Anne Farquharson
2025/26
Winner of our highly commended award Anne Farquharson
I live in East Lothian and have been writing historical fiction set in Scotland for nearly four years.
What is your novel, winner of The Stacey Thomas Historical Fiction Award about?
The Debatable Lands is a historical crime novel. Set in 1586, it follows mapmaker Robert Rutherfurd, who becomes an unlikely seeker of justice in the turbulent Border lands—an area so lawless it could be described as the ‘Wild West’ of 16th century Scotland.
Unable to refuse a royal commission to survey the grounds of Canonbie Priory, Robert is diverted from his ambition to chart the first map of Scotland and forced into the Debatable Lands where men rob, burn, and slay with impunity. He is accompanied by Marnie MacLean, the sharp-eyed clerk and strong-willed daughter of his former master.
When the King’s favourite is found stabbed to death on the bleak expanse of Tarras Moss, Robert and Marnie are thrust into a perilous investigation, rife with suspects and overshadowed by whispers that a beast from the Otherworld could be behind the killing.
My main protagonist is inspired by the real-life cartographer Timothy Pont, whose groundbreaking work produced the first detailed maps of Scotland.
What has helped you improve as a writer?
Reading, reading and more reading! And brutally honest criticism! I love hearing what readers have enjoyed about a draft manuscript, but I value even more the feedback that challenges me to improve. What I love about writing is that every problem has a solution, because—at the risk of sounding like a Bond villain—the world you’ve created is yours, all yours!
What advice would you give to someone considering entering the Ascent Novel Prize?
The Ascent Novel Prize is one of the best competitions for emerging writers—and I don’t say that just because I’m lucky enough to be on the shortlist. I love the fact that the readers assigned to your initial entry are matched to the genre you write in, and that they’re all experienced authors, agents, or editors.
The resources are also excellent, from Hayley’s blog featuring author and agent interviews and writing tips, to the Top 100 Club for longlisted writers. It’s a friendly, encouraging community where we share advice, experiences, and the emotional rollercoaster of being an aspiring author.
Opening Pages
Prologue
September 1586
With every step, Simon the Swift sank deeper into the silence of Tarras Moss, where even the wind was lost, unsure of which way to move. As lithe and nimble as a deerhound—even on good ground, he was a match for any express rider—yet still, Simon scanned the grass and gorse, ever watchful for the glint of steel. He wasn’t sure which would be worse—being caught and killed by the Border Reivers, or surviving but failing to deliver the letter. Either way, his reputation as the most reliable messenger in the kingdom would be lost.
The drovers’ road from Langholm to Cairnhirst Castle cut through a corner of the Debatable Lands, a lawless country ruled by neither Scottish king nor English queen. The track twisted through the black peaty bog, stretching out before him for miles.
He bore a message hastily penned by Lord Ormiston, concerning the disappearance of his son—a matter of great concern to the King. Consequently, he had taken the shorter route through the low-lying marshland, even though it was so soft it would have ripped the cords of a horse’s legs trying to cross it at a gallop. But it was still quicker than the longer mountainous route.
It was his thirst that made him stop by the burn, and it was the noise of the corn craws that drew him from the path. Black wings beat against the bullrushes, as birds appeared and disappeared behind the tall grasses. One flew up with a strip of pink flesh hanging from its beak. He imagined it might be a sheep, or if he was lucky, a Galloway. If the bones had been picked of their flesh, he might take a shank to make a new handle for his dirk.
Simon looked to the ground, seeking out the stones and picking his way carefully between the bottomless black pools of peaty water. There had not been a drop of rain since Michaelmas, and the air was warm beyond its wont, otherwise he would not have found any firm footing.
A flash of gold blinked as the wind blew through the sweet galingale. The blades of grass parted, revealing glimpses of a body lying half in and half out of the bog.
Though drenched in the murky water, the coat’s fine craftsmanship was unmistakable. Above the line of gold buttons, embroidered on the collar was the distinctive emblem of the Frasers—strawberry flowers stitched in silver thread on a field of black worsted.
Through the worn and brittle leather of his own coat, he felt the message burning in his pocket, and a thought as dark as the bog water seeped into his mind—this had to be the young man, Henry Fraser, the favoured companion of whom His Majesty was so concerned. A terrible certainty gripped him, as if some unseen, unearthly force had drawn the letter to this very place, knowing that the land itself would give up the answer.
Out of the corner of his eye, Simon was conscious of the birds edging ever closer, ever bolder. He imagined the all-powerful earls and lords, crowding around the body of the dead nobleman, picking over the corpse just as the corn craws were doing, and with what consequences for the realm? He took another step forward, so he might better see the face, shielded from view behind a tall clump of bull rushes.
He tried to scream, but it caught in his throat, and he gasped for air as he stumbled back, away from the horror.
Scrambling to his feet, he ran in blind panic, caring nothing for the danger underfoot.
He didn’t look back, terrified of seeing the creature that had ripped through the nobleman’s flesh— terrified that the rumours about the beast of Tarras Moss were true.