Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 136

Ungrateful sons and a nasty piece of work, even if he did wear a bishop's mitre

On October 11, 1174, the peace that Henry had made with his sons and the French king on September 29th at Montlouis-sur-Loire was formalized in the Treaty of Falaise. As the victor, Henry had the pleasure of dictating terms. He was more generous to his rebellious sons than many felt they deserved, but not as generous as they would have liked, especially his eldest, Hal. My friend Kasia has warm feelings for the Young King, so I am quoting two paragraphs from Devil’s Brood for her. Kasia, enjoy.
Page 270 Henry has just announced what provisions he is making for Hal.
Hal swallowed, thinking how much more he’d been offered last year at Gisors: half the crown revenues of England or Normandy, plus four English castles or six strongholds in their continental domains. Reminding himself then, that this was still a very generous offer from the victor to the vanquished, he smiled and made a graceful acknowledgment of his good fortune and his gratitude.
• * *
Page 271 But Henry then announces that he is giving some of Hal’s castles to John.

Ha’s gasp was loud enough for Geoffrey to jab him warningly in the ribs. That reminder alone would not have been enough. But his gaze happened to alight upon his brother Richard, who was watching him with malicious satisfaction. Richard’s smirk acted like a lifeline to pull him back from defiant disaster. “If it pleases my lord father,” he mumbled, “it pleases me.”
• * *
•
Also on October 11, 1188, Louis VII of France’s quarrelsome and unlovable brother, Robert, the Count of Dreux, died. Younger brothers of kings were often thorns in the sides of their royal brothers; Richard III was an anomaly, as was Edward I’s loyal brother, Edmund. Robert gave Louis a lot of grief, probably from the cradle, for he was ambitious, arrogant, and apparently convinced he’d have been a better king. He was also fertile, siring thirteen children by three wives. Two of his sons would achieve notoriety on their own. His eldest and namesake shamed himself on the Third Crusade by abandoning the Flemish lord, Jacques de Avesnes, when he was unhorsed at the battle of Arsuf. His son Philip, the Bishop of Beauvais, did so much to sabotage Richard’s efforts during the crusade that a suspicious soul might wonder if he’d been in Saladin’s pay. No, he was merely following the wishes of another of Richard’s enemies, one less honorable than Saladin, the French king Philippe. On his way home from the Holy Land, Beauvais spread the story that Richard was responsible for the murder of Conrad of Montferrat and that he betrayed Christendom to the Saracens. Richard would, of course, find himself on trial for these offenses at the German court, so we can be sure that his feelings for Beauvais were not warm and fuzzy. Even worse was to come, for Beauvais then advised Heinrich to put Richard in chains. When he wasn’t making life difficult for Richard, Beauvais was causing trouble on other fronts—he was a moving force behind Isabella’s unwanted divorce from Humphrey de Bohun at the siege of Acre, and naturally his sticky fingerprints were all over Philippe’s invalid divorce from Ingeborg of Denmark. I like to think that almost everyone has at least a few redeeming qualities, but I have been unable to find even one for Philip of Dreux.

Why writers drink

October 10th is another slow history day. The Black Prince did wed the Fair Maid of Kent, but since neither of them has figured in any of my novels, I can’t muster up much enthusiasm for doing an entire Note about them. It is like inviting perfect strangers to be my houseguests, usually not a good idea.
So instead I am offering a brief discussion about the problems of dealing with strong-willed and arrogant fictional characters. Not all writers have this problem, of course. I once read an interview that Vladimir Nabokov gave to the Paris Review in which he was asked about a comment by E.M. Forester that his characters sometimes took over and dictated the course of his novels. Mr Nabokov rather snarkily replied that he’d only read one Forester novel and disliked it; he then went on to dismiss the idea as a trite whimsy and bragged that his own characters were all galley slaves. (He probably scared them into submission) No galley slaves in any of my books and I do a lot of moaning and groaning whenever Richard or Eleanor or John give me a hard time. But it is not just me. When Ken John is not chartering arks or exercising his superb talents as an agent provocateur on Facebook, he is writing a novel about a very interesting medieval lord, and according to his recent comments on my blog, the chivalrous and good-natured Othon has become as contrary as the Angevins. I asked Ken if I could share this with our Facebook friends and he kindly agreed. And so here are Ken and me struggling to keep our characters from staging a mutiny, every historical novelist’s secret fear—except for Vladimir Nabokov, of course.

ken john Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 8:39 am
1. Othon is fine and sends kisses. He’s actually lying on his back on the lawn with his hands behind his head and a piece of straw between his teeth, having just panned my attempt to write the battle of Lewes in 1265. After the battle Edward and Henry were made captive by Simon de Montfort, but Edward ordered Othon to escape with his Lusignan uncles, ensure that his wife Eleanor was protected and make his way to France to help Queen Eleanor raise an army.
I thought my account was pretty good having followed all the latest expert opinions on the course of the battle and what preceded it, but Othon seems to think I haven’t made enough of his part in it and particularly his fighting prowess. When I point out that none of the accounts of the battle actually mention the presence of an Othon de Grandson, so I only have his (not always reliable) account of his bravery and fighting skills, he got all uppity, said I was a rubbish writer and why couldn’t he have found a ‘proper’ writer like Sharon to write his story, instead of me?
So, he’s just lying around and I, instead of writing, am reading 1365 by Bernard Cornwell. Now there’s a man who can write a battle or two! Maybe I’ll pinch a few ideas, or is there a name for someone who does that?

2. Sharon Kay Penman Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 9:53 am
Ken, I thought only my pushy Angevins were the sort to give a struggling writer grief, never would have expected that from the soul of chivalry like Othon. Clearly this attitude of entitlement harkens back to their disdain for us as mere scribes. I should warn you, too, that it is contagious. One day it is just Othon and Edward jerking your chain. The next it has spread to Eleanora and other major characters. I am currently being scolded by Berengaria of all people, who felt that I was portraying her as too slow to realize something had gone wrong in her marriage. There apparently is no cure for character hubris, either. Master Cornwell has an advantage over us, for if his people get too uppity, he can always threaten to let them die prematurely or unpleasantly. But that only works, obviously, if the characters are fictional. If they actually lived, they just sneer, knowing we are not writing alternate fiction.


3. ken john Says:
October 7th, 2012 at 10:06 am
Oh, Edward has already had a go at me and Dafydd ap Gruffudd thinks I’m a wimp and a goody-two-shoes! Please do post it, I think Stephanie will have some fun with it!

Melusine, Demon Spawn, and a snippet from A King's Ransom

I have Melusine back, but she is not fully functional yet, for reasons I will not inflict upon you all; you’ve suffered enough through my computer trials and tribulations. Demon Spawn crashed four times on Sunday, so I feel as if I am living with a rattlesnake coiled to strike again as soon as I let down my guard.
On a more cheerful note, Richard now is in full control of England, which means that John is very nervous, indeed. But Eleanor wants him to make peace with Richard, for reasons practical, dynastic, and possibly even maternal, and so she sends a trusted agent to Evreux to convey her wishes to her secret spy in John’s camp.
Here is the start of the exchange between them.
* * *
It took Durand de Curzon a while to find the small, shabby tavern. It was poorly lit by smoking wall rush-lights; he paused in the doorway until his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he saw the man awaiting him at a shadowed corner table.
Sliding onto the bench beside Justin de Quincy, Durand signaled to the serving maid for wine. “A charming hovel you picked for this tryst. What…you could not find a pig-sty?”
“I did look for one,” Justin said laconically, “for I wanted you to feel at home.”
* * *
I guess you can tell that they do not like each other much? Here is another exchange:
* * *
Justin’s message was a coded verbal one, for it was too dangerous to commit anything to writing. “What are your chances of bringing the lost sheep back into the fold?”
“This particular sheep is one for wandering off on his own. I’ll do my best to track him down, though. Once I find him, where should I bring him?”
“To the market at Lisieux.”
Durand nodded, then pushed the bench back, having heard all he needed to know. He did not bother to bid Justin farewell, nor did he bother to pay for his wine.
* * * `
On the historical front, yesterday, October 8th, 1200 was the date upon which John’s lovely child-bride, Isabelle d’Angouleme, was crowned. And today, on October 9th, 1192, Richard sailed from Acre for home—or so he thought. If he had any idea what lay ahead of him, I think he may have given serious consideration to starting life anew in Outremer. Also, on October 9th, 1253, a remarkable man died, Robert Grosseteste, a Renaissance Man before his time—Bishop of Lincoln, theologian, scientist, statesman, and close personal friend of Simon de Montfort.

The best video

As strange as it sounds, nothing of medieval interest happened on October 7th. Anywhere, at any time! How pitiful is that? Oh, people were born and died (Edgar Allen Poe for one) and the battles of Lepanto and Saratoga were fought. But they were not medieval and I have to maintain some standards.
So….today I am posting one of the most joyful videos I’ve ever watched, showing a flash mob forming in Moscow to dance to Puttin’ on the Ritz. Trust me, no one can watch this without feeling all warm and fuzzy and happy; it is a pure delight. Take a few minutes to watch it—you’ll thank me. http://www.youtube.com/embed/KgoapkOo...

More on The Greatest Knight

One of my Facebook readers has posted that today only, Amazon is offering The Greatest Knight Kindle for only $0.99. That may be the bargain of the year!

The Greatest Knight

I am taking a brief break from the great council at Nottingham to pass on some very good news. Elizabeth Chadwick's The Greatest Knight has just made the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists!! That is even more impressive when you consider that it was published in the US several years ago.

The Blue Screen of Death

October 6th 1164 was the Council of Northampton, which resulted in the final bitter break between Henry II and Thomas Becket. Henry showed he was prepared to go to almost any lengths to bring the archbishop down, and Becket was found guilty of perjury. He slipped away under cover of night and managed to flee to France, where he was warmly welcomed—of course—at the French court. When Henry was later told that the Pope supported Becket, his explosive Angevin temper went off like Mt Vesuvius and he did something he later regretted, for it was blatantly unfair—he expelled all of Becket’s household still in England and their kin, including the archbishop’s sister and nephews, as many as four hundred innocent people caught up in this clash of titans. In Time and Chance, it also results in a spectacular quarrel between Henry and Eleanor, who does not endear herself to her infuriated husband by telling him that “This interminable feuding with Becket has well and truly addled your mind!” Page 242.
I don’t know if you are familiar with the famous haiku that has been circulating on the Internet for years, expressing our computer woes in poetic form. This week seems a good time to share a few of them.

“Three things are certain:
Death, taxes, and lost data.
Guess which has occurred.”

“First snow, then silence.
This thousand dollar screen dies
So beautifully.”

“Windows NT crashed.
I am the Blue Screen of Death.
No one hears your screams.”

Eleanor's Daughter

Well, so far Demon Spawn is co-operating, but it is a bit like living in the shadow of an active volcano, wondering when it will erupt. (Not that dealing with computers has made me paranoiac.) The techs at Best Buy are going to take a shot at retrieving my lost data, but they say the odds are only 50-50.
On October 5, 1214, Alfonso VIII, the King of Castle, died at age 59; he’d become king at age 3, though regents ruled for him until he was old enough to take the reins of government himself. Alfonso was a successful ruler, most closely associated with the Reconquista. But it is his queen who is of greater interest to us, Leonora, the second daughter of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine.
Leonora, then known as Eleanor after her mother, was born on October 13, 1162; the abbot of Mont St Michel was her godfather. She was wed to Alfonso before September of 1177, at age fourteen. She seems to have had a happy marriage and was known to exert influence with her husband; theirs was a court for troubadours, so she followed in the tradition of her family in this respect. She was said to have been devastated by Alfonso’s death, too shattered to attend his funeral. In fact, she took ill soon afterward, and died just 28 days later, at age 52.
Leonora and Alfonso had at least 13 children, and she had more than her share of maternal grief. Her first, Berenguela, was born in 1180 when her mother was not yet 18. Leonora then gave birth to four children who either died soon after birth or in infancy. Her sixth child was a son, Sancho, who was placed in the monastery of San Adito until his death at 15, and historians assume he must have had physical or mental disabilities that barred him from the throne. Leonora then had a daughter, Urraca, who survived childhood, although she was only 33 when she died. Another daughter, Blanca, (Blanche) followed, who would wed the French king Philippe’s son, becoming Queen of France in 1223 and acting as regent during the minority of her son, Louis, who’d later be canonized. Leonora’s next child was a son, Fernando, who was heir to the throne, but he died prematurely, too, only 22. Another daughter followed, who only lived to be 20. She then had a daughter, Constanza, who would become a nun and eventually abbess of Santa Maria La Real in Las Huelgas. Her last daughter, Leonora, wed the King of Aragon, but after the marriage was dissolved on grounds of consanguinity, she became a nun at her sister’s abbey. Leonora’s last child was a son, Enrique, who only lived to be 13, when he was killed in a freak accident, struck by a tile falling off a roof. His elder sister, Berenguela, assumed the throne after his death and then abdicated in favor of her son.

It is hard to imagine a mother (or father) enduring so many losses. Leonora had her first child at 17, her last at 42, and she outlived all but six of them. She was at least spared Enrique’s death, which did not occur until 1217. It is amazing that she survived so many trips to the birthing chamber, which she visited in 1180, 1181, 1182 (twins), 1183, 1185, 1187, 1188, 1189, 1191, 1195, 1202, and 1204.

Other medieval women had large broods, of course. Edward I and Eleanora of Castile had so many children that the exact amount is in dispute; I’ve seen the number given as 16 and 17, and only five lived to reach adulthood. Cecily Neville, the Duchess of York, gave birth to thirteen children and buried six in infancy or early childhood. Perhaps the most tragic history is that of Queen Anne Stuart of England, who had 18 childbirths or miscarriages, with only three surviving past infancy, two daughters dying before their second birthdays and her son and heir dying at age 11. It makes us realize how remarkable it was that Henry and Eleanor raised seven of eight children to adulthood. (one chronicler mentioned another son who died at birth, but historians seem to discount it.) But because she lived to be 80, Eleanor would outlive all but two of her ten children, John and Leonora.

Thinking of these brave women, I am awed by their resilience and strength. So today I celebrate Eleanor’s daughter and namesake, and her medieval sisters down through the ages, who often faced as much danger in the birthing chamber as their husbands did on the battlefield.

A royal pawn

So far Demon Spawn is behaving himself, but based on past experience, I suspect he is just waiting for me to lower my guard. Thank you all for the sympathy.
On October 4th, 1160, the Lady Alys, daughter of Louis VII of France, was born. She was unlucky from the first, as her mother died giving her birth. She would spend over twenty years as Richard’s betrothed and her reputation was destroyed by rumors that she had been the concubine of Richard’s father, Henry. Like a firefly trapped in amber, she was kept in comfortable confinement as her youth slipped away, her return to France delayed first by the Crusade, then Richard’s imprisonment, and then the bitter war between the French and English kings. She was finally turned over to Philippe in 1195 and he at once married her off to William Talvas, the Count of Ponthieu. We know nothing of their marriage, but as she was 35 at the time of the wedding and he was just 16, the odds were not in their favor. It has been suggested that Philippe married her to the young count in the hopes that she’d be too old to give him an heir, thus allowing the French Crown to lay claim to Ponthieu. But Alys did give birth to one or more daughters, so at least she was not denied motherhood; in fact, her daughter Marie was the grandmother of Eleanora of Castile, the queen of Edward I, so in a nice turn of irony, Alys was an ancestress of the later Plantagenets. She is thought to have died circa 1220, and coincidentally, her husband died on her birthday, October 4th, 1222. It was not always a blessing to be born a royal princess, as Alys and Eleanor of Brittany and Ingeborg of Denmark and two of the wives of Frederick II could attest.

The Blue Screen of Death

I may be MIA for a while. Melusine crashed without warning this afternoon, and the techs at Best Buy said it was showing the dreaded Blue Screen of Death, which means it is either a serious hardware problem or a serious one with the operating system. In either case, I will lose everything on it—everything. (Aside from my current chapter, which will have to be retyped on Demon Spawn, I did save the rest of Ransom to a flash drive, thankfully, but only the novel itself.) In addition to all my work, the e-mails are doomed, too. And I don’t know when I’ll have it back. I do have the back-up desk-top, but a back-up named Demon Spawn does not inspire a lot of confidence. Demon Spawn has had a vacation for the past six months, as I’ve been using Melusine exclusively, and I am sure he is going to make me pay for that neglect. Even worse, I’ve gotten so used to Windows 7 and Microsoft Word 2010 that going back to XP and Word 2003 will be taking a huge step backward. So if I am not around much, at least you all will know why.