Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 45
April 10, 2016
Departure from Messina
On April 10th, 1191, Richard and his fleet sailed from Messina on the way to the Holy Land. It would have been a very colorful sight.
Here is the description of their departure from Messina in Lionheart, page 204.
* * *
It was not until Wednesday in Holy Week that the royal fleet was ready to sail and most of the city turned out for the event, thankful that this foreign army was finally departing but also delighting in this extraordinary spectacle. More than two hundred ships and seventeen thousand soldiers and sailors. Large transport vessels called busses. Naves that relied only upon sails. And the ships that drew all eyes and evoked admiring murmurs from the townspeople—the sleek, deadly war galleys, painted in bright colors, their gunwales hung with shields, the red and gold banners of the English king streaming from their mastheads. The crusade of Richard Coeur de Lion was at last under way.
After such a dramatic departure from Messina, what followed was anticlimactic. The wind died and the fleet found itself becalmed off the coast of Calabria. They were forced to drop anchor and wait. After the sun set in a blood-red haze, many took comfort from the glow of the lantern placed aloft in Richard’s galley. He’d promised to light it each and every night, a guiding beacon for his ships, reassuring proof of his presence in the midst of the dark, ominous Greek Sea. The next day the winds picked up, but they remained weak and variable, and not much progress was made. Yet so far the voyage had been calm and for that, seventeen thousand souls were utterly thankful.
* * *
But two days later they ran into a savage Good Friday storm that scattered the fleet and put Joanna and Berengaria in peril when their ship ran aground off the Cyprus coast. But that occurred in another chapter, one I had great fun writing. I could usually count on the Lionheart to provide me with a Hollywood moment now and then.
Here is the description of their departure from Messina in Lionheart, page 204.
* * *
It was not until Wednesday in Holy Week that the royal fleet was ready to sail and most of the city turned out for the event, thankful that this foreign army was finally departing but also delighting in this extraordinary spectacle. More than two hundred ships and seventeen thousand soldiers and sailors. Large transport vessels called busses. Naves that relied only upon sails. And the ships that drew all eyes and evoked admiring murmurs from the townspeople—the sleek, deadly war galleys, painted in bright colors, their gunwales hung with shields, the red and gold banners of the English king streaming from their mastheads. The crusade of Richard Coeur de Lion was at last under way.
After such a dramatic departure from Messina, what followed was anticlimactic. The wind died and the fleet found itself becalmed off the coast of Calabria. They were forced to drop anchor and wait. After the sun set in a blood-red haze, many took comfort from the glow of the lantern placed aloft in Richard’s galley. He’d promised to light it each and every night, a guiding beacon for his ships, reassuring proof of his presence in the midst of the dark, ominous Greek Sea. The next day the winds picked up, but they remained weak and variable, and not much progress was made. Yet so far the voyage had been calm and for that, seventeen thousand souls were utterly thankful.
* * *
But two days later they ran into a savage Good Friday storm that scattered the fleet and put Joanna and Berengaria in peril when their ship ran aground off the Cyprus coast. But that occurred in another chapter, one I had great fun writing. I could usually count on the Lionheart to provide me with a Hollywood moment now and then.
April 9, 2016
One of history's more fascinating What Ifs
On this date in 1483, Edward IV died, just a few weeks shy of his 41st birthday. We sometimes play the What If game here. Well, Edward’s death offers a gigantic What if. Had he not died prematurely, had he lived another ten or fifteen years, the consequences of that would be mind-boggling. His son would have been grown at the time of his eventual death and most likely would have succeeded to the throne. It is impossible to say what would have happened then. We can only be sure of the obvious. No King Richard III. No Shakespeare play. No Sunne in Splendour. No Tudors! Would England have remained Catholic? Or would it have heeded Martin Luther’s siren song? Who knows? But it is fascinating to speculate about it.
April 9th 1137 was also the death date of Eleanor’s father, William, the 10th Duke of Aquitaine, He was only thirty-eight. And on this date in 1413, Henry V was crowned as King of England.
April 9th is often given as the death date for Richard III and Anne Neville’s son, Edward of Middleham. I’ve always been skeptical of this; it sounded like Tudor propaganda, for if Richard’s son had died on the same day as his brother, it would seem as if it was the punishment of God for his sin in claiming the throne and supposedly putting his nephews to death. The Croyland Chronicler was not a friend to Richard, but this is what he wrote:
“However, in a short time after, it was fully seen how vain are the thoughts of a man who desires to establish his interests without the aid of God. For, in the following month of April, on a day not very far distant from the anniversary of king Edward, this only son of his, in whom all the hopes of the royal succession, fortified with so many oaths, were centred, was seized with an illness of but short duration, and died at Middleham Castle, in the year of our Lord, 1484, being the first of the reign of the said king Richard. On hearing the news of this, at Nottingham, where they were then residing, you might have seen his father and mother in a state almost bordering on madness, by reason of their sudden grief.”
* * *
Outlander fans probably already know that the new season begins tonight on Starz; sadly, still 15 days to wait for Game of Thrones. Oh, and it is snowing here, with snow flake the size of baseballs. Maybe I should have named my new laptop Mother Nature instead of Diablo, for she seems to share his perverse sense of humor.
April 9th 1137 was also the death date of Eleanor’s father, William, the 10th Duke of Aquitaine, He was only thirty-eight. And on this date in 1413, Henry V was crowned as King of England.
April 9th is often given as the death date for Richard III and Anne Neville’s son, Edward of Middleham. I’ve always been skeptical of this; it sounded like Tudor propaganda, for if Richard’s son had died on the same day as his brother, it would seem as if it was the punishment of God for his sin in claiming the throne and supposedly putting his nephews to death. The Croyland Chronicler was not a friend to Richard, but this is what he wrote:
“However, in a short time after, it was fully seen how vain are the thoughts of a man who desires to establish his interests without the aid of God. For, in the following month of April, on a day not very far distant from the anniversary of king Edward, this only son of his, in whom all the hopes of the royal succession, fortified with so many oaths, were centred, was seized with an illness of but short duration, and died at Middleham Castle, in the year of our Lord, 1484, being the first of the reign of the said king Richard. On hearing the news of this, at Nottingham, where they were then residing, you might have seen his father and mother in a state almost bordering on madness, by reason of their sudden grief.”
* * *
Outlander fans probably already know that the new season begins tonight on Starz; sadly, still 15 days to wait for Game of Thrones. Oh, and it is snowing here, with snow flake the size of baseballs. Maybe I should have named my new laptop Mother Nature instead of Diablo, for she seems to share his perverse sense of humor.
April 8, 2016
Yes--Game of Thrones again
Well, I am starting to think that spring is just an urban myth, like alligators living in the NYC sewer system or the man with a hook lurking in lovers’ lanes. The forecast for tomorrow includes that dreaded four letter word—snow. And other one, cold.
At least things are heating up in Westeros. Just sixteen days until the new season starts, in case anyone is counting. Meanwhile, here is something to tide us over till then.
http://www.ew.com/article/2016/04/07/...
At least things are heating up in Westeros. Just sixteen days until the new season starts, in case anyone is counting. Meanwhile, here is something to tide us over till then.
http://www.ew.com/article/2016/04/07/...
April 6, 2016
A death at Chalus
There are so many incidents in which the death of one man changed the course of history. Abraham Lincoln, Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great all come to mind. England’s history would certainly have been different if Richard III had not died at Bosworth, or if Edward VI had lived to a ripe old age, denying the throne to his half-sister Elizabeth. The death of Henry I’s sole legitimate son on the White Ship sinking is another example. As is the death of Richard I.
The Lionheart died at 7 PM on Tuesday, April 6th in 1199. He was forty-one and had reigned less than ten years. I always thought it surprising that he’d lived as long as he did. In Lionheart, I had a scene where Richard was gravely ill with what they called quartan fever and we call malaria. He was hallucinating and in his fevered dream, he was tormented by his brother John and the French king, who boasted of what they planned to do to his kingdom once he was dead. He was then visited by Brother Geoffrey, who explained cheerfully that, unlike John, he’d have been willing to wait to claim the crown. “Face it, Richard, you’ll never make old bones. Other men lust after women. You lust after Death, always have. You’ve been chasing after her like a lovesick lad, and sooner or later, she’ll take pity and let you catch her.”
And at Chalus, she did.
Richard’s death was a great shock to his contemporaries, and obviously had a dramatic impact upon English and French history. But it also affected German history and the history of the region of France known today as the Languedoc. Heinrich von Hohenstaufen’s sudden death at the age of 32 was also one of those deaths that changed history, resulting in the election to the imperial throne of Richard’s nephew, Otto, son of his sister Matilda. Otto gained the crown in large measure because he had the backing of his uncle; Richard used both his political clout and his money to make it happen. But Richard’s death took away that support. Compared to Richard, John was a weak reed, and when Otto’s troubles began, he did not have the help of the one man who might have been able to right his sinking ship of state.
The fate of Languedoc is even more closely tied to Richard’s careless encounter with that Chalus crossbowman. Ten years later, Languedoc would be ravaged by the so-called Albigensian crusade, one of the darker episodes on the history of the medieval Church, in which the threat of heresy was used as an excuse to steal the lands of the southern lords and to introduce the Inquisition. This would not have happened if Richard were still alive in 1209. He would never have permitted French troops to invade a land he considered within the Angevin sphere of influence. The Dukes of Aquitaine had claimed Toulouse since the time of Eleanor’s grandmother, and the ties were even stronger by 1209, for they were blood ties; the Count of Toulouse was Richard’s brother by marriage and his young son was Richard’s nephew. Had Richard been alive to cast his formidable shadow over Toulouse, the Albigensian crusade would not have happened—at least not then. I think it was inevitable that the south would have been conquered; its culture was too worldly, its society too tolerant, its lands too rich. But these horrors would have been visited upon later generations, and the people ruled by Count Raimond, the young Viscount of Carcassonne, and the lords of 13th century Languedoc would have been spared the persecution, the massacres, and the Inquisition.
Richard’s death had personal as well as political consequences, of course. It devastated his mother, who was with him when he died. His sister Joanna was said to be inconsolable. His illegitimate son was reported by one chronicler to have slain the Viscount of Limoges, whom he blamed for his father’s death; although that chronicler, Roger de Hoveden, is one of the most reliable of the 12th century historians, historians in our age tend to discount this story because no other source confirms it. But that it was believed by some shows the depth of a son’s grief and rage. Although Richard had pardoned the man who’d shot him, after his death, Mercadier had the man put to a gruesome death, indicating this cynical mercenary mourned his king. And the one and only time that Berengaria ventures from the shadows, the only time that we catch a glimpse of the woman, not the queen, comes from the account of St Hugh of Lincoln, who stopped by her castle at Beaufort en Valle to offer her comfort on his way to preside over Richard’s funeral at Fontevrault Abbey. Here is what was written of that meeting:
“Hearing, however, that Queen Berengaria was staying in the castle of Beaufort, he left the high road and journeyed through a wild forest region to that town in order to comfort her for the death of her husband. His words went straight to the soul of the sorrowing and almost broken-hearted widow and calmed her grief in a wonderful way.”
So we know that Berengaria grieved upon learning of Richard’s death, but did she weep for Richard himself? For what might have been? Perhaps for herself, envisioning a hard future without Richard’s protection? Or for all of those reasons? We do not know, for she took her secrets to the grave. She was just twenty-nine when Richard died, but she never married again, her long widowhood stretching more than thirty years. Richard had provided generously for her, but John treated her very shabbily, and it would be the French king, Philippe, who would eventually come to her aid. She settled in Le Mans, where today there is a street named after La Reine Berengere, and her lovely effigy rests in the abbey that she founded in her last years, on the outskirts of the city.
Richard, of course, rests at Fontevrault Abbey, having asked to be buried at his father’s feet as a gesture of repentance. Eleanor is buried there, too, as are Joanna and her son. The interloper is Isabelle d’Angouleme, John’s second wife, who died at the abbey after having to seek shelter there from the wrath of the French king; originally buried in the nuns’ cemetery, she was moved into the church with her Angevin in-laws at the request of her son, Henry III. When I’ve been at Fontevrault, I’ve sometimes thought that Berengaria belonged there more than Isabelle. But would she have wanted that? Whatever her feelings for Richard might have been, I suspect she might not have wanted to share eternity with Eleanor.
The Lionheart died at 7 PM on Tuesday, April 6th in 1199. He was forty-one and had reigned less than ten years. I always thought it surprising that he’d lived as long as he did. In Lionheart, I had a scene where Richard was gravely ill with what they called quartan fever and we call malaria. He was hallucinating and in his fevered dream, he was tormented by his brother John and the French king, who boasted of what they planned to do to his kingdom once he was dead. He was then visited by Brother Geoffrey, who explained cheerfully that, unlike John, he’d have been willing to wait to claim the crown. “Face it, Richard, you’ll never make old bones. Other men lust after women. You lust after Death, always have. You’ve been chasing after her like a lovesick lad, and sooner or later, she’ll take pity and let you catch her.”
And at Chalus, she did.
Richard’s death was a great shock to his contemporaries, and obviously had a dramatic impact upon English and French history. But it also affected German history and the history of the region of France known today as the Languedoc. Heinrich von Hohenstaufen’s sudden death at the age of 32 was also one of those deaths that changed history, resulting in the election to the imperial throne of Richard’s nephew, Otto, son of his sister Matilda. Otto gained the crown in large measure because he had the backing of his uncle; Richard used both his political clout and his money to make it happen. But Richard’s death took away that support. Compared to Richard, John was a weak reed, and when Otto’s troubles began, he did not have the help of the one man who might have been able to right his sinking ship of state.
The fate of Languedoc is even more closely tied to Richard’s careless encounter with that Chalus crossbowman. Ten years later, Languedoc would be ravaged by the so-called Albigensian crusade, one of the darker episodes on the history of the medieval Church, in which the threat of heresy was used as an excuse to steal the lands of the southern lords and to introduce the Inquisition. This would not have happened if Richard were still alive in 1209. He would never have permitted French troops to invade a land he considered within the Angevin sphere of influence. The Dukes of Aquitaine had claimed Toulouse since the time of Eleanor’s grandmother, and the ties were even stronger by 1209, for they were blood ties; the Count of Toulouse was Richard’s brother by marriage and his young son was Richard’s nephew. Had Richard been alive to cast his formidable shadow over Toulouse, the Albigensian crusade would not have happened—at least not then. I think it was inevitable that the south would have been conquered; its culture was too worldly, its society too tolerant, its lands too rich. But these horrors would have been visited upon later generations, and the people ruled by Count Raimond, the young Viscount of Carcassonne, and the lords of 13th century Languedoc would have been spared the persecution, the massacres, and the Inquisition.
Richard’s death had personal as well as political consequences, of course. It devastated his mother, who was with him when he died. His sister Joanna was said to be inconsolable. His illegitimate son was reported by one chronicler to have slain the Viscount of Limoges, whom he blamed for his father’s death; although that chronicler, Roger de Hoveden, is one of the most reliable of the 12th century historians, historians in our age tend to discount this story because no other source confirms it. But that it was believed by some shows the depth of a son’s grief and rage. Although Richard had pardoned the man who’d shot him, after his death, Mercadier had the man put to a gruesome death, indicating this cynical mercenary mourned his king. And the one and only time that Berengaria ventures from the shadows, the only time that we catch a glimpse of the woman, not the queen, comes from the account of St Hugh of Lincoln, who stopped by her castle at Beaufort en Valle to offer her comfort on his way to preside over Richard’s funeral at Fontevrault Abbey. Here is what was written of that meeting:
“Hearing, however, that Queen Berengaria was staying in the castle of Beaufort, he left the high road and journeyed through a wild forest region to that town in order to comfort her for the death of her husband. His words went straight to the soul of the sorrowing and almost broken-hearted widow and calmed her grief in a wonderful way.”
So we know that Berengaria grieved upon learning of Richard’s death, but did she weep for Richard himself? For what might have been? Perhaps for herself, envisioning a hard future without Richard’s protection? Or for all of those reasons? We do not know, for she took her secrets to the grave. She was just twenty-nine when Richard died, but she never married again, her long widowhood stretching more than thirty years. Richard had provided generously for her, but John treated her very shabbily, and it would be the French king, Philippe, who would eventually come to her aid. She settled in Le Mans, where today there is a street named after La Reine Berengere, and her lovely effigy rests in the abbey that she founded in her last years, on the outskirts of the city.
Richard, of course, rests at Fontevrault Abbey, having asked to be buried at his father’s feet as a gesture of repentance. Eleanor is buried there, too, as are Joanna and her son. The interloper is Isabelle d’Angouleme, John’s second wife, who died at the abbey after having to seek shelter there from the wrath of the French king; originally buried in the nuns’ cemetery, she was moved into the church with her Angevin in-laws at the request of her son, Henry III. When I’ve been at Fontevrault, I’ve sometimes thought that Berengaria belonged there more than Isabelle. But would she have wanted that? Whatever her feelings for Richard might have been, I suspect she might not have wanted to share eternity with Eleanor.
April 4, 2016
Game pf Thrones thoughts
With just three and a half weeks until Game of Thrones finally returns for the new season, this seems like a good time for some speculation. Here are five questions prompted by the HBO trailer, and no, one of them is not “Is Jon Snow really dead?”
http://www.ew.com/article/2016/03/08/...
Sorry to have disappeared again for a few days, but I was dealing with lots of bloodshed and then a deathbed vigil. I know what a shock this will be to my readers—not! Yes, characters will be dying in The Land Beyond the Sea, and not always the ones who most deserve it.
Oh, and Go, Wildcats! Meaningless, I know, except for college basketball fans. Hey, I need something to tide me over until football season starts again.
http://www.ew.com/article/2016/03/08/...
Sorry to have disappeared again for a few days, but I was dealing with lots of bloodshed and then a deathbed vigil. I know what a shock this will be to my readers—not! Yes, characters will be dying in The Land Beyond the Sea, and not always the ones who most deserve it.
Oh, and Go, Wildcats! Meaningless, I know, except for college basketball fans. Hey, I need something to tide me over until football season starts again.
March 31, 2016
Eleanor of Aquitaine, RIP
Thank you all so much for your generous response to my request yesterday, that you send birthday greeting to Heather, one of my British readers whose family is dealing with more than their share of problems. Her son was amazed when he checked and found that there were 80 Happy Birthday wishes. I told him there’d be more; he now agrees with me that I have the world’s best readers. Heather’s birthday is April 8th, so there is still time to send her greetings at birthdaymessage60th@gmail.com
April 1st, 1204 is the death date of one of the most remarkable women of the Middle Ages, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was queen of England and France, yet she is known to posterity by neither title, and I think that would have pleased her, for her love of her duchy was the lodestar of her life. She was in her eightieth year, a vast age for her time and a respectable one for ours, having outlived two husbands and enemies beyond counting. But she also outlived eight of her ten children, including her favorite son. She endured much tragedy in her life, but surely one of her worst ordeals must have been to watch helplessly as Richard paid in pain for his earthly sins. She rallied, though, to gain the throne for her youngest son, John. Yet I wonder if she believed their dynasty would survive, for she knew that John, for all of his cleverness and ambition, had some serious character flaws, with one that would prove fatal to a king—his inability to trust others, which made it impossible for them to trust him.
I did not dramatize her death in Here Be Dragons; John and Joanna learned of it from a distance. Since Dragons, Eleanor has taken a starring role in five more of my historical novels, plus all four of my mysteries. So I felt that I owed her a death scene and I wrote one for her in A King’s Ransom. It occurred in the epilogue, so I gave her the last word. I suspect she would enjoy that. Here it is, A King’s Ransom, page 657
* * *
Richenza slipped quietly into the chamber, holding a candle aloft. At her wordless query, Dame Amaria shook her head, saying that the queen had not regained consciousness. “But she was talking, my lady.”
“She’s done that before,” Richenza said sadly. She yearned for some last lucid moments with her grandmother, but Eleanor’s fevered murmurings were incoherent, not meant for them.
“This was different, my lady. She said ‘Harry’ and ‘Richard’ so very clearly. It was ….it was as if she were speaking to them, that they were right here in the chamber with us. The doctor insisted it was the fever, but I do not think so. See for yourself.”
Richenza turned toward the bed and her eyes widened. It had been a long time since her grandmother had looked as she did now—at peace. It was as if all the pain and grief of her last years had been erased, and the candlelight was kind, hinting at the great beauty she’d once been in the sculptured hollows of her cheekbones and the flushed color restored by fever. Leaning over, Richenza took the dying woman’s hand.
“Grandame?” Eleanor did not respond, but Richenza was suddenly sure she was listening to other voices, for the corners of her mouth were curving in what could have been a smile.
* * *
April 1st, 1204 is the death date of one of the most remarkable women of the Middle Ages, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was queen of England and France, yet she is known to posterity by neither title, and I think that would have pleased her, for her love of her duchy was the lodestar of her life. She was in her eightieth year, a vast age for her time and a respectable one for ours, having outlived two husbands and enemies beyond counting. But she also outlived eight of her ten children, including her favorite son. She endured much tragedy in her life, but surely one of her worst ordeals must have been to watch helplessly as Richard paid in pain for his earthly sins. She rallied, though, to gain the throne for her youngest son, John. Yet I wonder if she believed their dynasty would survive, for she knew that John, for all of his cleverness and ambition, had some serious character flaws, with one that would prove fatal to a king—his inability to trust others, which made it impossible for them to trust him.
I did not dramatize her death in Here Be Dragons; John and Joanna learned of it from a distance. Since Dragons, Eleanor has taken a starring role in five more of my historical novels, plus all four of my mysteries. So I felt that I owed her a death scene and I wrote one for her in A King’s Ransom. It occurred in the epilogue, so I gave her the last word. I suspect she would enjoy that. Here it is, A King’s Ransom, page 657
* * *
Richenza slipped quietly into the chamber, holding a candle aloft. At her wordless query, Dame Amaria shook her head, saying that the queen had not regained consciousness. “But she was talking, my lady.”
“She’s done that before,” Richenza said sadly. She yearned for some last lucid moments with her grandmother, but Eleanor’s fevered murmurings were incoherent, not meant for them.
“This was different, my lady. She said ‘Harry’ and ‘Richard’ so very clearly. It was ….it was as if she were speaking to them, that they were right here in the chamber with us. The doctor insisted it was the fever, but I do not think so. See for yourself.”
Richenza turned toward the bed and her eyes widened. It had been a long time since her grandmother had looked as she did now—at peace. It was as if all the pain and grief of her last years had been erased, and the candlelight was kind, hinting at the great beauty she’d once been in the sculptured hollows of her cheekbones and the flushed color restored by fever. Leaning over, Richenza took the dying woman’s hand.
“Grandame?” Eleanor did not respond, but Richenza was suddenly sure she was listening to other voices, for the corners of her mouth were curving in what could have been a smile.
* * *
March 30, 2016
A favor to request
I have a favor to ask. A young man from the UK contacted me recently with a favor of his own to ask. His family has been going through a rough patch, dealing with some serious health issues. His mother will be celebrating her sixtieth birthday on April 8th and he wants to make it a special one for her in light of their family struggles. She enjoys my books, so he was hoping that I could send her a birthday card. I was happy to do more than that and have mailed two signed copies of my recent books as a birthday surprise. He thinks that she would love to receive birthday greetings from others, too, and found a way to make that possible while still protecting her privacy; clearly she has a very clever son! Here is the e-mail address. I am hoping that many of you will be willing to send her birthday greetings; she is one of us, a book lover, after all. Her name is Heather, and her son and I would be very grateful if you help to brighten her birthday.
birthdaymessage60th@gmail.com
birthdaymessage60th@gmail.com
March 28, 2016
What century do you belong in?
I hope all of my readers who celebrate Easter had as good a day as I did.
Here is a fun quiz from one of my favorite websites, Medievalists.net. What century do you belong in? Not surprisingly, I suppose, I would be most at home in the eleventh century. I have my doubts, though, because of four words—indoor plumbing, central heat.
http://www.medievalists.net/2015/02/1...
Here is a fun quiz from one of my favorite websites, Medievalists.net. What century do you belong in? Not surprisingly, I suppose, I would be most at home in the eleventh century. I have my doubts, though, because of four words—indoor plumbing, central heat.
http://www.medievalists.net/2015/02/1...
March 26, 2016
A king's legendary luck finally runs out
On Friday, March 26, 1199, Richard I was struck by a crossbow bolt as he inspected the siege at the castle of Chalus Chabrol in the Limousin. I am giving away no plot twists for new readers to report that his was a very painful death and a needless one, easily avoided if only he’d bothered to wear his hauberk. I suspect that many who loved Richard were furious with him even as they mourned him, for his sudden death changed history in so many ways, both for countries and for individuals. A brief scene from Ransom, pages 576-577
* * *
The sky along the horizon was glowing like the embers of a dying fire as this last Friday in March ebbed away. There was still enough daylight remaining for Richard to assess Chalus’s weaknesses, though. (omission)
One of Richard’s sergeants had set up his large rectangular shield, and he and Mercadier were standing behind it as they debated where the castle seemed most vulnerable to an assault. They were soon joined by William de Braose. (omission) Glancing at Richard’s crossbow, he said, “You’ll get few chances to make use of that, sire. Our crossbowmen have kept the castle defenders off the walls for much of the day, aside from one lunatic by the gatehouse.”
Richard arched a brow. “Why call him a lunatic, Will?”
“See for yourself, my liege.” The Marcher lord gestured and Richard squinted until he located the lone man on the castle battlements When he did, he burst out laughing, for this enemy crossbowman was using a large frying pan as a shield, deflecting the bolts coming his way with surprising dexterity. De Braose and Mercadier were not surprised by his reaction, for they’d known this was just the sort of mad gallantry to appeal to Richard. But because chivalry was as alien a tongue to them as the languages spoken in Cathay, they saw the knave wielding a frying pan as nothing more than a nuisance to be eliminated, sooner rather than later.
When the crossbowman used his makeshift shield to turn aside another bolt, Richard gave him a playful, mocking salute. He was still laughing when the crossbowman aimed at him and he was slow, therefore, in ducking for cover behind his shield. The bolt struck him in the left shoulder, just above his collarbone. The impact was great enough to stagger him, although he managed to keep his balance, grabbing the edge of the shield to steady himself. There was no pain, not yet, but he’d suffered enough wounds to know that would not last. His first coherent thought was relief that dusk was fast falling, for when he glanced around hastily, it was clear that none of his men had seen him hit. Only de Braose and Mercadier had been close enough to see what had happened, and while their dismay was obvious even in the fading light, he knew they were too battle-wise to cry out, to let others know that their king had just been shot.
* * *
It was perhaps inevitable that sooner or later, Richard’s recklessness would outrun his fabled luck, but it is interesting that a contributing factor in his death was his sense of humor; had he not been so amused by the crossbowman’s frying pan shield, he might have been able to duck in time. Another of his flaws, his impulsiveness, would also play a role in what followed, as those of you who’ve read Ransom will remember. And yes, this is the same infamous William de Braose who became one of Johns’ primary supporters until their fatal falling-out, dramatized in Here Be Dragons.
* * *
The sky along the horizon was glowing like the embers of a dying fire as this last Friday in March ebbed away. There was still enough daylight remaining for Richard to assess Chalus’s weaknesses, though. (omission)
One of Richard’s sergeants had set up his large rectangular shield, and he and Mercadier were standing behind it as they debated where the castle seemed most vulnerable to an assault. They were soon joined by William de Braose. (omission) Glancing at Richard’s crossbow, he said, “You’ll get few chances to make use of that, sire. Our crossbowmen have kept the castle defenders off the walls for much of the day, aside from one lunatic by the gatehouse.”
Richard arched a brow. “Why call him a lunatic, Will?”
“See for yourself, my liege.” The Marcher lord gestured and Richard squinted until he located the lone man on the castle battlements When he did, he burst out laughing, for this enemy crossbowman was using a large frying pan as a shield, deflecting the bolts coming his way with surprising dexterity. De Braose and Mercadier were not surprised by his reaction, for they’d known this was just the sort of mad gallantry to appeal to Richard. But because chivalry was as alien a tongue to them as the languages spoken in Cathay, they saw the knave wielding a frying pan as nothing more than a nuisance to be eliminated, sooner rather than later.
When the crossbowman used his makeshift shield to turn aside another bolt, Richard gave him a playful, mocking salute. He was still laughing when the crossbowman aimed at him and he was slow, therefore, in ducking for cover behind his shield. The bolt struck him in the left shoulder, just above his collarbone. The impact was great enough to stagger him, although he managed to keep his balance, grabbing the edge of the shield to steady himself. There was no pain, not yet, but he’d suffered enough wounds to know that would not last. His first coherent thought was relief that dusk was fast falling, for when he glanced around hastily, it was clear that none of his men had seen him hit. Only de Braose and Mercadier had been close enough to see what had happened, and while their dismay was obvious even in the fading light, he knew they were too battle-wise to cry out, to let others know that their king had just been shot.
* * *
It was perhaps inevitable that sooner or later, Richard’s recklessness would outrun his fabled luck, but it is interesting that a contributing factor in his death was his sense of humor; had he not been so amused by the crossbowman’s frying pan shield, he might have been able to duck in time. Another of his flaws, his impulsiveness, would also play a role in what followed, as those of you who’ve read Ransom will remember. And yes, this is the same infamous William de Braose who became one of Johns’ primary supporters until their fatal falling-out, dramatized in Here Be Dragons.
March 25, 2016
Blanche of Lancaster
Yesterday, March 24, 1603 was the date of death for the woman I always call (with a smile) “the only good Tudor,” Elizabeth I. She was sixty-nine and her death does not seem to have been a peaceful one. She is fortunate in that she has had two brilliant novels about her, which is more than many historical figures can say. Legacy by Susan Kay, covers Elizabeth’s entire life, and Margaret George deals with her last years in Elizabeth I, which I can’t resist thinking of as The Lioness in Winter. I highly recommend both novels.
March 25th in 1306 saw the coronation of Robert the Bruce as King of Scotland.
March 25th was also the birthdate of Blanche of Lancaster; 1345 is traditionally given as the year of her birth, but I’ve also seen it as 1346. She was a great heiress, and in 1359, she wed her third cousin, John of Gaunt. They had seven children, so she was usually pregnant during her nine year marriage, which is believed to have been a happy one. Only three of her children survived, but one would become the first Lancastrian king, Henry IV. She died in 1368, of what may have been the bubonic plague, at only twenty-one or twenty-two, and her husband grieved greatly for her. I tend to envision her as soft-spoken and fair, a lovely ghost who would haunt her husband’s memory with a rustle of silken skirts and a swirl of silvery blonde hair, an ethereal creature of moonlight, ivory, and lace, forever young. She inspired the major character in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Book of the Duchess, and was sympathetically portrayed in Anya Seton’s classic novel, Katherine. Katherine is, of course, Katherine Swynford, one-half of one of the more famous love affairs of the Middle Ages; she was governess to Blanche and John’s children and, after Blanche’s death, his mistress, and eventually his third wife, a marriage that scandalized his world and delighted all of us who are secret romantics at heart. Yet he requested to be buried next to Blanche.
March 25th in 1306 saw the coronation of Robert the Bruce as King of Scotland.
March 25th was also the birthdate of Blanche of Lancaster; 1345 is traditionally given as the year of her birth, but I’ve also seen it as 1346. She was a great heiress, and in 1359, she wed her third cousin, John of Gaunt. They had seven children, so she was usually pregnant during her nine year marriage, which is believed to have been a happy one. Only three of her children survived, but one would become the first Lancastrian king, Henry IV. She died in 1368, of what may have been the bubonic plague, at only twenty-one or twenty-two, and her husband grieved greatly for her. I tend to envision her as soft-spoken and fair, a lovely ghost who would haunt her husband’s memory with a rustle of silken skirts and a swirl of silvery blonde hair, an ethereal creature of moonlight, ivory, and lace, forever young. She inspired the major character in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Book of the Duchess, and was sympathetically portrayed in Anya Seton’s classic novel, Katherine. Katherine is, of course, Katherine Swynford, one-half of one of the more famous love affairs of the Middle Ages; she was governess to Blanche and John’s children and, after Blanche’s death, his mistress, and eventually his third wife, a marriage that scandalized his world and delighted all of us who are secret romantics at heart. Yet he requested to be buried next to Blanche.
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