How often have we seen the hopeful strapline on a racing-set thriller evoking Dick Francis? That author's own publishers, Macmillan, have more of a right to use such tactics than most, and the Francis comparison with Jenny Pitman's On the Edge turns out to be considerably more than mere hyperbole. In fact, while some of The Master's later novels gave the impression of being written on autopilot, the setting and narrative here has the freshness and edge of early Francis. The fact that Jenny Pitman is celebrated in equine circles as the First Lady of racing, with triumphs in the world's most demanding races (including two Grand National wins) under her belt, gives her the necessary chutzpah to tackle a tale like this, with its autobiographical touches. Of course (we may be tempted to say), it's possible to be an expert on a subject while possessing no discernible writing skills, but that certainly doesn't seem to be the case here. Whether or not Pitman has been helped by some invisible Macmillan editors, her novel is an assured, swift-moving piece in which the racing universe is sharply evoked. Jan Hardy is struggling to bring up two kids in Wales under the malignant eye of her mother-in-law, and is forced to sell her farm and move to Gloucestershire where she makes her mark in the tough, male world of handling and training horses (guess who Pitman has based her heroine on?). But family problems and an involvement with the charming Eddie Sullivan threaten her future, and soon she finds the stakes are very high indeed. Don't look for le Carré-style subtlety here: this is a big, bold, page-turning piece that is drawn in vivid colours. If Pitman gives up the day job, there'll be many who'll be happy to keep her book sales buoyant on the strength of On the Edge. -Barry Forshaw.

Particular skills are required in a novel the size of Penny Vincenzi's Something Dangerous: strong, powerfully drawn characters, yes; colourful, authentic scene-setting, of course. But what's needed above all else is organisation: an author must know how to bring together all the elements to create an inexorable hold on the reader. It's no surprise to find Vincenzi doing just that. Through such engrossing novels as Another Woman, Forbidden Places and No Angel, she has effortlessly woven an unbreakable spell that ensures few readers will be able to put her intelligently written romantic sagas down. Something Dangerous (like No Angel) introduces a sharply observed element of social commentary into its epic-saga format, along with a vivid panoply of international history from the frantic 20s to the two World Wars. Adele and Venetia Lytton are twins enjoying all the social prestige and wealth that their position as daughters of the founder of a highly successful publishing empire can give them. At the age of 18, they make up for a lack of formal education with a confidence and cheek that isn't too far from arrogance. As the 30s begin, the twins put the horrors of the 1914 conflict behind them-but their adulthood coincides with the sinister rise of Nazi Germany. Soon, their privileged position comes to seem hollow indeed: Venetia finds that being trapped in a grim marriage is only the beginning of her misery, while Adele struggles to bring up two young children in a Paris that is being engulfed by the war. Then there is Bart Miller, taken from the slums by the twins' mother and more able to cope with life than Adele or Venetia. [+]

One thing is as sure as death and taxes: that each successive Bernard Cornwell novel will be as exhilarating as its predecessor. Sharpe's Havoc continues the trend, demonstrating once again why the Richard Sharpe books by Cornwell are among the most cherished examples of historical derring-do around. While the novels are all assiduously detailed, with a precise sense of period, Cornwell knows how essential it is that his hero, the danger-prone Richard Sharpe, is as vividly characterised as ever. True to form, in Sharpe's Havoc we never lose sight of the character of the protagonist and the many members of the idiosyncratic supporting cast. This time, we are taken to the spring of 1809 when a few British soldiers are stationed in Lisbon as Marshal Soult undertakes his assault on the garrison of Northern Portugal. It's not for Sharpe and his trusty crew of riflemen to dwell on the finer points of politics when they are sent into the city of Oporto to save the lives of two British women who have elected to stay. But when one of the women, Kate Savage, goes missing, Sharpe (along with Sergeant Patrick Harper and several battle-hardened colleagues) finds himself besieged in the city when the bridge over the river falls to the enemy. The English are forced on in a desperate journey back to the safety of the British encampment, but things become very murky when an enigmatic English officer informs them that they will be staying in the hellhole that is Northern Portugal. Cornwell admirers will know exactly what to expect, and all the heady pleasures that distinguished such earlier books as Sharpe's Battle and Sharpe's Company are fully in place here, with the added impetus that comes from a notably picaresque narrative. All the central characters are drawn with the customary forcefulness, and instead of the expected tension and release that is the hallmark of most Cornwell novels, there's a steadily increasing excitement engendered here that leads to an all-stops-out finale. [+]

Wives and Daughters is set in the mid-19th century in the small village of Hollingford, in rural England. The Industrial Revolution hasn't yet thrown the country into turmoil, and the railway is just beginning to cut a swathe through the land. It sounds old-fashioned, (and there are themes in the novel which date it) but Gaskell's witty, warm tale of love and longing is surprisingly contemporary. Much of the fun in Wives And Daughters comes from Gaskell's sprightly characterisation, and willful insistence on the unconventional hero and heroine, both worthy, principled, and a little tedious. Molly Gibson, the doctor's daughter, is intelligent, spiritedly dutiful and given to much silent endurance. The object of her affections is Squire Hamley's younger son "Good Roger! Kind Roger! Dear Roger!", a sort of duller Darwin. The course of true love doesn't run smooth, thanks in the main, to the scintillating Cynthia, Molly's step sister. Cynthia is a glorious creation, willful, sinful and incredibly attractive, who, with her French education, strolls through the novel with "the free stately step of some wild animal of the forest"-moving almost, as it were, to the continual sound of music. Cynthia's mother, the epitome of snobbery and self-deceit, whose "words were ready-made clothes, and never fitted individual thoughts" adds to the piquant entertainment. The novel revolves around the trails and tribulations, the questionable reputations of the inhabitants of Hollingford. [+]

One thing is as sure as death and taxes: that each successive Bernard Cornwell novel will be as exhilarating as its predecessor. Sharpe's Havoc continues the trend, demonstrating once again why the Richard Sharpe books by Cornwell are among the most cherished examples of historical derring-do around. While the novels are all assiduously detailed, with a precise sense of period, Cornwell knows how essential it is that his hero, the danger-prone Richard Sharpe, is as vividly characterised as ever. True to form, in Sharpe's Havoc we never lose sight of the character of the protagonist and the many members of the idiosyncratic supporting cast. This time, we are taken to the spring of 1809 when a few British soldiers are stationed in Lisbon as Marshal Soult undertakes his assault on the garrison of Northern Portugal. It's not for Sharpe and his trusty crew of riflemen to dwell on the finer points of politics when they are sent into the city of Oporto to save the lives of two British women who have elected to stay. But when one of the women, Kate Savage, goes missing, Sharpe (along with Sergeant Patrick Harper and several battle-hardened colleagues) finds himself besieged in the city when the bridge over the river falls to the enemy. The English are forced on in a desperate journey back to the safety of the British encampment, but things become very murky when an enigmatic English officer informs them that they will be staying in the hellhole that is Northern Portugal. Cornwell admirers will know exactly what to expect, and all the heady pleasures that distinguished such earlier books as Sharpe's Battle and Sharpe's Company are fully in place here, with the added impetus that comes from a notably picaresque narrative. All the central characters are drawn with the customary forcefulness, and instead of the expected tension and release that is the hallmark of most Cornwell novels, there's a steadily increasing excitement engendered here that leads to an all-stops-out finale. [+]

One of Shakespeare's most unpopular history plays, King John deals with the life and death of King John, who reigned from 1199 to 1216. This is as early as Shakespeare goes in his treatment of English history, concentrating more successfully on the later 14th and 15th centuries in the plays which stretch from Richard II to Henry VI. As a result, King John suffers from being so historically distant in time, as well as offering a rather weak and vacillating king, who lacks the charisma and authority of Richard III or Henry V. The play begins with King John struggling to retain his throne, under attack from rebellious courtiers and Philip, the king of France. As the quarrel escalates into war with France, the plays begins to take on a contemporary Elizabethan flavour-the feared invasion from a foreign (Catholic) nation, and the extent to which such an invasion is based on the questionable paternity of King John (like Queen Elizabeth, John is accused of being a bastard and is excommunicated). The play is saved from its rather colourless political machinations by Philip the Bastard, John's favourite, a dramatic forerunner of dubious but charismatic malcontents like Edmund in King Lear. It is also Philip who is given the most powerful and patriotic lines, when he claims that "This England never did, nor never shall, / Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror". King John's mysterious and anticlimactic death through illness at the end of the play deflates expectations-something that could be said of the play as a whole. -Jerry Brotton.