Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 23

A Hellish Week

I have tried several times to write about this terrible week, but word always fail me. The horrific mail bombs overshadowed another hate crime, this one in Kentucky, where a white man shot two African-Americans, apparently at random, after failing to get into a black church. And then the massacre at a Pittsburgh synagogue. I am heartsick and angry. I can only echo the words of Jeffrey Myers, the rabbi of Tree of Life synagogue: “Stop the words of hate.” Please pray for the families whose loved ones were so brutally murdered and read this story about one of the heroes we lost. Then vote on Tuesday. https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/...

The third queen

Jane Seymour died on October 24, 1537 of the complications of childbirth, twelve days after giving birth to Henry’s longed-for son. Jane may have been lucky to go out on a high note, exiting at the top of her game, if you will, given her husband’s increasingly erratic, unpredictable nature. (See Parr, Katherine) But imagine if she had survived. How would that have changed history? I can immediately think of three women who’d have had much happier lives—Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard, and Katherine Parr. Her son would certainly have benefited from having his mother around. Maybe even her grasping, ambitious brothers, who could conceivably have avoided their fatal over-reaching, although I rather doubt it. Of course if Henry had only three wives, subsequent Hollywood screenwriters and historical novelists would have been deprived of some of their best material.

Eleanor's larger-than-life grandfather

I am only a day behind with this entry, definitely progress. October 22, 1071 was the birth of one of the more colorful medieval figures, Guillaume, ninth Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou. He is remembered today more for his bawdy poetry than for his ruling abilities, and is often called the first troubadour. His turbulent life included two wives, a live-in mistress, numerous scandals, a stint in the Holy Land during the First Crusade, and two excommunications. When he was excommunicated the first time, he threatened the Bishop of Poitiers with death if he carried it out. The bishop called his bluff and it was said that Guillaume sheathed his sword, saying he did not love the bishop enough to send him to paradise. His second excommunication was for carrying off the wife of his vassal, the Viscount of Chatelleraullt, the aptly named Dangereuse or Dangerosa. He installed her in his palace at Poitiers, which was the final straw for his long-suffering wife, Philippa, who left him to spend her remaining years at Fontevrault Abbey; since his first wife occasionally lodged at the abbey, they may have had some interesting conversations on those long winter nights. Guillaume refused to put Dangereuse aside even after being excommunicated. He had her image painted on his shield, explaining that he wanted her to bear her in battle as she’d often borne him in bed. He then arranged for his eldest son to wed Dangereus’s daughter Aenor by her first husband. The result of this unconventional marriage was our Eleanor.
In Saints, I have a scene in which Henry and Eleanor are discussing their families on their wedding night and Henry is delighted by Eleanor’s stories about her notorious grandfather, laughing that “I am still mulling over the fact that your grandfather was having an affair with his son’s mother-in-law!” Eleanor tells him that her grandfather liked to joke that he planned to establish his own nunnery and fill it with women of easy virtue and that when he was rebuked for not praying as often as he ought, he composed a poem, “O Lord, let me live long enough to get my hands under her cloak.” Henry then exclaims, “Between the two of us, we’ve got a family tree rooted in Hell! Once Abbot Bernard of our marriage, he’ll have nary a doubt that our children will have horns and cloven hooves.” And indeed Bernard of Clairvaux would later proclaim that the Angevins came from the devil and to the devil they’d go, but Henry and Eleanor’s sons were highly amused that they could claim descent from the Demon Countess of Anjou, which was also the name of one of my most diabolic computers—Melusine. In Saints, I have Eleanor tell Henry that she adored Guillaume, but we now know that she was actually born in 1124, not 1122, so I think it is unlikely that she’d have had any memories of him. However, she would have heard many stories about him, stories that had soon passed into legend, and from what we know of Eleanor, I think we can safely say that she’d have been fascinated.

When a pizza is much more than a delicious snack

There seems to be a dearth of joy in the world this year, understandably so. I think this story will at least give everyone a reason to smile. Now more than ever, we need to remember how kind people can be. If any of you have similar stories to share, please do. We need all the good will we can get.
https://www.cnn.com/2018/10/21/health...

My most controversial king?

Yesterday was the death date of one of my more controversial characters, King John, who died on October 19, 1216, two months shy of his fiftieth birthday. By our standards, a man dying at fifty has been cheated, but John lived longer than all but one of Henry and Eleanor’s eight children. Only his sister Leonora lived longer and she died soon after her fifty-second birthday. None of them even lived as long as Henry did—fifty-six.
Here is John’s deathbed scene from Here be Dragons, pages 497-498
* * *
John awoke to blackness and burning pain, to panic. He could not see, and when he cried out, no one answered him. His mind clouded by sleep and the abbot’s draught, he could not remember where he was or why he was suffering, and he tried to rise from the bed but had not the strength, lay there helplessly in the dark until the door opened and the abbot entered.
He saw at once what had happened, began to offer profuse apologies. “The shutter blew open, my lord, and the candles guttered out. I went to fetch a lamp, did not think you’d awaken.”
The lamp was a crude one, no more than a wick floating in a bowl of fish oil, but its feeble light was the most welcome sight John had ever seen. For once he submitted willingly to the abbot’s ministrations, let the monk squeeze water onto his swollen lips, bathe the sweat from his forehead. “Fetch the bishop,” he whispered, saw the abbot look away in sudden distress.
“My liege, he…he’s gone. He and John Marshal left hours ago. They said it was urgent they reach my lords of Pembroke and Chester as soon as possible, in order to see to the safety of the young k---of your son.” He flushed, then added remorsefully, “You were so ill, my lord, and it seemed so unlikely you’d recover your wits….”
“I understand….” And John did. Peter des Roches was his friend. But when a king died, his power died with him. He mumbled something too low for the abbot to hear. He could not be sure but it sounded as if John had said, “Sic transit Gloria mundi.” Thus passes the glory of the world. He gave John a look of surprised approval, glad that John seemed to be focusing his thoughts now as he ought, upon the Hereafter. “Your Grace, I….I have a great favor to ask of you. Not for me, but for my abbey.”
That came as no surprise. How tired he was, so very tired. He roused himself with an effort, said, “Ask, then. Let yours be the last favor I grant.”
“My liege, if you only would….I know that you said you wanted to be buried in the Benedictine priory of St Mary at Worcester, before the shrine of St Wulfstan. But I wondered if….if you might consider….if we could have your heart and bowels for burial at Croxton?”
John’s eyes opened—wide. “What?”
“If you’d consent, my lord, it would be such an honor. We’d bury them at the High Altar and say Masses for your soul—“ He broke off, dismayed and bewildered, for John was laughing. His laughter was unsteady, rasping and harsh, but it was unmistakably laughter.
“IF only I’d known there’d be….be such a demand,” he gasped, “we could have auctioned off the…the choice parts….” The horrified look on the abbot’s face only made him laugh all the more, until he could not laugh and breathe at the same time, began to choke.
Thoroughly alarmed, the abbot propped him up with pillows, hastened to give him wine. As the spasm passed, he lay back, closed his eyes. “I think I always knew….”
“Knew what, my lord?”
John turned his head, looked at him for a long time without answering. “I always knew,” he said, “that I’d die alone…..”
* * *
Today we find it hard to understand the medieval custom of portioning out the organs of a dead king, but it was not that uncommon. John’s son, Henry III, was buried at Westminster Abbey but he requested that his heart be buried at Fontevrault Abbey, where his mother had been buried. According to one of my French histories of the abbey, it was eventually done, but not until after the death of Henry’s widow; she apparently was not willing to relinquish it during her lifetime. John’s brother Richard was buried at Fontevrault, but with typical Angevin snarkiness, he left his entrails to the treacherous lords of Poitou, one last insult from the grave. He bequeathed his heart to his loyal Normans and it somehow survived through the centuries at Rouen. A French forensic specialist was able to examine it while I was writing Ransom. Perfect timing for me, as he ruled out one of the many legends about Richard’s death—that he’d been hit by a poisoned arrow. He also eliminated septicemia as a cause of death, confirming that the Lionheart died of gangrene. John is believed to have died of dysentery, like his elder brother Hal; it was one of the great killers of the MA, also striking down Edward I, Henry V, and Amalric, King of Jerusalem.

Team Elizabeth or Team Mary?

Here are the historical events that occurred on October 14th.
The best-known event was the Battle of Hastings in 1066, a battle that changed history in ways that are still reverberating today. As we all know, William the Bastard—more politely known to posterity as William the Conqueror—was the victor, and the Saxon King Harold Godwinson was slain on the field. Helen Hollick has written a novel about Harold and Elizabeth Chadwick’s novel, The Conquest, also deals with this period in English history from the vantage point of both Normans and Saxons; Elizabeth has a very good description of the Battle of Hastings.
On October 14, 1322, Robert Bruce defeated Edward II at the battle of Byland, forcing Edward to accept Scottish independence.
And on October 14, 1586, Mary Queen of Scots went on trial on a number of charges, including conspiracy and the planned assassination of her cousin Elizabeth. I think the best novel about Mary is still Margaret George’s Mary Queen of Scots. And I confess I remain a charter member of Team Elizabeth, not Team Mary! Readers….what say you?

From the murder of an emperor to the birth of a Lancastrian prince

I am only two days late on this one, am making progress! October 13th was an incredibly busy day from a historical standpoint. So fasten your seat belts for this one.
On October 13, 54 AD, the Roman emperor Claudius was poisoned. I am sure that thousands are like me, having gleaned most of what we know about Claudius from the brilliant television series, I, Claudius, based upon the equally brilliant novel by Robert Graves. The wonderful actor Derek Jacobi played Claudius as a very sympathetic character who was extraordinarily unlucky in his choice of wives, including the notorious Messalina and Agrippina, who is believed to have murdered him to gain the crown for her son, Nero. The series is available on DVD for those who’ve never seen this classic.
On October 13, 1162, Leonora, the second daughter of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, was born. She would become Queen of Castile, winning the affection of her husband and his subjects. She is one of the two children who outlived their mother, the other being John. She seems to have had a happy marriage, but there was much tragedy in her life due to the deaths of so many of her children. The abbot of Mont St Michel was her godfather. Like all of Henry and Eleanor’s children, she was said to be very attractive, and a later Spanish chronicle described her as having dark hair.
On October 13, 1278, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd wed Ellen de Montfort at Worcester Cathedral. They’d actually been wed by proxy but Edward I then had the bride kidnapped by a pirate in his pay and held her prisoner for 3 years as he sought to extract as many concessions as possible from Llywelyn. Edward paid for the wedding and then blackmailed Llywelyn into making even more concessions on the day of the wedding. Knowing his sense of humor, I do not think it was coincidence that he scheduled it on October 13th, which was the feast day of St Edward. Llywelyn and Ellen’s marriage appears to have been a happy one, but I doubt that they enjoyed the wedding itself.
On October 13, 1307, the grasping, unscrupulous French King, Philippe IV, ordered the arrest of the Templars. You will occasionally see October 13, 1244 give as the birthdate of the last Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, but there is no evidence for that as we are not even sure of the date of his birth year.
On October 13, 1399, Henry IV was crowned at Westminster as the first Lancastrian king, having deposed and probably murdered his cousin Richard II, his usurpation laying the seeds for the Wars of the Roses. Brian Wainwright has written an excellent novel about Henry’s reign, Within the Fetterlock.
On October 13, 1453, the only child of Marguerite d’Anjou and the hapless Henry VI was born, Edward of Lancaster, who would die at seventeen at the battle of Tewkesbury.
It is sometimes claimed that October 13, 1537 was the birthday of the Nine Days Queen, Jane Grey, but that is open to dispute, with some historians believing that she was born earlier than that, possibly even in 1536. Susan Higginbotham has written a novel about Jane, Her Highness, the Traitor. I’ve always had great sympathy for Jane, the ultimate political pawn.

Lost royal jewels, a battlefield betrayal

I am late again, but here is my entry for a date that has historical significance. On October 12, 1176, William d’Aubigny, Earl of Arundel, died. He is best known for wedding Queen Adeliza, the widow of Henry I. Elizabeth Chadwick’s Lady of the English, gives us a very appealing account of their courtship and marriage.
On October 12, 1216, King John—who was not having a good year—lost his crown jewels in The Wash. I had fun writing about it, though.
On October 12, 1459, the Battle of Ludford Bridge was almost fought. The Yorkist army was already skittish, for they saw the king’s standard flying in the Lancastrian camp and were hesitant about opposing the king himself, even a figurehead king like poor Henry VI. The death blow to their chances occurred that night when Andrew Trollope and six hundred of his men defected to the Lancastrians. The Duke of York and the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury retreated to Ludlow Castle and then fled the country, York and his younger son Edmund going to Wales and then to Ireland, his elder son Edward going to Calais with the Earl of Warwick. York’s wife, Cecily Neville, and her two young sons, George and Richard, were left in Ludlow, awaiting the Lancastrian army the next day on the steps of the high cross, dramatized in my novel, The Sunne in Splendour. It is interesting to speculate how history might have been changed had Edward been the son to accompany his father to Ireland. If he had, he'd have been with York at Sandal Castle the following December, when York rashly left the castle and fell into a Lancastrian trap. Would Edward have been the one to die on Wakefield Bridge instead of Edmund? Might there have been a King Edmund? It is impossible to answer the first question, but I don’t think a King Edmund was in the cards. Edward won over the Londoners with his personal charm and then won the crown itself on the battlefield. Take him out of the equation and who knows what might have happened.
On October 12, 1492, the crew of Columbus’s Pinta sighted land—the Bahamas—although Columbus remained convinced until his death that he’d found a way to the East Indies.
And on October 12, 1537, the future Edward VI was born. Jane Seymour, his mother, would soon die of childbed fever, so she did not get to enjoy the triumph of doing what neither Katherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn could—give Henry VIII his longed-for son. I remember that on one of my Facebook pages, they once had an interesting thread, picking a particular historical figure and then speculating what he or she would have liked or loathed about life in the 21stth century. We had some very imaginative and often amusing posts, but the winner has to be Rania. She picked Henry VIII and said she would like to be present when he learned that it was the man, not the woman, who determined the sex of a child.

Hurricane Michael

Once again, a storm of truly historic power and fury has devastated several states. The stories being told are heartbreaking, for many of the people victimized by Hurricane Michael have lost everything. Fortunately, there are ways to help our fellow Americans in need. We can be grateful that we did not live in the path of Michael or Florence or the horrific hurricanes that wreaked such havoc last year. We can vow not to vote again for any politicians who deny the existence of climate change. I’ve been urging people to do this for years, but time is rapidly running out. And we can help in more tangible ways. Here is an excellent article that offers numerous opportunities for us to assist the storm survivors. I will be back later to post about historical events in the MA, but this took precedence.
https://www.fastcompany.com/90250482/...

My favorite Tudor Queen

I hope all of my Facebook friends and readers in the path of the suddenly dangerous hurricane Michael are able to stay safe and evacuate if you have to do so. People are still suffering the after-effects of Florence in North and South Carolina and of course in Puerto Rico, which was devasted by Hurricane Maria over a year ago.
On the historical front, I am doing something I rarely do—choose to write about those ubiquitous Tudors. Well, Katherine Parr was not actually a Tudor; she just had the bad luck to be married to the Tudor Bluebeard. 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 unfortunately had had attracted Henry’s lustful eye. 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 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.