Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 113
July 9, 2013
Henry II, Thomas Becket, and me
I am still trying to catch up on Real Life, which fell by the wayside while I was fending off the deadline dragon, so my Facebook appearances are likely to be hit or miss for a while. I missed an important date in my favorite English king’s history, the day that he did such a spectacular penance for Thomas Becket’s death in Canterbury Cathedral. I’m going to do something I’ve not done before—serve up a repeat. I posted parts of Henry’s penance scene from Devil’s Brood early in the spring, but I can’t resist doing it again on the 839th anniversary of his act of contrition. This is one of my favorite scenes, in part because I was nervous about tackling it, for it was bound to be challenging. This was so unlike Henry, after all. (As opposed to his son Richard, who made a couple of dramatic confessions of past sins during his reign, but then Richard thrived on the limelight.) But to my surprise and relief, the scene practically wrote itself, almost as if Henry were standing at my shoulder, whispering in my ear, and the feedback from readers was wonderful.
The research background was rather unusual, too. The talkative Brother Benedict compiled a list of the martyred archbishop’s miracles that he bored Henry with down in the crypt. Naturally I wanted to get my hands on his book, which was translated from the Latin in the 19th century. I finally found it in a Tokyo bookshop on-line, and loved the eclectic nature of all this—a medieval monk writing a book that would be translated by a Victorian historian and sold to an American author by a Japanese bookseller!
So with apologies for the recycling, here is Henry in all of his Angevin complexity.. Devil’s Brood, 246-247, with some omissions due to length. The loquacious monk has finally departed, “leaving Henry alone in the crypt with the dead and the ghost of the murdered archbishop.”
* * *
At least it seemed that way to Henry. He had not been able to invoke the saint’s presence, but it was easier to imagine Thomas’s earthly spirit lurking in the shadows, watching his abasement with sardonic amusement. For Thomas had once had a quick wit, a playful humor, a droll sense of mockery. He’d lost that humor, though, as soon as he’d put the sacred pallium about his neck, yet another mystery Henry could not fathom. Had the man he’d known and trusted and loved ever truly existed? (omission)
“It is just the two of us now, Thomas. No one else can hear our secrets, so why not talk to pass the time? We have hours to go till dawn, time enough for honesty if nothing else.”
(omission)
He cocked his head, hearing only the silence of the grave. “I suppose you’re rather talk about the killing. Fair enough. I never wanted your death. I swear this to you upon the lives of my children. But you know that already. Why am I so sure? Because Roger showed me a letter written by your subdeacon, William Fitz Stephen. I’ve restored him to royal favor, by the way. In fact, he and his brother are co-sheriffs of Gloucestershire now. Life goes on.
“What was I saying? Ah, yes, the letter. Fitz Stephen wrote that you told the killers that you did not believe they came from the king, from me. So there really is no reason to swear my innocence upon holy relics, is there? You know the truth. Of course Roger knew the truth, too, and was the one man with the ballocks to say it straight out to my face. I may not be guilty, he pointed out, but neither am I innocent. I daresay you agree with him, no?”
He waited, heaving a sigh that echoed in the stillness. “Come, Thomas, hold up your part of the conversation. You need not do anything dramatic, like loosing a thunderbolt or per-forming one of your miracles. But at the least, you could extinguish a few candles to show me you are paying attention. Surely that is not too much to ask?”
He was feeling light-headed again, and sank down upon the floor, slumping back against one of the pillars. “I sound like a drunkard or a madman…mayhap both. But just between you and me, talking to a ghost makes as much sense as talking to a saint. What else do you want to know, Thomas? Did I grieve for you? No, I did not. My grief was for myself, for I knew at once that you’d trapped me well and truly. For you are not innocent either, my lord archbishop. You sought your martyrdom, you craved it, even lusted after it for all I know. You could have escaped, Thomas, had so many opportunities to evade your killers. But you did not, did you? You had to confront them, had to taunt them. Was it true that you called Fitz Urse a pimp?”
(omission.)
Henry leaned forward, rested his head upon his drawn-up knees. He was either burning up with fever or losing his mind. “Sancte Thoma,” he mumbled, “requiescat in pace.” But there was as much pain as mockery in his voice, and when he looked up, he saw the crypt through a haze of hot tears. “Do you know why I did not grieve for you when you died? Because I’d already done my grieving. I trusted you, I had faith in you, I loved you more than my own brother. And then you turned on me. But it need not have been that way. You could have served both me and the Almighty, and what a partnership we could have forged, what we could not have done together!”
Getting to his feet with difficulty, he had to hold onto the pillar, for his head was spinning. “When I told you that I would raise you up to the archbishopric, you said you would not want to put our friendship at risk. And I assured you that it would not happen, that I was not so prideful that I saw God as a rival. Do you remember what I said? That the Almighty and I would not be in contention for your immortal soul. Why could you not believe me, Thomas?”
His tears were falling faster now, but there was no one to see them. “I am truly and grievously sorry that our paths led us to this place, this night. I do mourn you, Thomas. But do I think you are a saint? God’s Truth, I do not know. You are the only one who can answer that question, my lord archbishop. We both know you could never resist a challenge. So take it up. Prove my doubts are unfounded. Prove me wrong.”
Dropping to his knees, he winced at the pain that action caused his fevered, battered body. “St Thomas,” he said in a low, husky voice, “guard my realm.”
* * *
And, of course, Thomas did, at least in the eyes of medieval men. For as Henry did penance in the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral, the king of the Scots was being captured at Alnwick Castle, which effectively ended the rebellion—and certainly convinced Henry’s contemporaries that he had God and the martyred archbishop on his side. As for me, I am just grateful that Henry was willing to collaborate with me on this scene! I think I mentioned that I managed to infiltrate him into two scenes in Ransom, but the real challenge will be to see if I can do it in the next book, The Land Beyond the Sea.
The research background was rather unusual, too. The talkative Brother Benedict compiled a list of the martyred archbishop’s miracles that he bored Henry with down in the crypt. Naturally I wanted to get my hands on his book, which was translated from the Latin in the 19th century. I finally found it in a Tokyo bookshop on-line, and loved the eclectic nature of all this—a medieval monk writing a book that would be translated by a Victorian historian and sold to an American author by a Japanese bookseller!
So with apologies for the recycling, here is Henry in all of his Angevin complexity.. Devil’s Brood, 246-247, with some omissions due to length. The loquacious monk has finally departed, “leaving Henry alone in the crypt with the dead and the ghost of the murdered archbishop.”
* * *
At least it seemed that way to Henry. He had not been able to invoke the saint’s presence, but it was easier to imagine Thomas’s earthly spirit lurking in the shadows, watching his abasement with sardonic amusement. For Thomas had once had a quick wit, a playful humor, a droll sense of mockery. He’d lost that humor, though, as soon as he’d put the sacred pallium about his neck, yet another mystery Henry could not fathom. Had the man he’d known and trusted and loved ever truly existed? (omission)
“It is just the two of us now, Thomas. No one else can hear our secrets, so why not talk to pass the time? We have hours to go till dawn, time enough for honesty if nothing else.”
(omission)
He cocked his head, hearing only the silence of the grave. “I suppose you’re rather talk about the killing. Fair enough. I never wanted your death. I swear this to you upon the lives of my children. But you know that already. Why am I so sure? Because Roger showed me a letter written by your subdeacon, William Fitz Stephen. I’ve restored him to royal favor, by the way. In fact, he and his brother are co-sheriffs of Gloucestershire now. Life goes on.
“What was I saying? Ah, yes, the letter. Fitz Stephen wrote that you told the killers that you did not believe they came from the king, from me. So there really is no reason to swear my innocence upon holy relics, is there? You know the truth. Of course Roger knew the truth, too, and was the one man with the ballocks to say it straight out to my face. I may not be guilty, he pointed out, but neither am I innocent. I daresay you agree with him, no?”
He waited, heaving a sigh that echoed in the stillness. “Come, Thomas, hold up your part of the conversation. You need not do anything dramatic, like loosing a thunderbolt or per-forming one of your miracles. But at the least, you could extinguish a few candles to show me you are paying attention. Surely that is not too much to ask?”
He was feeling light-headed again, and sank down upon the floor, slumping back against one of the pillars. “I sound like a drunkard or a madman…mayhap both. But just between you and me, talking to a ghost makes as much sense as talking to a saint. What else do you want to know, Thomas? Did I grieve for you? No, I did not. My grief was for myself, for I knew at once that you’d trapped me well and truly. For you are not innocent either, my lord archbishop. You sought your martyrdom, you craved it, even lusted after it for all I know. You could have escaped, Thomas, had so many opportunities to evade your killers. But you did not, did you? You had to confront them, had to taunt them. Was it true that you called Fitz Urse a pimp?”
(omission.)
Henry leaned forward, rested his head upon his drawn-up knees. He was either burning up with fever or losing his mind. “Sancte Thoma,” he mumbled, “requiescat in pace.” But there was as much pain as mockery in his voice, and when he looked up, he saw the crypt through a haze of hot tears. “Do you know why I did not grieve for you when you died? Because I’d already done my grieving. I trusted you, I had faith in you, I loved you more than my own brother. And then you turned on me. But it need not have been that way. You could have served both me and the Almighty, and what a partnership we could have forged, what we could not have done together!”
Getting to his feet with difficulty, he had to hold onto the pillar, for his head was spinning. “When I told you that I would raise you up to the archbishopric, you said you would not want to put our friendship at risk. And I assured you that it would not happen, that I was not so prideful that I saw God as a rival. Do you remember what I said? That the Almighty and I would not be in contention for your immortal soul. Why could you not believe me, Thomas?”
His tears were falling faster now, but there was no one to see them. “I am truly and grievously sorry that our paths led us to this place, this night. I do mourn you, Thomas. But do I think you are a saint? God’s Truth, I do not know. You are the only one who can answer that question, my lord archbishop. We both know you could never resist a challenge. So take it up. Prove my doubts are unfounded. Prove me wrong.”
Dropping to his knees, he winced at the pain that action caused his fevered, battered body. “St Thomas,” he said in a low, husky voice, “guard my realm.”
* * *
And, of course, Thomas did, at least in the eyes of medieval men. For as Henry did penance in the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral, the king of the Scots was being captured at Alnwick Castle, which effectively ended the rebellion—and certainly convinced Henry’s contemporaries that he had God and the martyred archbishop on his side. As for me, I am just grateful that Henry was willing to collaborate with me on this scene! I think I mentioned that I managed to infiltrate him into two scenes in Ransom, but the real challenge will be to see if I can do it in the next book, The Land Beyond the Sea.
July 6, 2013
Henry II, the deadline-dragon, and me
Well, the final score was Sharon 1, Dragon 1. I got the manuscript off to my American and British publishers in time, but I couldn’t slay the dragon and he skulked off to lick his wounds, threatening to be back for the next round—the Author’s Note, Acknowledgments, and Afterword. I am very tired, too tired even to worry about my editors’ verdict on the book, which means I must be semi-comatose. I am sorry I missed so much; apparently even a thread that sparked a thousand posts. It may take me the rest of the summer to catch up. Meanwhile, July 6th 1189 was a very sad day, as Henry II’s life came to a bitter end, betrayed by the son for whom he’d sacrificed so much. Henry is my favorite English king and I really missed writing about him after he went and died in Devil’s Brood. So I am happy to report that I managed to interject him into two scenes in Ransom. Also on this date in 1483, Richard III’s ill-fated kingship began and in 1553, Edward VI died, setting the stage for the reigns of his sisters Mary and Elizabeth.
June 23, 2013
The deadlline dragon
Just stopping by to say that my deadline dragon and I are still locked in a war of wills. I was thinking of naming him Dracarys but that might be too much alliteration. Wish me luck–not him!
June 22, 2013
Most memorable fictional characters
A quick Hi from me and the deadline dragon. Thanks for taking up the slack while I’m gone. Meanwhile, here is an interesting article about the most memorable fictional characters of all time.
http://entertainment.time.com/2013/05...
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June 20, 2013
The Summer Queen
The deadline dragon is right behind me, so I only have a moment until I feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. I just wanted to remind everyone that Elizabeth Chadwick’s new novel, The Summer Queen, the first volume in her trilogy about Eleanor of Aquitaine, is now out. Here is the link to Amazon.com.uk. I thought it was coming out today in the US, too, but the Amazon mother ship was only offering it from third-party sellers last night—very puzzling. But until that gets straightened out, you can buy it from Amazon.com.uk or from Book Depository, which ships worldwide free of charge. Now my hair is starting to scorch, so I’m away.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Summer-Queen-...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Summer-Queen-...
June 17, 2013
Dads, good, bad, and indifferent
Coming up for air to assure everyone that I am still among the living. Here is a fun article about the dads on Game of Thrones, a day late. http://www.today.com/entertainment/go... It occurred to me that many of the medieval kings were not great dads, either. Just off the top of my head, Henry III was a loving dad, but few of us would have wanted Edward I as a dad. Or Henry I. I think Edward IV was a better king than he is sometimes given credit for, but I also think he was a failure as a father. Not as neglectful as Robert Baratheon, granted, but he did his son no favors by letting him be raised far from his court by Woodvilles. And to me, the most tragic father remains Henry II, who loved his sons and managed to alienate them all. Okay, back to fight the deadline dragon. Wish me luck.
June 15, 2013
All babies need cuddling
Just a quick Hi to assure everyone I have not been eaten by the deadline dragon, although he is getting hungry. Anyway, here is a link to a lovely story about an orphaned foal and his teddy bear. http://www.care2.com/causes/orphaned-...
June 13, 2013
Richard III and Ned Stark
I probably won’t be able to resume my Today in History posts until the book is done since I will have to flee the country if I miss the deadline. But I couldn’t resist taking a brief break today to link history and Game of Thrones. Most know that the Martin series is loosely, very loosely, based on the Wars of the Roses. His readers have amused themselves over the years by speculating who his characters are supposed to be. Everyone thinks that Cersei and Robert are Elizabeth Woodville and Edward IV, although I personally think Martin has maligned Edward if that is so. But after that, it is anyone’s guess. Is Danaerys a much more attractive stand-in for Henry Tudor? Is Ned Stark a version of Richard III or, as I’ve heard it suggested, his father, the Duke of York? Who in the world is Joffroi modeled after? Even George of Clarence would consider that character assassination. I’ve come across some very intriguing and imaginative theories from Martin readers, many of whom should clearly be writing their own books. I confess that at times I saw Richard III in Ned Stark. But they differed in some important aspects as today’s historical happening proves. On June 13, 1483, Richard sent Will Hastings to the block after an acrimonious council meeting at the Tower. And I think all Game of Thrones fans can agree on this—that the honorable Ned Stark would never have executed a man without benefit of trial. I am not saying honor did not matter to Richard, too, merely that he had more finely honed survival skills than Ned. Sadly, men who always put honor first did not thrive, either in the MA or the Martin universe.
Very nasty weather in the US. Good luck to all of us in the paths of these dangerous storms.
Very nasty weather in the US. Good luck to all of us in the paths of these dangerous storms.
June 11, 2013
"Badass women of Game of Thrones"
A quick Hi from Deadline Doomland, and here's a great little video about "The Bad-ass women of Game of Thrones." I think that term could apply to a few of the women in my books, too. Certainly Eleanor! http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/06...
June 10, 2013
Some thoughts on Game of Thrones finale
A quick escape from the deadline doldrums to say Hi. I will be MIA most likely for the rest of the month; please wish me and my obstreperous Angevins lots of luck. Meanwhile, here are links to two interesting stories about Game of Thrones, one arguing that the only characters who survive are those capable of changing and one that discusses the ways in which the HBO series differs from the novels. I am not thrilled by the way they are softening Cersei on HBO from Cersei in the books, and I am beginning to suspect that they are transforming Shae’s character, too. (trying to stay vague to avoid spoilers) Lastly, they seem to be deviating enough from Master Martin’s gospel that even we book readers may find ourselves surprised in the coming season, so far, far away. http://www.today.com/entertainment/th...
http://www.today.com/entertainment/ga...
http://www.today.com/entertainment/ga...
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