Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 107
October 3, 2013
I am planning a computer killing
Melusine is evil. No other explanation for her latest sabotage, which involved erasing all of the work I’d been doing on the electronic version of the copy-edited manuscript. I’ll spare you the gory details, will say only that her time is coming, and it will involve an encounter with an asphalt street and a bulldozer. Only the computer gods know when I can surface again, so here is an interesting article about a favorite medieval king of most of us. Who knew he spoke with a lilt????
http://www.nbcnews.com/id/50710181/ns...
http://www.nbcnews.com/id/50710181/ns...
October 2, 2013
Happy Birthday, Richard
This has surely been the best year in over five centuries for the last Plantagenet king. Happy Birthday, Richard III, born at Fotheringhay on October 2, 1452. John and I were at the church in Fotheringhay last week and I was pleased to see that a celebration was planned in Richard’s honor on this day.
October 1, 2013
My day at Dover Castle
The deadline dragon has me backed into a corner, breathing so much fire that the house is shrouded in smoke. So I will be MIA again for a while. I did want to share a photo of a wonderful day at Dover with John Phillips, Stephanie Churchill Ling and her husband, Steve. Unfortunately, I cannot do so here, but I have posted it on my Facebook pages if anyone is interested. They have renovated the castle so that the interior looks as it would have done in the time of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. I would not have missed this for the world! Needless to say, I won’t be able to do any new blogs till the copy-edited ms is done; wish me luck.
September 29, 2013
My reeturn to reality
Well, I am back on my side of the Atlantic, still seriously jet-lagged. I had a wonderful time, although three weeks was probably too long to set such a hectic pace for someone with my chronic back problems. I plan to blog about the Richard III Tour, of course, and about my other adventures on the second half of my trip. But the deadline dragon has already pounced and is moving in for the kill, as I have to go over the copy-edited manuscript and do the Author’s Note ASAP, and if I do not give them priority, I would have to give serious consideration to joining the Witness Protection Program. I will pop up here when I can; even deadline dragons need to nap occasionally, after all.
In other news, I was very happy to come home just as a judge ruled that same-sex marriages should be legal in New Jersey; I see this as an important civil rights issue. I was happy, too, to snare a copy of the new Bernard Cornwell novel, The Pagan Lord, which won’t be published in the US until January, although I was baffled to see that it has been given some unfavorable Amazon reviews simply because these readers felt it was not long enough, being “only” 300 pages. Someone even called it a novella!
The controversy over Richard III’s burial continues, now focusing upon the tomb design proposed by Leicester. http://www.nbcnews.com/science/richar... Our tour members agreed that our visit to Leicester was the high point of the tour, so I’ll have lots more on all of this in the future.
Oh, and Holly managed the impossible, gaining a full pound even though she’d been on a strict diet while I was gone.
Meanwhile, please wish me luck in this unending war with the deadline dragon. I suspect I will be needing lots of luck in my current jet-lagged state.
In other news, I was very happy to come home just as a judge ruled that same-sex marriages should be legal in New Jersey; I see this as an important civil rights issue. I was happy, too, to snare a copy of the new Bernard Cornwell novel, The Pagan Lord, which won’t be published in the US until January, although I was baffled to see that it has been given some unfavorable Amazon reviews simply because these readers felt it was not long enough, being “only” 300 pages. Someone even called it a novella!
The controversy over Richard III’s burial continues, now focusing upon the tomb design proposed by Leicester. http://www.nbcnews.com/science/richar... Our tour members agreed that our visit to Leicester was the high point of the tour, so I’ll have lots more on all of this in the future.
Oh, and Holly managed the impossible, gaining a full pound even though she’d been on a strict diet while I was gone.
Meanwhile, please wish me luck in this unending war with the deadline dragon. I suspect I will be needing lots of luck in my current jet-lagged state.
September 7, 2013
Off to chase after the third Richard
While my Kindle Fire will let me access my personal page on Goodreads, it will not let me post any new blogs or comments. So I will be off the radar while I’m in the UK on the Richard III tour.
September 6, 2013
Birth of a Lionheart
I am posting this early, since on September 8th, I will be in York. On this date in 1157, Eleanor gave birth to her third son, the only time that Henry was on hand for one of her lying-ins. Since I miss writing about Henry, I am going to put up an excerpt from the childbirth scene. Time and Chance pages 51-53
* * *
Henry swung away from the window with an explosive oath. “By the blood of Christ, enough of this! For all we know, she gave birth hours ago and the fool midwife has forgotten to send word!”
As he headed for the door, Will scrambled to his feet. “Harry, do nothing rash! You’ll just upset the women if you go charging in, and what good will that do Eleanor?”
“The lad is right,” Becket observed calmly. “You cannot hasten the birth. The babe will be born in God’s time, no sooner, no later.”
Seeing Henry’s hesitation, Will hastily groped for further persuasion. “The child might come even faster if you’re not there,” he insisted. “Everyone knows that hovering over a pot will not make it cook any faster.”
Henry gave his brother a look that was incredulous, irked, and amused in equal measure. “That is not an analogy I’d suggest you make in Eleanor’s hearing,” he said dryly. “What would the two of you have me do, then?”
“You can pray,” Becket said and Henry scowled, unwilling to entrust Eleanor’s safety to another higher power, even the Almighty’s. But it was then that they heard the footsteps out in the stairwell.
When the messenger came catapulting through the doorway, Henry’s spirits soared, for no man would be in such a hurry to deliver dire news. Skidding to a halt in the floor rushes, the messenger dropped to his knees before his king. “God has indeed smiled upon you, my liege. He has given you a fine son.”
* * *
Petronilla poured a cupful of wine, carefully carried it back to her sister’s bed. “Here, Eleanor, drink this. God knows, you’ve earned it.”
Eleanor thought so, too. “You’d think this would get easier. I’m getting enough practice, for certes.”
She heard laughter beyond her range of vision and a low, throaty voice teased, “Well, dearest, what would you tell a farmer who had an overabundant harvest? To plant less, of course!”
Eleanor was amused by that impudent familiarity, for no daughter of Aquitaine could be offended by bawdy humor. Moreover, she was quite fond of the speaker, Henry’s cousin Maud, Countess of Chester. “I am not complaining about the frequency of the planting,” she said. “I’d just rather not reap a crop every year.”
Maud retrieved the wine cup, setting it on the table within Eleanor’s reach. “After four crops in five years, I’d think not!”
“It proves,” Petronilla chimed in, “that letting a field lie fallow truly does make it more fertile.”
Maud’s eyes shone wickedly. “Nigh on fifteen years fallow, was it not, Eleanor?”
Sometimes it astonished Eleanor to remember that she’d actually endured fifteen years as France’s bored, unhappy queen. “But you may be sure I was blamed for those barren harvests,” she said, with a twisted smile. “As if I could cultivate soil without seed!”
“Does that truly surprise you? Women have been taking the blame ever since Eve listened to that fork-tongued serpent, who most assuredly was male.” Maud turned then toward the door, smiling. “To judge by the commotion outside, either we are under siege or Harry has just arrived.”
Somewhere along the way from the castle, Henry had found a garden to raid, for he was carrying an armful of Michaelmas daisies. These he handed to Petronilla, rather sheepishly, for romantic gestures did not come easily to him. (omission)
“Are you hurting, love?”
Eleanor’s smile was tired, but happy. “Not at all,” she lied. “By now the babies just pop right out, like a cork from a bottle.”
Henry laughed. “Well….where is the little cork?”
A wet-nurse came forward from the shadows, bobbing a shy curtsy before holding out a swaddled form for his inspection. Henry touched the ringlets of reddish-gold hair, the exact shade as his own, and grinned when the baby’s hand closed around his finger. “Look at the size of him,” he marveled, and as his eyes met Eleanor’s, the same thought was in both their minds: heartfelt relief that God had given them such a robust, sturdy son. No parent who’d lost a child could ever take health or survival for granted again.
“We still have not decided what to name him,” Henry reminded his wife. “I fancy Geoffrey, after my father.”
“The next one,” she promised. “I have a name already in mind for this little lad.”
He cocked a brow. “Need I remind you that it is unseemly to name a child after a former husband?”
Eleanor’s lashes were drooping and her smile turned into a sleepy yawn. “I would not name a stray dog after Louis,” she declared, holding out her arms for her new baby. She was surprised by the intensity of emotion she felt as she gazed down into that small, flushed face. Why was this son so special? Had God sent him to fill the aching void left by Will’s death? “I want,” she said, “to name him Richard.”
* * *
Will, of course, was their first son, born in 1153, who died in 1156. That is another interesting historical What if. Had he lived, the history of the Angevins and England would have been quite different, although it is impossible to say if the changes would have been for better or worse. I found something vaguely sad about this scene, for all was golden at that moment in Henry’s world. He was very happy with his queen, who’d now given him the “heir and a spare,” had his young brother at his side, and his trusted chancellor and good friend, Thomas Becket, to guard his back. I doubt that he’d have believed it had he been warned that it would all sour in coming years, with his brother dead, his queen alienated to the point that she became involved in rebellion, and the friend he loved transformed into an obstinate enemy. He even found that it was possible for a king to have too many sons.
* * *
Henry swung away from the window with an explosive oath. “By the blood of Christ, enough of this! For all we know, she gave birth hours ago and the fool midwife has forgotten to send word!”
As he headed for the door, Will scrambled to his feet. “Harry, do nothing rash! You’ll just upset the women if you go charging in, and what good will that do Eleanor?”
“The lad is right,” Becket observed calmly. “You cannot hasten the birth. The babe will be born in God’s time, no sooner, no later.”
Seeing Henry’s hesitation, Will hastily groped for further persuasion. “The child might come even faster if you’re not there,” he insisted. “Everyone knows that hovering over a pot will not make it cook any faster.”
Henry gave his brother a look that was incredulous, irked, and amused in equal measure. “That is not an analogy I’d suggest you make in Eleanor’s hearing,” he said dryly. “What would the two of you have me do, then?”
“You can pray,” Becket said and Henry scowled, unwilling to entrust Eleanor’s safety to another higher power, even the Almighty’s. But it was then that they heard the footsteps out in the stairwell.
When the messenger came catapulting through the doorway, Henry’s spirits soared, for no man would be in such a hurry to deliver dire news. Skidding to a halt in the floor rushes, the messenger dropped to his knees before his king. “God has indeed smiled upon you, my liege. He has given you a fine son.”
* * *
Petronilla poured a cupful of wine, carefully carried it back to her sister’s bed. “Here, Eleanor, drink this. God knows, you’ve earned it.”
Eleanor thought so, too. “You’d think this would get easier. I’m getting enough practice, for certes.”
She heard laughter beyond her range of vision and a low, throaty voice teased, “Well, dearest, what would you tell a farmer who had an overabundant harvest? To plant less, of course!”
Eleanor was amused by that impudent familiarity, for no daughter of Aquitaine could be offended by bawdy humor. Moreover, she was quite fond of the speaker, Henry’s cousin Maud, Countess of Chester. “I am not complaining about the frequency of the planting,” she said. “I’d just rather not reap a crop every year.”
Maud retrieved the wine cup, setting it on the table within Eleanor’s reach. “After four crops in five years, I’d think not!”
“It proves,” Petronilla chimed in, “that letting a field lie fallow truly does make it more fertile.”
Maud’s eyes shone wickedly. “Nigh on fifteen years fallow, was it not, Eleanor?”
Sometimes it astonished Eleanor to remember that she’d actually endured fifteen years as France’s bored, unhappy queen. “But you may be sure I was blamed for those barren harvests,” she said, with a twisted smile. “As if I could cultivate soil without seed!”
“Does that truly surprise you? Women have been taking the blame ever since Eve listened to that fork-tongued serpent, who most assuredly was male.” Maud turned then toward the door, smiling. “To judge by the commotion outside, either we are under siege or Harry has just arrived.”
Somewhere along the way from the castle, Henry had found a garden to raid, for he was carrying an armful of Michaelmas daisies. These he handed to Petronilla, rather sheepishly, for romantic gestures did not come easily to him. (omission)
“Are you hurting, love?”
Eleanor’s smile was tired, but happy. “Not at all,” she lied. “By now the babies just pop right out, like a cork from a bottle.”
Henry laughed. “Well….where is the little cork?”
A wet-nurse came forward from the shadows, bobbing a shy curtsy before holding out a swaddled form for his inspection. Henry touched the ringlets of reddish-gold hair, the exact shade as his own, and grinned when the baby’s hand closed around his finger. “Look at the size of him,” he marveled, and as his eyes met Eleanor’s, the same thought was in both their minds: heartfelt relief that God had given them such a robust, sturdy son. No parent who’d lost a child could ever take health or survival for granted again.
“We still have not decided what to name him,” Henry reminded his wife. “I fancy Geoffrey, after my father.”
“The next one,” she promised. “I have a name already in mind for this little lad.”
He cocked a brow. “Need I remind you that it is unseemly to name a child after a former husband?”
Eleanor’s lashes were drooping and her smile turned into a sleepy yawn. “I would not name a stray dog after Louis,” she declared, holding out her arms for her new baby. She was surprised by the intensity of emotion she felt as she gazed down into that small, flushed face. Why was this son so special? Had God sent him to fill the aching void left by Will’s death? “I want,” she said, “to name him Richard.”
* * *
Will, of course, was their first son, born in 1153, who died in 1156. That is another interesting historical What if. Had he lived, the history of the Angevins and England would have been quite different, although it is impossible to say if the changes would have been for better or worse. I found something vaguely sad about this scene, for all was golden at that moment in Henry’s world. He was very happy with his queen, who’d now given him the “heir and a spare,” had his young brother at his side, and his trusted chancellor and good friend, Thomas Becket, to guard his back. I doubt that he’d have believed it had he been warned that it would all sour in coming years, with his brother dead, his queen alienated to the point that she became involved in rebellion, and the friend he loved transformed into an obstinate enemy. He even found that it was possible for a king to have too many sons.
September 5, 2013
Random acts of kindness
I am doing a few early posts this week since I won’t be able to do so on the proper dates. On September 7, 1151, Geoffrey le Bel, the Count of Anjou, died suddenly upon his return from a Paris conference with the French king; it must have vexed him greatly that his death would be seen as validation of the prophecy of Bernard of Clairvaux, who’d warned he would die within a month. September 7th was the date of another Angevin event of significance; for in 1191, Geoffrey’s grandson Richard defeated Saladin at the battle of Arsuf. And on September 7th, 1533, the only good Tudor was born, Elizabeth, who would become a great queen.
And here are two very touching stories of random acts of kindness. I found the first one on a news website, so you may have read about it already. I found the second story because I came across the mention of a writer with the name Sharon Kay, and that was rare enough to arouse my curiosity. If you read these stories, it will make you feel better about the human race and remind us all that we don’t always know how deeply we can impact the lives of strangers.
http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/03/us/nort...
http://writeshesays.wordpress.com/201...
And here are two very touching stories of random acts of kindness. I found the first one on a news website, so you may have read about it already. I found the second story because I came across the mention of a writer with the name Sharon Kay, and that was rare enough to arouse my curiosity. If you read these stories, it will make you feel better about the human race and remind us all that we don’t always know how deeply we can impact the lives of strangers.
http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/03/us/nort...
http://writeshesays.wordpress.com/201...
September 4, 2013
You'll have to take my word about it!
Below is today’s Facebook post; unfortunately I can’t post Holly’s spectacular portrait here. It is up on all of my Facebook pages and when I can, I’ll also include it in one of my blogs. She looks like such a star that I ought to hire her an agent.
Happy Rosh Hashanah to all of my Jewish friends and readers.
My friend Paula gave me one of the most amazing birthday surprises I’ve ever had. She commissioned a brilliant artist named Sharon Anderson to do a portrait of my little spaniel, Holly. It was a huge surprise to open the package and see Holly gazing back at me. Sharon captured Holly in all her cuddly glory, from her freckles to her long, golden lashes. She even brought out Holly’s cheerleader personality. I just had to share it with everyone, for it is a remarkable painting and Holly looks utterly adorable. I am also putting up Sharon’s website so anyone interested can check out her work; I know 99% of us are devoted pet lovers here!
http://www.sharonanderson.com.au/page...
Happy Rosh Hashanah to all of my Jewish friends and readers.
My friend Paula gave me one of the most amazing birthday surprises I’ve ever had. She commissioned a brilliant artist named Sharon Anderson to do a portrait of my little spaniel, Holly. It was a huge surprise to open the package and see Holly gazing back at me. Sharon captured Holly in all her cuddly glory, from her freckles to her long, golden lashes. She even brought out Holly’s cheerleader personality. I just had to share it with everyone, for it is a remarkable painting and Holly looks utterly adorable. I am also putting up Sharon’s website so anyone interested can check out her work; I know 99% of us are devoted pet lovers here!
http://www.sharonanderson.com.au/page...
September 3, 2013
A coronation marred by bloodshed
September 3rd, 1189 was the coronation of Richard I. It was also a day of ugly violence as Londoners attacked two Jewish moneylenders from York, Benedict and Josce, who arrived with gifts for the new king, not knowing that Richard had forbidden Jews from attending his coronation, most likely to avoid the anti-Semitic pogroms that broke out whenever a crusade had been preached in the past. I don’t doubt that Richard shared the bias against Jews, for virtually all medieval Christians did; it was simply a matter of degree, as I’ve tried to bring out in my books, especially Falls the Shadow. But a king about to leave on crusade would be greatly concerned that his kingdom remain peaceful during his absence. When the unfortunate Josce and Benedict showed up, they were beaten by a drunken mob and Benedict was forced to convert to save himself; the mob then surged into London’s Jewry, burning and looting and killing at least thirty Jews. Richard was angry and ordered arrests, three men being hanged. He permitted Benedict to recant his forced baptism, much to the indignation of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who demanded to know why Benedict would prefer to be the Devil’s man rather than God’s.
Richard then issued writs throughout the kingdom, warning his subjects that the Jews were not to be harmed. Nor were they—as long as he remained in England. But once he sailed for Normandy at year’s end, violence broke out again, spreading from town to town like a virulent pox, culminating in the massacre at York in March, 1190, which has sometimes been called the medieval Masada. I discuss these tragic events in some detail in Chapter Seven of Lionheart. I read a novel about the York horrors some years ago; I believe it was called The King’s Persons and the author was Joanne Greenberg. And of course Alice Hoffman’s brilliant novel, The Dovekeepers, is a riveting, heartrending account of the events at Masada in 73 AD, (or 73 CE, for those who use that designation). I highly recommend this book, which I selected as one of the five best historical novels of 2011 for the article I did for the NPR. The other four were Geraldine Brooks’s Caleb’s Crossing, Bernard Cornwell’s Death of Kings, Paula Mcclain’s The Paris Wife, and Margaret George’s Elizabeth I. I highly recommend them all, too!
Richard then issued writs throughout the kingdom, warning his subjects that the Jews were not to be harmed. Nor were they—as long as he remained in England. But once he sailed for Normandy at year’s end, violence broke out again, spreading from town to town like a virulent pox, culminating in the massacre at York in March, 1190, which has sometimes been called the medieval Masada. I discuss these tragic events in some detail in Chapter Seven of Lionheart. I read a novel about the York horrors some years ago; I believe it was called The King’s Persons and the author was Joanne Greenberg. And of course Alice Hoffman’s brilliant novel, The Dovekeepers, is a riveting, heartrending account of the events at Masada in 73 AD, (or 73 CE, for those who use that designation). I highly recommend this book, which I selected as one of the five best historical novels of 2011 for the article I did for the NPR. The other four were Geraldine Brooks’s Caleb’s Crossing, Bernard Cornwell’s Death of Kings, Paula Mcclain’s The Paris Wife, and Margaret George’s Elizabeth I. I highly recommend them all, too!
September 2, 2013
Music never dies
Carol Sinclair put up this link to a performance of the plaint that the famed troubadour, Gaucelm Faidit, wrote after Richard I’s death at Chalus and I wanted to make sure no one missed it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=odFWdj... Gaucelm once wrote a tenso with Richard’s brother Geoffrey and he flits through a few scenes in my books, although I probably vexed his spirit by not giving him any dialogue.
We are so fortunate to be able to hear the music written by men so many centuries ago. I thought Carol might like to listen to one of my favorite musicians, Owain Phyfe, sing Richard’s Ja Nus Hons Pris, composed while he was held captive in Germany. When I went to YouTube to get the link for her, I discovered that there is a new video up of Owain, this time singing Ddoi Di Dais, the Welsh song that mourns the brutal death of Davydd ap Gruffydd, drawn and quartered by Edward I. So I naturally have to include this link, too. Many of you may know that Owain Phyfe died in September of last year, a sad loss. But what better way to remember him than by listening to him sing? Here then, are the links to Owain performing Richard’s haunting prison lament and then Ddoi Di Dais.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVRjmT...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xpxm71...
We are so fortunate to be able to hear the music written by men so many centuries ago. I thought Carol might like to listen to one of my favorite musicians, Owain Phyfe, sing Richard’s Ja Nus Hons Pris, composed while he was held captive in Germany. When I went to YouTube to get the link for her, I discovered that there is a new video up of Owain, this time singing Ddoi Di Dais, the Welsh song that mourns the brutal death of Davydd ap Gruffydd, drawn and quartered by Edward I. So I naturally have to include this link, too. Many of you may know that Owain Phyfe died in September of last year, a sad loss. But what better way to remember him than by listening to him sing? Here then, are the links to Owain performing Richard’s haunting prison lament and then Ddoi Di Dais.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVRjmT...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xpxm71...
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