Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 120

Aha--paw prints!

March 30th, 1282 was the beginning of the rebellion known poetically as the Sicilian Vespers, but I am going to let my friend Rania post about that today. I will focus instead on a mischievous medieval cat who left tell-tell little paw prints on a monk’s manuscript. Here is a photo of the evidence and an interesting article about cats, mice, and medievals. http://medievalfragments.wordpress.co...

A bloody Palm Sunday

March 29th, 1461 was the date of the largest and bloodiest battle ever fought on English soil. It was a Palm Sunday, and was fought during a Yorkshire snowstorm near Towton. Medieval chroniclers’ estimates of army size were usually in the realm of fantasy; it was not unusual for one to blithely report that 200,000 men marched into battle while they actually numbered in the range of 5,000. But military historians believe that the numbers at Towton were huge, possibly 40,000-50,000 on each side. It is impossible to know the numbers of the dead, though some historians think that over 20,000 men may have died that day, most of them in the rout after the Lancastrian line broke. A mass grave discovered in 1996 gave graphic evidence of the brutality of the combat. The death toll was so high in part because soldiers are always more vulnerable once they are fleeing; moreover, both sides had agreed beforehand that no quarter would be given. Below are two links that are of considerable interest, one about the mass grave found and the other offering a video of the battlefield.
http://www.economist.com/node/17722650
http://www.towton.org.uk/the-battle-2/
Towton was Edward of York’s bloody coronation, and he was still a month from his 19th birthday. I did not dramatize the battle itself, instead had the reader waiting with Marguerite at York to hear the outcome of the battle. But she was given a gruesomely vivid account of the carnage. Sunne, page 71-72.
* * *
“All is lost. The victory has gone to York.”
It was what she’d known he would say. And yet the impact was no less brutal. She gasped, drew icy air into lungs suddenly constricted, unable to function, and cried, “How? We had the greater army…How?” She was as skilled a strategist as any man, knew how to wage war as other women knew how to manage households. She knew battles were not decided by numbers alone. Yet now she found herself repeating numbly, “How could we lose? Ours was the larger force!”
“That did favor us at first, Madame. In the early stages of the battle, the Yorkists did give ground…But York was all over the field, in the thick of the fighting, and he held them, Madame. All day we fought, hacked at each other like madmen, and the dead…Oh, my God, Madame, the dead! So many bodies there were that we had to climb over our own dead to reach the Yorkists…only to find that they, too, were walled in by the bodies of the dead and dying. Never have I seen—“
“What of Somerset? Does he still live?”
He seemed unnerved by her interruption. “Yes,” he said doubtfully. “That is, I do believe so, Madame. We were able to escape the field at the last, when we saw all hope had gone…when the Yorkist reserves did suddenly appear on our right flank. The Duke of Norfolk it was, Madame; I saw his standard. We did fight on, but the battle was lost with his arrival, all did know it. We were pushed back toward the Cocke, into the marsh…and then our line broke, then the slaughter truly began!” He shuddered, not from cold, and then said bleakly, “My lord Somerset did charge me to give you word of our defeat, to warn you away from here. My lord Somerset said…said you must flee into Scotland, Madame. He said you must not let yourself or the king fall into the hands of the Yorkist usurper.”
“What of the other lords? Northumberland? Trollope? Exeter and Clifford? Surely they cannot all be dead!”
“We did hear the Earl of Northumberland was struck down in the fighting. Trollope, I do know to be dead. I know nothing of Exeter. It was a slaughter, Madame. Thousands must be dead…We did give the command before the battle that no quarter be shown and York was said to have done the same. For ten hours, Madame, the battle did last…ten hours! With the wind coming from the south and blowing the snow back into our faces till men found their eyes sealed shut with ice and our arrows were falling short and they gathered them up and used them against us…and the river….Oh, Jesus, the river! So many men drowned that a bridge of bodies formed for the living and it ran red for miles, like no water I’ve ever seen….”
* * *
There is more to the scene, but I am going to end it here, giving the final word to the fictional soldier who spoke for the thousands of men who fought and died on that bloody Palm Sunday.

A sweet love story

Nothing medieval to share today, so here is a link to a sweet love story. http://www.care2.com/causes/dog-treks...

A tragic hunt

March 27th, 1482 was the death date of Mary, the Duchess of Burgundy, only child of Charles the Bold, stepdaughter of Margaret of York. She was a great heiress and in 1477, she wed Maximilian, the Archduke of Austria, having heeded Margaret’s advice to avoid an alliance with the French. She and Maximilian had three children, but she died at only twenty-five in a tragic accident. She and her husband had been out hawking when her horse tripped, threw her, and then fell on top of her, breaking her spine. She died several days later. Her eldest son Philip became Duke of Burgundy and would wed Juana, sister of Katherine of Aragon, known to history as Juana la Loca, Juana the mad. G.W. Gortner has written an excellent novel about Juana, called The Last Queen.

A ravening lion

On March 26th, 1199, Richard Coeur de Lion’s fabled luck finally ran out. He rashly ventured out to inspect the siege of Chalus Castle without armor, and was struck by a crossbow bolt. He’d been watching a man up on the battlements who was using a large frying pan as a shield and that amused him greatly; he was laughing and cheering the man on when he was hit. He gave no indication of it (it was dusk at the time) and returned to his own quarters, where he attempted and failed to remove the bolt. A doctor summoned by his mercenary captain Mercadier had no better luck and apparently made the injury much worse in his ineffective attempts to extract it. Richard had enough experience with battle wounds to realize that he was doomed and sent for his mother as his condition worsened; she arrived in time to be with him when he died. By all accounts, it was a very painful death, but he endured it with his usual stoicism. Here is a passage from the chronicle of Ralph de Coggeshall; the translation comes courtesy of my fellow historical novelist and friend, Sharan Newman.
“Therefore the king was wounded, as usual through his well-known reckless behavior. He gave no heartfelt sigh, no mournful cry, nor did he show any sign of pain by expression or gesture to those present, nor show his sadness or fear so that his enemies might not report how severe the wound was. Afterwards, he endured the pain to the end as if it were a trifle, so that there were many who were ignorant of the calamity that had occurred.”
Here is a more cheerful document, a letter written by Richard himself to his good friend, the Bishop of Durham, who’d been with him in the Holy Land and during his German captivity. Richard describes how he won a victory over the French king in September of 1198. Richard had captured the castle of Courcelles and Philippe marched from Mantes to relieve it, not knowing that it had already fallen. When Richard’s scouts reported the movement of the French army, he assumed they were massing to attack his own troops. But when he saw that they were heading north toward Courcelles, he determined to attack them even though he only had a small band of knights with him.
In his letter to the bishop, which was widely circulated, Richard describes how the French fled before his men, a retreat turning into a rout, with so many knights crowding the bridge over the River Epte that “the bridge broke down beneath them, and the King of France, as we have heard say, had to drink of the water, and several knights, about twenty in number, were drowned. Three also, with a single lance, we unhorsed, Matthew de Montmorency, Alan de Rusci, and Fulk de Gilveral, and have them as our prisoners. There were also valiantly captured as many as one hundred knights of his….and Mercadier has taken as many as thirty. Men-at-arms, also, both horse and foot, were taken; also two hundred chargers were captured, of which one hundred forty were covered with iron armor. This have we defeated the King of France at Gisors. But it is not we who have done the same, but rather God, and our right, by our means, and in so doing, we have put our life in peril, and our kingdom, contrary to the advice of all our people. These things we signify unto you, that you may share in our joy as to the same. Witness ourselves at Anjou.”
The “we” he employs is the royal we, so when he says “we unhorsed” those French lords, he is referring to his own derring-do. Ironically, Matthew de Montmorency was one of the men who’d fought beside Richard in the Holy Land; readers may remember him from Lionheart. Even down through eight centuries, Richard’s glee at the humiliation of the French king, who “drank of the water” of the river, comes through loud and clear. Buried in the last sentence of the letter is the admission that he’d launched this attack against the advice of his men, counting upon surprise and the ferocity of the attack to carry the day; William Marshal colorfully described him that day as a “ravening lion, starved for food.”
William Marshal also gives us the name of the man who rescued Philippe from drowning, saying “When they pulled the king out of the water—he had been extremely frightened for his life—he declined to stay in Gisors, even though it had a very strong castle, for he feared his enemies so much that he feared he would be besieged inside the town.” The Marshal did not have much respect for Philippe, as you can tell.
As you’ll read in Ransom, Richard inflicted some very humiliating defeats upon the French king in the years 1194-1199, and the English chroniclers reveled in them. Richard had also drawn a diplomatic noose around Philippe by 1198, having lured away Philippe’s major allies and vassals, so that the French king’s position was looking more and more precarious in the spring of 1199. But as Uthred, Bernard Cornwell’s wonderful, conflicted hero in his magnificent Saxon series, often says, “Fate is inexorable,” and a crossbowman at Chalus would do what the French king could not, bring down a lion.

Passover and snow

Happy Passover to all of my Jewish friends and readers. And sympathy to all who are freezing in this wretched mockery of a spring. Snow and tulips do not go well together.

John of Gaunt's other love

March 25th in 1306 saw the coronation of Robert the Bruce as King of Scotland.
March 25th was the birthdate of Blanche of Lancaster; 1345 is traditionally given as the year of her birth, but I’ve also seen it as 1346. She was a great heiress, and in 1359, she wed her third cousin, John of Gaunt. They had seven children, so she was usually pregnant during her nine year marriage, which is believed to have been a happy one. Only three of her children survived, but one would become the first Lancastrian king, Henry IV. She died in 1368, of what may have been the bubonic plague, at only twenty-one or twenty-two, and her husband grieved greatly for her. I tend to envision her as soft-spoken and fair, a lovely ghost who would haunt her husband’s memory with a rustle of silken skirts and a swirl of silvery blonde hair, an ethereal creature of moonlight, ivory, and lace, forever young. She inspired the major character in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Book of the Duchess, and was sympathetically portrayed in Anya Seton’s classic novel, Katherine. Katherine is, of course, Katherine Swynford, one-half of one of the more famous love affairs of the Middle Ages; she was governess to Blanche and John’s children and, after Blanche’s death, his mistress, and eventually his third wife, a marriage that scandalized his world and delighted all of us who are secret romantics at heart. Yet he requested to be buried next to Blanche.

Gloriana

On March 24th in 1603, England’s greatest queen died. Elizabeth was in her seventieth year, and her death does not seem to have been a peaceful one, for she fought it as long as she had strength in her failing body. Hers was a turbulent, often tragic life, but her neurotic brilliance sears through English history like a flaming brand. I often half-jokingly refer to her as the “only good Tudor.” Many books and films have been done about her and she is lucky in that several are of excellent quality. Susan Kay’s Legacy is a tour de force, capturing the elusive essence of Elizabeth as well as any writer could have hoped. And Margaret George’s Elizabeth I is a powerful account of her autumn years. I teased Margaret that she should have called it The Lioness in Winter, but whatever the title, I highly recommend it. I also highly recommend the BBC series about Elizabeth, portrayed by the magnificent Glenda Jackson, available on DVD. Like The Six Wives of Henry VIII, it proves that it is possible to be historically accurate and utterly compelling, all without taking the ludicrous liberties with fact that the Showtime series The Tudors did. I think the best film about Elizabeth is ironically named after her nemesis, Mary, Queen of Scots, with Vanessa Redgrave as Mary, Glenda Jackson again as Elizabeth, and an almost unrecognizable Timothy Dalton as Lord Darnley. Like the BBC series, it is decades old, but has stood the test of time admirably.

The red queen

March 23, 1429 was the birthdate of Marguerite d’Anjou, the French-born queen of Henry VI. She was a courageous, stubborn, proud, ruthless woman who’d been dealt a bad hand in her marriage to Henry, whose misfortunate was that he’d been born a king’s son. Here are a few Marguerite scenes from Sunne. The first is on p. 20, at Ludlow, where seven year old Richard has his first glimpse of the Lancastrian queen.
* * *
His first impression, quite simply, was one of awe. Marguerite d’Anjou was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, as beautiful as the queens of Joan’s bedtime tales. All in gold and black, like the swallowtail butterflies he’d chased all summer in such futile fascination. Her eyes were huge and black, blacker even than the rosaries of Whitby jet so favored by his mother. Her mouth was scarlet, her skin like snow, her dark hair covered by a headdress of golden gauze, her face framed in floating folds of a glittery shimmering material that seemed to be made from sunlight; he’d ever seen anything like it, couldn’t keep his eyes from it. Or from her.
* * *


The next scene on P73 takes place at St Mary’s abbey in York, when Marguerite has just gotten the devastating news of the Yorkist victory at Towton.
* * *
Weighed down by her sodden skirts, unable to catch her breath, watching as the abbot floundered beside her in the snow, while her servant struggled to maintain his own footing and gingerly extended his hand toward her, Marguerite suddenly began to laugh, jagged bursts of strangled mirth, the sound of which nightmares are made.
“Madame, you mustn’t give way!” The abbot, less timid than her servant at laying hands upon royalty, grabbed her shoulders, shook her vigorously.
“But it is so very amusing; surely you see that? I’ve a little boy and a sweet helpless fool asleep in your lodging and no money and I’ve just been told I no longer have an army and look at us, my lord abbot, Sacre Dieu, look at us! If I do not laugh,” she gasped, “I might believe all this was truly happening, and happening to me!”
“Madame…” The abbot hesitated, and then plunged ahead courageously. “You need not flee, you know. York would not harm a woman, still less a child. Your lives would be safe with him, I do believe that. Stay here, Madame. Entreat York’s mercy, accept him as king. Even if you reach Scotland, what then? Ah, Madame, can you not let it be?”
The lantern light no longer fell on her face; he could not discern her expression. But he heard her intake of breath, a sibilant hiss of feline intensity. Her hand jerked from his. “Oui, Monseigneur,” she spat. “On my deathbed!”
* * *
Lastly, on Pages 344-345, is a scene the night before the battle of Tewkesbury between Marguerite and Edmund Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset. She has just agreed to go with his daring battle plan—on one condition, that her son is to be kept away from the fighting.
* * *
“I cannot make you a promise like that,” he said, tiredly and very gently. “You know I cannot. I’d give my life to keep him safe; we all would. But I cannot forbid him, Madame. No one can. He thinks he is of an age to command. His pride demands it. He knows that York was not yet nineteen when he did win at Towton. Worse, he knows that Gloucester is himself just eighteen now. I cannot forbid him, Madame.
“The true command of the center will rest with Wenlock, not Prince Edward. And I think he will agree to remain mounted during the battle.” For a moment, he had an image of Edward’s white, set face. “In fact, I am sure of it. But further than that, he will not go. And more than that, I cannot do.”
Marguerite nodded, and he saw that she’d not expected to prevail. “No, I suppose you cannot,” she said tonelessly. She shrugged, wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, then, we’d best tell the others what we plan for the morrow, my lord.”
She let him take her hands in his; they were like ice, bloodless. “You have it all, Somerset,” she whispered. “It is all in your hands…The vanguard, the battle, the fate of Lancaster.” She drew a ragged breath. “The life of my son.”
* * *

INTERVIEW WITH DAVID PILLING

I am very pleased to be able to interview David Pilling, author of The White Hawk, the first of a trilogy set during the Wars of the Roses, which will follow the shifting fortunes of a family pledged to the House of Lancaster.  So often historical novels focus only upon those at the top of the social pyramid, but the lives of all the English were affected by the power struggles that convulsed England in the 15th century, and David takes us into this interesting, unknown territory.   I admit I have not been able to read The White Hawk, for I’ve had to give up any hopes of having a normal life until Ransom is done, but I did get to read a few chapters, and I was quite impressed.   I think you’ll all enjoy David’s interview, which is highly entertaining. 

  How did you begin writing and what keeps you going?

     I’ve always had ideas for original stories swirling around in my head. The setting of my childhood no doubt helped a great deal - I was brought up in the West Wales countryside, a beautiful area soaked in history (and rain), and spent many years dragging my poor parents up and down ruined castles. Added to that, I always enjoyed creative writing at school, but there was a significant lapse during my teens and early twenties. I started writing short stories again about four years ago and since then the floodgates have opened.

What became of your earliest efforts at writing?

     Either rotting away in a cupboard somewhere, or long since lost in the rubbish. Probably a good thing! My earliest attempt at a full-length novel, a truly awful attempt at fictionalizing the life of William Marshall has gone missing – again, probably a good thing! My second, a slightly less awful effort based on the life of Hereward the Wake, is still extant. And no-one shall ever read it!

   What made you choose the genres and time periods you write in?

      I generally write fiction based in the medieval era, or Tolkien-esque fantasy, and chose those thanks to my lifelong obsession with all things medieval. The first full-length novels I ever read were the Lord of the Rings and TH White’s The Once and Future King. I still rate White’s book as the best version of Arthurian legend I have ever read.

  What parts of the writing process do you most enjoy, and what do you        dislike?

      The creative process is the most enjoyable, particularly those moments where fresh ideas suddenly occur to me, and the putting together of a storyline. The least enjoyable by far is editing and proofreading.  These I find a major headache.

    Historical fiction requires a great deal of research. What is the most  memorable thing you have discovered during this process?

      The research for battle conditions during The Wars of the Roses – the era of my current novel – was both eye-popping and terrifying. How anyone had the courage to stand and fight on a medieval battlefield is beyond me, considering the lack of medical knowledge and the appalling wounds men suffered. Men like the Earl of Wiltshire were accused of cowardice for running away from battles. Personally, I can only empathize with their good sense.

   What is the best piece of writing advice you have received?

      It’s a cliché, but ‘never give up’ is probably the best advice. There are so many naysayers and armchair critics out there. Self-belief and drive are crucial. I have been fortunate in the response to my work so far, but every so often someone does stick the knife in, and it’s often difficult to pretend that doesn’t hurt.

    Tell us something about your current project.

     My current novel, The White Hawk, is the first of a trilogy set during The Wars of the Roses in 15th century England. Book One: Revenge follows the fortunes of a minor gentry family, the Boltons of Staffordshire, in their attempts to survive and prosper in an increasingly brutal and uncertain world. I wanted to weave a story around the contrasting fortunes of individual members of the same family, and how the savage and uncertain politics of the time affected ‘ordinary’ people.

   And finally, what’s next for you?
     
      My next novel, Nowhere Was There Peace, is due to be published by Fireship Press, and I have another story in the pipeline based on the exploits of King Arthur’s (fictional) grandson…

Thank you, David, for a very interesting interview. 

March 22, 2013