Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 54
October 16, 2015
Warriors of the Storm
The newest Bernard Cornwell novel in his splendid Saxon series is now out in the UK. It won’t be published in the US, though, until January. I’ll never understand why publishers do this. Many readers are not willing to wait months to read a new book by a favorite author. I ordered my copy of Warriors of the Storm from Amazon.UK, and I loved it! http://www.amazon.co.uk/Warriors-Stor... Meanwhile, the second episode of the BBC series will run on BBC America this coming Saturday. It is shaping up to be a good year for Uhtred—and for Master Cornwell.
October 15, 2015
A new novel about 16th century Scotland
Many of you enjoyed Margaret Skea’s first novel, Turn of the Tide, set in 16th century Scotland. I am happy to report that the second book, A House Divided, was published in the UK today. Here is the link. http://www.amazon.co.uk/House-Divided... Here is the link for American readers. http://www.amazon.com/House-Divided-S...
The history of Scotland is fascinating and there have not been that many novels written about it. So if you are interested in learning more about this compelling, violent, and intriguing period, do check out Margaret’s books.
Sorry I have not been around as much lately, but between the deadline dragon and unwelcome reality intrusions, life has been more chaotic than usual. I have hopes that November will calm down a bit. Meanwhile, October 15th, 1501 was the wedding date of Henry VIII’s older brother Arthur and Katherine of Aragon. Imagine how differently English history would have been if Arthur had not died so young. Of course that might have been disastrous for all those authors and screenwriters who have flourished writing about the dysfunctional Tudor dynasty.
Go, Saints! (For my UK and Australian readers—it’s American football.)
The history of Scotland is fascinating and there have not been that many novels written about it. So if you are interested in learning more about this compelling, violent, and intriguing period, do check out Margaret’s books.
Sorry I have not been around as much lately, but between the deadline dragon and unwelcome reality intrusions, life has been more chaotic than usual. I have hopes that November will calm down a bit. Meanwhile, October 15th, 1501 was the wedding date of Henry VIII’s older brother Arthur and Katherine of Aragon. Imagine how differently English history would have been if Arthur had not died so young. Of course that might have been disastrous for all those authors and screenwriters who have flourished writing about the dysfunctional Tudor dynasty.
Go, Saints! (For my UK and Australian readers—it’s American football.)
October 14, 2015
The Last Kingdom on BBC America
Several of my Facebook friends were unhappy that they don’t get BBC America and thus could not watch The Last Kingdom, which premiered on that channel Saturday night. One of my Goodreads friends has informed me that the entire episode is being shown on their website. Here is the link. http://www.bbcamerica.com/the-last-ki... For those who’ve seen it, what do you think? I’ll be tuning in again on Saturday.
On the historical front, October 14th 1066 was the date of the battle of Hastings, during which the Saxon king, Harold, was slain. The victory of the Duke of Normandy, William, later called the Conqueror, dramatically changed the course of history, not just in England. Helen Hollick has written a novel about the last Saxon King, Harold, and Elizabeth Chadwick’s The Conquest depicts this momentous event through the eyes of several fictional characters, both Saxon and Norman-French.
On the historical front, October 14th 1066 was the date of the battle of Hastings, during which the Saxon king, Harold, was slain. The victory of the Duke of Normandy, William, later called the Conqueror, dramatically changed the course of history, not just in England. Helen Hollick has written a novel about the last Saxon King, Harold, and Elizabeth Chadwick’s The Conquest depicts this momentous event through the eyes of several fictional characters, both Saxon and Norman-French.
October 13, 2015
October 13th in history
You won’t believe all that happened on October 13th in history. So fasten your seat belts.
On October 13th, 54 AD, the Roman emperor Claudius was poisoned. According to the wonderful BBC series, I, Claudius, the poisoner was his unloving wife, Agrippina, who wanted to pave the way for her son Nero. Margaret George is currently at work on a novel about Nero and Boudica; I’m counting the days till that one comes out!
On October 13th, 1162, Henry II and Eleanor’s second daughter and namesake, later known as Leonora, was born. She has been overshadowed somewhat by her better known sisters, Joanna and Matilda, but she had a very interesting life and apparently a very happy marriage.
On October 13, 1259, the Provisions of Westminster were adopted. This was a revision of the Provisions of Oxford, adopted the year before, which have sometimes been called England’s first written constitution, meant to curtail the powers of the monarchy. Readers of Falls the Shadow will remember how important these provisions were to Simon de Montfort. Henry III managed to get them annulled, leading to the Second Barons’ Rebellion and the battles of Lewes and Evesham.
On October 13, 1278, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales, was finally able to marry Eleanor de Montfort (Ellen in my novels) at Worcester Cathedral. Edward had paid pirates to kidnap Ellen on her way to join Llywelyn in Wales and then held her hostage for three years. But he paid for the lavish wedding—the man did have a sense of humor, although in this case, it was definitely flavored with malice.
On October 13, 1307, Philippe IV of France (a nasty piece of work if ever there was one) ordered the arrest of the Knights Templar, in one of the more blatant injustices of the Middle Ages.
On October 13th, 1399, the first Lancastrian king, Henry IV, was crowned, having forced the abdication of his cousin, Richard II. Brian Wainwright’s Within the Fetterlock and Edith Pargeter’s A Bloody Field by Shrewsbury are excellent novels about this period in British history.
And on October 13th, 1453, Marguerite d’Anjou, queen of Henry VI, gave birth to a son, named Edward. The Yorkists were highly skeptical of his paternity, but that was only to be expected under the circumstances. It didn’t help that Henry was reputed to have asked if the boy had been sired by the Holy Ghost. No one can prove that Edward was Henry’s son, just as no one can prove that he was not. Actually, that can be said of any historical figure, so I think we should give the queen the benefit of the doubt. What is indisputable is that Marguerite was fiercely devoted to her only child.
On October 13th, 54 AD, the Roman emperor Claudius was poisoned. According to the wonderful BBC series, I, Claudius, the poisoner was his unloving wife, Agrippina, who wanted to pave the way for her son Nero. Margaret George is currently at work on a novel about Nero and Boudica; I’m counting the days till that one comes out!
On October 13th, 1162, Henry II and Eleanor’s second daughter and namesake, later known as Leonora, was born. She has been overshadowed somewhat by her better known sisters, Joanna and Matilda, but she had a very interesting life and apparently a very happy marriage.
On October 13, 1259, the Provisions of Westminster were adopted. This was a revision of the Provisions of Oxford, adopted the year before, which have sometimes been called England’s first written constitution, meant to curtail the powers of the monarchy. Readers of Falls the Shadow will remember how important these provisions were to Simon de Montfort. Henry III managed to get them annulled, leading to the Second Barons’ Rebellion and the battles of Lewes and Evesham.
On October 13, 1278, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales, was finally able to marry Eleanor de Montfort (Ellen in my novels) at Worcester Cathedral. Edward had paid pirates to kidnap Ellen on her way to join Llywelyn in Wales and then held her hostage for three years. But he paid for the lavish wedding—the man did have a sense of humor, although in this case, it was definitely flavored with malice.
On October 13, 1307, Philippe IV of France (a nasty piece of work if ever there was one) ordered the arrest of the Knights Templar, in one of the more blatant injustices of the Middle Ages.
On October 13th, 1399, the first Lancastrian king, Henry IV, was crowned, having forced the abdication of his cousin, Richard II. Brian Wainwright’s Within the Fetterlock and Edith Pargeter’s A Bloody Field by Shrewsbury are excellent novels about this period in British history.
And on October 13th, 1453, Marguerite d’Anjou, queen of Henry VI, gave birth to a son, named Edward. The Yorkists were highly skeptical of his paternity, but that was only to be expected under the circumstances. It didn’t help that Henry was reputed to have asked if the boy had been sired by the Holy Ghost. No one can prove that Edward was Henry’s son, just as no one can prove that he was not. Actually, that can be said of any historical figure, so I think we should give the queen the benefit of the doubt. What is indisputable is that Marguerite was fiercely devoted to her only child.
October 12, 2015
A very busy day in medieval history
By now, most of you expect me to be MIA on Football Sunday. My sympathies to Ravens and KC fans, for you both suffered heartbreaking losses, and for KC, the loss of your star RB, too.
I’m done shedding fictional blood, at least for the next chapter. So onto the historical front:
On October 12, 1176, William d’Aubigny, Earl of Arundel, died. He is best known for wedding Queen Adeliza, the widow of Henry I. Elizabeth Chadwick’s Lady of the English, gives us a very appealing account of their courtship and marriage.
On October 12, 1216, King John—who was not having a good year—lost his crown jewels in The Wash.
On October 12, 1459, the Battle of Ludford Bridge was almost fought. The Yorkist army was already skittish, for they saw the king’s standard flying in the Lancastrian camp and were hesitant about opposing the king himself, even a figurehead king like poor Henry VI. The death blow to their chances occurred that night when Andrew Trollope and six hundred of his men defected to the Lancastrians. The Duke of York and the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury retreated to Ludlow Castle and then fled the country, York and his younger son Edmund going to Wales and then to Ireland, his elder son Edward going to Calais with the Earl of Warwick. York’s wife, Cecily Neville, and her two young sons, George and Richard, were left in Ludlow, awaiting the Lancastrian army the next day on the steps of the high cross. It is interesting to speculate how history might have been changed had Edward been the son to accompany his father to Ireland. If he had, he'd have been with York at Sandal Castle the following December, when York rashly left the castle and fell into a Lancastrian trap. Would Edward have been the one to die on Wakefield Bridge instead of Edmund? Might there have been a King Edmund? It is impossible to answer the first question, but I don’t think a King Edmund was in the cards. Edward won over the Londoners with his personal charm and then won the crown itself on the battlefield. Take him out of the equation and who knows what might have happened.
On October 12, 1492, the crew of Columbus’s Pinta sighted land—the Bahamas—although Columbus remained convinced until his death that he’d found a way to the East Indies.
And on October 12, 1537, the future Edward VI was born. Jane Seymour, his mother, would soon die of childbed fever, so she did not get to enjoy the triumph of doing what neither Katherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn could—give Henry VIII his longed-for son. On our Facebook pages, we occasionally have interesting threads in which we pick a particular historical figure and then speculate what he or she would have liked or loathed about life in our times. We have had some very imaginative and often amusing posts at such times, but my own favorite is one posted by Rania during one of these threads. She picked Henry VIII and said she would like to be present when he learned that it was the man, not the woman, who determined the sex of a child.
I’m done shedding fictional blood, at least for the next chapter. So onto the historical front:
On October 12, 1176, William d’Aubigny, Earl of Arundel, died. He is best known for wedding Queen Adeliza, the widow of Henry I. Elizabeth Chadwick’s Lady of the English, gives us a very appealing account of their courtship and marriage.
On October 12, 1216, King John—who was not having a good year—lost his crown jewels in The Wash.
On October 12, 1459, the Battle of Ludford Bridge was almost fought. The Yorkist army was already skittish, for they saw the king’s standard flying in the Lancastrian camp and were hesitant about opposing the king himself, even a figurehead king like poor Henry VI. The death blow to their chances occurred that night when Andrew Trollope and six hundred of his men defected to the Lancastrians. The Duke of York and the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury retreated to Ludlow Castle and then fled the country, York and his younger son Edmund going to Wales and then to Ireland, his elder son Edward going to Calais with the Earl of Warwick. York’s wife, Cecily Neville, and her two young sons, George and Richard, were left in Ludlow, awaiting the Lancastrian army the next day on the steps of the high cross. It is interesting to speculate how history might have been changed had Edward been the son to accompany his father to Ireland. If he had, he'd have been with York at Sandal Castle the following December, when York rashly left the castle and fell into a Lancastrian trap. Would Edward have been the one to die on Wakefield Bridge instead of Edmund? Might there have been a King Edmund? It is impossible to answer the first question, but I don’t think a King Edmund was in the cards. Edward won over the Londoners with his personal charm and then won the crown itself on the battlefield. Take him out of the equation and who knows what might have happened.
On October 12, 1492, the crew of Columbus’s Pinta sighted land—the Bahamas—although Columbus remained convinced until his death that he’d found a way to the East Indies.
And on October 12, 1537, the future Edward VI was born. Jane Seymour, his mother, would soon die of childbed fever, so she did not get to enjoy the triumph of doing what neither Katherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn could—give Henry VIII his longed-for son. On our Facebook pages, we occasionally have interesting threads in which we pick a particular historical figure and then speculate what he or she would have liked or loathed about life in our times. We have had some very imaginative and often amusing posts at such times, but my own favorite is one posted by Rania during one of these threads. She picked Henry VIII and said she would like to be present when he learned that it was the man, not the woman, who determined the sex of a child.
October 10, 2015
The Last Kingdom
American fans of Bernard Cornwall’s Saxon series, good news. The TV series based upon these books begins tonight in the US on BBC America, 10 PM EST, titled after the first book, The Last Kingdom. The advance reviews I’ve read so far have been favorable, comparing it to the series, The Vikings. I assume it will premiere in the UK and Down Under soon, too, if it has not already done so. And UK readers can now order the latest Cornwall book in this series, Warriors of the Storm; it will be published in the US in January. For those of you who’ve not read any of these books, set in 9th century England, I recommend them highly. His major character, Uthred, a Saxon captured and raised as a Dane, is a marvelous creation, bold, swaggering, sardonic; perhaps his most amusing and endearing trait is that he usually realizes when he is about to do something utterly reckless or foolish, but he then goes ahead and does it anyway.
October 8, 2015
Two very different queens
On this date in 1542, Mary Stuart, the future Queen of Scotland and France, was born. I once posted that Mary never met a bad decision she did not run to embrace, and several of my readers told me they thought that was funny. I think it was also quite true. Mary seems to have been a dreadful judge of character. She was also impulsive to a fault, and rarely considered the consequences of her actions. I concede that her life was not an easy one. But who could have had a more traumatic childhood and girlhood than her cousin Elizabeth? She withstood her trial by fire, though, and went on to become one of England’s greatest rulers.
Here is yet another reason to want to visit Wales—a spectacular show of the aurora borealis.
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2015/...
Here is yet another reason to want to visit Wales—a spectacular show of the aurora borealis.
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2015/...
October 6, 2015
If readers ruled the world
The sun has actually come out again; we’d almost forgotten what it looks like. My sympathy and good wishes to my friends and readers in SC, which is suffering terribly from flooding. My sympathies, too, to Detroit Lions fans, who were bludgeoned by a huge referee error last night, calling up memories of that infamous Fail Mary mistake by a substitute referee against Green Bay a few years ago. One minor consolation of being an Eagles fan; we don’t need to rely upon referee bad calls to lose, can do that all on our own.
Here is a fun view of the word if it were ruled by Readers. https://www.goodreads.com/blog/show/5...
Here is a fun view of the word if it were ruled by Readers. https://www.goodreads.com/blog/show/5...
October 4, 2015
Wildlife migration
Here is a link to a story about the largest animal migration on earth; it will now be streamed live. Ah, the marvels of technology, and I can say that even though the Geek Squad’s Friday exorcism of Dracarys was in vain.
http://www.care2.com/causes/now-we-ca...
http://www.care2.com/causes/now-we-ca...
October 3, 2015
A killing in Shrewsbury
A miserable day for most of us living on the East Coast of the US. Scary flooding in SC and NC. Where I live, we were spared Hurricane Joaquin, but were still hammered by a nasty Nor’easter that caused some serious coastal flooding; one house down in Cape May was actually washed into the sea. And there is a ship missing, caught in the hurricane; the Coast Guard is searching for them, but so far, no luck. All in all, a wretched beginning to what is usually the loveliest month of the year, October, and with yet another school shooting, the 45th in the US so far this year.
Moving from terrible happenings in our time to one in the 13th century. On October 3rd, 1283, Davydd ap Gruffydd, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s younger brother, was put to death by Edward I in the most brutal way possible—hanged, then cut down while he was still alive, then eviscerated and drawn and quartered. Davydd is sometimes said to be the first man to suffer this barbaric punishment, but there were at least two other cases in which this horrific penalty was imposed. But in Davydd’s trial and execution, we have the origins of the state trial. Waging war against the king was not a crime in medieval England, not until Edward chose to make it one, classifying it as high treason. Even so, he ordered no executions after Evesham, probably because almost all of Simon de Montfort’s supporters died on the field with him, but also because Davydd was more vulnerable than the de Montfort partisans, with no one to speak up for him. The author of The Law of Treason in England in the Middle Ages pointed out that “The king could make an example of Davydd with impunity.” And after his death, drawing and quartering became the standard form of execution for those convicted of high treason. Readers of Sunne may remember that the Earl of Somerset was very relieved when Richard told him after the battle of Tewkesbury that he and the others charged with treason would be beheaded, not drawn and quartered; the fourth Edward did not share the first Edward’s vindictive nature. Davydd claimed the title Prince of Wales after Llywelyn was slain in 1282, but he was overshadowed even in death by his more renowned brother, who is known in Wales as Ein Llyw Olaf—Our Last Leader.
Davydd’s dreadful fate posed a challenge for me. I did not want to dwell upon his dying agonies and I doubted that my readers did, either; moreover, my mother vowed that she’d never forgive me if I did that. So I chose to write about his last hours, confined to a dungeon at Shrewsbury Castle, knowing what awaited him with the coming of dawn. In a way, this was even worse, though, for the suffering of the mind can be even more intolerable than the suffering of the body.
The Reckoning. Page 563
* * *
His last meal lay untouched by the door. They’d given him a double helping of some sort of fish stew and a full flagon of ale—execution eve charity. He’d brought the flagon back to the bed, and he reached for it now, swallowed and grimaced at the flat, tepid taste. The cell was damp and chilly, but his tunic was splotched with sweat; although he could not remember his dream, he’d wager it held a gallows and a grave. But no….not a grave. Passing strange, for he’d not wanted to be buried in England and now Edward had seen to it. Even the Saracens did not deny a man decent burial. Only the most Christian King of England would think of that.
He’d never doubted his courage, not ever. Until today, it had not even crossed his mind that his nerve might fail him. But how could flesh and blood and bone not shrink from such deliberately drawn-out suffering? How could he be sure that he’d be able to face it without flinching?
He was not accustomed to asking hard questions; that had never been his way. But he’d had three months and more of solitary confinement, time in which he’d been forced to confront the consequences of his actions, after a lifetime of evading them. There was no room to run in a prison cell.
He’d always gotten his strength from his utter confidence, from his faith in his own abilities. What could he fall back on now? The Almighty was said to be deaf to the prayers of an excommunicate. Even though he did not believe that God was on England’s side, divine mercy might well be as scarce as Edward’s. Those charges flung at him in the Chapter House were crimes only in English eyes, not in his. But he had no lack of sins to answer for, a lifetime’s worth if truth be told. How could he be sure that God would understand? Llywelyn never had.
Omission
Reaching for the flagon, he drank again. Well, if God would not get him through the morrow’s ordeal, that left only pride. He smiled bleakly at that, seeing the twisted humor in it. For if pride was to be his deliverance, it had also been his downfall. If not for pride and jealousy, would the bond between brothers have frayed so badly? If not for pride, it might have held fast—and Wales with it.
Leaning back against the wall, he made a careless move, almost knocking the flagon over with his chain; he righted it just in time. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “I got more than I bargained for. But fair is fair, Llywelyn. Even you cannot deny that it is also more than I deserve.”
He could not remember when he’d begun to talk to his brother. It had been a joke at first, a self-mocking attempt to deny his pain, and perhaps, too, an expression of his hunger to hear a voice, even his own, to escape the smothering burden of silence, for he’d never been utterly alone before, not like this. But although he jeered at his own need—telling himself that confiding in the dead offered distinct advantages over confessing to the living---it had given him an odd sort of comfort, and he was fast learning to take comfort anywhere he could find it.
Omission
He lay down on the blanket again, closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come, and he swore suddenly, savagely. “So I lied, Llywelyn! Mayhap I do deserve it. Is that what you’d have me say? You want me to confess my sins? For that, I’d need more time than I’ve got, much more…..”
He was lying again, though. There was time. So be it, then. Wales, the greatest casualty of his war. Just as Llywelyn had foreseen. “We’d become aliens in our own land,” he’d warned, “denied our own laws, our own language, even our yesterdays, for a conquered people are not allowed a prideful past. Worst of all, we’d be leaving our children and grand-children a legacy of misery and loss, a future bereft of hope.”
More than a prophecy. An epitaph for Wales, for Llywelyn’s doomed principality. Davydd knew it had never been his, not truly. He’d ruled over a domain in its death throes. But if he could not be blamed for losing the war, he could be for starting it.
Omission
Elizabeth, I’m so sorry, lass, so sorry….His eyes were stinging, his breathing growing ragged and hurtful. Where was she? Still held at Rhuddlan Castle? What would happen to her now? Would Edward convent-cage her like Gwenllian and Gwladys? Or would he think it safer to shackle her with another wedding band? Marry her off to a man of his choosing, lock her away in some remote English keep until the world forgot about her, and she alone remembered that she’d once been the wife of a Welsh prince.
He’d known, of course, that if he fell into English hands, he was a dead man. But he’d not expected Edward to take vengeance upon Elizabeth or his daughters. He’d thought his sons would be spared, too, that their youth would save them, for Owain was only three and Llelo five. The worst he’d feared was that they’d be taken as hostages, reared at the English court as he and Rhodri had been. Merciful Christ, if only he’d realized what Edward had intended!
Omission
Edward would never let them go. They would grow to manhood behind the walls of Bristol Castle. They would not know the joys and dangers and temptations that life could offer a man. They would learn naught of friendship or the urgency and sweetness of bedding a woman. They’d never have sons of their own. They would never see Wales again, and as their memories faded, they’d forget the world they’d known before Bristol Castle. They would forget him, forget Elizabeth, and not even know why they were doomed to live out their days as prisoners of an English king.
* * *
Davydd was executed the next morning and even his many enemies acknowledged that he died with courage. For some reason, that reminds me of dialogue from my favorite film, The Lion in Winter. Richard, Geoffrey, and John have been flung into a dungeon at Chinon by their father and they are awaiting their fate. Richard declares defiantly that he’ll not beg for his life. Geoffrey lashes out, calling his brother a prideful fool and saying it does not matter how a man falls. Richard looks at him and says that it matters when the fall is all there is. The wording might not be exact, but the sentiment is one I think Davydd would have agreed with.
Moving from terrible happenings in our time to one in the 13th century. On October 3rd, 1283, Davydd ap Gruffydd, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s younger brother, was put to death by Edward I in the most brutal way possible—hanged, then cut down while he was still alive, then eviscerated and drawn and quartered. Davydd is sometimes said to be the first man to suffer this barbaric punishment, but there were at least two other cases in which this horrific penalty was imposed. But in Davydd’s trial and execution, we have the origins of the state trial. Waging war against the king was not a crime in medieval England, not until Edward chose to make it one, classifying it as high treason. Even so, he ordered no executions after Evesham, probably because almost all of Simon de Montfort’s supporters died on the field with him, but also because Davydd was more vulnerable than the de Montfort partisans, with no one to speak up for him. The author of The Law of Treason in England in the Middle Ages pointed out that “The king could make an example of Davydd with impunity.” And after his death, drawing and quartering became the standard form of execution for those convicted of high treason. Readers of Sunne may remember that the Earl of Somerset was very relieved when Richard told him after the battle of Tewkesbury that he and the others charged with treason would be beheaded, not drawn and quartered; the fourth Edward did not share the first Edward’s vindictive nature. Davydd claimed the title Prince of Wales after Llywelyn was slain in 1282, but he was overshadowed even in death by his more renowned brother, who is known in Wales as Ein Llyw Olaf—Our Last Leader.
Davydd’s dreadful fate posed a challenge for me. I did not want to dwell upon his dying agonies and I doubted that my readers did, either; moreover, my mother vowed that she’d never forgive me if I did that. So I chose to write about his last hours, confined to a dungeon at Shrewsbury Castle, knowing what awaited him with the coming of dawn. In a way, this was even worse, though, for the suffering of the mind can be even more intolerable than the suffering of the body.
The Reckoning. Page 563
* * *
His last meal lay untouched by the door. They’d given him a double helping of some sort of fish stew and a full flagon of ale—execution eve charity. He’d brought the flagon back to the bed, and he reached for it now, swallowed and grimaced at the flat, tepid taste. The cell was damp and chilly, but his tunic was splotched with sweat; although he could not remember his dream, he’d wager it held a gallows and a grave. But no….not a grave. Passing strange, for he’d not wanted to be buried in England and now Edward had seen to it. Even the Saracens did not deny a man decent burial. Only the most Christian King of England would think of that.
He’d never doubted his courage, not ever. Until today, it had not even crossed his mind that his nerve might fail him. But how could flesh and blood and bone not shrink from such deliberately drawn-out suffering? How could he be sure that he’d be able to face it without flinching?
He was not accustomed to asking hard questions; that had never been his way. But he’d had three months and more of solitary confinement, time in which he’d been forced to confront the consequences of his actions, after a lifetime of evading them. There was no room to run in a prison cell.
He’d always gotten his strength from his utter confidence, from his faith in his own abilities. What could he fall back on now? The Almighty was said to be deaf to the prayers of an excommunicate. Even though he did not believe that God was on England’s side, divine mercy might well be as scarce as Edward’s. Those charges flung at him in the Chapter House were crimes only in English eyes, not in his. But he had no lack of sins to answer for, a lifetime’s worth if truth be told. How could he be sure that God would understand? Llywelyn never had.
Omission
Reaching for the flagon, he drank again. Well, if God would not get him through the morrow’s ordeal, that left only pride. He smiled bleakly at that, seeing the twisted humor in it. For if pride was to be his deliverance, it had also been his downfall. If not for pride and jealousy, would the bond between brothers have frayed so badly? If not for pride, it might have held fast—and Wales with it.
Leaning back against the wall, he made a careless move, almost knocking the flagon over with his chain; he righted it just in time. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “I got more than I bargained for. But fair is fair, Llywelyn. Even you cannot deny that it is also more than I deserve.”
He could not remember when he’d begun to talk to his brother. It had been a joke at first, a self-mocking attempt to deny his pain, and perhaps, too, an expression of his hunger to hear a voice, even his own, to escape the smothering burden of silence, for he’d never been utterly alone before, not like this. But although he jeered at his own need—telling himself that confiding in the dead offered distinct advantages over confessing to the living---it had given him an odd sort of comfort, and he was fast learning to take comfort anywhere he could find it.
Omission
He lay down on the blanket again, closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come, and he swore suddenly, savagely. “So I lied, Llywelyn! Mayhap I do deserve it. Is that what you’d have me say? You want me to confess my sins? For that, I’d need more time than I’ve got, much more…..”
He was lying again, though. There was time. So be it, then. Wales, the greatest casualty of his war. Just as Llywelyn had foreseen. “We’d become aliens in our own land,” he’d warned, “denied our own laws, our own language, even our yesterdays, for a conquered people are not allowed a prideful past. Worst of all, we’d be leaving our children and grand-children a legacy of misery and loss, a future bereft of hope.”
More than a prophecy. An epitaph for Wales, for Llywelyn’s doomed principality. Davydd knew it had never been his, not truly. He’d ruled over a domain in its death throes. But if he could not be blamed for losing the war, he could be for starting it.
Omission
Elizabeth, I’m so sorry, lass, so sorry….His eyes were stinging, his breathing growing ragged and hurtful. Where was she? Still held at Rhuddlan Castle? What would happen to her now? Would Edward convent-cage her like Gwenllian and Gwladys? Or would he think it safer to shackle her with another wedding band? Marry her off to a man of his choosing, lock her away in some remote English keep until the world forgot about her, and she alone remembered that she’d once been the wife of a Welsh prince.
He’d known, of course, that if he fell into English hands, he was a dead man. But he’d not expected Edward to take vengeance upon Elizabeth or his daughters. He’d thought his sons would be spared, too, that their youth would save them, for Owain was only three and Llelo five. The worst he’d feared was that they’d be taken as hostages, reared at the English court as he and Rhodri had been. Merciful Christ, if only he’d realized what Edward had intended!
Omission
Edward would never let them go. They would grow to manhood behind the walls of Bristol Castle. They would not know the joys and dangers and temptations that life could offer a man. They would learn naught of friendship or the urgency and sweetness of bedding a woman. They’d never have sons of their own. They would never see Wales again, and as their memories faded, they’d forget the world they’d known before Bristol Castle. They would forget him, forget Elizabeth, and not even know why they were doomed to live out their days as prisoners of an English king.
* * *
Davydd was executed the next morning and even his many enemies acknowledged that he died with courage. For some reason, that reminds me of dialogue from my favorite film, The Lion in Winter. Richard, Geoffrey, and John have been flung into a dungeon at Chinon by their father and they are awaiting their fate. Richard declares defiantly that he’ll not beg for his life. Geoffrey lashes out, calling his brother a prideful fool and saying it does not matter how a man falls. Richard looks at him and says that it matters when the fall is all there is. The wording might not be exact, but the sentiment is one I think Davydd would have agreed with.
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