Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 125

The discontented duke and the monster storm

For yesterday. On February 7th, 1478, George of Clarence was sentenced to death, although it would take Edward another ten days before he could bring himself to have the sentence carried out. I have always believed that George had become mentally ill by the time he died; it is hard to explain his behavior otherwise. I need to get inside the heads of my characters in order to write about them, yes, even Henry Tudor. But visiting Brother George’s brain was like being trapped in a funhouse, filled with those spooky mirrors that distort reality.
For February 8th, see my friend Koby’s post on my blog. (I’m not being lazy, just horribly pressed for time.)
I thought my corner of the country was going to miss the Monster Nor’easter bearing down on the East Coast, but now it seems that in addition to high winds and heavy rains, we are also getting snow. Not as bad as what New England is facing, though; Boston may be hit with a blizzard of the century. What is very worrisome, too, is that so many people are still living in houses badly damaged by Hurricane Sandy, so they are very vulnerable to a storm of this magnitude. I hope everyone in its path stays safe.

Margaret Frazer, In Memoriam

Sharon Kay Penman


I lost a dear friend this week, the literary community lost a gifted writer, and the world lost a special person, one we could ill afford to lose. Margaret Frazer, in Memoriam, is up on my blog. http://sharonkaypenman.com/blog/

Margaret Frazer, In Memoriam

I am writing this in memory of my friend Gail Frazer, who wrote her medieval mysteries under the name Margaret Frazer, for she has finally lost her long battle.  Gail was my sister in all the ways that counted.  We were Yorkists, fellow writers, animal lovers, wine lovers, bibliophiles, and shared the same fascination with history.   She was much funnier than me, though, much funnier than the great majority of people on the planet.  I’d not have been surprised to discover that she could trace her descent from Mark Twain. All that irreverence and irony had to come from somewhere, after all.   She could laugh at almost anything, including herself, even death.  She was as courageous as any warrior, fighting cancer for twenty years, giving no quarter. She joked that her mantra was one she’d stolen from Han Solo, “Never tell me the odds!”   She also took a perverse pleasure in defying her doctors, who were, she reported gleefully, baffled that she was still alive.   She rescued stray cats and wayward friends.  She loved fiercely and had no patience with the pompous or the pretentious, skewering writers who did not do their research, describing their sloppy sort of work as “Mary Jane visits the castle.”  
 Her books were a delight to read, for her wit and intelligence shone through on every page.  She was not a Catholic, but don’t tell that to Sister Frevisse, her austere medieval nun, who yearned only to serve God, although Gail kept dragging corpses into her peaceful convent.  Her dashing spy and sometime player, Joliffe, is probably closer to Gail’s own nature, for he took nothing in life all that seriously, especially himself,   She had the imagination to create both chillingly believable villains and the heartbreakingly vulnerable people they victimized.  She was almost as ruthless as George R.R. Martin about killing her characters off; my mother never quite forgave her for The Servant’s Tale.   It would have been fascinating to see what she could have done with Elizabeth of York, the subject of her next novel; Henry Tudor would have been verbally eviscerated before he even knew what was happening. 
Her books are only one of her legacies, though.   She touched so many lives.   She lives on in her sons and in her books and in the memories of all those who loved her, and we are legion.    The world will be a darker place without her.  But for those of you who’ve not yet had the pleasure of reading her novels, there is still time.  And what better way can a writer be remembered than to be read?  

Richard again, of course!

I am delighted that Richard is getting the sort of attention in the British media that is usually reserved for Will and Kate. And to my surprise, Richard is making a splash in the American media, too, even the New York Times. I confess, though, that every time a story has been promoted about the “king in the car park,” I hold my breath, waiting for them to say something stupid. And they often do. But my local newspaper, the Philadelphia Inquirer, ran a story today on the front page that will not cause Yorkists to shudder. To the contrary, it might have Tudor fans (there are such people, right?) gnashing their teeth. http://www.philly.com/philly/news/hom...

PS.For my British readers, Sunne is still available for download on Amazon.com.UK at the bargain price of 74 pence. I don't know how long it will last, though.

Richard III's lost grave found!

I slept well last night, never doubting that I would arise this morning to hear the DNA results had confirmed what all Ricardians knew—that Richard III’s lost grave had been found. It will be fascinating to see the reconstruction done from his skull, too. I am sorry his reburial in Leicester Cathedral won’t occur in time for our Richard III tour in September, and there is a lingering regret that he cannot be buried in his beloved York, in the city that courageously mourned his death in the city records. But Leicester made this happen, so there is a certain justice that Leicester Cathedral will be his final resting place. Now…..would it be too self-centered to hope that the news sends Sunne sales soaring like our hopes? Below is an American story about the discovery; we been posting only British media accounts ever since the news broke in September, mainly because the American press ignored it. But Richard made headlines today on both CNN and MSNBC, a good sign of things to come. The BBC link gives much more details, including his height—five feet, eight inches tall, and the gruesome fact that he suffered ten wounds.

http://cosmiclog.nbcnews.com/_news/20...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-...

A great love story, the king of the car park, and the Super Bowl

On February 3rd, 1399, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, uncle of Richard II, lover and then husband of Katherine Swynford, father of the first Lancastrian king, Henry IV, died at Lancaster Castle just a month shy of his 59th birthday. I’d once given serious consideration to doing a novel about John, but reluctantly concluded that his life did not lend itself well to a fictional treatment; he was easier to write as a supporting character as Anya Seton did in her classic Katherine.
Tomorrow is the big day for those who love history, the House of York, or just enjoy a good mystery, when the results of the DNA testing will be held. I’ve never had the slightest doubt that they found Richard. For any who prefer to let the suspense drag out till tomorrow, don’t read this article in the Daily Mail. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/artic...
Lastly, go San Francisco!!!

A Candlemas death

I am making another quick foray out of Deadline Doomland. (I’m glad so many liked that phrase!) Too much happening on this date to ignore. February 2nd was an important day on the medieval Church calendar—Candlemas. And this date resonated in several of my novels. February 2nd, 1141 was the battle of Lincoln, in which Stephen was defeated and taken prisoner by Robert, the Earl of Gloucester, on behalf of his sister, the Empress Maude. At the risk of seeming blood-thirsty, I like writing of battles and this was a good one, filled with high drama and suspense. February 2nd was also the date of an important Yorkist battle, at Mortimer’s Cross in 1461. Edward, who’d become Duke of York and head of his fractured family upon the death of his father at the battle of Wakefield barely a month ago, was trying to prevent Owen Tudor and reinforcements coming out of Wales from joining the Lancastrians, and he forced a battle not far from Wigmore. Even before the fighting began, he faced a challenge when a parhelion appeared in the sky, a phenomenon that made it look as if there were three suns overhead. Naturally this frightened his soldiers, but the quick-witted Edward cried out that the suns represented the Holy Trinity and was an omen of victory; he would later adopt this as his cognizance, the Sunne in Splendour. Having staved off disaster, he then proceeded to defeat the Lancastrians, captured Owen Tudor, and had him executed—not surprising, since the heads of his father and brother and uncle were even then on poles above Micklegate Bar in York. Edward then went on to receive a hero’s welcome by the city of London and shattered the Lancastrian hopes in a savage battle fought in a snowstorm at Towton on Palm Sunday. What is truly remarkable is that Edward was not yet nineteen years old.
I thought of Edward’s parhelion when I was reading a chronicler’s account of the building of Richard I’s beloved “saucy castle, “ Chateau Gaillard. I was familiar with the exchange between the kings over Chateau Gaillard. Philippe, fuming at seeing this formidable stronghold rising up on the Vexin border, vowed that he would take it if its walls were made of steel. When he was told this, Richard laughed and said he’d hold it if its walls were made of butter. But there is another story about Gaillard not as well known. In the spring of 1198, Richard was personally supervising the construction, as he often did, when a shower of blood suddenly fell from the skies. Naturally, this freaked out everyone—everyone but Richard. The chronicler reported that “The king was not dismayed at this, nor did he relax in promoting the work in which he took so great delight.” Now I confess my first reaction to this story was an uncharitable one, wondering if the chronicler, William of Newburgh, had been hitting the wine when he wrote this. Shower of rain and blood? But when I googled it, I discovered that red rain has indeed fallen at various times, and there were even some unsettling photos of a red rain in India that really did look like blood. Clearly strong-willed men like Richard and Edward were not as superstitious as their brethren.
For me, though, February 2nd has another, sadder meaning, for on this date in 1237, Joanna, daughter of King John and wife of Llywelyn Fawr, died at Aber and was buried at Llanfaes, where her grieving husband established a friary in honor of her memory. Below is that scene from Falls the Shadow, page 26
* * *
Joanna closed her eyes, tears squeezing through her lashes. So much she wanted to stay, but she had not the strength. “Beloved…promise me…”
Llywelyn stiffened. She’d fought so hard to gain the crown for their son. Did she mean to bind him now with a deathbed bow? He waited, dreading what she would ask of him, to safeguard the succession for Davydd. Knowing there was but one certain way to do that—to cage Gruddydd again. And how could he do that to his son? How could he condemn him to a life shut away from the sun? But how could he deny Joanna? Could he let her go to her grave without that comfort?
“Llywelyn…pray for me,” she gasped, and only then did he fully accept it, that she was indeed dying, was already lost to him, beyond earthly cares, worldly ambitions.
“I will, Joanna.” He swallowed with difficulty, brought her hand up, pressing her lips against her palm. “You will have my every prayer.”
“Bury me at…at Llanfaes…”
His head jerked up. He had an island manor at Llanfaes; it was there that Joanna had been confined after he had discovered her infidelity. “Why, Joanna? Why Llanfaes?”
Her mouth curved upward. “Because…I was so happy there. You came to me, forgave me…”
“Oh, Christ, Joanna…” His voice broke; he pulled her into an anguished embrace, held her close.
* * *

A coronation, an execution, and the Thirteenth Amendment

A quick escape from Deadline Doomland to report that on February 1st, 1327, Edward III was crowned King of England; he was only 14 and the government remained in the hands of his mother, Queen Isabella, and her lover, Roger Mortimer. Jumping forward a few centuries, on February 1st, 1587, a conflicted Elizabeth I finally signed the death warrant for her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. And on a much happier, albeit non-medieval, occasion, Abraham Lincoln signed the Thirteenth Amendment on February 1st, 1865 after it had been approved by the House and the Senate, and then sent it to the states for ratification. It would eventually be ratified by the requisite number of states in December of 1865. The Thirteenth Amendment abolished slavery in the United States, completing what had begun with Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation in 1863. This is covered in Steven Spielberg’s powerful film, Lincoln.

"For my Lord William!"

I am sorry for the disappearance, but the next month is going to be very challenging for me. Even with my publisher’s generous extension, I cannot afford to slack off even for a day if I want to do my best by Ransom and to meet that deadline. And I am about to be hit by the perfect storm, if you’ll forgive me for relying upon that overdone but evocative descriptive phrase. While continuing to work on Ransom, I have to get my income tax records ready for my accountant, a time-consuming task I consider penance for my sins, and I also will have to go over the 1000 page galley proofs for Sunne, which will be having its British rebirth in hardback form come September. And those are just the highlights of my month. I will try to surface for air whenever I can, but I hope you all will understand if I am not on Facebook as frequently as in the past, and carry on without me.
I missed two significant Angevin events yesterday, so I’d like to catch up now. On January 30, 1164, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, yielded under intense pressure by the outraged English king, and agreed to accept Henry’s Constitutions of Clarendon, which attempted to give the Crown a greater say in the punishment of priests accused of crimes. But this was merely a brief truce in the war between the archbishop and the king, for Becket had no intention of giving in, telling his fellow bishops that he would take the oath Henry demanded, then purge the sin of perjury by penance.
Meanwhile in Rouen, Henry’s youngest brother, William died on that same day. He was only twenty-seven and many blamed Becket for his sudden, unexpected death, for William had been devastated by the archbishop’s refusal to grant a dispensation for William’s proposed marriage to the great heiress, Isabelle de Warenne; Henry’s supporters believed that Becket had denied William the marriage he wanted as a means of getting back at Henry. One of Becket’s assassins would shout “For my Lord William!” as he struck a blow. As for Henry, there is no doubt that the death of his brother added yet another drop of bitterness to the already toxic feud between these former friends.

A Welsh rebel and those infernal Tudors again

On January 28, 1316, a Welsh nobleman, Llywelyn Bren, rebelled against Edward II. His revolt was short lived; he was forced to surrender two months later, winning respect by asking that he alone be punished and his men be spared. He was taken to the Tower of London and his captors, the Earl of Hereford and Roger Mortimer, urged Edward to pardon him. But two years later, he became the prisoner of Edward’s ruthless favorite, Hugh the younger Despenser. Hugh took him to Cardiff and there had him hanged, drawn, and quartered without benefit of trial; he also arrested Llywelyn’s wife and sons. This unlawful act aroused much resentment and was one of the grievances charged against Hugh when his own downfall came and he met the fate he so richly deserved, the same one he’d inflicted upon Llywelyn Bren. After Edward was deposed, Llywelyn’s sons were allowed to inherit his lands and the Earl of Hereford continued to give their mother a pension until her death.
In other happenings, Charlemagne died on this date in 814, and we have to give those ubiquitous Tudors a shout-out, I guess. Henry Tudor was born on January 28th, 1457 and his son, Henry VIII, died on the same date in 1547.