Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 52

Football and Yorkists

My congratulations to my fellow football fans whose teams played well yesterday. My sympathies to those whose teams did not and my deepest condolences to fans of the Ravens, who won but also lost their QB for the rest of the year; they truly have been suffering through the season from Hell. As for other Eagles fans, I invite you to join me in my hunt for a Chip Kelly voodoo doll and some very sharp needles.
Two historical happenings of interest to Yorkists. On November 22, 1428, Richard Neville, AKA the Kingmaker, was born, and on November 23, 1503, Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy and sister to Edward IV and Richard III, died at age 57, which seems positively ancient when you consider the premature deaths of all of her brothers. Anne Easter Smith has written a novel about Margaret, which many of my readers have recommended.

Advice for the wives of Henry VIII other than telling them to run for their lives

One of my Facebook friends posted this already, but I am sure many of you did not see it, and it is well worth repeating. This has been such a horrific week that we desperately need some laughter to leaven the sorrow and fears, and this will definitely elicit some LOL moments, It also puts Henry VIII in the bad light he so richly deserves. Enjoy. http://the-toast.net/2015/11/11/unsol...

Another Angevin king and his gruesome death

Another catching-up post for November.
November 13, 1143 was the date of death of Fulk, Count of Anjou and King of Jerusalem, husband to Queen Melisende; I’ve always been interested in this capable, strong-willed woman, the subject of a very good biography by Sharan Newman, Defending the City of God. Fulk died as the result of a gruesome hunting accident. His skull was crushed by the saddle when his horse stumbled and fell on top of him. According to my favorite medieval historian, William of Tyre, “his brains gushed forth from both ears and nostrils.” (I hope no one is reading this while eating a late lunch.) Fulk lingered in a coma for three days before finally dying. Fulk was, of course, the father of Geoffrey of Anjou and thus the grandfather of Henry II. One of his daughters wed the Count of Flanders and a second daughter was widowed by the sinking of the White Ship and later became Abbess of Fontevrault. By Melisende, he was also the father of two Kings of Jerusalem and was therefore the grandfather of Isabella, who appears in Lionheart.
November 13, 1160 was the wedding date for Louis VII and Adele of Blois, who would later do what his first two wives could not, give him a son. Louis’s second wife had died the month previously, after giving birth to his unfortunate daughter Alys, so he did not have much of a mourning period. By marrying Adele, Louis thus became brother-in-law as well as father-in-law to her brothers, for they were betrothed to his daughters by Eleanor. I had fun doing a scene in Lionheart in which Henri of Champagne tried to explain his convoluted family tree.
And November 13, 1312 was the birthday of the future Edward III. This must have been a very happy day for Edward II and Isabella, who did not have many of them---at least not together.

A courageous young queen

I am trying to play catch-up for some of the Today in History posts that I’ve missed this month.
November 9, 1389 is the birthdate of a young woman whose appeal continues to shine across the centuries—at least to me. Isabella of Valois was the daughter of a French king and at age six she became Queen of England when she wed Richard II. Richard was still grieving for his late wife, Anne of Bohemia, and it is likely that he saw this marriage to a child bride as a way to avoid having to form a marital bond before he was emotionally ready for one. Whatever his motivation, he apparently treated little Isabella very kindly and she became quite attached to him, as she would soon prove. Four years after their marriage, Richard was deposed by his cousin, who then claimed the English crown as Henry IV, the first Lancastrian monarch. Henry thought the ten year old Isabella would make a good bride for his son, the future Henry V. But Isabella would have none of it. This brave child defied the new king, refused to wed his son, and once she became convinced that Richard was dead, she went into deep mourning. Eventually she proved to be such an embarrassment that Henry agreed to allow her to return to France. I have encountered too many stories over the years of medieval women who were married off against their will, so I have always been impressed by Isabella’s resolve and courage, especially in light of her age. In 1406, Isabella, then seventeen, wed her cousin, Charles, the Duke of Orleans. Sadly, she died in childbirth at the age of nineteen.
Her younger sister was treated more kindly by fortune. Catherine wed the man spurned by the young Isabella, Henry V, and gave him a son, the future Henry VI. The widowed Catherine then took up with a dashing Welshman, Owain Tudor, and her grandson would eventually claim the English throne as Henry VII.

Vive la France

It seemed appropriate to post this today, probably the film’s most powerful scene. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HM-E2... Vive la France.

Help the Parisians

Pray for the people of Paris, for there are truly monsters who walk amongst us. The first link below lists ways to help, and the second one gives us some much needed proof of our humanity; soon after the horror, Parisians took to social media to offer shelter to tourists and visitors stranded in Paris now, with flights grounded and the borders closed. Today Americans are making the same offer for French visitors unable to get home.
http://www.syracuse.com/us-news/index...

http://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/pari...

My white wolves

I finally have been able to post a new blog. Here is the link.
http://sharonkaypenman.com/blog/?p=643

My White Wolves

After I lost my shepherd Cody, I found it helped to write a blog about this remarkable dog. But it will be four years in January since the death of my shepherd Shadow and until now I have not been able to write about him. Perhaps it was because he was young and I’d never lost a young dog before; it is easier to accept the death of a beloved pet if he or she lived out their natural life span. Perhaps it was because Shadow’s history was so tragic. Or because I still miss him so much.

In the past, when I’d lost a dog or cat, I’d always gotten another one, in part because it made the grieving easier and in part because I knew so many pets are in such desperate need of homes. But after Cody’s death, I found it difficult to bring another shepherd into my home and my life. I almost adopted a very nice shepherd mix from Echo White Shepherd Rescue, only realizing at the eleventh hour that I was not ready. So I waited, occasionally checking out the shepherds on Petfinder. But on the night that I found Shadow, I was not yet looking for a dog to adopt. I’d just read an article about training shepherds and there at the bottom of the page was a photo of the saddest shepherd I’d ever seen. He was painfully skinny and his eyes held nothing but despair and fear. When I clicked onto his photo, I learned that he was called Boo and he’d been picked up by animal control as a stray. Because he was a shepherd and because he was so obviously terrified, the shelter employees were wary of him, understanding that a fearful dog could sometimes be a dangerous one. But Shadow’s luck was about to change; one of the shelter employees worked with the Burlington County Rescue Alliance and she was drawn to this frightened young dog. Susan entered his cage and sat down quietly. After a while, he crawled over and put his head in her lap. She took him home with her that night.

She soon discovered how horribly he’d been abused. He was afraid of leashes, belts, brooms, anything that triggered memories of being beaten. If she raised her hand near his head, he flinched and whimpered. Once she happened to lift her foot in his vicinity and he pancaked, dropped flat, and began to tremble. Dogs may not have the power of speech, but he was offering compelling and heartbreaking testimony that he’d been beaten and kicked by his previous owners, subjected to so much cruelty that he’d come to expect such treatment, even though he could not understand why that was so. And yet in the two weeks that she fostered him, she never saw him show any sign of aggression, even fear-driven aggression. So her rescue group put him up for adoption on Petfinder.

I did not think I was ready to adopt again, but I was haunted by his sorrowful eyes and I felt compelled to contact her. A week later, I was driving up to meet him. I’d been approved to adopt him and while I realized it would be a challenge to gain the trust of a dog so abused, I could never have driven away without him. So after the papers were signed and I’d written a check, she coaxed him into my car and his new life began.

It did not get off to the best of starts; he was understandably scared to death, and then scared me when he squeezed into the front seat and tried to crouch down at my feet, this while we were going fifty miles an hour. By the time we got home, we both were exhausted. My poodle Chelsea offered a friendly greeting, but it didn’t help. He fled into the guest bedroom and huddled against the door leading into the garage, shaking like a leaf. I let him stay there, coming to sit beside him from time to time and talk soothingly. He did eat and I thought that was a good sign, but I wondered if I’d be able to forge a bond with this traumatized boy.

In the days that followed, I spoke softly and let him progress at his own pace. I’d heard stories from friends in rescue work of dogs that took months to overcome their fear; some never could. But Boo—now renamed Shadow—was desperately eager to please. He’d obviously never had toys before and was soon playing happily with them. Judging from his appearance, he may never have been given enough to eat, and he began to show great enthusiasm for mealtimes. In a surprisingly brief time, he literally became my shadow, always wanting to be with me, preferably touching me, pillowing his head on my foot as I worked. He began to put on weight. The first time he barked at the mailman, I don’t know which of us was more surprised. He got along with Chelsea, began to enjoy riding in the car, and watched me constantly. And then he had an epiphany. He realized that he need never be afraid again, and he was filled with joy.

[image error]

When he was Boo

I’ve had many wonderful dogs over the years, but I l do not think any dog loved me as much as Shadow did. Once he became convinced that he would not be hurt again, that he could trust me, he was so grateful for that. I was surprised that this transformation had happened so quickly, and even more surprised by the way he began to respond to other people. No longer so painfully skinny—he went from 63 pounds to 80—and with a plush white coat that looked like ermine, he was a stunningly beautiful dog and whenever I walked him, he attracted attention. It was like going out with a rock star, for most people have never seen a white German shepherd and they reacted as if he were a unicorn. I’ve had shepherds all my life, and they have been bred to be one-person or one-family dogs. As long as they’ve been trained, they are civil with strangers, but somewhat aloof. Not Shadow. When his admirers flocked around him, he was delighted; I joked that he’d begun to channel his inner golden retriever. I understood why he’d come to love me so quickly and wholeheartedly; I was the first person to give him love. I was amazed, though, that he was willing to trust others, too, this dog who’d never been given any reason for trust. But for the first time in his life, he felt safe and loved and he blossomed in his new world.

We soon developed routines. He was always sitting by my bed in the morning, waiting for me to awake. He insisted upon coming into the bathroom when I took a bath, determined to protect me from drowning or the infamous land shark. Every night he followed me upstairs, where he hopped on my bed and wriggled around like a silver dolphin. Then he’d jump down and pad next door to the spare bedroom that he’d claimed as his own, stretching out on the bed and putting his head on the pillow with a sigh of contentment; some mornings I discovered that he’d even pulled the blanket up over his shoulders in his sleep. I wish I’d thought to take photos of Shadow’s bedtime ritual, but I never imagined our time would be so limited.

I’d adopted him in early May. As the year turned cold, his appetite began to falter, and my vet was as puzzled as I was by this. He did not seem sick or in pain, but I sensed something was wrong. My vet did some diagnostic tests, and eventually an ultrasound revealed a mass in his liver. At my vet’s recommendation, I immediately took Shadow to a clinic in North Jersey that specialized in cancer treatment.

I was fearing the worst, but an x-ray revealed an unexpected and hopeful diagnosis. Not cancer. He had a severe diaphragmatic hernia, caused by blunt force trauma. When I told the vets that we strongly suspected he’d been kicked, they confirmed that was the likely cause of his injury. We arranged for surgery the next day. While they warned me that it was possible the surgery would fail, they felt there was an excellent chance that he’d make a full recovery. It was hard to leave him, for he looked stricken when they took him away, letting out a little moan of protest, yet without the surgery, he would die. It was as simple as that.

The surgery went very well and two days later, I was allowed to take him home to convalesce. What occurred next was remarkable. At the time, I was deeply touched; now it hurts to remember. When they led Shadow into the vet’s office and he saw me, he began to talk. That is the only way I can describe it. Overcome with joy that I’d come back for him, he wanted to tell me about his ordeal, how frightened he’d been, fearing I’d abandoned him. For more than ten minutes, he “talked” to me, not barking or growling or whining. His tone rose and fell exactly as our voices do when we converse with others. I’d never seen a dog do this, and neither had the vet; she even called in some of her colleagues to listen to him.

[image error]

Shadow on the couch

I don’t know who was happier, me or Shadow. He was in some discomfort for it had been major surgery. But he was so excited to be home that it did not seem to matter. At least not for three days. I’d gone to get him on a Monday. On Thursday there was a sudden change in his breathing; it became very fast and shallow. I at once rushed him to my vet, where they discovered that his lungs were filling with fluid. They drained it and he seemed better, so I was able to take him home.

But the next night, his breathing became labored again. By the time I got him to my vet, he could barely breathe. After consulting with the clinic surgeon, my vet took an x-ray that confirmed his fears—pulmonary edema. There was nothing we could do except end his suffering. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and when I got home, the house felt as empty as my heart.

Anyone who has lost a beloved pet knows how much it hurts. Even knowing that I’d done all I could for him did not help. He proved to be as loyal in death as he was in life, always hovering on the far edges of memory, my faithful silver ghost. It was the injustice that I found hardest to accept. He’d enduring so much fear and misery in his young life, only having nine brief months in which he felt safe and cherished. A friend reminded me that dogs do not experience time in the way that we do, that they live utterly in the moment. So for Shadow, he said, those nine months were infinite. I so hope he is right.

Shadow’s story touched many of my friends and readers, and I like to think that some of them may have been moved to adopt from shelters or rescue groups. In my case, the road eventually led to Florida and another white shepherd, Tristan, whose history will be related in My White Wolves, Part II.

November 11, 2015

A dark day in Welsh history

November 10th, 1177 was a dark day in the history of medieval Wales, for it was on that date that Llywelyn ap Gruffydd made a forced peace with the English king, Edward I. Not surprisingly—for Edward was not known for showing mercy to a defeated foe—his terms were harsh ones. Llywelyn had to yield the four cantrefs east of the River Conwy and all land already seized by Edward. He was allowed to retain control of the island of Mon, but only as a vassal, compelled to pay a thousand marks a year to the royal coffers and if he died without an heir of his body, it would revert to the Crown. He had to pay a staggering fine of fifty thousand pounds (later remitted by Edward in an act of calculated generosity) and yield ten highborn hostages, free his brother Owain and the man who’d plotted to assassinate him. He must swear homage and fealty to Edward and forfeit the homage of all but five lords of Gwynedd, all others to owe homage only to the English king.
The Reckoning, page 259.
* * *
Llywelyn was permitted to retain the title that was now only a courtesy, Prince of Wales, a hollow mockery that seemed to him the cruelest kindness of all.
On November 9th, Llywelyn came to Aberconwy Abbey to accept Edward’s terms, feeling like a man asked to preside over his own execution. A remembered scrap of Scriptures kept echoing in his ears like a funeral dirge: “Jerusalem is ruined and Judah is fallen.” Gwynedd had been gutted by a pen, just as surely as any sword thrust. He’d lost more than the lands listed upon parchment; he’d lost the last thirty years of his life, for Gwynedd had been reduced to the boundaries imposed upon the Welsh by the Treaty of Woodstock in 1247. Llywelyn had been just nineteen then, new to power and to defeat. That had been his first loss to England, and his last—until now, until the Treaty of Aberconwy, which destroyed a lifetime’s labor in the time it took to affix his great seal to the accord. Never had he known such despair. And the worst was still to come, for on the morrow he must ride to Rhuddlan Castle, there make a formal and public surrender to the English king.
* * *
Edward had one final surprise for Llywelyn when they met on November 10th at Rhuddlan Castle. Llywelyn had been assured that his wife, Ellen de Montfort, held hostage by Edward for the past two years, would be released, but Edward reneged, insisting that Ellen would not be freed until Llywelyn had proved his good faith and loyalty. Since Ken John is working (diligently, we hope) on a novel about Othon de Grandison (known as Otto in The Reckoning), I could not resist quoting one more paragraph of the chapter, for Othon/Otto was just as shocked as Llywelyn by Edward’s surprise; he’d been the one to deliver the king’s assurances to the Welsh prince. Again, from the Reckoning, pages 266-267.
* * *
The tension did not subside. One spark and the air itself might kindle, Otto de Grandison thought morosely, not at all happy with this unexpected turn of events. Had he so misread Edward, ignored the strings trailing from the offer to restore the prince’s lady? Had it truly been his mistake? He thought not, but it was now, for kings did not err. He gave Llywelyn an apologetic look, then turned at the sound of a muffled shout. Striding to the window, he unlatched the shutters. “My liege, the Welsh prisoners have just ridden into the bailey.”
* * *
It was never easy to serve a king, especially for a man of honor.

Playing catch-up

I haven’t been able to post for the past few days as a friend was visiting. And then on Sunday, I suddenly lost my internet access. For once it was not my computer’s fault; the culprit was my modem and my security system router, which were suddenly in conflict. Naturally I was soon suffering severe withdrawal pangs, and not even the Eagles’ victory over the hated Cowboys Sunday night did much for my mood. But Comcast came to the rescue today, so I am once more able to contact the outside world. This week, then, I’ll be trying to catch up on those historical events that fell through the cracks while I was otherwise occupied.
November 6th is a day I could not possibly ignore; it would be like neglecting Mardi Gras or the day the swallows come back to Capistrano. Several eventful happenings on this date, at least eventful to my books.
On November 6th, 1153, the Treaty of Wallingford was signed. This momentous treaty ended the civil war that had torn England asunder for almost two decades. Under the terms, the young challenger, Henry Fitz Empress, recognized Stephan as king and Stephen agreed to name Henry as his heir. We probably have some eels to thank for this, as I doubt Stephen would have agreed if his eldest son Eustace had not died so conveniently back in August; I suspect it was easier for Stephen to rationalize disinheriting his younger son William, since he’d not been raised with the expectation of becoming king one day. I think that Stephen was exhausted, emotionally and physically, still grieving the loss of his queen and son, worn down by the demands of a kingship that he may never have wanted all that much. (I tend to see his wily brother, the Bishop of Winchester, as the moving force in that usurpation.) It is possible, even likely, that this treaty was the cause for the rumor in later centuries that Henry was Stephen’s son, for surely it is the only time a civil war ended with an adoption! Once again, Henry’s fabled luck came through for him, as it would until the last year of his life. Stephen could easily have lived for another ten years. He did not survive the Treaty of Wallingford by even a year, dying on October 25th, 1154, at age 58, and a month later, Henry Fitz Empress became King of England at just 21.
November 6th was also the day of a significant battle in 1282. Edward was holding the island called Mon by the Welsh and Anglesey by the English, and he meant to build a pontoon boat bridge from the island to the mainland so he could launch an attack into the heart of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s Gwynedd. On November 6th, John Peckham, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had come to Llywelyn’s palace at Aber under a flag of truce in an attempt to convince the Welsh prince that he ought to submit to the English Crown. It was on this day, though, that the English on the island, led by a brash knight, Luke de Tany, crossed their bridge onto the mainland. They’d ventured several miles inland when the Welsh struck. The English seem to have been taken by surprise, oddly enough, and fled back toward their bridge. Here is what happened next, as described in The Reckoning, page 506.
* * *
“Llywelyn!” Davydd reined in his roan beside his brother, sending up a wild spray of sand….Davydd’s face was streaked with sweat and a smear of blood that did not appear to be his; his eyes were blazing with excitement, greener than any cat’s. “I’ve an idea,” he panted. “Let’s see if we cannot set fire to the bridge!”
That same thought had occurred to Llywelyn, and he’d just put some of his bowmen to the task; several men were searching for wood that would be quick to kindle, as others hastily improvised makeshift fire arrows, knotting them with cloth that could be ignited. Turning in the saddle now to see if they would have time before the English reached the safety of the island, Llywelyn caught his breath, transfixed by what had just occurred out in the straits. “There is no need,” he said, “not now. Look!”
Davydd swung his mount around to see. “Jesus God,” he murmured softly, almost reverently, for the bridge was breaking up.
* * *
The bridge had not been made to withstand the panicked rout, and it was dangerously overloaded. It was also high tide and the currents in the Menai Straits were treacherous. When a large section of the deck collapsed, the sinking boats rapidly took on water, and the straits were soon filled with floundering men and horses. The Welsh then sealed the bridge’s doom by prying up the grappling hooks that had been meant to anchor the bridge, which then snapped sideways, flinging the last of the soldiers into the water. At least one hundred and fifty men died. Fifteen knights drowned that day, including Luke de Tany, and while that may not seem like much to us, it was a shock to their world. Knights did not expect to die in battle in the 13th century; at the worst, they expected to be captured and ransomed, not to drown in icy waters as Welsh arrows seared the air overhead.
November 6th, was the date in 1429 when the young Henry VI was crowned; although he’d actually become king at nine months after the premature death of his father, his coronation was not held until he was eight. This was also the birthday in 1479 of Juana of Castile, sister of Katherine of Aragon, who would tragically be known in history as Juana la Loca, Juana the Mad. Christopher Gortner’s The Last Queen does justice to Juana’s sad story, and I highly recommend it.