Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 56

A forgotten castle

I am sure this will be as interesting to you all as it is to me. It’s history, it’s medieval, and it’s Welsh, after all. Aside from a dragon or two, what more could we ask for?
http://www.itv.com/news/wales/2015-09...

A city burns and a great poet breathes his last

I am still fighting a war on two fronts—with a challenging chapter and my familiar foe, the deadline dragon. But I got to spill a little blood yesterday and that usually perks me up. Also the start of football season is sure to help, too.

On September 14, 1141, the retreat known as the Rout of Winchester began. This siege was great fun to write about just for the sheer drama of it, but I also remember my sense of horror that something so similar could be occurring in our own time. For as I was writing about the siege of Winchester and the suffering of its citizens, the Serbs were besieging the city of Sarajevo and civilians were dying by the day, even children targeted by snipers. It would prove to be the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare, lasting from 1992 until 1996. Imagine living for nearly four years under constant bombardment. Of course that is something that the citizens of Kobani and Aleppo can understand all too well.

Also on September 14th in 1321, one of the greatest medieval poets, Dante Alighieri, died in exile; he was only 56. For readers interested in this complex, brilliant man, I highly recommend David Blixt’s Star-crossed series, in which Dante and his son, Pietro, are major characters. The first of four books (so far) is the Master of Verona, where you’ll also get to meet a larger-than-life character who seems to have come straight out of a Hollywood swashbuckler starring Errol Flynn, but Cangrande della Scala actually lived and did all of the amazing and outrageous things that David’s Cangrande does. He was a lot like the Lionheart in some ways, swaggering, arrogant, charming, and fearless. But he also put me in mind of Machiavelli. All in all, a fascinating man, and I am grateful to David’s books for bringing him to my attention; I confess I’d never heard of him until I read Master of Verona.

Sunday

Happy Rosh Hashanah to my Jewish friends and readers.
And for my fellow (American) football addicts, Game On!

The Rainbow

Still squeezing blood out of that rock (AKA Chapter 17) but a slight glimmer of hope on the horizon—I may get to shed some real (well, literary real) blood in a couple of scenes. That should perk me up.
Meanwhile, here is a photo that I think many of you will want to see. Rainbows are nature’s gift to us all, aren’t they? I still remember one I saw arched over Conwy Castle many years ago, truly spectacular. Some will find this one healing---I hope.
http://www.mandatory.com/2015/09/10/r...

The Last Kingdom--the mini-series

The Writer’s Block has shifted a few feet, so I still feel trapped but no longer quite as flattened. At least I can share the good news with my fellow Bernard Cornwell fans. The television series based upon his brilliant Saxon series, titled The Last Kingdom, premieres in the US on BBC America on Saturday, October 10th. I am sorry that I don’t know the schedule for the UK, Canada, or Down Under; if readers who do know will post it, I am sure people will be grateful. Here is a quote from Alexander Dreymon, who plays Uhtred: “Contrary to what many Saxons and Danes think of him, he’s trustworthy, loyal, and honest, though he can be a real d—k.” Sounds as if he knows his man, doesn’t it? This is the verdict by Matt Roush, the TV Guide critic: “A robust lesson in little-known British history soaked in barbarian savagery, this rugged saga is just the thing for those whose appetites for medieval mayhem hasn’t been satisfied by Vikings and Game of Thrones.”

Downton Abbey

Sorry for disappearing, but I’ve been trapped in Outremer, squashed by a huge, heavy writer’s block. I don’t know when I’ll be able to wriggle free, but I’ll try to post messages whenever I can stretch out far enough to reach the computer. This is definitely one of those times when being a lawyer doesn’t sound quite as awful as it usually does to me; I might have to ask writer friends to organize a rescue party and write this blasted chapter for me. Meanwhile, here are a few links to Downton Abbey stories.
http://entertainthis.usatoday.com/201...

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/w...

Birth of a Lionheart

More than one historical event occurred today, but I’ll get to them later. For now I am letting “my” Angevins take center stage. On September 8th in 1157, Eleanor gave birth to her third son, the only time that Henry was on hand for one of her lying-ins. Since I miss writing about Henry and Eleanor, I am going to put up an excerpt from the childbirth scene. Time and Chance pages 51-53
* * *
Henry swung away from the window with an explosive oath. “By the blood of Christ, enough of this! For all we know, she gave birth hours ago and the fool midwife has forgotten to send word!”
As he headed for the door, Will scrambled to his feet. “Harry, do nothing rash! You’ll just upset the women if you go charging in, and what good will that do Eleanor?”
“The lad is right,” Becket observed calmly. “You cannot hasten the birth. The babe will be born in God’s time, no sooner, no later.”
Seeing Henry’s hesitation, Will hastily groped for further persuasion. “The child might come even faster if you’re not there,” he insisted. “Everyone knows that hovering over a pot will not make it cook any faster.”
Henry gave his brother a look that was incredulous, irked, and amused in equal measure. “That is not an analogy I’d suggest you make in Eleanor’s hearing,” he said dryly. “What would the two of you have me do, then?”
“You can pray,” Becket said and Henry scowled, unwilling to entrust Eleanor’s safety to another higher power, even the Almighty’s. But it was then that they heard the footsteps out in the stairwell.
When the messenger came catapulting through the doorway, Henry’s spirits soared, for no man would be in such a hurry to deliver dire news. Skidding to a halt in the floor rushes, the messenger dropped to his knees before his king. “God has indeed smiled upon you, my liege. He has given you a fine son.”
* * *
Petronilla poured a cupful of wine, carefully carried it back to her sister’s bed. “Here, Eleanor, drink this. God knows, you’ve earned it.”
Eleanor thought so, too. “You’d think this would get easier. I’m getting enough practice, for certes.”
She heard laughter beyond her range of vision and a low, throaty voice teased, “Well, dearest, what would you tell a farmer who had an overabundant harvest? To plant less, of course!”
Eleanor was amused by that impudent familiarity, for no daughter of Aquitaine could be offended by bawdy humor. Moreover, she was quite fond of the speaker, Henry’s cousin Maud, Countess of Chester. “I am not complaining about the frequency of the planting,” she said. “I’d just rather not reap a crop every year.”
Maud retrieved the wine cup, setting it on the table within Eleanor’s reach. “After four crops in five years, I’d think not!”
“It proves,” Petronilla chimed in, “that letting a field lie fallow truly does make it more fertile.”
Maud’s eyes shone wickedly. “Nigh on fifteen years fallow, was it not, Eleanor?”
Sometimes it astonished Eleanor to remember that she’d actually endured fifteen years as France’s bored, unhappy queen. “But you may be sure I was blamed for those barren harvests,” she said, with a twisted smile. “As if I could cultivate soil without seed!”
“Does that truly surprise you? Women have been taking the blame ever since Eve listened to that fork-tongued serpent, who most assuredly was male.” Maud turned then toward the door, smiling. “To judge by the commotion outside, either we are under siege or Harry has just arrived.”
Somewhere along the way from the castle, Henry had found a garden to raid, for he was carrying an armful of Michaelmas daisies. These he handed to Petronilla, rather sheepishly, for romantic gestures did not come easily to him. (omission)
“Are you hurting, love?”
Eleanor’s smile was tired, but happy. “Not at all,” she lied. “By now the babies just pop right out, like a cork from a bottle.”
Henry laughed. “Well….where is the little cork?”
A wet-nurse came forward from the shadows, bobbing a shy curtsy before holding out a swaddled form for his inspection. Henry touched the ringlets of reddish-gold hair, the exact shade as his own, and grinned when the baby’s hand closed around his finger. “Look at the size of him,” he marveled, and as his eyes met Eleanor’s, the same thought was in both their minds: heartfelt relief that God had given them such a robust, sturdy son. No parent who’d lost a child could ever take health or survival for granted again.
“We still have not decided what to name him,” Henry reminded his wife. “I fancy Geoffrey, after my father.”
“The next one,” she promised. “I have a name already in mind for this little lad.”
He cocked a brow. “Need I remind you that it is unseemly to name a child after a former husband?”
Eleanor’s lashes were drooping and her smile turned into a sleepy yawn. “I would not name a stray dog after Louis,” she declared, holding out her arms for her new baby. She was surprised by the intensity of emotion she felt as she gazed down into that small, flushed face. Why was this son so special? Had God sent him to fill the aching void left by Will’s death? “I want,” she said, “to name him Richard.”
* * *
Will, of course, was their first son, born in 1153, who died in 1156. That is another interesting historical What if. Had he lived, the history of the Angevins and England would have been quite different, although it is impossible to say if the changes would have been for better or worse. I found something vaguely sad about this scene, for all was golden at that moment in Henry’s world. He was very happy with his queen, who’d now given him the “heir and a spare,” had his young brother at his side, and his trusted chancellor and good friend, Thomas Becket, to guard his back. I doubt that he’d have believed it had he been warned that it would all sour in coming years, with his brother dead, his queen alienated to the point that she became involved in rebellion, and the friend he loved transformed into an obstinate enemy. He even found that it was possible for a king to have too many sons.

A sudden death, a significant victory, and a great queen

Several significant happenings on this day, unlike yesterday’s historical black hole. On September 7, 1151, Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, husband to the Empress Maude and father of the future Henry II, died unexpectedly on his way home from a meeting with the French king in Paris. He was only 38. During the Paris conference, Geoffrey had crossed verbal swords with Bernard, the Abbot of Clairvaux, who would later be canonized by the Church. Bernard was convinced that his views and God’s views were always one and the same and he’d been very unhappy with Geoffrey’s sardonic skepticism about that. He foresaw Geoffrey’s death within a month unless he repented of his manifold sins and when Geoffrey did die within that time, I am sure that many were very impressed. There is no evidence that Henry was, though. Geoffrey had gone swimming in a nearby river to cool off on a hot day and caught a chill. Henry, ever the pragmatist, seems to have seen that as a more likely cause-and-effect than Bernard’s ominous prediction. The evidence indicates that Henry had an excellent relationship with Geoffrey and I always found it very sad that he managed to alienate all of his own sons. If only he’d taken Geoffrey as a role model. Men rarely relinquished power in the MA; Henry certainly never did. But Geoffrey won Normandy by his sword and yet he then handed it all over to Henry, who was then just 17.
Also on September 7, 1191, Henry’s son Richard won a decisive victory against Saladin at Arsuf. Here is a link to a very good description of the battle. Or you can always read or re-read Lionheart! http://www.militaryhistoryonline.com/...
And on September 7, 1533, Anne Boleyn gave birth to a daughter, named Elizabeth after Henry’s mother. At the time, her birth was seen as a disappointment, a mere girl instead of the son that Henry so desperately wanted. It has been argued that Anne’s downfall began on this date and indeed, she faced the executioner at the Tower less than three years later. There is no doubt that little Elizabeth was deeply scarred by her mother’s murder—for murder it was. There is also no doubt that she proved herself to be one of England’s greatest monarchs. There is no evidence, though, that Henry had any appreciation of irony.

"....until I die."

"Everything I was dreaming of is gone. I want to bury my children and sit beside them until I die." These heartrending words come from the father of Aylan Kurdi, the three year old boy whose body washed up on a Turkish beach after yet another tragedy in the Mediterranean; Aylan’s father also lost his wife and his five year old son. We do not even know the number of people who’ve drowned this year as desperate refugees flee the horrors of civil war and the terror of life under ISIS; we’ll likely never know.
The stories have been horrific—800 lives lost in the sinking of one ship, 71 bodies found in an abandoned truck along an Austrian highway, hundreds of families stranded in Hungary. But few images have evoked the emotion that the photo of Aylan’s little body did. Will governments be motivated to do more in what may well be the greatest humanitarian crisis of our times? It is hard to say, for there are no easy solutions. I find it encouraging, though, that individuals worldwide are stepping forward to help, realizing that the accident of birth is all that separates them from the refugees risking death at sea, crawling under barbed wire fences, and pushing baby strollers along Hungarian roads in searing summer heat. The pharmacist who once had a thriving practice in Mosul, the college student from Kobani, the children even younger than Aylan---they could be us. They are us. The rest of the world seems unable to combat the evil of ISIS; aside from giving much more aid to the Kurds, what can we do? We can try to alleviate the suffering of the victims, though I know the sheer scope of it is overwhelming. For those who want to help, here are some links. http://www.cnn.com/2015/08/28/world/i...

Two sad deaths

Two intriguing women died on this date, Constance, Duchess of Brittany in 1201 and Henry VIII’s last wife, Catherine Parr, in 1548. The story that Constance died of leprosy is not credible. In view of her age (forty), the fact that she had two pregnancies in two years, and that she died not long after giving birth, it seems obvious that she died of the complications of childbirth, all too common in those times. Constance’s life ended too soon, but she seems to have been more fortunate than many of her highborn medieval sisters, for two of her three marriages are believed to have been happy ones, and her premature death spared her knowing the tragic fate of both her children by Geoffrey, Arthur murdered and Aenor held captive for forty years until released by death. I feel very sorry for Catherine; her sad story is well known to anyone interested in history. It seems especially unfair that she managed to outlive Henry VIII, only to have her heart broken by the man she truly wanted to marry. I would wager that the Tudors executed more people in the 118 years that they ruled England than the Plantagenets did in the 331 years that their dynasty reigned. But Thomas Seymour definitely deserved his date with the axe.