Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 123

Human and animal good deeds

March 3rd was a slow medieval day, and I’m too busy helping Lionheart build his “fair daughter,” Chateau Gaillard, to do much searching. So I’ll settle for two feel-good stories sure to bring a smile or two. One involves some Los Angeles police officers who come to the aid of a dog in dire need, and the second is the remarkable story of a pod of sperm whales apparently adopting a dolphin with a spine deformity.
http://www.today.com/pets/police-offi...

http://www.today.com/pets/wild-sperm-...

Saints, Lionheart, and a wonderful writer who will be dearly missed

Well, Saints has yet to appear on Amazon.com.UK in its e-book rebirth, and I won’t be able to contact my editor till Monday, so I don’t know what has gone wrong. Whenever things do go wrong, I tend to blame Demon Spawn, but even I have to admit he is innocent this time.
I did get some good news about Lionheart, though. An English friend told me that Lionheart is on the Bookseller’s Heat-seeking Fiction List. I am not totally sure what that is, but it sounds way cool. Lionheart is definitely giving off some heat on several British bestseller lists, which makes me very happy, of course. But poor Henry. I can see Richard making his life miserable in some corner of the Hereafter, bragging that his book has sold much better than Henry's. I'm sure Henry already was vexed that in the UK those books are advertised as the Eleanor of Aquitaine trilogy--for you know Eleanor wouldn't have missed a chance to bring that up at some celestial dinner party.
And the Historical Novel Society has posted my tribute to Margaret Frazer on their website, here. http://historicalnovelsociety.org/mar... I think it is lovely that they are remembering her this way, and they also plan to do a retrospective of her books in the future; I am sure that would have pleased her.

Escape from the Tower

If it is true that everyone is Irish on St Patrick’s Day, then we all are Welsh today, for St David is the patron saint of Wales.
This date is also an important one in Welsh history, for on March 1st, 1244, Llywelyn Fawr’s eldest son, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, died in a failed escape attempt from the Tower of London. He was attempting to climb down on knotted sheets and the makeshift rope broke, plummeting him to his death ninety feet below. A chronicler’s account of this incident gave us some interesting information about Gruffydd’s physical appearance; he reported that the Welsh prince was a big man and he’d gained weight in captivity, which caused the sheets to give way. I still remember the strange looks I was getting from other tourists when I was prowling about the upper story of the White Tower, checking out the windows and even whipping out my tape measure to check the width!
Here is Gruffydd’s death scene in Falls the Shadow, page 206, with omissions due to length.
* * *
The night air was bitter cold; he felt as if he were inhaling ice. He’d passed all his life upon the alpine heights of Eryri, but as he looked down at the snow-blanketed ground so far below him, he experienced a dismaying jolt of dizziness. He closed his eyes for a moment, then smiled at his son. “Once it’s your turn, do not tarry, lad, for it’s cold as a witch’s teat!” And he swung his legs over the ledge, pushed out into space.
While planning all aspects of their escape, he’d not given much thought to the climb itself, had seen it merely as the means to an end, to freedom. That had been a mistake. Within moments, his arms felt as if they were being wrenched out of their sockets, and every muscle was in rebellion against this unaccustomed abuse. His body had always done what he demanded of it. It had never occurred to him that a time might come when it could fail him, when will alone would not be enough. He fought back this surge of panic, sought to get air into his laboring lungs. He’d make it. Slow and easy. He’d make it.
(omission)
When it happened, it was without warning. The ripping noise the rope made as it gave way was muffled by the wind. There was a sudden slackness, and then Gruffydd was falling, plunging backward into blackness. There was a moment or two of awareness, but mercifully no more than that. The last sound he heard was a man’s scream, but he never knew if the scream came from him or from Owain.
* * *
In non-medieval happenings, on March 1st, 1562, the murder of 23 Huguenots by Catholics marked the beginning of the bloody Wars of Religion in France, which would last for thirty-six years.

When Christ and his Saints Slept and the Young King

I am delighted to report that When Christ and his Saints Slept is now available as an e-book in the UK at long last. And it will also be available Down Under, though there might be a brief delay there. This means that only Time and Chance is not available in the UK in the e-book format, and it is on Macmillan’s schedule for later this year; not the mysteries, but that’s another, sadder story.
Also on February 28th, 1155, Henry and Eleanor’s second son was born; he was named after his father and nicknamed Hal in my books so I could avoid having to write sentences like “Henry said to Henry….” After his elder brother William died at age three, Hal became the heir apparent, and would be crowned in 1170, then again in 1172. Despite being anointed in the sacred chrism twice, he does not get counted as one of England’s kings—even though Edward IV’s son is known as Edward V, despite never being crowned at all. Hal was known to his contemporaries as the Young King, and history has adopted that usage, too—when he gets mentioned, at all, of course. He does find himself overshadowed by his brothers, Lionheart and Lackland, but he still fares better than poor Geoffrey, who gets about as much attention from historians as he did from his parents. My Polish friend, Kasia, maintains a wonderful blog about Hal, doing her eloquent best to make sure he is not forgotten. Here is a link to it. http://henrytheyoungking.blogspot.com/
Now back to dodging deadlines.
PS Well, I just checked and couldn’t find Saints in the Amazon.UK’s Kindle store; not happy about that. I was assured that today was indeed the day, so I am hoping that this is merely a temporary delay. My British editor is out of the office till Monday, so if Saints continues to be MIA, I won’t have any answers about it till then.

The real Sunne in Splendour, not my book

I am sorry for the silence, but I am still struggling with deadlines that are not only in competition, they are racing at each other like two runaway trains….and guess who is tied to the train tracks?
Anyway, on February 27, 1461, London opened its gate to the Yorkists, having already refused to give entry to Marguerite d’Anjou and her army. Edward, then still two months from his 19th birthday, won the city that day, as much with his smile as with the sword bloodied at the battle of Mortimer’s Cross. As I had Marguerite later thinking, as she waited for word of the battle at Towton: She knew now that she’d blundered in yielding London so easily to Edward of York. Her face grew warm every time she thought of the tumultuous welcome he’d been given, for all the world as if he’d just liberated Jerusalem from the infidels. Trust Londoners to confuse the entry into London of a nineteen-year-old rakehell with the Second Coming of the Lord Christ.
And for Edward’s entry into the city, here are a few brief passages from Sunne, with omissions due to length, pages 63-64
* * *
The volume of noise was increasing; she’d not have thought it possible. The shouts were audible now, shouts of “York” and “Warwick.” But overriding all, one name, again and again, a hoarse chant that sent shivers of emotion up Cecily’s spine…Edward! Edward! Until the entire city echoed with the sound, with the name of her son.
(omission)
Cecily swiftly bent down, lifted Anne up so that the child could see. As she did, another burst of cheering rocked the churchyard, eclipsing all that had gone before, and she knew even as she straightened up that her son had ridden through the gateway.
He was astride a magnificent pale-white stallion with a silvery tail that trailed almost to the ground, and he seemed to be enveloped in light, with the sun directly over his head, gilding his armor to silver, tawny hair to gold.
“Oh, Ma Mere!” Margaret gasped, in a voice that was strangely uncertain, unexpectedly awed. “He does look like a king!”
“Yes, he does,” Cecily said softly, forgetting that she had to shout to make herself heard. “He does, indeed.”
(omission)
Cecily came forward as he dismounted. She held out her hand and he brought it to his mouth, said “Madame,” with flawless formality. And then he laughed, and she found herself enfolded within a boyish, exuberant embrace, from which she emerged bruised and breathless. He turned then to Margaret, catching her as she flung her arms around his neck and swinging her up off the ground in a swirl of silk. As an exercise in crowd-pleasing, it was masterful; the level of noise reached physically painful proportions.
Cecily clutched at her composure, smiled at her son. “Never have I seen such a welcome, Edward…never in my lifetime!”
“Welcome, Ma Mere?” he echoed and kissed her lightly on both cheeks so that his voice reached her ear alone. “I rather thought it to be a coronation.”
* * *
Because of the drama and controversy that continues to swirl around his youngest brother, Richard, Edward is sometimes overlooked, both by historians and the reading public. But his own story was no less remarkable than Richard’s. When his father and uncle and brother died at Wakefield, the House of York seemed doomed. Yet in just three months, Edward turned fate on its end, proving himself to be a superb politician and an even better soldier. At Mortimer’s Cross, he forestalled a panic when his men saw three suns in the sky before the battle (what we now know was a parhelion), crying out that the triple suns denoted the Holy Trinity and meant victory would go to York. Fast thinking for a teenager. He seduced the Londoners with his charm, and a month later, defeated the Lancastrian army in a raging snowstorm that would be one of the bloodiest battles ever fought on English soil If he lost his crown through lack of care, he would be the first king ever to win it back. And he was also the only English king who’d dared to marry for love (okay, maybe lust). His story had everything any historical novelist could hope for, even a tragic death that would doom his House. I called my novel The Sunne in Splendour, using Edward’s cognizance rather than Richard’s, because I saw Richard as always in his brother’s shadow. Yet ironically, history (and Tudor propaganda) has reversed their roles.
I will probably be on Facebook only randomly for a while as I try to get off the tracks before those trains collide. So I’ll close with a Richard III joke that I heard on Mediev-l, of all places. It now seems likely that Leicester will be Richard’s final resting place, not York. When his newly liberated spirit was asked where he’d have preferred to be buried, he said, “Actually, I was hoping for Stratford-on-Avon so I could get my hands on that dratted Shakespeare.”

Help!

I’ll have to count on Rania and my other Facebook friends to do my daily history posts for the next few days, as I won’t even be coming up for air. Whatever possessed me to write a thousand page book in which everyone was dead at the end? And the British galley proofs are over 1200 pages—shudder. Meanwhile, Coeur de Lion is in a monumental Angevin sulk because I am spending so much time with the wrong Richard. (Mom always loved you best..) Holly has not had a walk since before the Flood, the house looks as if I had the Vandals and Visigoths over for a weekend, and I have given up sleep for Lent. However, my wonderful British publisher has agreed to bring out a new e-book that will incorporate all of the corrections, changes, and revisions. (in the new, improved Sunne, Richard wins at Bosworth.) So that will make all my suffering worthwhile.

A really cute video

I am still trapped in my own personal February purgatory, so I may be MIA for a while longer. It truly was the convergence of the Perfect Storm, having to combat a looming deadline at the same time I must make revisions to 1200 galley proof pages of the new Sunne, while my income tax files lurk in a corner like a sinister troll. So nothing historical today from me—just lots of self-pity! But here is a funny video about Elliott, a very persistent little pig and his pal Molly, a truly saintly St Bernard. http://www.care2.com/greenliving/elli...

Henry II and Becket

Other things happened on February 21st, but the one that matters the most to me is what occurred on this date in 1173, when Thomas Becket was canonized as a saint by the Catholic Church. Since he’d only died in 1170, clearly they fast-tracked it. I think it is safe to say that it would not have been a red-letter day for Henry, even though he’d managed to make peace with the Church by then—and he would also manage to avoid some of the penances imposed upon him at Avranches. His true penance occurred two years later when he was driven by despair and desperation to the tomb of the martyred archbishop at Canterbury, reeling from the betrayal by his wife and sons. I’ve often admitted that Henry is my favorite king and his scene in the cathedral crypt is one of my favorites because I think it reveals Henry in all of his Angevin complexity. So here is The Devil’s Brood, pages 246-247, with some omissions due to length. Henry has been kneeling before Becket’s tomb for hours. The garrulous monk finally departs:
* * *
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 performing 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.

A doomed king, pushy Tudors, and cute puppies in need of help

On February 20th, 1194, Tancred, the King of Sicily died after a lingering illness that might well have been cancer. His was a very sad death, for his eldest son and heir, Roger, had died suddenly in December, and so when Tancred breathed his last, he must have known his dynasty and family were doomed, for his second son was a small child and no match for his ruthless rival, Heinrich VI, Holy Roman Emperor, who was keen to claim Sicily in the name of his wife, Constance. When I began researching the history of Sicily for Lionheart, I was not favorably inclined toward Tancred, for when he took the throne after the death of his cousin, William II, he seized the dower lands of William’s queen, then imprisoned her, and since she happened to be Joanna, Henry II and Eleanor’s youngest daughter, I naturally resented such treatment on her behalf. But my research revealed that Tancred was no villain, just a man in a tight spot doing the best he could under difficult circumstances. That does not make his confinement of Joanna right, but it is more understandable, and I came to see that he had some admirable qualities. Richard apparently thought so, too, for despite the rockiest of beginnings, they eventually became allies and even friends. Joanna, too, seems to have been willing to forgive him, for upon her return from the Holy Land, she and Berengaria stopped in Sicily, where they were welcomed warmly by Tancred and his wife. The fate of Tancred’s family was a tragic one. Heinrich at first promised their safety, only to “discover” a plot immediately after his coronation at Christmas, 1194. He arrested Tancred’s family and the leading Sicilian nobles, several of whom appeared in Lionheart. Tancred’s widow, Sybilla and her daughters were dispatched to a German convent. Tancred’s son, then about four years old, was sent under guard to a German monastery, where he was said to have been blinded and castrated and died soon afterward. The Sicilian lords fared no better.
I can’t seem to keep those pushy Tudors from invading what is clearly Plantagenet domains. Today was the coronation in 1547 of Henry VIII’s young son, Edward VI. Here’s a passing thought. The Tudors claimed he was the sixth Edward to rule since the Conquest even though the fifth Edward, the elder of the young Princes in the Tower, was never crowned. So why, then, do historians not count the Young King, Hal in my books, wbo was not only crowned once, but twice?
On to other matters. Echo White Shepherd Rescue needs volunteer drivers to take some puppies from Atlanta, GA to Wilmington, NC. Sounds like a fun expedition; who can resist puppies? The Itinerary is below in case any of my fellow pet-loving readers happen to live in the areas where the puppy caravan is passing through and would like to lend a hand for an hour or so this weekend. You can contact Amy Lusty at lustya22@yahoo.com or contact me and I’ll put you in touch with Echo.
Dog: 3 puppies, 8 wks old, shepherd mixes
Puppies: 1 Black female, 1 Black male, 1 White male
Vaccinated: 1 round of DHLPP
Weight: ~15 pounds each
Altered: No
Housebroken: No
Good with Dogs: Yes, but please do not bring any dogs on transport! The puppies need to stay healthy and clear of other dogs.
Crate: Yes, Recommended (puppies can be messy and move around a lot in a car)
Moving From: temp foster (been out of the shelter for 2 weeks)
Moving To: Foster home
Receiving Rescue: Echo Dogs
Receiving Foster Home: Lori Overton
Puppies will be going to New Hampshire the following week. Moving half way Feb 23th, and to NH March 2nd.

**********************

Saturday Feb 23rd Route
(all Eastern Tim Zone)

Leg 0: Zebulun GA to Atlanta GA
45 miles, 1 hr
Leave 8:00 am
Arrive 9:00 am
*** Needed ***


Leg 1: Atlanta GA to Greensboro GA
75 miles, 1 hr 10 min
Leave 9:00 am
Arrive 10:10 am
*** Needed ***


Leg 2: Greensboro GA to Augusta GA
70 miles, 1 hr 5 min
Leave 10:25 am
Arrive 11:30 am
*** Needed ***


Leg 3: Augusta GA to Columbia SC
75 miles, 1 hr 10 min
Leave 11:45 am
Arrive 12:55pm
*** Needed ***


Leg 4: Columbia SC to Florence SC
75 miles, 1 hr 10 min
Leave 1:10 pm
Arrive 2:20 pm
*** Needed ***


Leg 5: Florence SC to Lumberton NC
50 miles, 55 min
Leave 2:35 pm
Arrive 3:30 pm
*** Needed ***


Leg 6: Lumberton NC to Wilmington NC
75 miles, 1 hr 10 min
Leave 3:45 pm
Arrive 4:55 pm
*** Needed ***

George RR Martin, Write like the wind

Well, nothing happened on this day in medieval history. Even those party-crashing Tudors were keeping out of trouble. So this is for my fellow Ice and Fire geeks. Some of you have undoubtedly seen this before, but I am sure that some of you have not, and in any case, it is well worth a second look. So I now give you the heartfelt, hilarious song, George RR Martin, Write Like The Wind. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7lp3R...