Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 53

Sequel to Pull of the Yew Tree

I have good news for fans of Pauline Toohey’s Pull of the Yew tree, which was set in fifteenth century Ireland. The sequel is now out, Melting of the Mettle. It starts five years later, in 1475, and Ricardians take note: Edward IV makes an appearance.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/search/ref=s...

Live polar bear cam

Here is something fun to watch—a live polar bear camera. Visiting the polar bears in Churchill, Canada is on my Bucket List, but so far down that it’s not likely I’ll ever get to cross it off. This is the next best thing. http://explore.org/live-cams/player/p...

An execution on All Soul's Day

On this date in 1483, the Duke of Buckingham was executed in Salisbury after his rebellion failed. I wrote a scene in Sunne in which Richard received word of his death. I could have set it anywhere in the city, but because I thought Salisbury Cathedral was so beautiful, I chose to set it in the cloisters there, a deceptively peaceful place given the turmoil in Richard’s life.
The Sunne in Splendour, pages 1037-1039
* * * * *
Shaded by cedar trees, bathed in blinding sunlight, the cloisters of St Mary’s offered a refuge of awesome beauty, an almost unearthly quiet. Richard was seated on a bench in the south walkway; he looked up as they approached, rose to his feet.
By comment consent, they all moved up the east walkway, sought the greater privacy of the chapter house. Richard waited until Francis had closed the door and then said only, “It is done?”
Francis nodded, waited for questions that didn’t come. (omission) “Will Hastings tried to warn me,” Richard said at last, not looking at either man as he spoke. “He told me I was a fool to trust Buckingham. ‘Ned made more than his share of mistakes,’ he said, ‘but Buckingham was not one of them.’ Buckingham, he said, was mine.”
It was the first time in more than four months that Francis could recall Richard mentioning Will Hastings’s name, a stark silence dating from that June day when he’d summarily ordered Hastings to his death. Francis drew a quick breath, said, “Christ, Dickon, Hastings was jealous of Buckingham, that’s all! He did not have second sight, did not suspect any more than the rest of us what Buckingham had in mind. He was right about Buckingham, but for the wrong reasons.”
“If truth be told,” Jack interrupted, “none of us had much liking for the man. But it is one thing to dislike a man for his arrogance, for the way power seemed to have gone to his head, and quite another to think him capable of treason, of child-murder. You cannot blame yourself because you trusted the man. He’d given you reason for trust, after all.”
“Yes,” Richard said tonelessly, “I trusted him. And because I did, my brother’s sons are dead.” He turned to face them both, saw that neither one knew how to answer him. “Tell me,” he said abruptly. “Tell me how he died, Francis.”
“Badly.” Francis made an involuntary grimace. “Very badly. Right up to the time he was taken out to the block, he kept begging for an audience with you, though what in God’s name he thought that would accomplish….”
(Omission.)
“I told him there was no way on God’s earth you’d ever consent to see him and he….well, he forgot all pride, all dignity.” A shadow of distaste crossed Francis’s face, bordering on revulsion. “I’ve never seen a man show his fear so nakedly,” he said slowly.
“Does that surprise you so much, Francis? After all, the man knew he was facing eternal damnation. Would you not be fearful to go before the Throne of God with so great a sin on your soul?”
Francis was shaking his head. “No, Jack,” he said thoughtfully, “I do not think it was that sort of fear. It seemed to be purely physical, a fear of the axe, of death itself. When he saw there was no hope, he began to plead for time, for a day’s grace. He reminded the priests that it was All Soul’s Day, entreated them to intercede with you, Dickon, to persuade you to postpone the execution until the morrow.”
“Did he, by God?” Richard was staring at Francis. “And that is all today did mean to him….that it is All Soul’s Day?”
Francis was at a loss. “Dickon?”
Richard turned away. He could feel it starting to slip, the rigid self-control he’d been clinging to these past three weeks, and he bit down now on his lower lip until he tasted blood.
“Today,” he said unevenly, “would have been Edward’s thirteenth birthday.”
* * *

Halloween, football, and a French king

A belated Happy Halloween to one and all. I hope my fellow football fans spent the day as I did, cheering on their favorite teams. With the exception of a few teams I really, really do not like, I always find myself feeling sympathy for the losing teams. Imagine how long that flight from London back to Detroit must seem to the Lions, who were clobbered by the Kansas City Chiefs. And I don’t even want to think about the plane ride from New Orleans to New York for the Giants after losing such a heartbreaker; I admit I was rooting for the Saints, but unlike most Eagles fans, I don’t dislike the Giants and usually wish them well unless they are playing the Eagles.
Here is a book bargain for my fellow medieval geeks. I am such a fan of Dana Stabenow’s brilliant mysteries set in her home state, Alaska. So even though I have not yet read her first foray into the Middle Ages, I am sure these books will be up to her usual high standard. Here is a chance to buy the first of her 14th century novels about the granddaughter of Marco Polo for only 99 cents on Amazon.com.
http://www.amazon.com/Everything-Unde...
And on November 1st, 1179, one of my least favorite kings became one, for this was the coronation of Philippe Capet, Louis VII’s fourteen year old son, who would become such a burr under the Angevin saddle.

Had he been king

So what occurred on October 30th in medieval history? There was a rebellion by the Welsh in 1294; if we are lucky, Rhys will post about it. And on this date in 1485, something happened that would prove to be a great gift for novelists and Hollywood script writers—the start of the Tudor dynasty with the coronation of Henry Tudor. I was tempted to add “boo, hiss!” but I am going to be a grownup today.
I won’t be able to post about this morrow, as I am having lunch with my British editor; as much as I’d like it to be in London, it’s Philadelphia. But since I’ll be out of touch, I want to mention today that October 31st, 1147 was the date of death of a character I liked a lot; he was that rarity, a man of ability and honor—Robert Fitz Roy, Earl of Gloucester, half-brother to the Empress Maude. Had he not been born out of wedlock, Robert would have been a fine king. One of my favorite “Robert scenes” was the one in which he finally exploded and shocked his sister with some bitter truths.
When Christ and his Saints Slept, pages 343-345
* * *
Rising, Maude began to pace. “To come so close and then to have it all snatched away like this….it is so unfair, Robert, so damnably unfair!”
“Life is unfair,” he said, sounding so stoical, so rational, and so dispassionate that she was suddenly angry, a scalding, seething impotent rage that spared no one—not herself, not Robert, not God.
“You think I do not know that? When has life ever been fair to women? Just think upon how easy it was for Stephen to steal my crown, and how bitter and bloody has been my struggle to win it back. Even after we’d caged Stephen at Bristol Castle, he was still a rival, still a threat….and why? Because he was so much braver or more clever or capable than me? No….because I was a woman, for it always came back to that. I’ll not deny that I made mistakes, but you do not know what it is like, Robert, to be judged so unfairly, to be judged not for what you’ve done but for what you are. It is a poison that seeps into the soul, that makes you half crazed with the need to prove yourself…..”
She stopped to catch her breath, and only then did she see the look on Robert’s face, one of disbelief and then utter and overwhelming fury, burning as hot as her own anger, hotter even, for being so long suppressed.
“I do not know what it is like?” he said incredulously. “I was our father’s firstborn son, but was I his heir? No, I was just his bastard. He trusted me and relied upon me and needed me. But none of that mattered, not even after the White Ship sank and he lost his only lawfully begotten son. He was so desperate to have an heir of his body that he dragged you back—unwillingly—from Germany, forced you into a marriage that he knew was doomed, and then risked rebellion by ramming you down the throats of his barons. And all the while, he had a son capable of ruling after him---he had me! But I was the son born of his sin, so I was not worthy to be king. As if I could have blundered any worse than you or Stephen!”
Maude was stunned. She stared at him, too stricken for words, not knowing what to say even if she’d been capable of speech. Robert seemed equally shattered by his outburst; his face was suddenly ashen. He started to speak, then turned abruptly and walked out.
* * *
Maude spent a sleepless night and with the coming of light, she went to find her brother.
* * *
“I am sorry, Robert. I do not say that as often as I ought, but never have I meant it more. You have been my rod and my staff, more loyal than I deserved. You would have made a very good king.”
His shoulders twitched, in a half-shrug. “Well, better than Stephen, for certes,” he said, with the faintest glimmer of a smile.
“Our father was a fool,” she said, and he did not dispute her.
“Robert.” Her mouth was suddenly dry. “I am never going to be queen, am I?”
“No,” he said quietly, “you are not.”
She’d known what he would say. But his uncompromising, honest answer robbed her of any last shreds of hope. She averted her face, briefly, and he, too, looked away, not willing to watch the death of a dream.
“Maude.” She turned back to face him and he said, “You are not giving up?
“You know better than that, Robert. I may have lost, but I’ll not let Henry lose, too. I shall fight for my son as long as I have breath in my body. He must not be cheated of the crown that is his birthright.”
She saw sympathy in his eyes, and what mattered more, respect. “I will do whatever I can,” he vowed, “to make sure that does not happen.” And in that moment, she realized the truth—that he’d been fighting for Henry all along.

A great Saxon king and an ill-fated count

I’m behind schedule again; sorry about that. October 26, 899 was the death date of the only English king to be honored with the sobriquet Great—the Saxon king, Alfred. He is currently one of the co-stars in the BBC America series, The Last Kingdom, based on Bernard Cornwell’s wonderful Saxon series. In the books, Uthred is not Alfred’s friend, more of an adversary, but in the course of their often troubled relationship, Uhtred does develop a grudging respect for the Saxon ruler. I admit I was not too fond of BC’s fictional Alfred, but he is being played by a very interesting actor on the BBC series and whenever he is on screen, I want to see what he is going to do next. The series has not caught me the way the books did, but the last episode was the best one so far, at least IMHO. What do you guys think of the series so far? Do you agree with me about the actor playing Alfred?
October 27th, 1156 was the birthdate of one of history’s unfairly maligned men, the ill-fated Raimond de St Gilles, Count of Toulouse, who had a brief happy marriage to the Lionheart’s sister Joanna, and ended up as the most prominent victim of the power-grab known to history as the Albigensian Crusade. Raimond deserves a society to rehabilitate his slandered name and honor as much as Richard III, but Richard was luckier in that respect.

I'm back

I haven’t been able to get onto Facebook or Goodreads for a while now, as I had a house guest, new computer woes, an upcoming visit with my British editor, who’s spending a few weeks in the States, and of course my usual squabbling with a too-familiar foe, ye old deadline dragon. Ever the optimist, I hope that life slows down a bit now.
Catching up on past historical happenings, October 25th was a busy date. In 1154, King Stephen died, thus clearing the way for Henry Fitz Empress to take the English throne at the young age of 21. The best verdict upon Stephen was one passed by a chronicler of the time, who said “He was a mild man, gentle and good, and did no justice.” Medieval kings needed to inspire respect and fear, and the amiable, easy-going Stephen, who wanted to be liked, struggled to do either. On the same date in 1400, the famed poet, Geoffrey Chaucer, died. And on October 26, 1415, the battle of Agincourt was fought, resulting in a disastrous defeat for the French and a resounding victory for one of England’s best soldier-kings, Henry V. I highly recommend Bernard Cornwell’s stand-alone novel, Agincourt, for those who’d like to know what it felt like to take part in medieval combat. Sometimes I suspect BC must do a little time-traveling on the side, so brilliantly does he fight historical battles, ranging from Uhthred’s shield wall to Richard Sharpe and his riflemen.

The worst royal brother ever?

October 21st is the birth date of Edward and Richard’s bratty brother, George of Clarence, in 1449. It is also the death date in 1204 of Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, one of the heroes of the Third Crusade and a friend of the Lionheart. And on October 21, 1221, Constance of Brittany’s daughter, Alix de Thourars, died. There is some confusion about her birthdate, but whether it was 1200 or 1201, she was very young to lose her life. Like so many medieval women, she died in childbirth, as Constance probably did, too.
Back to Brother George, he really had no redeeming qualities, seems to have been motivated by jealousy for his entire life. But I have to admit that he was fun to write about; the troublemakers usually are!

Death of a controversial king

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

Review of The Last Kingdom

Here is an interesting review of the first two episodes of The Last Kingdom. As for me, I am still watching, but still also waiting for that magic moment when it becomes Must See TV. So far it hasn’t happened for me. I think part of the problem is that this is not “my” Uhtred. For one thing, he does not resemble my mental image of the character. He is easy on the eye, which helps, so he may grow on me as the series continues. Uhtred is such a larger-than-life character that maybe there was bound to be some disappointment. What do the rest of you think? http://www.medievalists.net/2015/10/1...