Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 10
November 10, 2019
This Son of York
I am still fighting with my rogue computer, Mischief/Malice, and so far, she is winning; her latest ploy has been to sabotage the keyboard. Tuesday (and the new laptop) cannot come soon enough. I did want to stop by, though, hoping that those of you in the path of US and UK storms are dealing with them safely. And I also wanted to let Ricardian readers know Anne Easter Smith has written another book in her series about the Wars of the Roses. As many of you probably know, I do not read other writers’ novels about historical figures who are close to my heart, and that certainly includes Richard III, who saved me from having to practice law. 😊 But I know many of my readers really enjoyed Anne’s other books about the Yorkists and will be eager to read her latest, This Son of York. Anne and I hope to do an interview on my blog about her research and writing of her novel about Richard, although that will probably be delayed into December. But today is the Pub. Date for This Son of York, and here is the Amazon mother ship’s link; it is also available on Amazon.UK
https://www.amazon.com/This-York-Anne...
https://www.amazon.com/This-York-Anne...
November 9, 2019
The British cover for The Land Beyond the Sea
Sorry for another long absence, but after months of reasonably good behavior, Mischief, my main laptop, has gone over to the Dark Side. She’s crossed that border before, but this time I think she plans to take up permanent residence. My other laptop, Miscreant, is strictly a backup and my fellow football fans know it rarely turns out well when the backup has to come off the bench and replace the star starter QB—unless, of course, that QB happens to be named Nick Foles. So I had to buy a new laptop, but they cannot set it up and transfer files, etc, till next week. I’ll muddle along with Mischief till then, though I think her name is probably too benign in light of her sabotage; Malice might fit better. That was my bad news. My good news is that I got the okay from my British editor to reveal their cover for The Land Beyond the Sea. I think it is spectacular. As you all know, I love the Putnam’s cover, too. Aside from a few memorable mishaps, I’ve been lucky with my book covers over the years. I hope you like the cover as much as I do. Of course, I cannot post the photo on Goodreads or on my blog page. I was hoping I could direct you to Amazon.UK so you could see it there, but they have not yet displayed the cover. So until they do, you'll have to make do with my Facebook pages.
October 31, 2019
Books, books, books!
Happy Halloween, everybody! Please keep sending your prayers and good wishes for our California brethren, millions of whom are still living under siege. I wanted to remind my readers that there is still time to buy Priscilla Royal’s latest medieval mystery, The Twice-Hanged Man, on Amazon at a bargain price for the ebook, just $2.99. But I think the bargain turns into a pumpkin at midnight. I also wanted to let readers know that Margaret George’s compelling second novel about Nero, The Splendor Before the Dark, is now available in paperback, too. And of course we have a treat coming at Thanksgiving in the US—the publication of the latest Uhtred adventure by Bernard Cornwell, Sword of Kings; it is already for sale in the UK.
October 28, 2019
This is what Hell looks like
It is hard to think of medieval happenings when so many of our fellow Americans are under siege. I hope that all of my California readers are safe. So far, my friends seem to be okay, although several had to evacuate their home in Northern California yesterday for some scary hours. Each day seems to bring more bad news. Today they had to close part of the 405 freeway, which must have resulted in instant gridlock for thousands of unlucky drivers. The world-famous Getty Museum is threatened, too, although the museum people insist their artworks are safer where they are because of the high-tech protection. I so hope they are right. For those who want to help Californians who’ve lost their homes, the Salvation Army is usually a good choice. People who’ve never experienced anything like this cannot imagine how horrific it is. Here are some stunning, terrifying photos of the fires this weekend, which show yet again the incredible courage of firefighters.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation...
https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation...
October 23, 2019
A Family Tree Rooted in Hell
Here is the post that I was unable to put up last night. I wouldn’t have wanted to be married to the man, but he’d have made a very interesting friend. And writing about him gives me an excuse to post a scene about Henry and Eleanor; I do miss writing about them.
October 22, 1071 was the birthday of Guillaume or William, the 9th Duke of Aquitaine, often called the Troubadour Duke; he was famous for his often bawdy poetry, and would in time become even more famous as the grandfather of Eleanor of Aquitaine. The following is a scene from Saints, set on Henry and Eleanor’s wedding night. They are having supper in bed after consummating their marriage and she has just revealed to her new husband that her parents had not been happy together.
Saints, pages 645-646
* * *
“……I can understand why they were loath to wed. It had created enough of a scandal when my grandfather carried off the wife of one of his own vassals. But then to marry his son to that woman’s daughter—you can well imagine the gossip that stirred up!”
Henry sat up so abruptly that he almost spilled his wine. “Did I hear you right? Your grandfather was having a tryst with Aenor’s mother?”
“Not just a tryst, Harry. A notorious dalliance. The lady, who had the remarkably apt name of Dangereuse, was wed to a neighboring lord, the Viscount of Chatellerault. My grandfather always did have a roving eye, and he never seemed to see marriage as much of a hindrance—his or anyone else’s.”
(omission)
“But Dangereuse was different, not a passing fancy?”
“More like a grand passion. My grandmother Philippa had put up with his straying as best she could, but his infatuation with Dangereuse could not be ignored, for after he wooed her away from her husband, he brought her right under his roof, settled her here in the Maubergeon Tower. When my grandfather refused to send Dangereuse away, Philippa left him. She retired to Fontevrault Abbey, where—as unlikely as it seems—she became good friends with Grand-papa Will’s first wife, Ermengarde, who dwelt at the nunnery whenever the whim took her. Imagine the conversations they must have had on those long winter nights!”
“I’m still mulling over the fact that your grandfather was having an affair with his son’s mother-in-law!” Henry said with a grin. “It is not as if I come from a line of monks myself. My own grandfather could have populated England with all his by-blows. But I have to admit that this grandfather of yours seems to have had a truly spectacular talent for sinning. What did the Church say about these scandalous goings-on?”
“Oh, he was often at odds with the Church, but it never bothered him unduly. In truth, Harry, nothing did. He liked to scandalize and shock people, but there was no real malice in him. As you may have guessed, I adored him. Most people did, for he had more charm than the law should allow. (omission) What I remember most is his laughter and I suspect that is what truly vexed his enemies, that he got so much fun out of life. He could find a joke in the most dire circumstances, as his songs attest. That shocked people, too, that a man so highborn would write troubadour poetry, but he enjoyed it and so what else mattered?”
Henry brushed back her hair. “Tell me more,” he urged, and she shivered with pleasure as he kissed the hollow in her throat.
“Well….Grandpapa Will painted an image of Dangereuse on his shield, saying he wanted to bear her in battle, just as she’d so often borne him in bed. He liked to joke that one day he’d establish his own nunnery—and fill it with ladies of easy virtue. And when he was rebuked for not praying as often as he ought, he composed a poem: ‘O Lord, let me live long enough to get my hands under her cloak.’”
Henry gave a sputter of laughter. “Between the two of us, we’ve got a family tree rooted in Hell! Once Abbot Bernard learns of our marriage, he’ll have nary a doubt that our children will have horns and cloven hooves.”
“The first one born with a tail, we’ll name after the good abbot.”
* * *
The rest of the scene is R-rated, as Henry and Eleanor found more interesting things to do than discuss their relatives. Now that we know Eleanor was actually born in 1124, not 1122, it is not likely that she had any memories of Duke William, as he died in 1127. But we know that her sons took pride in boasting of their notorious ancestress, the Demon Countess of Anjou, so I think we can safely say that Eleanor would have been equally proud of her scandalous, pleasure-loving grandfather
October 22, 1071 was the birthday of Guillaume or William, the 9th Duke of Aquitaine, often called the Troubadour Duke; he was famous for his often bawdy poetry, and would in time become even more famous as the grandfather of Eleanor of Aquitaine. The following is a scene from Saints, set on Henry and Eleanor’s wedding night. They are having supper in bed after consummating their marriage and she has just revealed to her new husband that her parents had not been happy together.
Saints, pages 645-646
* * *
“……I can understand why they were loath to wed. It had created enough of a scandal when my grandfather carried off the wife of one of his own vassals. But then to marry his son to that woman’s daughter—you can well imagine the gossip that stirred up!”
Henry sat up so abruptly that he almost spilled his wine. “Did I hear you right? Your grandfather was having a tryst with Aenor’s mother?”
“Not just a tryst, Harry. A notorious dalliance. The lady, who had the remarkably apt name of Dangereuse, was wed to a neighboring lord, the Viscount of Chatellerault. My grandfather always did have a roving eye, and he never seemed to see marriage as much of a hindrance—his or anyone else’s.”
(omission)
“But Dangereuse was different, not a passing fancy?”
“More like a grand passion. My grandmother Philippa had put up with his straying as best she could, but his infatuation with Dangereuse could not be ignored, for after he wooed her away from her husband, he brought her right under his roof, settled her here in the Maubergeon Tower. When my grandfather refused to send Dangereuse away, Philippa left him. She retired to Fontevrault Abbey, where—as unlikely as it seems—she became good friends with Grand-papa Will’s first wife, Ermengarde, who dwelt at the nunnery whenever the whim took her. Imagine the conversations they must have had on those long winter nights!”
“I’m still mulling over the fact that your grandfather was having an affair with his son’s mother-in-law!” Henry said with a grin. “It is not as if I come from a line of monks myself. My own grandfather could have populated England with all his by-blows. But I have to admit that this grandfather of yours seems to have had a truly spectacular talent for sinning. What did the Church say about these scandalous goings-on?”
“Oh, he was often at odds with the Church, but it never bothered him unduly. In truth, Harry, nothing did. He liked to scandalize and shock people, but there was no real malice in him. As you may have guessed, I adored him. Most people did, for he had more charm than the law should allow. (omission) What I remember most is his laughter and I suspect that is what truly vexed his enemies, that he got so much fun out of life. He could find a joke in the most dire circumstances, as his songs attest. That shocked people, too, that a man so highborn would write troubadour poetry, but he enjoyed it and so what else mattered?”
Henry brushed back her hair. “Tell me more,” he urged, and she shivered with pleasure as he kissed the hollow in her throat.
“Well….Grandpapa Will painted an image of Dangereuse on his shield, saying he wanted to bear her in battle, just as she’d so often borne him in bed. He liked to joke that one day he’d establish his own nunnery—and fill it with ladies of easy virtue. And when he was rebuked for not praying as often as he ought, he composed a poem: ‘O Lord, let me live long enough to get my hands under her cloak.’”
Henry gave a sputter of laughter. “Between the two of us, we’ve got a family tree rooted in Hell! Once Abbot Bernard learns of our marriage, he’ll have nary a doubt that our children will have horns and cloven hooves.”
“The first one born with a tail, we’ll name after the good abbot.”
* * *
The rest of the scene is R-rated, as Henry and Eleanor found more interesting things to do than discuss their relatives. Now that we know Eleanor was actually born in 1124, not 1122, it is not likely that she had any memories of Duke William, as he died in 1127. But we know that her sons took pride in boasting of their notorious ancestress, the Demon Countess of Anjou, so I think we can safely say that Eleanor would have been equally proud of her scandalous, pleasure-loving grandfather
October 22, 2019
Bargain price for a book I really like
I love to be able to share good news like this; I always am delighted to learn that a book I am interested in reading is suddenly available for a bargain price. This is true now for Priscilla Royal’s newest medieval mystery, The Twice-Hanged Man. You can buy the Kindle on Amazon for the rest of October for only $2.99. I think it is also available at a reduced price on Amazon.UK but I cannot verify that since they are now instituting a very annoying policy. When I visit Amazon.UK, they show no information about Kindles, just a snippy message saying I can buy Kindles on Amazon.com. Anyway, I know for sure that you can get it for a bargain price on Amazon. I really liked this book. I always like Priscilla’s mysteries since they are set in the MA and she is as obsessive-compulsive about research as I am. 😊 But this one really resonated with me since Welsh characters were an important part of the story line, the story itself was based on an actual occurrence, and there was a clever plot twist near the end of the book that I never saw coming. October 22nd is also the birthday of Eleanor of Aquitaine’s famous and/or notorious grandfather, so I will try to get back either tonight or tomorrow to post more about him and his even more celebrated granddaughter. But I wanted to be sure first to alert my US readers about The Twice-Hanged Man. More later, I hope.
https://www.amazon.com/Twice-Hanged-M...
https://www.amazon.com/Twice-Hanged-M...
October 21, 2019
A medieval narcissist
I am happy and relieved to report that I was able to finish the page proofs for my British publisher, Macmillan, and I should soon be able to share with you their book cover for The Land Beyond the Sea. Plans are going ahead, too, to renovate and update my website; one of the changes will be sending out newsletters much more frequently. Now on to Today in Medieval History.
On October 2st, in 1449, George of Clarence was born. What can we say about Brother George? I don’t know that he was the worst king’s brother in English history. I think that was John, for he not only attempted to steal Richard’s crown, he did his best to make sure that Richard ended up in a French dungeon, where death would have been a mercy. But George certainly made an unholy pest of himself and gave so much grief to his family and others in his 28 years that it may have been a blessing if he’d been one of those babies who did not survive the perils of a medieval childhood.
I cannot say George was fun to write about, as some “villains” are. For example, I love writing about John. But George took himself very seriously, a character flaw in and of itself, and was always on the lookout for grievances to claim and then to nurture. I think he was a narcissist, for he certainly displayed many of the traits of one. He was boastful, lacked any empathy for others, always wanted to be the center of attention, was jealous and easily angered and took pleasure in petty cruelties. Even today, this form of mental illness is not easily treated; in the Middle Ages, of course, it could not even be properly diagnosed. Eventually, George paid a terrible price for his bad behavior, but in the interim, he inflicted some severe wounds upon his mother, his siblings, his wife, and any others unlucky to incur his wrath. See Chapter 9 of Book Three, page 746 of The Sunne in Splendour to meet a particularly tragic victim of his paranoia and vengefulness. (If you don’t remember Ankarette Twynyho, say so here and I will post about her tomorrow.)
On to other historical happenings on this date. On October 21, 1204, Robert Beaumont, the fourth Earl of Leicester died. He was one of the heroes of the Third Crusade, a character in Lionheart and Ransom, who was very loyal to Richard and seems to have been well regarded by all but the French king. His marriage was childless, though, and upon his death, his earldom passed to his sisters, opening the door for a young French adventurer named Simon de Montfort to stake a claim to it twenty-some years later. My new book, The Land Beyond the Sea, even has a de Montfort connection; one of them traveled to the Holy Land and wed Balian d’Ibelin’s eldest daughter.
And October 21, 1221 was the day that Alix de Thouars, the Duchess of Brittany, died in childbirth. The daughter of Constance of Brittany and her third husband, Guy de Thouars, Alix was only twenty or twenty-one at the time of her death, there being some confusion about her birth date. The birthing chamber was as dangerous for medieval women as the battlefield was for their men. I’ve written a number of childbirth scenes over the years and readers have occasionally asked me which one I found the most challenging. That is easy to answer—the harrowing chapter dramatizing the ordeal of Ellen de Montfort, wife to Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, as she struggled to give birth to their child. The Reckoning, Chapter 32.
On October 2st, in 1449, George of Clarence was born. What can we say about Brother George? I don’t know that he was the worst king’s brother in English history. I think that was John, for he not only attempted to steal Richard’s crown, he did his best to make sure that Richard ended up in a French dungeon, where death would have been a mercy. But George certainly made an unholy pest of himself and gave so much grief to his family and others in his 28 years that it may have been a blessing if he’d been one of those babies who did not survive the perils of a medieval childhood.
I cannot say George was fun to write about, as some “villains” are. For example, I love writing about John. But George took himself very seriously, a character flaw in and of itself, and was always on the lookout for grievances to claim and then to nurture. I think he was a narcissist, for he certainly displayed many of the traits of one. He was boastful, lacked any empathy for others, always wanted to be the center of attention, was jealous and easily angered and took pleasure in petty cruelties. Even today, this form of mental illness is not easily treated; in the Middle Ages, of course, it could not even be properly diagnosed. Eventually, George paid a terrible price for his bad behavior, but in the interim, he inflicted some severe wounds upon his mother, his siblings, his wife, and any others unlucky to incur his wrath. See Chapter 9 of Book Three, page 746 of The Sunne in Splendour to meet a particularly tragic victim of his paranoia and vengefulness. (If you don’t remember Ankarette Twynyho, say so here and I will post about her tomorrow.)
On to other historical happenings on this date. On October 21, 1204, Robert Beaumont, the fourth Earl of Leicester died. He was one of the heroes of the Third Crusade, a character in Lionheart and Ransom, who was very loyal to Richard and seems to have been well regarded by all but the French king. His marriage was childless, though, and upon his death, his earldom passed to his sisters, opening the door for a young French adventurer named Simon de Montfort to stake a claim to it twenty-some years later. My new book, The Land Beyond the Sea, even has a de Montfort connection; one of them traveled to the Holy Land and wed Balian d’Ibelin’s eldest daughter.
And October 21, 1221 was the day that Alix de Thouars, the Duchess of Brittany, died in childbirth. The daughter of Constance of Brittany and her third husband, Guy de Thouars, Alix was only twenty or twenty-one at the time of her death, there being some confusion about her birth date. The birthing chamber was as dangerous for medieval women as the battlefield was for their men. I’ve written a number of childbirth scenes over the years and readers have occasionally asked me which one I found the most challenging. That is easy to answer—the harrowing chapter dramatizing the ordeal of Ellen de Montfort, wife to Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, as she struggled to give birth to their child. The Reckoning, Chapter 32.
October 10, 2019
A writer friend and I commiserate about our troublesome characters
October 10th is another slow history day. The Black Prince did wed the Fair Maid of Kent, but since neither of them has figured in any of my novels, I can’t muster up much enthusiasm for doing an entire Note about them. It is like inviting perfect strangers to be my houseguests, usually not a good idea. And for me, October 10th matters most as the entrance upon the world stage of my friend Paula Mildenhall. Happy Birthday, Paula!
Now, as promised yesterday, here is a repeat post going back to 2012 (yikes) about the problems of dealing with strong-willed and arrogant fictional characters. Not all writers have this problem, of course. I once read an interview that Vladimir Nabokov gave to the Paris Review in which he was asked about a comment by E.M. Forester that his characters sometimes took over and dictated the course of his novels. Mr Nabokov rather snarkily replied that he’d only read one Forester novel and disliked it; he then went on to dismiss the idea as a trite whimsy and bragged that his own characters were all galley slaves. (He probably scared them into submission) No galley slaves in any of my books and I do a lot of moaning and groaning whenever Richard or Eleanor or John give me a hard time. But it is not just me. When Ken John is not chartering arks or exercising his superb talents as an agent provocateur on Facebook, he is writing a novel about a very interesting medieval lord, and according to his recent comments on my blog, the chivalrous and good-natured Othon has become as contrary as the Angevins. I asked Ken if I could share this with our Facebook friends and he kindly agreed. And so here are Ken and me struggling to keep our characters from staging a mutiny, every historical novelist’s secret fear—except for Vladimir Nabokov, of course.
* * *
ken john Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 8:39 am
1. Othon is fine and sends kisses. He’s actually lying on his back on the lawn with his hands behind his head and a piece of straw between his teeth, having just panned my attempt to write the battle of Lewes in 1265. After the battle Edward and Henry were made captive by Simon de Montfort, but Edward ordered Othon to escape with his Lusignan uncles, ensure that his wife Eleanor was protected and make his way to France to help Queen Eleanor raise an army.
I thought my account was pretty good having followed all the latest expert opinions on the course of the battle and what preceded it, but Othon seems to think I haven’t made enough of his part in it and particularly his fighting prowess. When I point out that none of the accounts of the battle actually mention the presence of an Othon de Grandson, so I only have his (not always reliable) account of his bravery and fighting skills, he got all uppity, said I was a rubbish writer and why couldn’t he have found a ‘proper’ writer like Sharon to write his story, instead of me?
So, he’s just lying around and I, instead of writing, am reading 1365 by Bernard Cornwell. Now there’s a man who can write a battle or two! Maybe I’ll pinch a few ideas, or is there a name for someone who does that?
2. Sharon Kay Penman Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 9:53 am
Ken, I thought only my pushy Angevins were the sort to give a struggling writer grief, never would have expected that from the soul of chivalry like Othon. Clearly this attitude of entitlement harkens back to their disdain for us as mere scribes. I should warn you, too, that it is contagious. One day it is just Othon and Edward jerking your chain. The next it has spread to Eleanora and other major characters. I am currently being scolded by Berengaria of all people, who felt that I was portraying her as too slow to realize something had gone wrong in her marriage. There apparently is no cure for character hubris, either. Master Cornwell has an advantage over us, for if his people get too uppity, he can always threaten to let them die prematurely or unpleasantly. But that only works, obviously, if the characters are fictional. If they actually lived, they just sneer, knowing we are not writing alternate fiction.
3. ken john Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 10:06 am
Oh, Edward has already had a go at me and Dafydd ap Gruffudd thinks I’m a wimp and a goody-two-shoes! Please do post it, I think Stephanie will have some fun with it!
* * *
Since this post is so old, I am counting on no one to remember it. BTW, nothing has changed. Our characters continue to give Ken and me all sorts of aggravation. Of course, Othon does have a legitimate excuse since he is still waiting for Ken to finish his story. (We are, too, Ken….hint, hint.) Now I am going back to the 12th century and the proof-reading that sometimes has me wondering if it really was so bad to be a lawyer.
Now, as promised yesterday, here is a repeat post going back to 2012 (yikes) about the problems of dealing with strong-willed and arrogant fictional characters. Not all writers have this problem, of course. I once read an interview that Vladimir Nabokov gave to the Paris Review in which he was asked about a comment by E.M. Forester that his characters sometimes took over and dictated the course of his novels. Mr Nabokov rather snarkily replied that he’d only read one Forester novel and disliked it; he then went on to dismiss the idea as a trite whimsy and bragged that his own characters were all galley slaves. (He probably scared them into submission) No galley slaves in any of my books and I do a lot of moaning and groaning whenever Richard or Eleanor or John give me a hard time. But it is not just me. When Ken John is not chartering arks or exercising his superb talents as an agent provocateur on Facebook, he is writing a novel about a very interesting medieval lord, and according to his recent comments on my blog, the chivalrous and good-natured Othon has become as contrary as the Angevins. I asked Ken if I could share this with our Facebook friends and he kindly agreed. And so here are Ken and me struggling to keep our characters from staging a mutiny, every historical novelist’s secret fear—except for Vladimir Nabokov, of course.
* * *
ken john Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 8:39 am
1. Othon is fine and sends kisses. He’s actually lying on his back on the lawn with his hands behind his head and a piece of straw between his teeth, having just panned my attempt to write the battle of Lewes in 1265. After the battle Edward and Henry were made captive by Simon de Montfort, but Edward ordered Othon to escape with his Lusignan uncles, ensure that his wife Eleanor was protected and make his way to France to help Queen Eleanor raise an army.
I thought my account was pretty good having followed all the latest expert opinions on the course of the battle and what preceded it, but Othon seems to think I haven’t made enough of his part in it and particularly his fighting prowess. When I point out that none of the accounts of the battle actually mention the presence of an Othon de Grandson, so I only have his (not always reliable) account of his bravery and fighting skills, he got all uppity, said I was a rubbish writer and why couldn’t he have found a ‘proper’ writer like Sharon to write his story, instead of me?
So, he’s just lying around and I, instead of writing, am reading 1365 by Bernard Cornwell. Now there’s a man who can write a battle or two! Maybe I’ll pinch a few ideas, or is there a name for someone who does that?
2. Sharon Kay Penman Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 9:53 am
Ken, I thought only my pushy Angevins were the sort to give a struggling writer grief, never would have expected that from the soul of chivalry like Othon. Clearly this attitude of entitlement harkens back to their disdain for us as mere scribes. I should warn you, too, that it is contagious. One day it is just Othon and Edward jerking your chain. The next it has spread to Eleanora and other major characters. I am currently being scolded by Berengaria of all people, who felt that I was portraying her as too slow to realize something had gone wrong in her marriage. There apparently is no cure for character hubris, either. Master Cornwell has an advantage over us, for if his people get too uppity, he can always threaten to let them die prematurely or unpleasantly. But that only works, obviously, if the characters are fictional. If they actually lived, they just sneer, knowing we are not writing alternate fiction.
3. ken john Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 10:06 am
Oh, Edward has already had a go at me and Dafydd ap Gruffudd thinks I’m a wimp and a goody-two-shoes! Please do post it, I think Stephanie will have some fun with it!
* * *
Since this post is so old, I am counting on no one to remember it. BTW, nothing has changed. Our characters continue to give Ken and me all sorts of aggravation. Of course, Othon does have a legitimate excuse since he is still waiting for Ken to finish his story. (We are, too, Ken….hint, hint.) Now I am going back to the 12th century and the proof-reading that sometimes has me wondering if it really was so bad to be a lawyer.
October 9, 2019
No medieval post today
I am still hard at work proof-reading the page proofs of The Land Beyond the Sea for my British publisher, Macmillan. These are the times when I vow to write shorter novels, but we know how that always turns out. I probably will be doing these hit and runs on Facebook until the October 17th deadline. Today I wanted to tell my Jewish friends and readers that I am thinking of them and so sorry that there has been yet another act of terror fueled by anti-Semitism; somehow, it seems even worse that it would take place on Yom Kipper. And I want to tell my friends in California to hang in there as they face the possibility of days without electricity; for those who’ve not heard, several California utilities are taking the unprecedented step of shutting down power to avoid sparking wildfires when power lines are brought down by high winds. Lastly, I would ask people of good will and faith to pray for the Kurds, who’ve long been a steadfast ally to the US. If I am able to make some progress on the proof-reading, I will be back tomorrow with a repeat of an interview I did a few years ago with Ken John, my friend and fellow writer, who also happens to be an agent provocateur and one of the funniest people on the planet.
October 4, 2019
One of the most challenging scenes that I've ever had to write
I have more good news; my back may not need an exorcism, after all. This is a huge relief, for chiropractors are not renowned for that ability. Unfortunately, My British publisher now needs me to proofread and return the page proofs for The Land Beyond the Sea by October 17th. These are the times when I wonder why in the world I want to write 700 page books. I’ll continue to make appearances here, but they’re likely to be brief ones until the page proofs are done.
Below is a rerun, an account of the barbaric execution of Davvyd ap Gruffydd that I posted here three years ago. This was one of the most challenging scenes I ever had to write; others include Henry II’s penance scene at Canterbury Cathedral and Richard III’s death at Bosworth. On October 3rd, 1283, Davydd ap Gruffydd, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s younger brother, was put to death by Edward I in the most brutal way possible—hanged, then cut down while he was still alive, then eviscerated and drawn and quartered. Davydd is sometimes said to be the first man to suffer this barbaric punishment, but there were at least two other cases in which this horrific penalty was imposed. But in Davydd’s trial and execution, we have the origins of the state trial. Waging war against the king was not a crime in medieval England, not until Edward chose to make it one, classifying it as high treason. Even so, he ordered no executions after Evesham, probably because almost all of Simon de Montfort’s supporters died on the field with him, but also because Davydd was more vulnerable than the de Montfort partisans, with no one to speak up for him. The author of The Law of Treason in England in the Middle Ages pointed out that “The king could make an example of Davydd with impunity.” And after his death, drawing and quartering became the standard form of execution for those convicted of high treason. Readers of Sunne may remember that the Earl of Somerset was very relieved when Richard told him after the battle of Tewkesbury that he and the others charged with treason would be beheaded, not drawn and quartered; the fourth Edward did not share the first Edward’s vindictive nature. Davydd claimed the title Prince of Wales after Llywelyn was slain in 1282, but he was overshadowed even in death by his more renowned brother, who is known in Wales as Ein Llyw Olaf—Our Last Leader.
Davydd’s dreadful fate posed a challenge for me. I did not want to dwell upon his dying agonies and I doubted that my readers did, either; moreover, my mother vowed that she’d never forgive me if I did that. So I chose to write about his last hours, confined to a dungeon at Shrewsbury Castle, knowing what awaited him with the coming of dawn. In a way, this was even worse, though, for the suffering of the mind can be even more intolerable than the suffering of the body.
The Reckoning. Page 563
* * *
His last meal lay untouched by the door. They’d given him a double helping of some sort of fish stew and a full flagon of ale—execution eve charity. He’d brought the flagon back to the bed, and he reached for it now, swallowed and grimaced at the flat, tepid taste. The cell was damp and chilly, but his tunic was splotched with sweat; although he could not remember his dream, he’d wager it held a gallows and a grave. But no….not a grave. Passing strange, for he’d not wanted to be buried in England and now Edward had seen to it. Even the Saracens did not deny a man decent burial. Only the most Christian King of England would think of that.
He’d never doubted his courage, not ever. Until today, it had not even crossed his mind that his nerve might fail him. But how could flesh and blood and bone not shrink from such deliberately drawn-out suffering? How could he be sure that he’d be able to face it without flinching?
He was not accustomed to asking hard questions; that had never been his way. But he’d had three months and more of solitary confinement, time in which he’d been forced to confront the consequences of his actions, after a lifetime of evading them. There was no room to run in a prison cell.
He’d always gotten his strength from his utter confidence, from his faith in his own abilities. What could he fall back on now? The Almighty was said to be deaf to the prayers of an excommunicate. Even though he did not believe that God was on England’s side, divine mercy might well be as scarce as Edward’s. Those charges flung at him in the Chapter House were crimes only in English eyes, not in his. But he had no lack of sins to answer for, a lifetime’s worth if truth be told. How could he be sure that God would understand? Llywelyn never had.
Omission
Reaching for the flagon, he drank again. Well, if God would not get him through the morrow’s ordeal, that left only pride. He smiled bleakly at that, seeing the twisted humor in it. For if pride was to be his deliverance, it had also been his downfall. If not for pride and jealousy, would the bond between brothers have frayed so badly? If not for pride, it might have held fast—and Wales with it.
Leaning back against the wall, he made a careless move, almost knocking the flagon over with his chain; he righted it just in time. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “I got more than I bargained for. But fair is fair, Llywelyn. Even you cannot deny that it is also more than I deserve.”
He could not remember when he’d begun to talk to his brother. It had been a joke at first, a self-mocking attempt to deny his pain, and perhaps, too, an expression of his hunger to hear a voice, even his own, to escape the smothering burden of silence, for he’d never been utterly alone before, not like this. But although he jeered at his own need—telling himself that confiding in the dead offered distinct advantages over confessing to the living---it had given him an odd sort of comfort, and he was fast learning to take comfort anywhere he could find it.
Omission
He lay down on the blanket again, closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come, and he swore suddenly, savagely. “So I lied, Llywelyn! Mayhap I do deserve it. Is that what you’d have me say? You want me to confess my sins? For that, I’d need more time than I’ve got, much more…..”
He was lying again, though. There was time. So be it, then. Wales, the greatest casualty of his war. Just as Llywelyn had foreseen. “We’d become aliens in our own land,” he’d warned, “denied our own laws, our own language, even our yesterdays, for a conquered people are not allowed a prideful past. Worst of all, we’d be leaving our children and grand-children a legacy of misery and loss, a future bereft of hope.”
More than a prophecy. An epitaph for Wales, for Llywelyn’s doomed principality. Davydd knew it had never been his, not truly. He’d ruled over a domain in its death throes. But if he could not be blamed for losing the war, he could be for starting it.
Omission
Elizabeth, I’m so sorry, lass, so sorry….His eyes were stinging, his breathing growing ragged and hurtful. Where was she? Still held at Rhuddlan Castle? What would happen to her now? Would Edward convent-cage her like Gwenllian and Gwladys? Or would he think it safer to shackle her with another wedding band? Marry her off to a man of his choosing, lock her away in some remote English keep until the world forgot about her, and she alone remembered that she’d once been the wife of a Welsh prince.
He’d known, of course, that if he fell into English hands, he was a dead man. But he’d not expected Edward to take vengeance upon Elizabeth or his daughters. He’d thought his sons would be spared, too, that their youth would save them, for Owain was only three and Llelo five. The worst he’d feared was that they’d be taken as hostages, reared at the English court as he and Rhodri had been. Merciful Christ, if only he’d realized what Edward had intended!
Omission
Edward would never let them go. They would grow to manhood behind the walls of Bristol Castle. They would not know the joys and dangers and temptations that life could offer a man. They would learn naught of friendship or the urgency and sweetness of bedding a woman. They’d never have sons of their own. They would never see Wales again, and as their memories faded, they’d forget the world they’d known before Bristol Castle. They would forget him, forget Elizabeth, and not even know why they were doomed to live out their days as prisoners of an English king.
* * *
Davydd was executed the next morning and even his many enemies acknowledged that he died with courage. For some reason, that reminds me of dialogue from my favorite film, The Lion in Winter. Richard, Geoffrey, and John have been flung into a dungeon at Chinon by their father and they are awaiting their fate. Richard declares defiantly that he’ll not beg for his life. Geoffrey lashes out, calling his brother a prideful fool and saying it does not matter how a man falls. Richard looks at him and says that it matters when the fall is all there is. The wording might not be exact, but the sentiment is one I think Davydd would have agreed with.
Below is a rerun, an account of the barbaric execution of Davvyd ap Gruffydd that I posted here three years ago. This was one of the most challenging scenes I ever had to write; others include Henry II’s penance scene at Canterbury Cathedral and Richard III’s death at Bosworth. On October 3rd, 1283, Davydd ap Gruffydd, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s younger brother, was put to death by Edward I in the most brutal way possible—hanged, then cut down while he was still alive, then eviscerated and drawn and quartered. Davydd is sometimes said to be the first man to suffer this barbaric punishment, but there were at least two other cases in which this horrific penalty was imposed. But in Davydd’s trial and execution, we have the origins of the state trial. Waging war against the king was not a crime in medieval England, not until Edward chose to make it one, classifying it as high treason. Even so, he ordered no executions after Evesham, probably because almost all of Simon de Montfort’s supporters died on the field with him, but also because Davydd was more vulnerable than the de Montfort partisans, with no one to speak up for him. The author of The Law of Treason in England in the Middle Ages pointed out that “The king could make an example of Davydd with impunity.” And after his death, drawing and quartering became the standard form of execution for those convicted of high treason. Readers of Sunne may remember that the Earl of Somerset was very relieved when Richard told him after the battle of Tewkesbury that he and the others charged with treason would be beheaded, not drawn and quartered; the fourth Edward did not share the first Edward’s vindictive nature. Davydd claimed the title Prince of Wales after Llywelyn was slain in 1282, but he was overshadowed even in death by his more renowned brother, who is known in Wales as Ein Llyw Olaf—Our Last Leader.
Davydd’s dreadful fate posed a challenge for me. I did not want to dwell upon his dying agonies and I doubted that my readers did, either; moreover, my mother vowed that she’d never forgive me if I did that. So I chose to write about his last hours, confined to a dungeon at Shrewsbury Castle, knowing what awaited him with the coming of dawn. In a way, this was even worse, though, for the suffering of the mind can be even more intolerable than the suffering of the body.
The Reckoning. Page 563
* * *
His last meal lay untouched by the door. They’d given him a double helping of some sort of fish stew and a full flagon of ale—execution eve charity. He’d brought the flagon back to the bed, and he reached for it now, swallowed and grimaced at the flat, tepid taste. The cell was damp and chilly, but his tunic was splotched with sweat; although he could not remember his dream, he’d wager it held a gallows and a grave. But no….not a grave. Passing strange, for he’d not wanted to be buried in England and now Edward had seen to it. Even the Saracens did not deny a man decent burial. Only the most Christian King of England would think of that.
He’d never doubted his courage, not ever. Until today, it had not even crossed his mind that his nerve might fail him. But how could flesh and blood and bone not shrink from such deliberately drawn-out suffering? How could he be sure that he’d be able to face it without flinching?
He was not accustomed to asking hard questions; that had never been his way. But he’d had three months and more of solitary confinement, time in which he’d been forced to confront the consequences of his actions, after a lifetime of evading them. There was no room to run in a prison cell.
He’d always gotten his strength from his utter confidence, from his faith in his own abilities. What could he fall back on now? The Almighty was said to be deaf to the prayers of an excommunicate. Even though he did not believe that God was on England’s side, divine mercy might well be as scarce as Edward’s. Those charges flung at him in the Chapter House were crimes only in English eyes, not in his. But he had no lack of sins to answer for, a lifetime’s worth if truth be told. How could he be sure that God would understand? Llywelyn never had.
Omission
Reaching for the flagon, he drank again. Well, if God would not get him through the morrow’s ordeal, that left only pride. He smiled bleakly at that, seeing the twisted humor in it. For if pride was to be his deliverance, it had also been his downfall. If not for pride and jealousy, would the bond between brothers have frayed so badly? If not for pride, it might have held fast—and Wales with it.
Leaning back against the wall, he made a careless move, almost knocking the flagon over with his chain; he righted it just in time. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “I got more than I bargained for. But fair is fair, Llywelyn. Even you cannot deny that it is also more than I deserve.”
He could not remember when he’d begun to talk to his brother. It had been a joke at first, a self-mocking attempt to deny his pain, and perhaps, too, an expression of his hunger to hear a voice, even his own, to escape the smothering burden of silence, for he’d never been utterly alone before, not like this. But although he jeered at his own need—telling himself that confiding in the dead offered distinct advantages over confessing to the living---it had given him an odd sort of comfort, and he was fast learning to take comfort anywhere he could find it.
Omission
He lay down on the blanket again, closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come, and he swore suddenly, savagely. “So I lied, Llywelyn! Mayhap I do deserve it. Is that what you’d have me say? You want me to confess my sins? For that, I’d need more time than I’ve got, much more…..”
He was lying again, though. There was time. So be it, then. Wales, the greatest casualty of his war. Just as Llywelyn had foreseen. “We’d become aliens in our own land,” he’d warned, “denied our own laws, our own language, even our yesterdays, for a conquered people are not allowed a prideful past. Worst of all, we’d be leaving our children and grand-children a legacy of misery and loss, a future bereft of hope.”
More than a prophecy. An epitaph for Wales, for Llywelyn’s doomed principality. Davydd knew it had never been his, not truly. He’d ruled over a domain in its death throes. But if he could not be blamed for losing the war, he could be for starting it.
Omission
Elizabeth, I’m so sorry, lass, so sorry….His eyes were stinging, his breathing growing ragged and hurtful. Where was she? Still held at Rhuddlan Castle? What would happen to her now? Would Edward convent-cage her like Gwenllian and Gwladys? Or would he think it safer to shackle her with another wedding band? Marry her off to a man of his choosing, lock her away in some remote English keep until the world forgot about her, and she alone remembered that she’d once been the wife of a Welsh prince.
He’d known, of course, that if he fell into English hands, he was a dead man. But he’d not expected Edward to take vengeance upon Elizabeth or his daughters. He’d thought his sons would be spared, too, that their youth would save them, for Owain was only three and Llelo five. The worst he’d feared was that they’d be taken as hostages, reared at the English court as he and Rhodri had been. Merciful Christ, if only he’d realized what Edward had intended!
Omission
Edward would never let them go. They would grow to manhood behind the walls of Bristol Castle. They would not know the joys and dangers and temptations that life could offer a man. They would learn naught of friendship or the urgency and sweetness of bedding a woman. They’d never have sons of their own. They would never see Wales again, and as their memories faded, they’d forget the world they’d known before Bristol Castle. They would forget him, forget Elizabeth, and not even know why they were doomed to live out their days as prisoners of an English king.
* * *
Davydd was executed the next morning and even his many enemies acknowledged that he died with courage. For some reason, that reminds me of dialogue from my favorite film, The Lion in Winter. Richard, Geoffrey, and John have been flung into a dungeon at Chinon by their father and they are awaiting their fate. Richard declares defiantly that he’ll not beg for his life. Geoffrey lashes out, calling his brother a prideful fool and saying it does not matter how a man falls. Richard looks at him and says that it matters when the fall is all there is. The wording might not be exact, but the sentiment is one I think Davydd would have agreed with.
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