Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 66
April 14, 2015
A bloody battle at Barnet Heath
This is the entry I wrote for the battle of Barnet a few years ago, and yes, I am lazily trying to avoid needless typing.
April 14, 1471 was a very significant date for the House of York. On this day, the battle of Barnet was fought between the forces of Edward IV and the Earl of Warwick. This was the first major battle I’d “fought,” and it set the bar high for drama—the eerie, dense fog blanketing the field, Richard’s vanguard outflanking the enemy, and then the Earl of Oxford returning to the field after shattering Edward’s left wing and accidentally attacking his own side. It was eighteen year old Richard’s first taste of battle and he acquitted himself well. The victory went to Edward and among the dead were the Earl of Warwick and his brother John. But Warwick’s allies still had to be defeated, for on that same Easter Sunday, Queen Marguerite and her seventeen year old son landed at Weymouth, ending seven years of French exile. So Edward and I would have another battle to fight in just three weeks.
This was the battle in which Richard, age 18, proved himself to his brother. Hard for us to imagine men commanding armies at 18 or 19, isn’t it?
Sunne, page 401
* * *
In the third hour, Exeter’s line began to give way before them. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, they were falling back. Richard’s men found a last surge of strength, flung themselves forward, shouting for York. The Lancastrians were in confusion, no longer giving resistance. The thought now was of flight and men broke ranks, began to scatter.
The fog was thinning at last. Men were becoming visible on Richard’s left, men who wore the colors of York. He understood then; the van had joined with the center. Ned had smashed through Johnny’s wing.
The Sunne banner of York gleamed white and gold. Edward’s white polished armor was dulled with dirt, dented and scratched, dark with the blood of other men. He moved forward; men parted to let him pass. Reaching Richard, he raised his visor. Richard saw he was smiling.
Richard felt no elation, neither triumph nor relief…not yet. Only numbness, a weariness of body and mind unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Slowly he lowered his sword to the ground, let the bloodied blade touch the grass.
* * *
Many men died on that spring morning at Barnet Heath, the most famous being Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick and his brother, John, the Earl of Montague, who rode into battle against York wearing their colors under his armor. Torn between loyalty to his brothers and his Yorkist cousins, he has always seemed a tragic figure to me.
This next death is not at all medieval, but is well worthy of note. On April 14, 1865, the greatest American president, Abraham Lincoln, was shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford Theatre. He never regained consciousness, dying early the next morning.
April 14, 1471 was a very significant date for the House of York. On this day, the battle of Barnet was fought between the forces of Edward IV and the Earl of Warwick. This was the first major battle I’d “fought,” and it set the bar high for drama—the eerie, dense fog blanketing the field, Richard’s vanguard outflanking the enemy, and then the Earl of Oxford returning to the field after shattering Edward’s left wing and accidentally attacking his own side. It was eighteen year old Richard’s first taste of battle and he acquitted himself well. The victory went to Edward and among the dead were the Earl of Warwick and his brother John. But Warwick’s allies still had to be defeated, for on that same Easter Sunday, Queen Marguerite and her seventeen year old son landed at Weymouth, ending seven years of French exile. So Edward and I would have another battle to fight in just three weeks.
This was the battle in which Richard, age 18, proved himself to his brother. Hard for us to imagine men commanding armies at 18 or 19, isn’t it?
Sunne, page 401
* * *
In the third hour, Exeter’s line began to give way before them. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, they were falling back. Richard’s men found a last surge of strength, flung themselves forward, shouting for York. The Lancastrians were in confusion, no longer giving resistance. The thought now was of flight and men broke ranks, began to scatter.
The fog was thinning at last. Men were becoming visible on Richard’s left, men who wore the colors of York. He understood then; the van had joined with the center. Ned had smashed through Johnny’s wing.
The Sunne banner of York gleamed white and gold. Edward’s white polished armor was dulled with dirt, dented and scratched, dark with the blood of other men. He moved forward; men parted to let him pass. Reaching Richard, he raised his visor. Richard saw he was smiling.
Richard felt no elation, neither triumph nor relief…not yet. Only numbness, a weariness of body and mind unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Slowly he lowered his sword to the ground, let the bloodied blade touch the grass.
* * *
Many men died on that spring morning at Barnet Heath, the most famous being Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick and his brother, John, the Earl of Montague, who rode into battle against York wearing their colors under his armor. Torn between loyalty to his brothers and his Yorkist cousins, he has always seemed a tragic figure to me.
This next death is not at all medieval, but is well worthy of note. On April 14, 1865, the greatest American president, Abraham Lincoln, was shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford Theatre. He never regained consciousness, dying early the next morning.
April 13, 2015
GAme of Thrones, the morning after
Here is the Entertainment Weekly’s delightfully snarky writer on last night’s episode of Game of Thrones. Do not read it, though, unless you’ve already seen the show, for there are definitely spoilers lurking there. Since the HBO writers have warned us that they will be deviating from the books this season more than in the past and they have also warned us that a character is going to die who does not die in the books, here is an interesting Survival Guide with odds offered as to who survives the season. Bran Stark is the only totally safe one since he won’t be appearing at all this season, so he scores a 10 on a scale of 1 to 10. (Of course he could always die off-stage.) These writers think Daenerys is pretty safe, too, for she rates a 9 on the scale. Tyrion rates an 8, but then it starts to get dicey for the others. Arya gets a 6, Cersei a 5, Jon Snow a 5, Sansa a 4, Jamie a 3 (uh, oh) and Stannis is the one they give the shortest life span, with a dismal 2 on the scale of 1 to 10. This is just their opinion, of course; they don’t have inside information. There actually aren’t too many characters that I want to see bite the dust since most of them are highly entertaining, even the evil ones, though I would personally push the Boltons and Freys into a tank of hungry sharks. But I realize that when we signed up for the GRRM Magical Mystery Tour, we knew we would be in for some nasty surprises. I do have a few nonnegotiable demands, however---Tyrion must survive. And no more dyrewolves must die! Anyway, here is the amusing review from EW’s James Hibbert.
http://www.ew.com/recap/game-of-thron...
PS This is a truly amazing statistic, showing what a global phenomenon this show has become; it premiered simultaneously in 171 countries!
http://www.ew.com/recap/game-of-thron...
PS This is a truly amazing statistic, showing what a global phenomenon this show has become; it premiered simultaneously in 171 countries!
April 12, 2015
Game of Thrones is back!
On April 12, 1555, Joanna, the Queen of Castile, died at the age of 75, after being held in captivity for years by her own son. She is better known to history as Juana la Loca---Juana the Mad. She has been eclipsed by her sister, Katherine of Aragon, but her story is actually much sadder than Katherine’s; at least I think so. Katherine did have some happy years with Henry, but Juana was betrayed by the men closest to her---her father, her husband, and then her son. Her story is well told in Christopher Gortner’s The Last Queen, which offers a sympathetic portrayal of this unhappy and unlucky woman.
Back to the 21st century, and April 12th is a day many of us have long awaited. Yes, fellow addicts, Game of Thrones is back and all is right with the world again, at least for the next ten weeks. http://www.cnn.com/2015/04/10/enterta...
Back to the 21st century, and April 12th is a day many of us have long awaited. Yes, fellow addicts, Game of Thrones is back and all is right with the world again, at least for the next ten weeks. http://www.cnn.com/2015/04/10/enterta...
April 11, 2015
Death of a great prince
On April 11, 1240, the greatest of the Welsh princes—at least IMHO---Llywelyn ab Iorwerth died at Aberconwy Abbey, having taking holy vows on his deathbed. He is better known to history as Llywelyn Fawr—Llywelyn the Great, deservedly so.
Falls the Shadow, pages 115-116, scene between the dying Welsh prince and his young grandson, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd. The boy has smuggled holy water from the church, hoping that if Llywelyn rubs it on his chest, he might recover. Llywelyn refuses, quoting from his favorite verse of Scriptures, Ecclesiastes, that everything has its season. But that is not what his grandson wants to hear.
* * *
“Is that what you’d have me believe, Grandpapa, that it is your time?”
“Yes.” Llywelyn shoved a pillow behind his shoulders. The pain was back—by now an old and familiar foe—spreading down his arm, up to his neck. But he did not want the boy to know. He found a smile, said, “It has been more than three years, after all. Joanna grows impatient—and I’ve never been one to keep a lady waiting.”
Llelo’s head jerked up. “How can you do that? How can you jest about dying?”
He sounded angry. Llywelyn looked at him, at last said quietly, “What other way is there?”
Without warning, Llelo’s eyes filled with tears. He sought without success to blink them back, then felt his grandfather’s hand on his.
“Try not to grieve too much, lad. I’ve not been cheated. I’ve had a long life, with more than my share of joys. I sired sons and daughters. No man had better friends. I found two women to love, and a fair number to bed with. And I die knowing that Wales is in good hands….”
Llelo frowned. “Davydd?” he mumbled and his grandfather nodded.
“Yes, Davydd….and you, Llelo.”
He heard the boy’s intake of breath. “Me?’
“Davydd has no son. God may yet bless him with one. But if not, he’ll need an heir. And in all of Christendom, he could do no better than you, Llelo.”
As young as he was, Llelo had learned some hard lessons in self-control. But he’d never felt the need for defenses with his grandfather and Llywelyn could see the boy’s confusion, could see the conflict of pride and excitement and guilt.
Llywelyn shifted his position; the pain was starting to ease somewhat. He was very tired and not at all sure that he should have shared his dream with the boy. But then Llelo said, “Do you truly have so much faith in me?” and there was wonderment in his voice.
Llywelyn swallowed with difficulty. He nodded, then leaned forward and gathered his grandson into his arms. Llelo clung tightly; he made no sound, but Llywelyn could feel him trembling. “I’d be lying if I said I had no regrets, Llelo. But I was not lying when I told you that I believe it is my time.” After a long silence, he said, very softly, “I should have liked, though, to have seen the man you will become.”
* * *
Falls the Shadow, pages 115-116, scene between the dying Welsh prince and his young grandson, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd. The boy has smuggled holy water from the church, hoping that if Llywelyn rubs it on his chest, he might recover. Llywelyn refuses, quoting from his favorite verse of Scriptures, Ecclesiastes, that everything has its season. But that is not what his grandson wants to hear.
* * *
“Is that what you’d have me believe, Grandpapa, that it is your time?”
“Yes.” Llywelyn shoved a pillow behind his shoulders. The pain was back—by now an old and familiar foe—spreading down his arm, up to his neck. But he did not want the boy to know. He found a smile, said, “It has been more than three years, after all. Joanna grows impatient—and I’ve never been one to keep a lady waiting.”
Llelo’s head jerked up. “How can you do that? How can you jest about dying?”
He sounded angry. Llywelyn looked at him, at last said quietly, “What other way is there?”
Without warning, Llelo’s eyes filled with tears. He sought without success to blink them back, then felt his grandfather’s hand on his.
“Try not to grieve too much, lad. I’ve not been cheated. I’ve had a long life, with more than my share of joys. I sired sons and daughters. No man had better friends. I found two women to love, and a fair number to bed with. And I die knowing that Wales is in good hands….”
Llelo frowned. “Davydd?” he mumbled and his grandfather nodded.
“Yes, Davydd….and you, Llelo.”
He heard the boy’s intake of breath. “Me?’
“Davydd has no son. God may yet bless him with one. But if not, he’ll need an heir. And in all of Christendom, he could do no better than you, Llelo.”
As young as he was, Llelo had learned some hard lessons in self-control. But he’d never felt the need for defenses with his grandfather and Llywelyn could see the boy’s confusion, could see the conflict of pride and excitement and guilt.
Llywelyn shifted his position; the pain was starting to ease somewhat. He was very tired and not at all sure that he should have shared his dream with the boy. But then Llelo said, “Do you truly have so much faith in me?” and there was wonderment in his voice.
Llywelyn swallowed with difficulty. He nodded, then leaned forward and gathered his grandson into his arms. Llelo clung tightly; he made no sound, but Llywelyn could feel him trembling. “I’d be lying if I said I had no regrets, Llelo. But I was not lying when I told you that I believe it is my time.” After a long silence, he said, very softly, “I should have liked, though, to have seen the man you will become.”
* * *
April 10, 2015
Game of Thrones--start the countdown
This is for my fellow Game of Thrones addicts. Sunday! Meanwhile, here is a funny, very fast recap of the last season to refresh our memories. As if any of us could forget the Red or Purple weddings or Prince Oberyn's duel with the Mountain. http://www.cnn.com/…/game-of-thrones-...
April 9, 2015
Death of a king
April 9th, 1483 was a day that dramatically changed the history of England, for on this day Edward IV died prematurely, only in his 41st year. His death led to the deaths of his sons, his brother Richard, his best friend, William Hastings, and the end of the Yorkist and Plantagenet dynasties. Had Edward lived another twenty or even ten years, history would have gone in another direction altogether. Impossible to predict what sort of king his son would have made or how Richard would have fared at a Woodville court. All we can say for a certainty is that there would have been no Tudor dynasty. After that, it is anyone’s guess.
The Sunne in Splendour, page 880, Edward’s deathbed
* * *
“Bess….”
“Yes, Papa, yes! I’m right here.”
“Sorry….so sorry…..”
“For what, Papa? You’ve nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all.” She could see him straining to speak and knew she should urge him to be still, but she could not; these last moments of coherent communication were too precious to lose.
“Sweet Bess…..so loved.” He made an uncertain movement; she knew he was searching for her hand and quickly laced her fingers through his.
“Do not worry, Papa. Please do not worry.”
“Do you know…what are the worst….worst sins?”
She bent closer, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “No, Papa. What are the worst sins?”
“The worst are,” he whispered, “those about to be found out.”
Bess did not understand. “Rest now, Papa. It will be all right for us, truly it will. Rest now.”
* * *
The Sunne in Splendour, page 880, Edward’s deathbed
* * *
“Bess….”
“Yes, Papa, yes! I’m right here.”
“Sorry….so sorry…..”
“For what, Papa? You’ve nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all.” She could see him straining to speak and knew she should urge him to be still, but she could not; these last moments of coherent communication were too precious to lose.
“Sweet Bess…..so loved.” He made an uncertain movement; she knew he was searching for her hand and quickly laced her fingers through his.
“Do not worry, Papa. Please do not worry.”
“Do you know…what are the worst….worst sins?”
She bent closer, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “No, Papa. What are the worst sins?”
“The worst are,” he whispered, “those about to be found out.”
Bess did not understand. “Rest now, Papa. It will be all right for us, truly it will. Rest now.”
* * *
April 6, 2015
Death of a lion
I hope you all had as nice an Easter as I did. Now if only spring will stop teasing us and hang around for a while.
On April 6, 1199 at 7 PM, Richard I of England, AKA the Lionheart, died at the age of forty-one eleven days after he’d been shot by a crossbow at the siege of Chalus, a wound brought about by his own carelessness, for he’d neglected to wear his hauberk and his legendary luck finally ran out. It was not an easy death, for gangrene is a painful way to die. Eleanor was with him as he drew his last breath, having raced from Fontevrault Abbey to Chalus after getting word of his fatal injury. His queen, Berengaria, was not.
A King’s Ransom, pages 597-599
* * *
Richard’s eyes opened when she took his hand in hers. He’d been sure she’d get there in time, for she’d never let him down, never. “So sorry, Maman….” So many regrets. That he’d not made peace with his father. That he’d not been able to free the Holy City from the Saracens. That Philip could not have been Berenguela’s. That the French king had not drowned in the Epte. That he’d taken the time to put on his hauberk. That his mother must now watch him die.
She held his hand against her cheek. “You’ve been shriven, Richard?”
“Yes….So many sins….Took half a day….”
He was dying as he lived, and that made it so much harder for those who loved him. But then she remembered what she’d been told about his father’s wretched last hours. After learning that John had betrayed him, he’d turned his face to the wall and had not spoken again. Only as his fever burned higher had he cried out, “Shame upon a conquered king.” An anguished epitaph for a life that had once held such bright promise. No, better that Richard laugh at Death than die as Harry had. His body was wracked with pain, but at least he was not suffering Harry’s agony of spirit. She could not have borne that.
(omission)
Time had no meaning any longer. She assumed hours were passing, but she refused all offers of food or drink. How long would God torment him like this? Leaning over, she kissed his forehead. “You can stop fighting now, my dearest. Your race is done.”
He’d not spoken for some time and she was not sure he could hear her, but then he said, “Did….I….win?”
“Yes, Richard, you did. You kept the faith.” She did not remember the rest of the scriptural verse. She would later wonder how she could have sounded so calm, so composed. But it was the last gift she could give him. “Go to God, my beloved son.”
After that, he was still. They could hear church bells chiming in the distance. Somewhere Vespers was being rung, people were at Mass, life was going on. Andre had not thought there was a need for words of farewell, not between them. But now he found himself approaching the bed, suddenly afraid that he’d waited too long. “Richard.” He held his breath, then, until the other man opened his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said hoarsely. “You will not be forgotten. A hundred years from now, men will be sitting around campfires and telling the legends of the Lionheart.”
The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched. “Only….a hundred years?” he whispered, and Andre and Eleanor saw his last smile through a haze of hot tears.
* * *
On April 6, 1199 at 7 PM, Richard I of England, AKA the Lionheart, died at the age of forty-one eleven days after he’d been shot by a crossbow at the siege of Chalus, a wound brought about by his own carelessness, for he’d neglected to wear his hauberk and his legendary luck finally ran out. It was not an easy death, for gangrene is a painful way to die. Eleanor was with him as he drew his last breath, having raced from Fontevrault Abbey to Chalus after getting word of his fatal injury. His queen, Berengaria, was not.
A King’s Ransom, pages 597-599
* * *
Richard’s eyes opened when she took his hand in hers. He’d been sure she’d get there in time, for she’d never let him down, never. “So sorry, Maman….” So many regrets. That he’d not made peace with his father. That he’d not been able to free the Holy City from the Saracens. That Philip could not have been Berenguela’s. That the French king had not drowned in the Epte. That he’d taken the time to put on his hauberk. That his mother must now watch him die.
She held his hand against her cheek. “You’ve been shriven, Richard?”
“Yes….So many sins….Took half a day….”
He was dying as he lived, and that made it so much harder for those who loved him. But then she remembered what she’d been told about his father’s wretched last hours. After learning that John had betrayed him, he’d turned his face to the wall and had not spoken again. Only as his fever burned higher had he cried out, “Shame upon a conquered king.” An anguished epitaph for a life that had once held such bright promise. No, better that Richard laugh at Death than die as Harry had. His body was wracked with pain, but at least he was not suffering Harry’s agony of spirit. She could not have borne that.
(omission)
Time had no meaning any longer. She assumed hours were passing, but she refused all offers of food or drink. How long would God torment him like this? Leaning over, she kissed his forehead. “You can stop fighting now, my dearest. Your race is done.”
He’d not spoken for some time and she was not sure he could hear her, but then he said, “Did….I….win?”
“Yes, Richard, you did. You kept the faith.” She did not remember the rest of the scriptural verse. She would later wonder how she could have sounded so calm, so composed. But it was the last gift she could give him. “Go to God, my beloved son.”
After that, he was still. They could hear church bells chiming in the distance. Somewhere Vespers was being rung, people were at Mass, life was going on. Andre had not thought there was a need for words of farewell, not between them. But now he found himself approaching the bed, suddenly afraid that he’d waited too long. “Richard.” He held his breath, then, until the other man opened his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said hoarsely. “You will not be forgotten. A hundred years from now, men will be sitting around campfires and telling the legends of the Lionheart.”
The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched. “Only….a hundred years?” he whispered, and Andre and Eleanor saw his last smile through a haze of hot tears.
* * *
April 5, 2015
Global coverage of Richard III ceremonies
Happy Easter to my friends and readers. And here is an interesting link to how Richard III's reburial was covered by news media around the world.
http://medievalnews.blogspot.com/2015...
http://medievalnews.blogspot.com/2015...
April 4, 2015
Wolf Hall
A British friend sent me this review of Wolf Hall, which premieres in the US tomorrow evening on PBS channels. The critics seem to love it, unlike The Dovekeeper, which I confess I found disappointing; it lacked the power and magic of the book. It will be interesting to see how Wolf Hall translates to the screen. http://www.theguardian.com/…/wolf-hal...…
April 3, 2015
The Winds of Winter
Happy Passover to all my Jewish friends and readers.
Meanwhile, on the quasi-medieval front, George RR Martin has a new excerpt up on his website from the book we are all awaiting with bated breath. http://www.georgerrmartin.com/
Meanwhile, on the quasi-medieval front, George RR Martin has a new excerpt up on his website from the book we are all awaiting with bated breath. http://www.georgerrmartin.com/
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