Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 69

game of thrones news

A belated Happy St Patrick’s Day to one and all. Today, March 19th, is the day that the swallows come back to Capistrano. It is a beautiful mission, although I’ve never been there on the right date. But I understand that fewer swallows show up than in the past. However, as far as I know, the buzzards loyally return to Hinkley, Ohio every March 15th.
Here is an interesting article about Game of Thrones, but no, it does not give us any hints as to when Master Martin’s new opus will be done….sigh. They plan to deviate more from the books in this upcoming season, so it should be Fasten Your Seat Belts Time.
http://time.com/3744959/game-of-thron...

The last Templar Grand Master

On March 18, 1314, the last Grand Master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay, and Geffroi de Charnay were burnt at the stake on an island in the Seine, in one of the worst travesties of justice in the MA. The other day we were talking about the people that Dante condemned to his Inferno. What a shame he did not include the French king Philippe IV. I am no Templar scholar, not even close, but I know some of my readers are very knowledgeable about the Order, and if they’d like to elaborate upon Jacques de Molay’s tragic fate, I am sure we’d all find that interesting.

Rosemary Hawley Jarman, R.I.P.

Sad news from a friend of mine in England. Rosemary Hawley Jarman has died. She is best known for her sympathetic portrayal of Richard III in We Speak No Treason. My friend said she’d been planning to attend the Ricardian ceremonies in Leicester despite her ill health. We haven’t seen any mention yet in the news, but there is a statement posted on the Bosworth Heritage Center.

The Leper King

Yesterday was the date of death in 1185 of one of history’s most tragic figures, the courageous young man known as the Leper King, Baldwin IV of Jerusalem. He was not yet twenty-four, and died knowing that his kingdom was not likely to long survive him, for it was being torn apart by inner turmoil and threatened by the most dangerous of its Saracen foes, the man whom history would know as Saladin. Baldwin was stricken with this cruel disease while still a child, but he was still crowned at age thirteen upon his father’s unexpected death, for at that time, his leprosy was suspected but not yet definitively diagnosed. Here is a brief scene from Outremer, after Baldwin has discovered the truth that they’d kept from him and has confronted William of Tyre, his tutor, who would become Archbishop of Tyre and the author of one of the great histories of the MA.
* * *
“Why?” Little more than a whisper. “Why me?”
William had been asked that before, of course, in the years since he’d become an arch-deacon. A cry that must surely have echoed down through the centuries, every time a parent buried a child, a wife bled to death in the birthing chamber, a husband was struck down on the field of battle, a man or woman was faced with a wasting disease, an unbearable loss. He’d told them what he’d been taught, the words he’d offered to Maria when her daughter died, that it was not for mortal man to understand the ways of the Almighty. He had quoted from Scriptures--Now we seek through a glass, darkly, but then face to face—often having to explain the meaning to the illiterate, that whilst on earth, their knowledge was imperfect, upon that glorious day when they were admitted into the Kingdom of God, all would become clear. He found now that he could not say that to Baldwin, and so he gave the boy an answer of wrenching honesty.
“I…I do not know, Baldwin.”
Baldwin regarded him searchingly. “I know what men say of lepers. That they are morally unclean. That leprosy is the disease of the damned, punishment for their sins.” His voice wavered, but then he broke William’s heart by mustering up a small smile. “IF this is indeed leprosy, I have not had a chance to commit any sins great enough to deserve this, William.”
* * *

A memorable week in Leicester

Here is the timetable for the events in Leicester next week. The city is really pulling out all the stops. I like to think Henry Tudor is spinning in his own grave like the proverbial top now that Richard has become a rock star! http://kingrichardinleicester.com/reb...

Two medieval tragedies

One of the most tragic events of the MA occurred on March 16, 1190, when the Jews of York, trapped in the castle by a rampaging mob, chose to commit mass suicide rather than be torn to pieces when the castle fell. A small number chose to gamble on the good faith of the besiegers, promising to convert if their lives were spared. It was agreed, but when they ventured out, they were brutally murdered. For those who want more information about this horrific slaughter, read Lionheart, Chapter Seven. There is also a novel called The King’s Persons by Joanne Greenburg. The massacre in York has been called a medieval Masada, and we will soon get to watch a miniseries about the actual Masada when The Dovekeepers, based upon the powerful novel by Alice Hoffman, debuts on March 30th, at least in the US; I am not sure when it premieres elsewhere.
March 16th was also the day that Richard III’s queen, Anne Neville, died in 1485. She was twenty-eight and in a little more than five months, Richard would follow her to the grave. Of course she was buried with royal honors at Westminster Abbey and Richard would be tossed into a hastily dug hole with scant ceremony, his hands still bound. This injustice will finally be rectified, of course, on March 26th, when his remains will be re-interred at Leicester Cathedral. Meanwhile, here is a brief scene from Sunne, page 1133-1134.
* * *
“I do not mind so much any more, Richard, truly. The anger…it’s all gone now, even the fear. I am so tired, love, so tired…Sometimes I even think I’d welcome it, being at peace…and with Ned. I mind only leaving you, but I think I understand even that, think Ned does need me more….”
Richard’s head was bowed; she could no longer see his face, but she felt his tears on her hand. She tugged weakly at his sleeve, willing him to look up.
“Richard, listen, my love…please. I feel very close to God, in a way I never felt before, as if He’s with me now…just like Ned. And I know—I truly do know—that the Almighty is not a jealous God at all but one of forgiveness. Does not Scriptures say the Lord is full of compassion and mercy, and saveth in time of affliction? My darling, if only I could help you to see that…Richard, promise me you’ll try to believe that, to believe in God’s love, God’s forgiveness….”
Richard nodded and Anne had to be content with that, sank back exhausted against the pillow. She wanted only to sleep, to drift down into oblivion. Ned came so often to her in dreams, waited for her. She struggled to stave off sleep a few moments more, for Richard’s sake, and then felt him lifting her up, brushing her hair back from her neck, and she opened her eyes, saw that he’d taken from his own throat the silver pilgrim cross he’d worn since boyhood. He fumbled with the catch and it took several tries before he could fasten it securely about her neck. It was tarnished, dulled with age, but warm against her skin, as if it still held heat drawn from his body.
* * *

Great book bargain

Great bargain today on Amazon. You can buy David Blixt's novel, The Eve of Ides, as a kindle for only 99 cents. http://www.amazon.com/Eve-Ides-Davi…/...… David is not only a talented writer, but one of the funniest people on the planet, so do check it out if you're not familiar with his work.

The Ides of March and the dress that rocked the Internet

Today is the Ides of March, so be careful the way Caesar should have been. If your spouse has foreboding dreams about today, listen to him or her and stay home!
Many of you have probably seen the controversial dress that took the Internet by storm this past week, controversial because some people see it as white and gold, while others swear it is blue and black. Here is a link to the dress and an explanation thrown in for good measure. I saw it as white and gold. What color do you see?
http://www.nbcnews.com/nightly-news/v...

The prodigal son comes home

March 14, 1471 was a crucial date in Yorkist history, for it was the day that Edward and Richard and their small intrepid band landed on English soil in what must have seemed like a futile attempt to reclaim the crown. But Edward was that rarity, one of those men who was at his best when things were at their worst and he rose to the challenge magnificently. He sweet-talked his way into York and as he moved south, more and more men began to rally to his banners. Within a month, he’d been welcomed into London and then scored a decisive victory over Warwick at Barnet Heath, followed by an even more impressive victory at Tewkesbury. Sadly, the reverse was true and Edward was at his worst when things were going well, and we know how that turned out.
I was reading an article about the new Game of Thrones season and I should warn you all that the writers are saying someone dies in this season who did not die in the books and they are also admittedly deviating more from the books in this season. So even for those of us who read the books, there will be some shocks and surprises ahead. Fasten your seat-belts, guys.
Oh, and The Dovekeepers will be starting on American television at the very end of March. I assume it will run in the UK and Down Under, too, but I do not know when. Has anyone heard what is going on with the filming of Bernard Cornwell’s wonderful Saxon series? I suspect we have a long wait for that one.

A killing in Viterbo

On March 13, 1271 occurred one of the most shocking crimes of the Middle Ages, in part because of the high birth of the killers and the victim and in part because of the scene of the murder—during Mass at the church of San Silvestro in Viterbo, Italy. It had its roots in a battle, the one at Evesham in 1265 in which Simon de Montfort was defeated and slain by Henry III’s son, Edward, who also happened to be Simon’s godson and nephew by marriage, as Simon was wed to Henry’s sister, Nell. Simon’s eldest son Harry also died at Evesham, and his third son Guy was seriously wounded, although he did eventually recover and managed to escape, where he began a new life in Italy. The second son Bran was a victim, too, of Evesham, for he’d been supposed to join his father and brothers at Evesham with reinforcements. Instead, he gave Edward an opportunity to ambush and defeat his men. By the time he got to Evsham, it was in time to see his father’s head on a pike. He later joined Guy in Italy, but he never got over Evsham, for he struggled under a double burden—grief and guilt. Here is a scene from The Reckoning, page 41-42. Guy has just learned that their first cousin Hal, Henry III’s nephew, is in Viterbo and he at once vows to avenge his father and brother’s deaths. At that moment, Bran, suffering from a monumental hangover, stumbles into the hall.
* * *
Bran paused, blinking in the surge of sunlight, looking puzzled and a little wary to see the hall in such turmoil. Grabbing Bran’s scabbard from the back of a chair, Guy strode forward, thrust it at his brother. “We’ve no time to lose, Bran. Hal is here, right here in Viterbo! I still cannot believe it, cannot believe God could be so good to us. But Christ, why could it not have been Ned?”
Bran had always believed the folklore that a sudden shock could sober a man. He discovered now that it wasn’t so. No matter how he tried to focus his thoughts, to banish the wine-fumes from his brain, he could not cut through the confusion. Drink did not numb as easily as it once had, so why now? Why now when he had such need for clear thinking? He looked at his brother, seeing not Guy but Harry, his constant, unseen companion, for who was more faithful than a ghost? Who understood better than the dead that there was no forgiveness, in this life or the next? What did Guy know of remorse, relentless and ever-present, goading a man toward madness? What did Guy know of that? And he must not ever learn!
“Guy, listen to me!” Why did his voice sound so slurred, echo so strangely in his own ears? Why could he not find the right words? “But it is Hal, not Ned. Hal. And he…he was not even at Evesham!”
He saw at once that he’d not gotten through to Guy; the look on his brother’s face was one of disbelief, not comprehension. “Why are you so set upon destroying yourself? What will it change? You cannot even say that Papa would want this, Guy, for you know he would not!”
It was a cry of desperation, honest as only a plea utterly without hope can be. But Guy reacted as if he’d been struck a physical blow. His head came up, breath hissing through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing into slits of incredulous rage.
“You dare to talk of what Papa would have wanted, you who killed him! He and Harry died because of you, because of your criminal carelessness, your God-cursed folly! Where were you when we most needed you? Camped by the lake at Kenilworth Castle, out in the open so your men could bathe, by God, so Ned could come down on you like a hawk on a pigeon! And Papa never knowing, keeping faith with you till the last. Even when we realized that Ned had used your banners as bait, we assumed you’d fought and lost, not that you’d let yourself be ambushed like some green, witless stripling, never that! Does it comfort you any, that our father went to his death still believing in you, never knowing how you’d betrayed him? I watched him die, damn you, and Harry and all the others. Not you, Bran---me! And mayhap this is why I did not die that day myself, so I could avenge our father, avenge Evesham!”
Sweat stood out on Guy’s forehead; his chest heaved as if he’d been running. He drew a deep, constricted breath, then said, more calmly, but no less contemptuously, “You can come with me or not as you choose. But is it not enough that you failed Papa at Evesham? Are you truly going to fail him at Viterbo, too?”
Bran’s throat had closed up, cutting off speech. But he had nothing to say. No denials to make. No excuses to offer. Every embittered accusation that Guy had flung at him was one already embedded in his soul, five years festering. He could not defend himself. Nor could he save himself. All he could do was what he did now—reach for the sword that Guy was holding out to him.
* * *
Hal’s death truly shocked medieval public opinion, for the de Montforts burst into the church during Mass. Guy struck down a priest who tried to interfere and stabbed his cousin as he clung to the altar. The killing is well documented; we even know what Guy said when Hal pleaded for mercy, “You shall have the mercy you showed my father and brother.” But there are several mysteries about this gory murder. Hal made no attempt to defend himself. And other than the priest, no one came to his aid even though the church was filled with men, some of them surely Hal’s own household knights. Nor did anyone attempt to stop the de Montfort brothers when they fled the scene after the killing was done.
Guy and Bran earned the unrelenting enmity of their cousin Edward for this crime. But Guy was wed to the daughter of a powerful Italian count; moreover, he’d inherited his father’s battlefield brilliance, and there was no shortage of men willing to ignore his crime in order to have him fighting on their side. In 1283, Guy was even appointed as captain-general of the papal forces in Romagna! But in 1287, he was captured during a naval battle and imprisoned in Sicily. The vast sum of eight thousand ounces of gold was offered to ransom him by his family and friends, but the ransom was refused and he died after several years in captivity; one report said that he committed suicide. It is generally believed that Edward exerted the considerable power of the English Crown to make sure he would never be released.
Bran’s day of reckoning came much sooner. He was dead, apparently of malaria, in a matter of months, after wandering the swampy wastelands of the Maremma, truly a lost soul. I’ve always felt that to him, death was a mercy, for he obviously could not live with what he’d failed to do at Evesham and what he had done at Viterbo.
The church still exists, although it is not open to the public. But there is a plaque in the piazza telling passersby what happened there on March 13, 1271. I’ve never forgotten how close the past seemed to me as I stood there, staring down at the paving stones and finding it all too easy to envision them soaked in blood.