Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 140
September 6, 2012
A sad day for music lovers
company dedicated to medieval and Renaissance music . I never got to meet him, but he contacted me after I'd raved about his music on Facebook. The world is a darker place now that his light has gone out. I always thought the Lionheart would have enjoyed Owaine's rendition of his prison lament, and I like to think that they can perform it together now. Here is a link to YouTube and Owaine singing Richard's song, Ja Nus Hons Pris http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVRjmT...
A great book website
It is the easiest way to compare prices for books. Now you can go on your own to check out the various on-line bookshops—the Amazon websites, Alibris, ABE Books, etc. But this site allows you to do it all in one stop. Just type in the title of the book you are looking for and hit the compare prices. You will then be presented with a list of all of the available copies of the book, with their prices. Pick the one you want and click Buy it; you’ll then be taken to the specific website. It couldn’t be easier and it has saved me a fair amount of money; of course I am usually searching for long out-of-print books dealing with medieval matters. But I tested it on Hilary Mantel’s Bring up the Bodies and the prices ranged from $10 to $21. Books that can be rented are also included in the comparison list. Since I am always trying to lure everyone into book bankruptcy with me, it only seemed fair to pass on a way to save money for a change.
September 5, 2012
Deaths of a duchess and a queen
On September 5th, 1538, Henry VIII’s last wife, Katherine Parr, died. While Anne Boleyn naturally attracts the lion’s share of attention, Katherine was a very interesting woman in her own right, intelligent, attractive, cultured, and kind-hearted. Born in 1512, she made her first marriage in 1529 at age 17. He died in 1533 and she then wed John Neville, Baron Latimer, who died in March of 1543. The young widow was smitten with the dashing, dangerous Thomas Seymour and wanted to marry him, but she had the bad luck to catch the attention of Henry VIIII. In a letter she later wrote to Seymour, she confessed that he was the one she’d hoped to wed, but her family had convinced her it was God’s Will that she wed the king. Refusal was probably not an option under the circumstances.
She wed Henry in July of 1543 and at once did her best to befriend his children, with considerable success; she also used her influence with Henry to keep both Mary and Elizabeth in the line of succession. But she made enemies at court and the Bishop of Winchester, Stephen Gardiner, sought to turn Henry against her, accusing her of heresy. Henry was persuaded to issue a warrant for her arrest—I suppose by then it had become a habit to send his wives to the Tower. Fortunately for Katherine, she was warned about the warrant by one of Henry’s doctors and took to her bed, giving out that she was gravely ill. When Henry came to see her, she told him that she’d sickened from fear that she had displeased him. When he reprimanded her for having dared to dispute his views, she assured him that she’d argued with him about religion only to distract him from his own ailments. Henry bought it and withdrew the warrant. Being married to this man must have been such fun.
Henry died in January of 1457 and Katherine was finally free to follow her heart, but with tragic results. She and Thomas Seymour became lovers and were secretly married in May of 1547; this marriage unfortunately alienated her stepson, the young king, Edward. Katherine had invited Elizabeth and Jane Grey to join her household, and after she unexpectedly became pregnant—after three marriages without children—Thomas Seymour turned his eye and his practiced charm upon the thirteen year old Elizabeth. The resulting scandal—rumors circulating that he’d seduced Elizabeth—caused Katherine to send the girl away. She seems to have genuinely cared for Elizabeth—as she did for her husband—so her pregnancy could not have been a happy time for her. She gave birth to a daughter, named after Mary Tudor, on August 30th, 1548, but she contracted what they called childbed fever (Puerperal Fever) and died on September 5th, 1548; this was the same illness that had claimed Henry VIII’s third wife, Jane Seymour. Katherine was only 36, and I find her story to be such a sad one.
September 4, 2012
WILLIAM MARSHAL'S WEDDING NIGHT
WILLIAM MARSHAL’S WEDDING NIGHT
A Roman statesman named Cato the Elder is said to have ended
every speech in the Senate with the words “Carthago delenda est,” calling for
the destruction of Carthage, Rome’s ancient enemy. Well, I may have to begin all future blogs by
issuing a call to Helen, a winner of my last book giveaway. Helen was one of the two winners, posting on
July 17th, and she has yet to get in touch with me. So….Helen, you have a book waiting for
you. You can contact me at this link on
my website. http://www.sharonkaypenman.com/contact_penman.htm
I am
currently bogged down doing research for a critical chapter in Ransom and so I
have had to keep the real world at bay while I struggle out of this swamp. But I noticed that it is going on three weeks
since I’ve posted a new blog. What to
do? I came up with the idea of giving
you all a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the making of a novel—hopefully, it
won’t be as messy as the making of sausage or laws. Today’s blog is going to be the original
Prologue for Lionheart—the wedding night of William Marshal and the young
heiress, Isabel de Clare. It ended up on
the cutting room floor because we decided to make two books out of
Lionheart. Because of this surgery,
William Marshal disappears from the story early on and does not re-appear again
once the action moves to Sicily, Cyprus, and the Holy Land. So my editor thought it no longer made sense
to begin the book with Will and Isabel and I did a second Prologue. This left the old Prologue gathering dust,
though—until it occurred to me that some of my readers might like to read it;
who doesn’t like William Marshal, after all?
So….I now give you the original Prologue for Lionheart.
* *
* * *
PROLOGUE
AUGUST 1189 LONDON, ENGLAND
William Marshal had taken care to make his
bride’s deflowering as easy as possible, and in the afterglow of their
lovemaking, he was pleased, both with his performance and her responsiveness.
“Oh, my,” she’d murmured once she’d gotten her breath back, amusing him then by
pulling aside the bed covers to look for the requisite proof of innocence,
proudly showing him the trickle of blood staining her thighs and the sheet.
Will had harbored no doubts about her
virginity; few heiresses were given the opportunity to yield to temptation, and
Isabel de Clare was a great heiress indeed. Her father and grandfather had been
earls, her mother the daughter of an Irish king, and she brought to her husband
much more than an impeccable pedigree. She brought him, too, vast estates in England, Normandy,
South Wales, and Ireland.
Even though she was an earl’s daughter, Will did not become an earl himself by
wedding her, for only the king could bestow that title upon him. But he was now
a very wealthy man, influential beyond his wildest dreams, and he owed it all
to the girl-woman who was curled up beside him like a kitten, tickling his
chest with each swish of her long, silky hair.
“My ladies said I was fortunate that you
are no longer young,” she told him, hers the forthright candor of the indulged
and highborn. “They said young men were keener on their own pleasure, but an
older man would not be so urgent or greedy, would be able to take his time. Is
that why it did not hurt as much as I expected, Will?”
“Probably,” he agreed gravely, biting back
a smile. “A man of my advanced years
is not as likely to spill his seed too soon, the way a green lad might.”
Isabel propped herself up on her elbow.
“Just how old are you?” she asked archly, and feigned shock when Will said his
years were forty and two. “I am eighteen. So I am young enough to be your
daughter.”
She paused for dramatic effect and to see
how he’d react to her teasing. She had been very pleased when the justiciar had
told her she was to be wed to William Marshal, for he was a celebrated knight,
famous for his tournament prowess, envied by other men and favored by kings. It
troubled her not at all that he was more than twenty years her senior, for that
was often the way of their world. And Aine, her down-to-earth childhood nurse,
had pragmatically pointed out that an aging husband could be a boon to an
unhappy wife, as he was likely to die first.
Isabel did not think she’d need to worry
about that, though. From the moment she’d laid eyes upon Will, she’d marveled
at her luck, for her renowned husband-to-be was also tall and well formed, his
brown hair curling neatly at the base of his neck and the corners of his mouth
hinting at a suppressed smile.
She’d not had the time to form any
conclusions about his nature, though, for their marriage was done in haste, so eager
was Will to claim her as his. The sheriff of London, Richard Fitz Reiner, had generously
offered his own residence for the wedding, insisting, too, upon taking the
costs upon himself, for although Will had a lord’s expectations, he still had a
knight’s budget. They’d been wed that noon in the stately cathedral a stone’s
throw from the sheriff’s townhouse in Friday Street, and in the morning, they
would depart for Stoke Dabernon in Surrey and the manor of one of Will’s
friends, where they’d spend a few days together before Will must answer the new
king’s summons. So when Isabel and Will exchanged their vows on St Paul’s porch, she’d yet
to be alone with her husband.
She’d not been nervous, though. Will’s
calm demeanor was reassuring and his de-termination to wed her as soon as
possible was flattering, for she knew she was pretty as well as rich, having
been blessed with the blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair coloring so esteemed by
minstrels and troubadours. She’d studied Will covertly during the Marriage Mass
and at the wedding feast that followed, and by the time they were ushered up to
their bridal chamber for the bedding-down revelries, she’d concluded that her
groom was good humored, proud but not boastful, a man who’d be easy to live
with, yet one who’d fiercely protect what was hers—and now his—and that, too,
was reassuring.
What she’d not known, though, was how
quick he’d be to laugh, even at himself, and she waited now to find out,
watching intently as Will rolled over onto his side so they were facing each
other, moving somewhat stiffly for he’d lacerated his leg on the voyage from Normandy to England. “I suppose so,” he agreed
amiably. “But this I can tell you for true, lass. The way I feel about you is
not in the least fatherly.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth
than his bride was in his arms, her breath warm on his throat. “Oh, Will, thank
Heaven you are not one of those dreadful, dour souls who would not know a jest
from a juniper bush!”
Will smiled to himself, touched by the
giddiness of youth, for she was very young, this new wife of his. He had never
hoped to be given such a prize, could still remember his astonishment when the
old king had promised her to him, a deathbed reward for years of steadfast
loyalty. He remembered, too, thinking that his bright future was lost when King
Henry drew his last tortured breath at Chinon Castle.
But the new king, Richard, had confirmed Henry’s dying promise, and at that
moment Will had begun to believe in miracles.
Even before he’d arrived at the Tower of
London to claim her, he’d felt an over-whelming tenderness for Isabel de Clare,
his bridge to a world he’d never expected to enter, for he was just a younger
son of a minor baron, a man whose worth had been measured by the strength and
accuracy of his sword-arm. Deeply grateful to the girl who would make this
transformation possible, he’d vowed to treat her like the treasure she was, to
do whatever he could to make her contented with her fate. His thankfulness had
turned to awe upon finding that she was fair, lively, and not at all loath to
wed him. Cradling Isabel’s warm curves against his body now, he kissed her
gently, then smothered a yawn, thinking drowsily that life with Isabel de Clare
was never going to be dull.
“Will…Master Reiner told me that you’d
unhorsed Richard during the old king’s flight from Le Mans. Is that true?”
Will swallowed another yawn, but he could
not resist telling her the story, one that put him in a very favorable light.
“True enough, lass. Richard and the French king had forced their way into the
city. It was already on fire, and we had a devil of a time convincing King
Henry that he had to flee. When he finally agreed to retreat, it was almost too
late. Richard had not taken part in the assault itself, but when he heard that
Henry had escaped, he set out in pursuit, even though he had neither hauberk
nor shield.”
Isabel was listening, wide-eyed. “What did
Richard mean to do once he overtook Henry?”
Will’s shoulders twitched in a half-shrug.
“I would guess that he wanted to spare his father the humiliation of being
captured by the French king’s men. I’d remained at the rear to cover Henry’s
flight, and when Richard saw me bearing down upon him, he cried out that he was
unarmed and tried to knock my lance aside. I had no intention of killing him,
of course, but I waited until the last possible moment ere I shifted my lance
and plunged it into his stallion’s chest. I think that may have been the first
time that Richard felt the fear of death like other mortal men.”
“And did you really curse Richard to the
flames of Eternal Hellfire, Will?”
“No, I told him that I’d let the Devil be
the one to kill him.” Will’s smile was wry, for that bit of bravado could have
cost him dearly, and for a time he’d thought it would. “I never regretted it,
though,” he said, “for I gained the old king the time he needed to get away.
But it was a brief reprieve. Less than a month later, he was forced to
surrender to Richard and the French king at Colombieres, so ill he could barely
stay in the saddle. We had to take carry him back to Chinon in a horse litter,
and there he learned that his youngest son, John, had betrayed him, too…”
“How sad,” Isabel said politely, for
she’d never known the old king. It was Will’s role in this royal drama that
held her interest. “Richard is a very prideful man, is he not?” And when he
nodded, she reached for his hand, entwining her fingers in his. “Yet he forgave
you for publicly shaming him, Will…why?”
“I did not expect him to be so
magnanimous,” he admitted. “But he said he bore me no grudge, and then he told
me and the other knights who’d stayed faithful to his father that we had
nothing to fear, saying dryly that loyalty to the king was not a trait he’d
want to discourage.”
“And then he said he’d honor his father’s
promise,” Isabel interrupted, “and you sailed for England
in such haste to wed me that you fell off the gangplank at Dieppe and gashed your leg open.”
“I see my squire has been telling tales,”
Will said, settling back comfortably against the pillows. The gangplank had
actually given way under the weight of too many men, not because he’d been so
eager to board ship. Isabel looked so pleased with his squire’s version,
though, that he didn’t correct it. It had been a long day and he was drifting
toward sleep when Isabel jarred the bed by sitting up suddenly, wrapping her
arms around her knees.
Although Isabel’s father had been stricken
with a fatal infection when she was just five, her mother had seen to it that
she received as good an education as her little brother, well aware of the
fragility of young life; and indeed, Isabel’s brother died before his tenth
birthday, leaving her as the sole heiress to the vast de Clare holdings. She
enjoyed reading, and her favorite books were a French translation of Geoffrey
of Monmouth’s history of ancient Britain and Chretien de Troyes Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart.
Intrigued as she was by these tales of the fabled King Arthur, his beautiful
Queen Guinevere, his evil nephew Mordred, and the most famous of his knights,
Sir Lancelot du Lac, Isabel thought that Henry Fitz Empress and his
controversial queen, the strong-willed Eleanor of Aquitaine, were just as fascinating.
She knew the outlines of their story. The
son of the Count of Anjou and the Empress Maude, Henry had done what his mother
could not–claimed her father’s crown. By twenty-one, he was King of England,
wed to a woman as mythical as Guinevere, a great heiress who was a great
beauty, too, former wife of the King of France. The French king had rejected
Eleanor for her failure to give him a male heir; she gave Henry five, four of
whom survived to manhood. But just as Arthur and Guinevere’s marriage had been
shattered by treachery, so had Henry and Eleanor’s union been doomed by
betrayal.
Guinevere had taken Arthur’s friend
Lancelot as her lover. Many felt that Eleanor’s sin was even greater, for she’d
joined her teenage sons in a rebellion against her own husband, king, and liege
lord. Isabel had heard a number of reasons offered for Eleanor’s treachery.
Most people seemed to believe that she was a jealous wife, outraged by Henry’s
love affair with a Marcher lord’s daughter. Others wondered if she’d been
bewitched or that she came from doomed and damned stock. But Isabel’s mother,
Aife, had laughed at these conjectures, for the daughter of a king understood
better than most the dynamics of power. The queen had resented Henry’s meddling
in her duchy, she’d told Isabel, for Eleanor had always seen herself, first and
foremost, as Duchess of Aquitaine, not as Henry’s consort. And Aife had
insisted that his inability to share that power even with his sons had been his
fatal weakness.
Isabel did not know if her mother was
right about Eleanor’s motivations. She could say with certainty only that
Eleanor had rebelled and was held in comfortable confinement for the next
sixteen years as her sons were forgiven, then rebelled again and again. She had
high hopes, though, that Will would be able to answer many of her questions,
for he’d been the mentor of Henry’s eldest son, Hal, and had joined the royal
household after Hal’s sudden death in the midst of yet another senseless war.
“I do not understand how a son could take
up arms against his own sire,” she confided. “And yet all of King Henry’s sons
turned against him, even John, his favorite. I’ve heard men call them the
Devil’s Brood. You knew them all, Will. Tell me how it really was. Tell me the truth,
not the legends or rumors or romance.”
Will sighed, for his body was yearning for
sleep. But he did not want to disappoint his bride upon their wedding night,
and he did his best, giving her a concise account of the Great Rebellion in
1173 that had cost Eleanor her freedom and Henry his peace of mind.
“He could forgive his sons, but not his
wife; that was too deep a wound to heal. He tried to mend fences with the lads,
to no avail. They were bitter that he continued to hold their mother prisoner,
Richard most of all, and infuriated that he continued to refuse to delegate
authority to them. And because he could no longer trust them, he tried to bribe
or coerce them into staying loyal. It was an utter failure. Hal died in
rebellion, repenting when it was too late, when he was on his deathbed. Hal’s
death broke his father’s heart,” Will said huskily, for he, too, had loved Hal,
so beguiling and good-hearted and utterly irresponsible.
“What of the other brothers?” Isabel
prompted. “After Hal died, why did the king favor John? Most men pay little
heed to younger sons. Why did Henry risk so much for John Lackland’s sake?”
“John Lackland….that was part of the
problem, lass. Hal was to be king. Richard was to inherit his mother Eleanor’s
duchy of Aquitaine,
and Geoffrey was betrothed as a lad to Constance, the Duchess of Brittany. When
John was born, there was little left for him, hence his father’s joking title,
Lackland. But Henry was bound and determined to provide for John, too. So when
Hal died and Richard became the heir-apparent, Henry wanted him to yield up Aquitaine to John, reasoning that Richard no longer
needed the duchy now that he was to inherit an empire: England, Normandy,
and Anjou.
Richard did not see it that way, though,” Will said, smiling grimly at the vast
understatement.
Isabel was still listening raptly and he
stifled another yawn before resuming. “Henry made the same mistake with
Geoffrey, withholding a large portion of his wife’s Breton inheritance as
leverage for Geoffrey’s good behavior. He only succeeded in driving Geoffrey
into rebellion, too, and he’d allied himself with the French king when he was
killed in a tournament outside Paris.
“That left Richard and John, and because
Henry stubbornly refused to publicly pro-claim Richard as his heir, Richard
began to suspect that his father meant to bypass him in favor of John, a
flickering flame that the French king was all too eager to fan into a roaring
fire. It eventually came to war. By then Henry was ailing and did not want to
fight his own son. But Richard no longer believed in his peace overtures, and
the result was that shaming surrender at Columbieres. But the worst was still
to come. Seeing that his father was losing, John abandoned him and made a private
peace with Richard and King Philippe.”
Will fell silent, for so long that Isabel
feared he would not continue. After a few moments, though, he said softly, “It
can be argued that Hal and Geoffrey and Richard all had genuine grievances. But
John….John abandoned his dying father to save his own skin and that was King
Henry’s true death blow.”
“I wonder if Chretian de Troyes has
thought of writing about the Angevins,” Isabel mused. “Of course he’d have to
change their names, but someone ought to suggest it to him. Do not stop now,
though, Will. Tell me about the queen. I was told you once saved her from
capture when you were a young knight, and when you were captured, she paid your
ransom. What is she like? When she was young, was she as beautiful as men say?
Why did she really rebel against Henry?”
Before she could say more, Will leaned
over and stopped her words with a kiss. “Not tonight, Isabel. Your aged,
elderly husband is desperate for sleep. I will right gladly satisfy your
curiosity about the royal family. It will have to wait, though.”
Isabel ducked her head to hide her pout.
She was disappointed that he was bringing this interesting conversation to an
end, but that was of minor moment. Her dismay was due to the fact that she was
wide awake, no more able to sleep than she was able to walk on water. What was
she to do whilst Will slept beside her? She could not very well bring a candle
and book to her wedding bed. The prospect of all those wakeful hours till dawn
was a daunting one, until she had an inspiration.
“Of course, Will,” she said demurely.
They’d thrown the sheet back for it was a humid August night, and she suddenly
pointed to a white welt of a scar that zigzagged along his inner thigh. “Oh,
what a dreadful wound! What happened, Will?” She was already reaching out,
caressing the path of that old injury, and soon got the response she’d been
hoping for. Admiring her husband’s swelling erection, she thought it was lovely
that men could be so easily aroused, even “aged, elderly” ones, and she glanced
up at him with an impish, triumphant grin. “It seems you are not as tired as
you thought, my lord husband.”
“No, it seems I am not,” he agreed, and
pulled her down on top of him. He’d have to do penance for this, as the Church
considered any position in which the woman was not under the man to be
unnatural and thus sinful. But he needed to ease his injured leg by letting his
bride do some of the work, an innovation Isabel was quite happy to embrace, and
their wedding night came to a very satisfying end for the Marshal and his young
wife.
* *
* * *
September 4, 2012
September 3, 2012
Richard's coronation
The actual coronation day was sadly stained with blood. Richard had forbidden all Jews to attend his coronation, possibly with the intent of avoiding just such violence, for in the past when a crusade was declared, it had invariably led to a slaughter of the Jews. I’ve discussed medieval anti-Semitism often in the past, for it was the ugly underside of medieval life. Virtually all Christians were infected by it, for it was a poison they breathed in from birth; it was merely a matter of degree. But kings protected the Jews in the twelfth century, in part because they contributed to the royal revenue and in part because the breaking of the King’s Peace posed a threat to the realm. The London rioting on September 3rd, 1189 was triggered by the arrival of two Jews from York, who’d not heard of the ban and were hoping to court favor with the new king. The London violence and the subsequent pogroms that swept England once Richard had departed for Normandy after Christmas were ominous warning signs of what the thirteenth century would bring, for it proved to be a less tolerant era than the twelfth century. But since I’ve written about this so often, in my blogs and Facebook Notes and in Lionheart, I won’t go into it again here. For today, I prefer to think of Eleanor, savoring the sweetness of her son’s triumph. She deserved this brief respite in light of what would lay ahead.
I expect to have a new blog up today, the original Prologue for Lionheart, which has not seen the light of day until now—the wedding night of William Marshal and Isabel de Clare.
September 2, 2012
A roman battle, a medieval peace, and a terrible fire
On September 2nd, 1192, the Third Crusade came to an end with a peace treaty between Saladin and Richard I. It was actually a truce, to last for three years and eight months, and Richard hoped to come back and fulfill his vow to retake Jerusalem. But he’d not bargained upon his German captivity. One of the first things he did upon regaining his freedom was to send a message to his nephew, Henri of Champagne, assuring him that he still intended to return, but it was not to be. He spent the last five years of his life in a bitter war with the French king, unable to leave his lands for another crusade. And of course peace in the Middle East was as elusive and ephemeral then as it remains today. But on that September day 820 years ago, there was genuine joy that the war was over. Baha al-Din, a member of Saladin’s inner circle, reported that “It was a day of rejoicing. God alone knows the boundless joy of both peoples.”
And lastly, another non-medieval event—on September 2, 1666, the Great Fire of London started. It would burn for four days, and destroyed all of the medieval sections of the city. While the casualties were surprisingly light for a catastrophe of this magnitude, the damage was extensive. Over 13,000 houses and 80 parish churches were burned, including the great cathedral of St Paul’s, scene of some dramatic episodes in my novels. Human nature being what it is, the panicked people looked for scapegoats and there were lynchings of French and Dutch immigrants. The Museum of London has an inter-active scale model of 17th century London, showing the path of the fire, which broke out in a bakery shop. It also has a website devoted to the fire, but it is aimed at a student audience. Here is a link to a BBC radio program about the fire that is quite interesting. http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00ft63q
September 1, 2012
A sad king
On the historical news front, Adrian IV, the only English Pope, died on September 1st, 1159.
And on this date in 1422, Henry VI became King of England. The medievals believed in the Scriptural warning, “Woe unto thee, O Land, whose king is a child,” but poor hapless Henry would take it to new heights—or depths. He was only nine months old at his accession, although he would not be crowned until he was eight. His reign was—to put it kindly—a disaster, resulting in a civil war, several mental breakdowns, the end of the Lancastrian dynasty, and his eventual murder—unless anyone believes he died of “melancholy” after learning of his son’s death at Tewkesbury, which was the official Yorkist line. I’ve sometimes said that if we judged medieval rulers by contemporary standards, virtually every king I’ve written about could be made to seem like a homicidal maniac. Henry VI was the one exception. The worst that we can say about Henry is that he was the ultimate argument against hereditary kingship.
August 31, 2012
Saladin's brother and a king I've never liked
For those who’ve not yet read Lionheart, here is my description of al-Adil at his first meeting with Richard:
* * *
Al-Adil was mounted on a chestnut as mettlesome as Fauvel and clad in an elegant tunic of scarlet silk brocade; Richard had been told it was called a kazaghand and was lined with mail. He looked to be close in years to Conrad of Montferrat, in his mid-forties. His hair was covered by a mail coif, his skin bronzed by the sun, his dark eyes glittering with intelligence, caution, and curiosity. He was obviously a skilled rider, for he easily handled his spirited stallion, who pinned his ears back at sight of the other horses. When Humphrey offered a formal greeting, he answered at some length, watching Richard all the while.
* * *
Also on August 31st in 1422, the English king Henry V died of dysentery, just shy of his 36th birthday. He has never been one of my favorite kings, so I think I’ll leave it at that, but if anyone would like to add more about his life or reign, please feel free to do so.
August 30, 2012
The Universal Spider and Frankensteins's creator
A really slow history day again. On August 30th, 1183, the French king, Louis XI, died. Louis was known as the Universal Spider, justifiably so. He was fun to write about in Sunne, though. Writers usually like writing about characters with some dark corners in their souls. At least I do. Louis was crafty and conniving and ruthless, but he did strengthen the French monarchy. And he liked dogs!
Since Louis’s unlamented demise is the only medieval event for the day, I had to move a little farther afield. Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born on this date in 1797. Mary created a great scandal at age 17 by running away with the married poet, Percy Shelley, and getting pregnant. She and Shelley would marry after his wife committed suicide in 1816. It was during the summer of that year that she conceived the idea for her best known novel, Frankenstein. She was widowed at 25 when Shelley drowned when he was caught in storm off the Italian coast, and she never married again. She died in 1851 of what is believed to be a brain tumor. After her death, her own accomplishments were overshadowed for a time by her relationship with Shelley, but she was a very interesting woman in her own right, and a strong one, too, for she had to deal with considerable tragedy, poverty, and ill health in the last decade of her life. Although Frankenstein is her most famous novel, she wrote five others, one of which was The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck; I am happy to report that she was more sympathetic to Richard than to Henry Tudor.
And I also want to mention that Melbourne, Australia was founded on this date in 1836, since my friend Paula attended the U. of Melbourne.
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