Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 47

Onef o the most notorious murders of the Middle Ages

On March 13, 1271 occurred one of the most shocking crimes of the Middle Ages, in part because of the high birth of the killers and the victim and in part because of the scene of the murder—during Mass at the church of San Silvestro in Viterbo, Italy. It had its roots in a battle, the one at Evesham in 1265 in which Simon de Montfort was defeated and slain by Henry III’s son, Edward, who also happened to be Simon’s godson and nephew by marriage, as Simon was wed to Henry’s sister, Nell. Simon’s eldest son Harry also died at Evesham, and his third son Guy was seriously wounded, although he did eventually recover and managed to escape, where he began a new life in Italy. The second son Bran was a victim, too, of Evesham, for he’d been supposed to join his father and brothers at Evesham with reinforcements. Instead, he gave Edward an opportunity to ambush and defeat his men. By the time he got to Evsham, it was in time to see his father’s head on a pike. He later joined Guy in Italy, but he never got over Evsham, for he struggled under a double burden—grief and guilt. Here is a scene from The Reckoning, page 41-42. Guy has just learned that their first cousin Hal, Henry III’s nephew, is in Viterbo and he at once vows to avenge his father and brother’s deaths. At that moment, Bran, suffering from a monumental hangover, stumbles into the hall.
* * *
Bran paused, blinking in the surge of sunlight, looking puzzled and a little wary to see the hall in such turmoil. Grabbing Bran’s scabbard from the back of a chair, Guy strode forward, thrust it at his brother. “We’ve no time to lose, Bran. Hal is here, right here in Viterbo! I still cannot believe it, cannot believe God could be so good to us. But Christ, why could it not have been Ned?”
Bran had always believed the folklore that a sudden shock could sober a man. He discovered now that it wasn’t so. No matter how he tried to focus his thoughts, to banish the wine-fumes from his brain, he could not cut through the confusion. Drink did not numb as easily as it once had, so why now? Why now when he had such need for clear thinking? He looked at his brother, seeing not Guy but Harry, his constant, unseen companion, for who was more faithful than a ghost? Who understood better than the dead that there was no forgiveness, in this life or the next? What did Guy know of remorse, relentless and ever-present, goading a man toward madness? What did Guy know of that? And he must not ever learn!
“Guy, listen to me!” Why did his voice sound so slurred, echo so strangely in his own ears? Why could he not find the right words? “But it is Hal, not Ned. Hal. And he…he was not even at Evesham!”
He saw at once that he’d not gotten through to Guy; the look on his brother’s face was one of disbelief, not comprehension. “Why are you so set upon destroying yourself? What will it change? You cannot even say that Papa would want this, Guy, for you know he would not!”
It was a cry of desperation, honest as only a plea utterly without hope can be. But Guy reacted as if he’d been struck a physical blow. His head came up, breath hissing through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing into slits of incredulous rage.
“You dare to talk of what Papa would have wanted, you who killed him! He and Harry died because of you, because of your criminal carelessness, your God-cursed folly! Where were you when we most needed you? Camped by the lake at Kenilworth Castle, out in the open so your men could bathe, by God, so Ned could come down on you like a hawk on a pigeon! And Papa never knowing, keeping faith with you till the last. Even when we realized that Ned had used your banners as bait, we assumed you’d fought and lost, not that you’d let yourself be ambushed like some green, witless stripling, never that! Does it comfort you any, that our father went to his death still believing in you, never knowing how you’d betrayed him? I watched him die, damn you, and Harry and all the others. Not you, Bran---me! And mayhap this is why I did not die that day myself, so I could avenge our father, avenge Evesham!”
Sweat stood out on Guy’s forehead; his chest heaved as if he’d been running. He drew a deep, constricted breath, then said, more calmly, but no less contemptuously, “You can come with me or not as you choose. But is it not enough that you failed Papa at Evesham? Are you truly going to fail him at Viterbo, too?”
Bran’s throat had closed up, cutting off speech. But he had nothing to say. No denials to make. No excuses to offer. Every embittered accusation that Guy had flung at him was one already embedded in his soul, five years festering. He could not defend himself. Nor could he save himself. All he could do was what he did now—reach for the sword that Guy was holding out to him.
* * *
Hal’s death truly shocked medieval public opinion, for the de Montforts burst into the church during Mass. Guy struck down a priest who tried to interfere and stabbed his cousin as he clung to the altar. The killing is well documented; we even know what Guy said when Hal pleaded for mercy, “You shall have the mercy you showed my father and brother.” But there are several mysteries about this gory murder. Hal made no attempt to defend himself. And other than the priest, no one came to his aid even though the church was filled with men, some of them surely Hal’s own household knights. Nor did anyone attempt to stop the de Montfort brothers when they fled the scene after the killing was done.
Guy and Bran earned the unrelenting enmity of their cousin Edward for this crime. But Guy was wed to the daughter of a powerful Italian count; moreover, he’d inherited his father’s battlefield brilliance, and there was no shortage of men willing to ignore his crime in order to have him fighting on their side. In 1283, Guy was even appointed as captain-general of the papal forces in Romagna! But in 1287, he was captured during a naval battle and imprisoned in Sicily. The vast sum of eight thousand ounces of gold was offered to ransom him by his family and friends, but the ransom was refused and he died after several years in captivity; one report said that he committed suicide. It is generally believed that Edward exerted the considerable power of the English Crown to make sure he would never be released.
Bran’s day of reckoning came much sooner. He was dead, apparently of malaria, in a matter of months, after wandering the swampy wastelands of the Maremma, truly a lost soul. I’ve always felt that to him, death was a mercy, for he obviously could not live with what he’d failed to do at Evesham and what he had done at Viterbo.
The church still exists, although it is not open to the public. But there is a plaque in the piazza telling passersby what happened there on March 13, 1271. I’ve never forgotten how close the past seemed to me as I stood there, staring down at the paving stones and finding it all too easy to envision them soaked in blood.

Saladin's Death

Such sad stories coming out of LA and other states that are facing historic flooding. What is even more tragic is that most of the people don’t have flood insurance.
Now here is another one of my belated Today in History posts.
March 4th, 1193 is the usual date given for the death of the sultan of Egypt, Sallah al-Din, known to the crusaders and to history as Saladin, although Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad says it occurred on March 3rd. In his chronicle, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, Baha al-Din provides an eye-witness account of Saladin’s final illness. He tells us that the sultan became ill on February 20th, “struck by a bilious fever,” describing how he steadily became weaker. By the eight day, “his mind wandered.” On the tenth day of his illness, they treated him with two enemas and he was given barley water to drink. But he continued to decline. “His death occurred after the dawn prayer on Wednesday, 27 Safar 589 (3 March 1193). After dawn had broken, Qadi al-Fadil made haste and was present for his death. I arrived when he was already dead and transported to God’s favor and the seat of His grace. It was related to me that, when the Shaykh Abu ja’far reached in God’s word ‘There is no god but He and in Him have I trusted,’ the sultan smiled, his face beamed with joy and he surrendered his soul to his Lord.”

Richard was the prisoner of the Holy Roman Emperor and word of Saladin’s death and the subsequent rivalry among his sons did not reach the English king for several months, courtesy of a letter from the Doge of Venice. Here is part of the scene from A King’s Ransom, page 224.
* * *.
Richard was on his feet now, striding back and forth. “The French king and my brother have much to answer for. And so does that scorpion on the German throne. Had I been able to reach England, it would not have taken me long to put Johnny and Philippe on the run. I could then have made plans to return to the Holy Land, just as I’d promised Henri and the Almighty. Now…who knows how long it will be ere I am free to fulfill my vow?”
He whirled suddenly, demanding of his clerk, “Does any of this make sense to you, Fulk? Why has God let this happen? Saladin’s death offers a rare opportunity to regain the most sacred city in Christendom and yet I cannot take advantage of it!”
The easy answer would be to say it was not for them to question the ways of the Almighty. But Fulk was not one to offer easy answers, nor would Richard have accepted them. “I do not know what to tell you, my liege. I do not understand, either.”
“Eventually Saladin’s brother will prevail, for he is much more capable than his nephews. Now could have been the time to strike, yet here I am, thwarted not by the Saracens, but by another Christian ruler!” Richard spat out a few virulent oaths, none of which eased his frustration or his fury. Sitting down again, he slumped back wearily in the window-seat next to his clerk. “Saladin was a far better man than Philippe or Heinrich,” he said at last. “A man of courage and honor. It is a great pity that he must be forever denied the grace of God.”
Fulk sighed, thinking what Philippe or Heinrich would have made of such a statement. Sometimes it seemed to him that his king went out of his way to provide weapons for his enemies to use against him.
* * *

William Longspee and his mysterious mother

I seem unable to keep pace with history, for I’ve missed several important medieval happenings in the first part of March. So, trying to catch up, here is a post about one of Henry II’s sons.
On March 7th, 1226, Henry II’s illegitimate son, William Longspee (Longsword), Earl of Salisbury died. He has appeared in Here de Dragons, A King’s Ransom, and in several of my mysteries, cast in a sympathetic light, although I was wrong about his age in all the books except Ransom. When I wrote Dragons and the mysteries, we did not know the identity of his mother, so historians could only speculate as to his age. But in the wonderful way that historical discoveries turn up like gold nuggets, we now know she was Ida de Tosney, subsequently the Countess of Norfolk. As a result of this new knowledge, we know William was much younger than originally believed. I mention his likely birth year in Ransom, 1177, but I will have to stick with the older William in any future mysteries since I can’t go back and rewrite the earlier ones. Thank heaven for Author’s Notes!

My White Wolves

I have a new blog up, My White Wolves, II. Here is the link.
http://sharonkaypenman.com/blog/?p=653

My White Wolves, II

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Tristan

I am sorry for the delay in posting this sequel to my blog about my white shepherd, Shadow, but I’ve had some pain issues that limited my time at the computer. I am having a better day , so I am going to see if I can tell Tristan’s story. After Shadow’s death, I was not sure I’d ever be ready to adopt another shepherd. Several months later, that wound was still very raw, but I did want to take in another dog, knowing how many there are in desperate need of good homes. So I finally decided to adopt a dog unlikely to find a family. I began to check the Echo White Shepherds Rescue page and there I found Tristan, then called Hank. He did not sound as if people would be banging down the doors to adopt him for he was nine, which is elderly for a shepherd, and not in good health, so skinny you could count his ribs and unsteady on his feet; his coat was also very thin in patches. All in all, he looked rather bedraggled. I contacted Joan, the woman who’d rescued him from a high-kill FLA shelter, and she told me his sad story. She pulled him from the shelter on his very last day and the shelter staff tried to talk her out of taking him, suggesting she take a younger, healthier dog. Luckily for Tristan, she paid them no heed; I came to consider her Tris’s Echo Angel and I daresay he’d have agreed with me.

We did not know his history, of course; he’d been found as a stray. He was so emaciated that he may have been on his own for quite a while; either that or he’d been owned by someone who’d not bothered to feed him very often. His behavior made it obvious that he’d not been an indoor dog, probably chained up in a backyard, the sad fate of far too many dogs. Joan was able to find someone who agreed to take him in temporarily as a foster; she had half a dozen dogs at her own house then, so there was simply no room. My main concern was that he was friendly with other dogs, as I still had my poodle, Chelsea, and Joan was able to assure me that he was getting along well with his foster family’s dog. So I applied, was approved, and then we set about planning to get Tristan from FLA to NJ.

What followed was a fascinating odyssey. Echo White Shepherd Rescue—an amazing organization—lined up thirteen kind-hearted volunteers, each one to drive Tris for an hour or two. They kept me informed of his progress and I shared it on Facebook: He is now in SC, he has reached Raleigh, etc. His pilgrimage was followed with great enthusiasm, and I could only marvel that this dog, who’d come within an hour of being euthanized, was now being cheered on by people all over the globe. One of my readers said it was like tracking Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve, but my favorite comment came from my Australian friend, Glenne, who said it was like passing the Olympic Torch. My friend Rachael and I drove down to MD to meet his final escorts, a delightful couple named Lizbeth and Paul. Tristan must have been bewildered, but I was told he’d endured the travel with equanimity, and when we were ready to go, he hopped willingly into the back seat of my car. We then drove right into a monsoon, the most intense rainstorm I’d encountered in years, so bad we had to keep pulling off the road since at times I could not even be sure we were still on it. I could only hope that this was not an ill omen.

My new shepherd was now renamed Tristan; surely no one is surprised that I picked a medieval name? He showed himself to be friendly to Chelsea, who was used to living with dogs who towered above her like redwood trees dwarfing a sapling. A visit to my vet revealed that he weighed only sixty-four pounds, had some arthritis in his spine, and was likely between eight and nine years old. I would later learn that he was fearful of thunderstorms and whenever he’d creep to my side and tremble as the heavens roared overhead, I felt such sadness, imaging how terrifying it must have been for him in FLA, a state that has some of the most savage storms in the country.

He was quite intelligent, as most shepherds are, although he was not at all interested in the traditional dog obedience class; I suspect he found it boring to keep walking in circles and repeating the same commands. I eventually took him for private lessons and there he excelled. For probably the first time in years, he was getting enough to eat and he began to thrive. His limp disappeared and his skimpy coat became so plush and thick that a polar bear might well have envied it. And to my surprise, this frail senior citizen morphed into Godzilla, going from that emaciated sixty-four pounds to a robust ninety-five pounds, increasing his body weight by fully a third. I hope to be able to add a few photos, as my blog is still balking at that. I would like to share one of Tristan and Holly and one of Tris, looking like the lord of the manor.

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Tristan and Holly

Tristan loved to play with toys, perhaps because he’d never had any, his favorite being a stuffed duck that my friend Jim kindly sent him—addressed to Tristan Penman! He loved riding in the car, going for walks in the woods, and catching balls or toys in his mouth; no matter how high they were thrown, he never missed a single one. He was not pals with my poodle, Chelsea, but they got along well. She was quite ill by then, for she’d gone into kidney failure the same week that Shadow had died, and there was only so much the vet could do. She died in May and Tristan became an only child—until I was browsing Petfinder in December and came across a little spaniel up for adoption at Last Chance Ranch in Quakertown, PA.

It was love at first sight and I was delighted when they approved me to adopt her. She’d been found wandering the streets of Philadelphia, with no collar or microchip, and when no one came to claim her, she was turned over to Last Chance. She was still so friendly and trusting that we assumed she could not have been on her own for too long, but the rest of her history remains a mystery. I decided Tristan was too old for a two hundred mile round trip, and so I left him home when I drove up to get Holly, thinking there’d be no trouble since he’d been fine with Chelsea. It did not quite turn out that way, though.

I knew that dogs should meet on neutral ground, so I parked by a small park across the street from my house, then went to introduce Tristan to his new roommate. Holly was very friendly. He was not. He did not growl. He did not bristle or stiffen. There were no overt signs of hostility. But I was picking up a bad vibe. So did Holly, for she suddenly shrieked and dove under the car. Once I got them into the house, I put her in Tristan’s crate, which he’d only used for the first few days. I was quite upset, for I was already smitten with this little girl and did not want to have to return her to the rescue group. Yet unless I could be sure she’d be safe with Tristan, I’d have no choice.

Tristan had apparently decided he liked being an only child, for he regarded this interloper quite coolly. He’d showed no signs of aggression, though, so I soon felt it was safe to let them interact under my supervision. What followed was hilarious. Spaniels are sweet dogs, if not considered the sharpest knives in the drawer, but Holly was blessed with brains as well as beauty, and she set about winning him over. Tristan would be lying on his bed and she’d come over to snuggle next to him. He’d get up and stalk away, for all the world like an elderly uncle who does not want to babysit the kids. She was not daunted by his rejections, continued her campaign. When he felt she was being too pushy, he’d give a low, warning growl. She’d immediately flip over onto her back in the submissive puppy pose and bat those long golden lashes up at him. Watching, I would think, “Tristan, you’re toast.” And sure enough, in less than a week, she had him right where she wanted him, under one of her feathery, delicate paws. He was too old and too large for them to be genuine playmates, but their mutual affection was quite touching and I am sure they enjoyed each other’s company. As much as dogs bond with people, most of them need time with their own tribe, too.

Those of you who have friended me on Facebook already know the end of Tristan’s story. My vet had been treating his arthritis of the spine, using acupuncture and chiropractic as well as more traditional methods. But in November of 2012, he suddenly began to experience considerable pain in his spine. Nothing seemed to help. I did not realize how serious it was, though, until he started to have difficulty walking. To show you what an excellent doctor my friend John Phillips is, he diagnosed Tristan’s condition as a collapse of his spinal column, and that from three thousand miles away in England. He was right. My vet tried a massive dose of steroids as a Hail Mary pass, to no avail. Tristan died on November 16, 2012. I’d only had him for twenty months, but it was a comfort to know that those were probably the best months of his life.

March 9, 2016

Downton Abbey finale

Now that Priscilla Royal has held her drawing for a free signed copy of Land of Shadows, I hope to have a new blog up very soon, this one about my second white shepherd, Tristan, as Part II of My White Wolves.
Meanwhile, I am curious what Downton Abbey fans thought of the season finale on Sunday. If we discuss it, do you guys think we’d be spoiling it for those who haven’t yet seen it?

Winners of Land of Shadows drawing

I have good news for two of my readers. The book drawing for Land of Shadows is over and Priscilla Royal has generously agreed to donate two books. The lucky winners are Emily, who posted on March 1st and John Steffy, who posted on February 29th. Congratulations to you both; I am pleased for you and for your mother, Emily, and John, thanks for the kind words about Justin de Quincy. I hope to do another one of his mysteries after I finish Land Beyond the Sea. You can contact Priscilla by sending a message to her via her Facebook page or you can use the Contact Sharon feature on my website and I will then forward your e-mails to Priscilla.
Sad news today for those who enjoy good writing. Pat Conroy died yesterday, much too soon. His Prince of Tides is a truly remarkable creation. I was never lucky enough to meet him, but I do have a wonderful Pat Conroy story to share. Some years ago on a book tour, I was sent to an independent bookstore in St Paul, MN. After my reading, the book staff asked me to sign their wall, which was covered from top to bottom with signatures of other writers. They explained that they used to ask writers to sign a book, but when they asked Pat Conroy to do so, he said that was too boring, so he picked up a pen and with a flourish, wrote his name on one of the walls, thus starting what became a hallowed tradition. He will be greatly missed, but it is comforting to know that a writer will be remembered as long as people read his or her books.

A Great King

My favorite English king was born on this date—March 5th, 1133, in the beautiful city of Le Mans, christened in its magnificent cathedral, named Henry after his grandfather. He would prove to be a great king, but a flawed husband and father, and as he lay dying at Chinon Castle, forced to make a humiliating peace by Richard and the French king, shattered by the betrayal of the one son who had most reason to be loyal, his favorite child, John, he must have wondered how it had ever have come to that, wondered how so much bright promise could have ended so bitterly. But on his birthday, I prefer to focus on that beginning. Here are two scenes from When Christ and His Saints Slept. The first one takes place in the stables of the castle at Le Mans, where Maude had gone to demand that her unfaithful husband, the young Count of Anjou, not humiliate her while her brothers were visiting. On her way back to the hall, she became dizzy and was assisted by her cousin Stephen; hey, where would a story be without a seasoning of irony? Page 49
* * *
“I want no daughters,” she said, “not ever.”
Stephen was puzzled by her vehemence. “Matilda recently confided that she might be with child again, and if so, we both hope for a lass this time. Why would you want to deny your-self the pleasure a daughter would bring?”
“Because,” Maude said, “daughters are but pawns, utterly powerless---“
She broke off so abruptly that Stephen knew she’d had another pang. “Is it common to have these pains?”
“The midwife assured me that they come and go in the days before the birthing begins. But the ones I’ve had today have been different, in my back, and I—“ Maude’s mouth contorted, and then an alarmed expression crossed her face. “Jesu!” she cried. “My water has broken!”
Stephen jumped to his feet. “We’d best get you inside straightaway.”
“No…you go in and tell them.” Maude was looking everywhere but at Stephen’s face. “I….I will follow in a moment or so.:
“Maude, that makes no sense!” He stared at her in utter bafflement and had his answer, then, in her crimson cheeks, averted eyes, and sodden skirts. God save the lass, she was em-barrassed! “Sweet cousin, listen. You must come with me. You cannot have your baby in a stable. This is Le Mans, not Bethlehem.”
As he hoped, that won him a flicker of a smile, and she held out her hands, let him help her to her feet. “Take me in, Stephen,” she said. “I doubt you’d make a good midwife…”
* * *
The next scene is on page 52. Maude has given birth to her son, and she and Geoffrey are enjoying a rare moment of marital peace.
* * *
Maude was finding it harder and harder to stay awake, but she was not yet ready to relinquish her son, even for a few hours. “I suppose you still want to name him Fulk, after your father,” she said drowsily.
Geoffrey looked at her, then at the baby. “Well…no,” he said, and Maude’s lashes fluttered upward in surprise. “I know we’ve been quarreling over names, but I’ve changed my mind. You can name him, Maude. I think you’ve earned the right.”
Maude did, too. “Thank you,” she said, and smiled sleepily at her husband and son. The baby chose that moment to open his eyes, and startled them both by letting out a loud, piercing wail. They looked so nonplussed that the midwife and wet nurse started to laugh. And it was then that Minna opened the door and ushered Robert, Ranulf, Stephen, and Matilda into the bedchamber.
Maude was not a woman to find humor in chaos. But for once she did not care about decorum or dignity. Cradling her screaming little son, she said happily, “Come closer so you can hear over his shrieks. I want to present Henry, England’s future king.”
* * *.

The Young King

I saw an orthopedist this week and am getting an MRI next week, so I am hopeful that life will soon be getting back to normal, or as normal as life ever is for a writer, especially one who labors under a curse by the computer gods. Yes, the brand-new computer went rogue, too, crashing repeatedly and calling up the dreaded Blue Screen of Death. Back it went to Best Buy and the geek Squad techs pinpointed Windows 10 as the culprit, then proceeded to “refresh” it. Now it is home again, this time rechristened Diablo and the wait begins to see if all its demons were exorcised or not. Meanwhile, I would like to remind you that there are still two days to enter the drawing to win a free, personalized copy of Priscilla Royal’s new medieval mystery, Land of Shadows. Just go to my blog and post a comment.
Now I’d like to begin catching up on my Today in History posts, this one dealing with February 28th, 1155, when Henry and Eleanor’s second son, was born.
On August 27, 1172, Henry II’s eldest surviving son, known to his contemporaries and history as the Young King and to my readers as Hal, was crowned again, as his wife, Marguerite, the daughter of the French king Louis VII, had not been crowned with him the first time, much to her father’s vexation. The second ceremony was performed at Winchester, presided over by the Archbishop of Rouen and Hal’s cousin, Roger Fitz Robert, the Bishop of Worcester, a favorite of mine, as he was one of the few brave enough not to wilt in the full force of Henry’s Angevin temper tantrums. Hal’s life, which had begun in such bright promise, ended sadly, with his death at age twenty-eight in the midst of another rebellion against his father. His young widow, Marguerite, would later be wed to the King of Hungary; she died in 1197 on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and was buried at Acre, far from home and Hal’s grave in Rouen.
Henry and Eleanor have such larger-than-life personalities that they don’t need defenders. Their son Richard doesn’t really need them, either; after all, he has Robin Hood on his side. But their other sons have not done as well in the court of public opinion and could probably use a champion or two. John has my friend Owen on his side. Geoffrey has Malcolm and me to speak up for him. And Hal is lucky enough to have my Polish friend Kasia to make sure he is not forgotten. Kasia maintains a very interesting website that is Hal-centric. Here is the link; anyone interested in the Angevins ought to stop by.
http://henrytheyoungking.blogspot.com/

Land of Shadows Book Drawing extension

Usually when I do a book drawing on my blog, whether for one of my own books or one of another writer’s, I post occasional reminders about it, knowing that not all of my Facebook friends visit daily. I was unable to do this for Priscilla Royal’s newest mystery, Land of Shadows, as I’ve been off-line a lot, dealing with back pain and the usual computer demons. So I asked Priscilla if we could extend the drawing for a few more days, giving more people a chance to enter. I love her mysteries, which are suspenseful, elegantly written, and always deeply rooted in thirteenth century England, so I highly recommend entering the drawing; the winner will a very happy reader, I promise! Here is the link. Simply post a comment and you’re in. We’ll continue it for the rest of the week, through Friday. http://sharonkaypenman.com/blog/?p=647