead.
Far behind, Ewan’s voice rose again.
William didn’t turn. By morning, the pub at Caerphilly would be all the valley’s talk.
David E. Owen
After decades spent teaching around the world—from the UK to the Caribbean, Africa, and the Middle East—I came to writing fiction later in life. I started with fantasy before finding my voice in fast-paced, real-world spy thrillers. My stories are grounded in current issues like corruption, gender bias, and power, but always emphasise pace, surprise, and character-driven tension.
I’ve visited over 80 countries, worked as a radio host in Abu Dhabi, directed Shakespeare for African audiences in the bush, and even survived a flash flood in Mali and an armed hold-up. I was arrested for drug-smuggling in Nigeria but was eventually released when I refused to pay off the police captain, and I was boat-wrecked alone on a desert island in the Arabian Sea (but no tree) and rescued through a police search. Now retired from teaching, I split my time between writing, photography, and trying to get fit (thanks to a stubborn rowing machine). My latest novel, Hate Machine, tackles misogyny and gender radicalisation — not typical thriller territory, but I like a challenge.
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