Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 124

A death in the Tower of London

I forgot to mention that yesterday, February 17th, was the anniversary of the second Battle of St Albans, fought in 1461, in which the Earl of Warwick was defeated, frightening the Duchess of York enough to send her two small sons, George and Richard, to safety in Burgundy. What saved the fortunes of York was the military brilliance of her eldest son, Edward, not yet nineteen, for his victory at Mortimer’s Cross gave the Londoners the courage to deny entry to Marguerite d’Anjou and her approaching Lancastrian army. On February 26th, Edward was welcomed into the city, riding a wave that would soon take him as far as the English throne.
Seventeen years later, Edward’s unstable brother George, Duke of Clarence, was put to death in the Tower of London, on February 18th, 1478. We do not know how it was done, though the legend that he drowned in a vat of malmsey became a popular one. Since I’ve been re-reading Sunne for the first time in years, working on the galley proofs, here is a scene from Sunne, in which the Bishop of Bath, Robert Stillington, has been sent to the Tower to see the doomed duke.
Page 623-624
* * *
(George) struggled upright with some difficulty, but his smile was dazzling. “How did you get by Ned’s lackeys? You cannot imagine how I’ve yearned for someone to talk with—“
“Your Grace,” Stillington interrupted hastily, unable to bear being greeted as a friend. “You…you don’t understand.” He swallowed, looked about for someplace to sit, and at last lowered himself onto the edge of the bed next to George.
“I’m here at the king’s behest,” he said quietly. “He did send me to you, my lord…so that you might hear Mass and make confession, so you’d not go unshriven to God.” As he spoke, he was studiously staring down into his lap, so he’d not have to watch when the meaning of his words registered with George. Once, as a young priest, he’d given absolution to a condemned man, and the memory had haunted him for years. But this was infinitely worse.
When he could avoid looking up no longer, he chanced a sideways glance at the other man. Months of enforced sobriety had stripped away the excess flesh of George’s drink-sodden summer. The hair slanting across his forehead was the shade of spun gold; the eyes meeting Stillington’s own were a brilliant blue-green and had in them the stunned uncomprehending look of a child. Stillington, who nurtured no illusions whatsoever about George, was, nonetheless, moved almost to tears, and he, who was neither handsome nor young, could only wonder why it was that tragedy seemed somehow worse when it struck at those favored with both youth and beauty. So sharp was his pity that it unsettled him, struck a vein of superstitious unease. So, he reminded himself, must Lucifer have looked before the Fall.
* * *
Also on February 18th, this time in 1516, Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon were blessed with a daughter, christened Mary. Since Henry had not yet become obsessed with siring a son, it is likely this was a very happy day for them both. I sometimes wonder if we are blessed or cursed in not knowing what the future holds for us.

No happy endings

Nothing to fill a Today in History post, so I went a bit further afield, having discovered a remarkable story of a family in Siberia that lived such an isolated life that they were not even aware of WWII. It is amazing and very sad. http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history...
Meanwhile I slog on through this unloved month of February; puzzling how the shortest month in the calendar can seem so endless. I’ve given up sleep for Lent since I have to finish another Ransom chapter by month’s end, and the Sunne galley proofs still have me trapped. I definitely have too many Richards hanging around the house these days. Whatever possessed me to write a 1000 page book? And one where there is no one left alive at the end? Readers have often told me that when they reread Sunne, they stop before Bosworth Field. Well, writing those scenes was not much fun, either; it took me three weeks to get Richard out of his command tent and onto the battlefield at Bosworth. And Sunne was not even the saddest of all my books; I was in need of grief counseling by the end of The Reckoning. Sometimes, as my favorite characters are dropping left and right, I think I ought to consider writing about purely fictional characters so I can have a few happy endings—like George RR Martin.

Update on Dutch the service dog

Last week I'd posted about Dutch, a service dog owned by a veteran who suffers from PTSD. He'd bitten a woman who'd been beating him to break up a dog fight and was sentenced to be put down. Many people felt this was unjust and thousands signed on-line petitions. The hearing was on the 14th and subsequent stories said that he was euthanized that same day, while the judge ordered his supporters to take down their Facebook page. I posted this sad news this morning on my Facebook page, but two of my readers say the newsstory was in error and the death sentence has not yet been carried out, pending a final appeal. So there is still some hope, but probably not much. An excellent story about a vet and his therapy dog and the great difference the dog made in his life is Until Tuesday, by Luis Carlos Montalvan. I recommend it highly.

Thoughts on The Sunne in Splendour

Today's Facebook Note, which began as a comment in yesterday's Goodreads Note.

I did not have anything to post today, another one of those blank dates on the medieval calendar. But yesterday I’d posted something about Sunne on my Goodreads page in response to a reader’s comment and a friend who saw it suggested I post it here, too. Since I have nothing else to write about, here it is, slightly expanded.
I've reached the point in the Sunne galley proofs where Richard and Edward are in exile in Bruges, and it brought back some nice memories of my time in that lovely city, sometimes called the Venice of the North. I remember admiring the magnificent Gruthuuse Museum, which was the town house where Edward and Richard stayed, thinking it must have seemed ironic to them that they were living in such luxury with no money to pay their rapidly mounting debts. I originally had a scene in Sunne in which Richard and his friend Rob Percy raced each other to the top of the Belfort, and I climbed myself to the very top so I could experience it; too. I didn't run up the stairs like they did, not being 18 and not being crazy. But it was quite a climb even at my snail's pace, and the view of the red roofs and sun-silvered canals was spectacular. So of course we ended up deleting that scene before the book was published!
Writers often do daft things like this. I started to write about some of them, but then decided to save those stories for a blog sometime. It is strange to be rereading Sunne after so long, for it has been years. What struck me anew was the burden of responsibilities that Richard shouldered for his brother at such a young age. I am accustomed to my medieval men growing up fast. Henry invaded England at age fourteen, after all, and Llywelyn Fawr was the same age when he launched his rebellion to overthrow his uncle. Richard and Geoffrey gained experience in war while still in their teens. But Richard’s duties were greater and more daunting, for they involved the exercise of real power. At seventeen, he was Lord High Constable of England, Chief Justice of North Wales, Chief Steward, Approver and Surveyor of all Wales, Chief Justice and Chamberlain of South Wales. Obviously he had men to advise him, but they were not empty titles.
It is hard for us to imagine entrusting such authority to a teenager. But then Edward had rescued his family’s plummeting fortunes and claimed the crown of England after winning the bloodiest battle ever fought on English soil while still a month from his nineteenth birthday. So it is not surprising, I suppose, that he would also entrust his youngest brother with an even greater honor, the command of the vanguard when they met Warwick on Barnet Heath. And as we know, Richard justified the faith Edward placed in him—just as those other precocious youngsters went on to greater fame, Henry as a great king, Geoffrey as a highly competent duke, Richard as one of the best battle commanders of the MA, and Llywelyn as the first true Prince of Wales even if he did not actually claim that title. I feel very lucky to have found such remarkable men to write about, even luckier that they so often had equally remarkable women at their sides!

The Sunne in Splendour, reborn

I’d hoped to have good news to announce, for today was supposed to be the birth of When Christ and his Saints Slept as an e-book in the UK at long last. But there has been an unexpected delay, fortunately not for long; the new launch date is the 28th of February.
The 1000 pages of the Sunne galley proofs arrived yesterday, landing with a house-shuddering thud on my porch. I took a deep breath and plunged in. I’d not read Sunne in its entirety for a number of years, so it is a great relief that it seems to be holding up so far. I’ve just reached the part where the bombshell news of Edward’s secret marriage to Elizabeth Woodville Grey has become known. How different history would have been if only Edward had not developed an itch that only Elizabeth could scratch. He’d probably have married the French princess whose marriage Warwick had been negotiating on his behalf. I suspect he and Warwick would still have had a falling-out; there was not enough room in England for two such strong-willed men. But it might not have come to rebellion. Imagine if there’d been no Woodvilles intruding upon the English stage. Would Edward still have drunk and whored his way to such an early grave? Would Richard have lived out his days as the king’s right hand, the Lord of the North? Would Edward have lived long enough to see a son by that French princess established on the throne? Would the Plantagenet dynasty continued on for another three hundred years or longer? No Tudors, no Elizabeth, no break with the Catholic Church, no Stuarts, no Hanovers, maybe even no American Revolution? . Contemplating such seismic changes to the fabric of history is enough to make our heads spin. Could so much be different if only Edward had never crossed paths with the lovely widow Grey? Who knows? It does remind me, though, of a line from The Lion in Winter, when Eleanor is explaining that she’d not have divorced Louis if she’d given him sons instead of daughters and she concludes, “Such, my darlings, is the role that sex plays in history.” That might be a slight paraphrase, as I haven’t seen the film lately, but it is close enough.
I have been presented with an opportunity to do something I never expected I’d be able to do: make some minor revisions to Sunne. The one complaint I’ve heard over the years about it, especially from British readers, is that the dialogue jarred at times, that it seemed as if I were trying too hard for pseudo-medieval speech. In time, I came to agree with them. Sunne was my first novel, so it was a learning experience in many ways, and dialogue has always been a fine balancing act for historical novelists. With my subsequent novels, I developed certain rules. I avoid Hollywood clichés whenever possible; nowhere in one of my books will you find a knight crying, “Unhand that wench, you varlet!” Obviously, I do not use contemporary slang. I also try to stay away from words that could ring false to modern ears, even if such words were actually known in the MA; adolescent is a perfect example. I keep contractions to a minimum. I occasionally will toss in a word or phrase that still sounds vaguely medieval—fetch, tarry, behest. And so when some of you buy the new British hardcover edition of Sunne in September, you’ll find that I’ve woven these minor changes into the book’s fabric—seamlessly, I hope!
I am also going to correct any mistakes that I stumble onto. We were able to catch the infamous grey squirrel for the paperback editions of Sunne, but that time-traveling little creature remains entrapped in the US and UK hardback editions for all eternity. Well, I will make sure that he does not pop up again. No longer will readers find a fox with black eyes. No one will be sitting on a bale of hay. Of course what I would love to do is to offer the real explanation for the discrepancy between Richard’s shoulders; in Sunne, I went with a childhood fall in which he broke his shoulder. Now we know better, but unfortunately there is no way I could introduce scoliosis into the storyline; too much rewriting and not enough time. If only!

Two tragic queens

Today's Facebook Note.

I appreciate that you all understand why I’m not able to stop by Facebook as often I would like to do. Eventually life will return to normal, or as normal as it ever gets for a writer. Now our time travel feature of the day.
On February 13, 1177, Henry and Eleanor’s youngest daughter, Joanna, was wed in Palermo to William, the King of Sicily and then crowned as his consort. She was all of eleven years old. It is hard for us to imagine sending children off to foreign lands to marry strangers at such young ages, but this was the way of life for highborn girls in the MA. Surely some parents must have felt some qualms, though, for the safety or wellbeing of their daughters. Some of these marriages were happy ones; Joanna’s older sister Leonora came to love her husband, the King of Castile. Some were not as successful and some brought only misery to the young brides. Surely the worst case was that of Agnes, daughter of Louis VII of France, sent off to wed the son of the Byzantine emperor at age eight; her young husband would be murdered and she would be forced to wed his killer, a man whose reign was so brutal that the citizens of Constantinople rose up against him and he fled the city with his favorite concubine and his little French bride. He was later captured and died rather gruesomely, but Agnes was spared.
Joanna encountered no such horrors in Sicily and was well treated by her husband, although he did keep a harem of Saracen slave girls. It had been a rough trip for her; she’d been escorted into Poitou by her eldest brother Hal, and then Richard escorted her all the way to St Gilles, where she was turned over to the Sicilian envoys. On the voyage, she’d suffered so severely from seasickness that the ships had to hand at Naples and continue on land. But she was given a magnificent welcome into Palermo. Here is Roger de Hoveden’s account of her introduction to her new life in Sicily.
“The whole city welcomed them, and lamps, so many and so large, were lighted up, that the city almost seemed to be on fire…for it was by night that they entered the city of Palermo. The said daughter of the King of England was then escorted, mounted on one of the king’s horses, and resplendent with regal garments, to a certain palace, that there she might in becoming state await the day of her marriage and coronation.
After the expiration of a few days, the before-named daughter of the King of England was married to William, King of Sicily, and solemnly crowned at Palermo, in the royal chapel there, in the presence of Gilles, Bishop of Evreux and the envoys of the King of England.”
That same day William issued a charter in Joanna’s favor, providing generously for her dowry, describing her as “the maiden Joanna, of royal blood, and the most illustrious daughter of Henry, the mighty king of the English, to the end that her fidelity and chaste affection may produce the blessings of the married state.”
A less happy event on February 13th, 1542, when silly little Catherine Howard was beheaded after Henry VIII had rammed a bill through Parliament that made it treason for an “unchaste” woman to marry the king. Tudor justice was the ultimate oxymoron.

The king in captivity

I’d intended to post this last Monday, the anniversary of the Lionheart’s release, but of course that is the day the news broke about the third Richard, so I unceremoniously shoved the first Richard offstage. Since this is a slow medieval news day, here it is again. I am happy to report that Eleanor plays a larger role in Ransom than she did in Lionheart. I have no doubt that she was the driving force behind Richard’s eventual liberation, and to his credit, he realized that.

On February 4th, 1194, Richard Lionheart was finally freed from his German captivity after paying an astronomical ransom. He’d been held for one year, six weeks, and three days. But two days earlier, he’d been double-crossed by Heinrich, who announced to the assemblage of German and English lords and prelates that he’d had a new offer from the French king and Richard’s brother John and, with an utter lack of shame, invited Richard to better it.
From A King’s Ransom, Chapter Twenty
* * *
While Richard glanced down at the letters, the Archbishop of Rouen hastily translated Heinrich’s comments for Eleanor. The letters were indeed from Philippe and John and, as Richard read what was being offered and what it could mean for him, his numbed disbelief gave way to despair and then, murderous rage.
His fist clenched around the letters and he flung them to the floor at Heinrich’s feet. But before he could speak, his mother was beside him. “Wait, Richard, wait!” She was clinging to his arm with such urgency that she actually succeeded in pulling him back from the dais. “Look around you,” she said, her voice shaking, but her eyes blazing with green fire. “Look!”
He did and saw at once what she meant. Virtually every German in the hall was staring at Heinrich as if he’d suddenly revealed himself to be the Anti-Christ. Not a word had yet been said, but their expressions of horror and disgust left no doubt as to how they felt about their emperor’s eleventh-hour surprise. “Let them speak first,” Eleanor hissed. “Let the Germans handle this.”
* * *
The Germans did handle it; led by Richard’s friend, the Archbishop-elect of Cologne, they forced Heinrich to honor the original terms for Richard’s release. But Heinrich saved face by insisting that Richard would not be freed unless he did homage to the German emperor. Richard was outraged and refused, but again his mother interceded, convincing him that he had no choice. He was then freed on February 4th, although the forced act of homage left some deep psychic scars.

Elizabeth of York and some special dogs

February 11th, 1466 was the birthday of the first child of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville, known to history as Elizabeth of York. We know her story and it is a sad one. At least from the outside, her marriage to Henry Tudor seems to have turned out better than she probably expected, given the circumstances and the fact that she had the Mother-in-law from Hell. (And I do not say that with Tudor bias, for I think Eleanor of Aquitaine was a Mother-in-law from Hell, too.) What little evidence there is indicates that Bess’s beauty and charm helped thaw Tudor’s hard heart. I like to think so, anyway. She was devoted to her children and I hope they gave her comfort for the loss of her Yorkist family. She had seven, and the sorrow of losing four of them. Even in an age in which childhood was a precarious time, that is more than her share of tragedy. It is interesting to speculate whether her son Henry’s life might have taken a better turn had she lived, for he was said to be devoted to her and cherished her memory. A kind-hearted woman, she would have been an influence for good. But she died on February 11th, 1503, nine days after giving birth to her seventh child, a little girl who died the day before she did. It was her thirty-eighth birthday.
I have good news for all whose hearts were touched by the plight of Doc, the 10 year old German Shepherd whose owners lost their home to Hurricane Sandy. They were able to find a good home for him, a bittersweet victory for them, of course, for they saw him as an integral part of their family. But it could have been worse, for elderly dogs are not in great demand. So at least he will be able to live out the remainder of his life in a safe home and I hope that will be of comfort to them.
Lastly, here is a lovely tribute to a beloved dog by my friend and fellow writer, Christopher Gortner. Sadly, this is a road that all pet lovers must walk and no matter how often we do, it never gets easier. But Christopher brings Paris back to vibrant life and she is likely to linger in the memories of many people who never even knew this big-eared bundle of joy; such is the power of his words. I found it helped to write about my shepherd Cody and one day I may be able to write about Shadow and Tristan, my white wolves. I hope it helped Christopher, too. http://historicalboys.blogspot.com/20...

The troubador duke and the murdered would-be king

Today’s historical events, although none of them are really related to my books. On February 10th, 1126, William IX, the Duke of Aquitaine also known as the Troubadour, died. He is remembered today for his often bawdy poetry and for being the grandfather of Eleanor of Aquitaine. Unfortunately I never got to write about him in one of my novels, for he’d definitely have been a colorful character. On Henry and Eleanor’s wedding night in Saints, I have Henry laughing after Eleanor entertains him with some of the more scandalous stories about her grandfather, exclaiming that Abbot Bernard would be sure that between them, they had a family tree rooted in Hell.
Also on February 10th, 1162, Baldwin II, King of Jerusalem, died, and was succeeded by his brother Amaury or Almaric, who was the father of one of my characters in Lionheart, Isabella, Queen of Jerusalem.
Lastly, on February 10th, 1567, Lord Darnley was murdered. He’d not exactly endeared himself to anyone so probably half of Scotland could qualify as suspects. He certainly gave Mary legitimate reasons to want him dead, but while she never met a bad decision she didn’t embrace, I don’t know if she was involved or not; I don’t even have an opinion one way or the other. One of my favorite scenes in the wonderful film from the 1970’s, Mary, Queen of Scots, with Vanessa Redgrave as Mary and the incomparable Glenda Jackson as Elizabeth, has Elizabeth and William Cecil laughing gleefully upon hearing that Mary had married Darnley, falling right into the trap that Elizabeth set for her.

A disabled vet is going to lose his service dog

I hope all my friends and readers in the path of Nemo came through it okay. It wasn't bad where I live, but 650,000 people were left without power, which means no heat either.
Here is a link to a disturbing story about a disablied vet whose service dog is going to be euthanised for biting a woman who was beating him. The statute specifies it applies only to dogs who were not provoked and the judge admitted the dog, Dutch, was provoked, but still passed the death sentence. I cannot imagine anyone reading this story and then concluding that this dog should be put down, and it is especially outrageous that a disabled vet is going to lose his therapy dog. They are trying to generate public awareness and after you read the story, there is a petition you can sign in support of Jeremy Aguillar and Dutch.
http://www.dogheirs.com/dogheirs/post...