Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 139

An English king, a Welsh prince, a grand inquisitor, and Robin Hood

I want to wish my Jewish friends and readers a happy Rosh Hashanah. Now to the date’s more interesting events.
On September 16th, 1265, Henry III and his son, the future Edward I. made a limited peace with the surviving followers of Simon de Montfort, who’d died on August 4th at Evesham. That did not stop Henry from pushing through Parliament an edict giving the Crown the right to seize the lands of any man deemed an “accomplice” of the slain earl. So resistance would continue at Kenilworth Castle and on the Isle of Ely for another two years. “Others rallied to John d’Eyvill, hid themselves in the Fenlands, in the dark forests of Sherwood and Rutland, and here might well be found the genesis of the Robin Hood legends, those fire-lit tales of outlaw exploits, for they were reckless and sometimes gallant, these men known as “The Disinherited,” as “The Faithful.” Falls the Shadow, page 545.
On September 16th, 1387, Henry V was born. Because he was born at Monmouth Castle in Wales, he was sometimes called Henry of Monmouth. He was the son of the first Lancastrian king, Henry IV, the grandson of John of Gaunt, and the hero of Agincourt.
On September 16th, 1400, the followers of Owain Glyn Dwr proclaimed him Prince of Wales at Corwen, so this is an important date for those of us fascinated with Welsh history.
On September 16th, 14998, Tomas de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, died. He was instrumental in convincing King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella to issue the Alhambra Decree, expelling all Jews from Spain. Ironically, he had Jewish ancestry himself; his grand-mother was a conversa. His name has become a byword for the terrors of the Inquisition.
And on September 16th, 1620, the little ship Mayflower sailed for the New World.

Day of Deliverance

September 15th was a really slow medieval history day, so it seemed a good time to do a Ransom update. I am happy to report that Richard has finally escaped the clutches of the sociopathic Holy Roman emperor, having had to pay a ransom that would be computed in the trillions of dollars in current money, according to Ripley’s Believe it or Not. He also endured an eleventh hour double-cross by the shameless Heinrich, who actually whipped out letters from Philippe and John, offering a lot of money to continue Richard’s captivity, and inviting Richard to better it. Fortunately for Richard, he’d made some German friends in high places during his confinement, and they took advantage of the universal revulsion to Heinrich’s newest treachery. The Germans were already uneasy about imprisoning a crusader-king under the protection of the Church, and this was the final straw for them. They forced Heinrich to honor the terms of the agreement he’d struck with Richard for his release. Heinrich still had a nasty last-minute surprise for Richard, refusing to release him unless he did homage to the emperor for his kingdom. Eleanor persuaded her outraged son to agree, for she was a pragmatist and knew that it was meaningless since it was done under duress. To Richard, though, it was a source of great shame. The real Richard was set free on February 4th, 1194. My Richard won his freedom in mid-September, 2012. Below are three excerpts from this chapter.
This first is after Eleanor has convinced Richard that he has no choice but to do homage to Heinrich if that is the only way he can regain his freedom.
* * *
Turning away, Richard sat down in the closest chair, and the slump of his shoulders told Eleanor that she’d won. His pain tore at her heart, but his freedom mattered more. She hoped that in time, he’d come to see that, too. But even if he did not, she would have no regrets. There was nothing she would not have done to get her son out of Heinrich’s power---nothing.
* * *
After bidding farewell to the hostages and to Constance, who’d remained in the hall long after Heinrich had departed, Richard paused in the doorway to savor the moment, one in which he was no longer trailed by German guards. Glancing over his shoulder at Heinrich’s empress, he switched from French to the safer lenga romana. “I feel as if we are leaving one more hostage behind.” Looking back at Constance, Eleanor felt the same way.
* * *
Eleanor had forgotten one of Richard’s needs, something he found as essential as air. But Andre had not, and as Richard stood beside his new stallion, talking soothingly to accustom the animal to his presence before mounting, Andre approached with a large hemp sack. “I thought you might want this,” he said, opening the bag to reveal a scabbard of Spanish leather.
Sweeping his mantle back, Richard fastened the belt and then drew the sword from its scabbard. He saw at once that a superior bladesmith had labored to create this superb weapon, with a thirty inch blade and an enameled pommel, reminding him of the sword he’d been given by his mother upon his investiture as Duke of Aquitaine at age fifteen. He admired its balance, his eyes caressing that slender, steel blade as a lover might, and when he glanced toward his cousin, Andre thought that he finally looked like himself.
“Do you know how long it has been since I’ve held a sword in my hand, Andre?”
The other man shook his head.
“One year, six weeks, and three days.” For a moment, their eyes held, and then Richard sheathed his sword, swung up into the saddle, and gave the command to move out.
* * *

The Rout of Winchester

On September 14, 1141, the forces of the Empress Maude were forced to flee Winchester. They’d besieged the city in late July and took the town, but the castle held out under the men of the Bishop of Winchester, Stephen’s unscrupulous brother, and on August 2nd,they set fire to their own city, for the bishop could play realpolitik with the best of them. Then Stephen’s queen, Matilda, and his mercenary captain, William de Ypres, arrived to lay siege to the Angevins, trapping them within the city. When food ran out, they decided to attempt to break through the queen’s lines. Brian Fitz Count managed to get Maude to safety by making a dangerous dash for freedom. Her brother Robert, the Earl of Gloucester, stayed behind to give her time to get away and he was captured. This was a devastating defeat for Maude, for she was forced to trade Stephen for Robert, her brother being irreplaceable. And so the war would drag on for another seven years, causing great suffering to the unhappy English people. Here are a few passages from When Christ and His Saints Slept.
* * *
The battle had swept past them, over the crest of Winchester Hill. They spurred their horses over the crest of Winchester Hill, glancing back to make sure Luke was following, and came upon the last bitter moments of the ill-fated seven week siege of Winchester. It ended there at Le Strete, when Robert’s struggling rear guard collided with a contingent of Flemings coming down the Wherwell Road, ended in one final flurry of doomed resistance, dying, and defeat. P. 320
* * *
Maude swallowed with a visible effort. “You are saying, then, that either Robert was captured or he was slain.”
Neither man spoke, but she had her answer in their silence, and she shut her eyes, squeezing back her tears. She would be able to weep soon, hidden by the darkness, riding through the night toward Devizes, but not now, not yet. She would leave Ludgershall dry-eyed and unbowed. She would not shame Robert with her tears. P. 323
* * *
Matilda was staring at him in shock. “Robert,” she breathed, so softly that only Cecily heard, and her eyes widened.
“My lady, is this man the Earl of Gloucester?”
“This man,” Matilda said unsteadily, “is Stephen’s salvation.” Her voice was muffled, midway between laughter and tears. Reaching for the Fleming’s hand, she held fast. “How good God is, blessed be His Name. And bless you, too, Willem, for you’ve given me back my husband!” p. 325

A Borgia, William Cecil, Richard III, and me

Well, on September 13th, 1475, Cesare Borgia was born, of the infamous Borgias, who have been enjoying some success on Showtime, with the incomparable Jeremy Irons as Daddy Borgia, who was the Pope in his spare time.
On September 13, 1521, William Cecil was born; he was, of course, Elizabeth Tudor’s right-hand man, and probably one of the very few men whom she trusted. He’s also been mentioned as an unlikely suspect in the murder of Amy Robsart; the theory goes that he took such drastic action to make sure Elizabeth would not marry Robert Dudley. I can’t see this myself; he was a very cautious man and murder is anything but. If I had any evidence at all to offer, I’d suggest Elizabeth’s spy master, Francis Walsingham, as temperamentally more suited for such dark deeds. But since I don’t, I won’t. 
And on September 13, 1592, Philip II of Spain died, Mary’s reluctant husband, who was apparently nicely played by Elizabeth during those years when her life balanced on the edge of an executioner’s axe. Philip always struck me as rather bloodless, but he does seem to have nursed a passionate grudge against Elizabeth, so maybe not.
Lastly, this should have been my own birthday, as I was due to make my grand entrance on September 13th. But never one for waiting, I made an early arrival on August 13th, just missing being popped into an incubator since I only weighed five pounds. I am totally in awe of what I see as a genuine medical miracle—that now they can save premature babies who are so tiny they can fit in the palm of a doctor’s hand.
Oh, and there was something happening in Leicester, I think---involving a car park? If they have truly found Richard III’s bones, that qualifies as a miracle, too. A car park is not the most dignified of burial grounds for a king, but it still beats being dumped into the river, as one of the legends had it. I want to go on record that if this does indeed prove to be Richard, he ought to be buried in York Minster, in the city he loved and where he was loved in return.

September 12th in history

Obviously the most significant event to occur on September 12th was the birth of my friend, Stephanie Churchill Ling. But there were a few happenings of lesser importance.
On September 12, 490 BC, the Greeks defeated the Persians at the Battle of Marathon. Our modern marathons were inspired by a legend that a Greek messenger ran the 25 miles from Marathon to Athens to gasp out the news of their victory and then dropped dead. Sadly, this may be just that, a legend—well, not so sad for the messenger, of course.
On September 13, 1213, Simon de Montfort (not “my” Simon, his notorious father) defeated the King of Aragon, Peter II, at the battle of Murat. Peter died on the field and with him died any chance of ending the Albigensian Crusade, so I see this as a very sad day. Peter was the son of a minor character in both Lionheart and A King’s Ransom, Richard’s friend, Alfonso VI, King of Aragon.
On September 13, 1369, Blanche, the Duchess of Lancaster, died at the age of 23. Blanche was the wife of John of Gaunt and the mother of the first Lancastrian king, Henry IV. John was devastated by her death, but in time he would find consolation in the arms of Katherine Swynford. I’d given serious consideration to writing of John of Gaunt at one time, but I eventually concluded that his life could not easily be condensed into a fictional format. In Anya Seton’s wonderful novel, Katherine, he does not have the starring role and that makes all the difference. I do plan to give him some time on stage when I write about Owain Glyn Dwr, though. For the few who have not read Katherine, I recommend you remedy that ASAP.
And for the romantics in the group, I give you this. On September 12, 1846, Elizabeth Barrett eloped with Robert Browning, a very brave act for a young woman in those days. If they did not live happily ever after, I do not want to know about it.
Happy Birthday, Stephanie.

September 11th

For Americans, September 11th has only one meaning, a tragic one. It Is hard to believe eleven years have passed since that dreadful day, for the memories remain so raw and vivid and haunting.
On this date in history, in 1161, Melisende, the Queen of Jerusalem died at the age of fifty-six, some months after suffering a debilitating stroke. She was a remarkable woman, sadly not well known today, although I hope Sharan Newman’s biography will change that for the better. Queen of Jerusalem in her own right, she was the wife of Fulk of Anjou, who was the father of Count Geoffrey and grandfather of Henry II. She was also the grandmother of one of the characters in Lionheart, Isabella, the Queen of Jerusalem.
And on September 11, 1297, William Wallace won an unexpected victory over the English at the battle of Sterling Bridge. This event was dramatized in Mel Gibson’s Braveheart, a film that has probably driven countless historians and history lovers to drink.

The empress who wanted to be a queen and the count who did not want to be a king

There were two deaths on this date that matter to me and readers of my books. On September 10th, 1167, the Empress Maude, AKA Matilda, the mother of Henry II, died at the age of 65. She’d failed to claim the English crown for herself, but she’d done everything in her power to secure it for her eldest son, and she lived long enough to see it come to pass. She was buried in the abbey church of Bec Hellouin, in accordance with her wishes. The church was later destroyed by Napoleon, but her remains were discovered in 1846 and she was reburied at Rouen Cathedral. Her epitaph became famous for the lines: “Great by birth, greater by marriage, greatest in her offspring, here lies Matilda, the daughter, wife, and mother of Henry.” The epitaph was in Latin, which is why she was called Matilda, which was the Latin version of Maude. Notice how she expunged Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, from her marital history; the only husband she mentioned was the Holy Roman Emperor.
Maude’s death was not tragic, but the death of Henri, Count of Champagne, certainly was. Henri died at Acre on September 10th, 1197, in a freak accident, falling from a window of the royal palace. There are several accounts of his death; most of them speak of a window balcony or railing giving way. A servant died with him, having tried to save Henri as he fell. He was only thirty-one. He and Isabella, the Queen of Jerusalem, had three daughters during their five year marriage. He never did claim the title King of Jerusalem, continuing to call himself Count of Champagne until his untimely death.
Isabella was given little time to grieve, for a queen needed a strong king to defend their troubled kingdom. She soon wed Amaury de Lusignan, brother of the former King of Jerusalem, Guy de Lusignan. Guy and Amaury had moved to Cyprus after Richard arranged for Guy to buy it from the Templars, and after Guy died in 1194, Amaury managed to get the Holy Roman Emperor, Heinrich, to recognize him as King of Cyprus, a title Guy had not held. After his marriage to Isabella, Amaury became the King of Jerusalem, too. He died in 1205, apparently of food poisoning, and Isabella died a few days afterward. She was only thirty-three, and had been married four times, widowed three times, and had given birth to seven children by three of her husbands—a daughter with Conrad of Montferrat, who would become Queen of Jerusalem, three daughters with Henri, one of whom died young, and three children with Amaury, two daughters and a son, who died at age four, not long before the deaths of his parents.
Maria, Isabella’s daughter by Conrad died of childbed fever at age twenty, and her daughter’s story is even more tragic. Her name was either Isabella or Yolande, and she was wed against her will at age thirteen to Frederick II, the Holy Roman Emperor. Frederick would become known as Stupor Mundi—The Wonder of the World—and he was undoubtedly one of the most interesting and controversial monarchs of the Middle Ages. But he treated his women badly, with the possible exception of his first wife. He certainly was unkind to his thirteen year old bride, who wrote to her father on her honeymoon to complain of Frederick’s seduction of her ladies in waiting. We recently discussed medieval child brides and how the consummation of the marriage was normally not done till the bride was of a suitable age. Frederick did not wait, I am sorry to say, for they were wed in November of 1225, and she gave birth the following year to a daughter, who lived less than a year. Frederick kept her in seclusion in his Palermo harem, and she died in 1228, giving birth to a second child, a son; she was only sixteen. I have no desire whatsoever to write about Frederick, but I still hope to be able to write about Henri of Champagne.

A gruesome burial and a bloody battle

On September 9th, 1087, an extraordinary man died, known to his contemporaries as William the Bastard and to history as William the Conqueror. He is a controversial figure and not one I find appealing, but there is no denying his remarkable achievements, gaining first the duchy of Normandy despite his illegitimacy, and eventually the crown of England. He died when his horse stumbled and he was thrown forward onto the pommel of his saddle. He was grossly overweight and when the pommel pierced his stomach, he suffered a wound that proved mortal to the sixty year old monarch. Even people unfamiliar with medieval history have heard the gruesome story of his burial. According to the Norman chronicler, Orderic Vitalis, the stone sarcophagus was too short and when men tried to force his bloated body into the tomb, “the swollen bowels burst and an intolerable stench” filled the cathedral, forcing mourners and clergy alike to flee the church. Not the most dignified of funerals for a man who definitely changed history.
On September 9th, 1513, King James IV of Scotland was slain at Flodden Field. This was said to be the largest battle fought between the armies of Scotland and England. Henry VIII was in France at the time and the hero of the day was Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey. Thomas was an important figure during the reigns of both Yorkist kings. Richard III conferred the earldom of Surrey upon him and his father was the “Jockey of Norfolk” warned on the day of Bosworth that “Dickon, thy master is bought and sold.” The senior Howard died with Richard and Thomas was wounded and spent three years in the Tower. He would eventually be pardoned, though, and in the course of his long and eventful life, he would serve four kings. He was given his father’s duchy of Norfolk as a reward for his victory at Flodden, dying at age 80. His son was a nastier piece of work, though—the uncle of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, who abandoned them both to their fates to save his own skin; he still ended up in the Tower under sentence of death, saved only by the death of Henry VIII himself.

A king's birthday, an unwanted wife, and an enduring mystery

Another busy history date. On September 8th, 70 AD, Jerusalem was sacked by the Romans and the Second Temple destroyed. Alice Hoffman’s magnificent novel, The Dovekeepers, deals with this episode as well as the siege at Masada.
On September 8th, 1157, Eleanor gave birth to her sixth child—Richard--who would be her favorite son and who would become, like her, a legend in his own lifetime. Of the eight children that she bore Henry, this was the only time that he was on hand for one of the births. Richard was the third son that she’d given Henry in the first five years of their marriage and I am sure the French king felt as if she were pouring salt into his wounds since he’d divorced her for her “failure” to give him a male heir.
And on September 8, 1560, Amy Robsart, the 28 year old unwanted wife of Robert Dudley, Elizabeth’s favorite, was found dead at the bottom of the stairs in her country house. The resulting scandal kept Elizabeth from marrying her “Robin,” if indeed she’d ever considered it, and he found himself convicted in the court of public opinion. Amy’s mysterious death continues to intrigue people even today. The various theories include accident, suicide, murder, either by Dudley or others, or breast cancer which resulted in bones brittle enough to break in such a fall. We’ll never know for sure. But most historians today do not believe Dudley was responsible, concluding that he could not have been so foolish when he’d have known he’d be blamed. I happen to agree with this. However, I can’t help wondering why historians don’t apply this rational approach to Richard III. If he had his nephews murdered to eliminate them as a threat to his throne, it would be essential that people know they were dead, and their bodies would have been displayed, with the news that they’d sadly died of sickness. (As Edward had the body of Henry VI displayed, after he’d died of “melancholy.”) It would make no sense whatsoever to kill the boys and then keep their deaths secret. Ah, well, at least Robert Dudley has benefited from the application of common sense to the study of history.
Lastly, on September 8th, 1601, John Shakespeare, father of you-know-who died. I add this because I am currently enjoying David Blixt’s Her Majesty’s Will, a spy spoof involving the young Will Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe, who blunder onto the famous plot to assassinate Elizabeth and place Mary Stuart on the English throne. It is great fun so far, reminding me a little of Brian Wainwright’s wonderful Ricardian-Tudor spoof, The Adventures of Alianore Audley.

A sudden death, a significant battle, and a great queen

Several significant happenings on this day, unlike yesterday’s historical black hole. On September 7, 1151, Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, husband to the Empress Maude and father of the future Henry II, died unexpectedly on his way home from a meeting with the French king in Paris. He was only 38. During the Paris conference, Geoffrey had crossed verbal swords with Bernard, the Abbot of Clairvaux, who would later be canonized by the Church. Bernard was convinced that his views and God’s views were always one and the same and he’d been very unhappy with Geoffrey’s sardonic skepticism about that. He foresaw Geoffrey’s death within a month unless he repented of his manifold sins and when Geoffrey did die within that time, I am sure that many were very impressed. There is no evidence that Henry was, though. Geoffrey had gone swimming in a nearby river to cool off on a hot day and caught a chill. Henry, ever the pragmatist, seems to have seen that as a more likely cause-and-effect than Bernard’s ominous prediction. The evidence indicates that Henry had an excellent relationship with Geoffrey and I always found it very sad that he managed to alienate all of his own sons. If only he’d taken Geoffrey as a role model. Men rarely relinquished power in the MA; Henry certainly never did. But Geoffrey won Normandy by his sword and yet he then handed it all over to Henry, who was then just 17.
Also on September 7, 1191, Henry’s son Richard won a decisive victory against Saladin at Arsuf. Here is a link to a very good description of the battle. Or you can always read or re-read Lionheart! http://www.militaryhistoryonline.com/...
And on September 7, 1533, Anne Boleyn gave birth to a daughter, named Elizabeth after Henry’s mother. At the time, her birth was seen as a disappointment, a mere girl instead of the son that Henry so desperately wanted. It has been argued that Anne’s downfall began on this date and indeed, she faced the executioner at the Tower less than three years later. There is no doubt that little Elizabeth was deeply scarred by her mother’s murder—for murder it was. There is also no doubt that she proved herself to be one of England’s greatest monarchs. There is no evidence, though, that Henry had any appreciation of irony.