Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 71

An ill-fated escape attempt

For all who are lucky enough to have Welsh blood or who love Wales, today is St David’s day, the patron saint of that beautiful country. And ironically, it was also the day in 1244 when Gruffydd, the eldest son of Llywelyn Fawr, died trying to escape from English captivity in the Tower of London. He’d knotted sheets together and tried to climb down, a dizzying distance of ninety feet. Like most of Gruffydd’s plans, it did not go well.
Falls the Shadow, page 206
* * *
When it happened, it was without warning. The ripping noise the rope made as it gave way was muffled by the wind. There was a sudden slackness, and then Gruffydd was falling, plunging backward into blackness. There was a moment or two of awareness, but mercifully no more than that. The last sound he heard was a man’s scream, but he never knew if the scream came from him or from Owain.
* * *

The Young King

I would not be surprised if Kasia has already posted about this, since she is the Young King’s most ardent and eloquent fan—and Poland has at least a six hour time advantage over the US East Coast. I am sure she’ll blog about him today and do him justice, as she always does. On February 28, 1155, Henry and Eleanor’s oldest surviving son was born, christened Henry after his father and known to history as the Young King since he was crowned during Henry’s lifetime, a move that caused Henry no end of trouble. I enjoyed writing about Hal, as I called him in my novels, but in all honesty, he would have been a disaster as a king. When a contemporary says he was “malleable as wax,” that is a clue right there. In many ways, he was rather like Stephen---both of them handsome and charming and courageous and in over their heads. His brothers, flawed as they all were, were better equipped to rule. Hal did get an honor that eluded the rest of his turbulent family, though; there was actually a small boomlet to proclaim him a saint, quite remarkable in that in his last weeks, he’d been little better than a bandit, raiding churches to fund his foolhardy rebellion. But Henry was devastated by his death and William Marshal clearly loved him, so we should keep that in mind when tallying up his mortal failings. He made a “good death,” which was very important to medievals, begging God and his father for forgiveness and pleading with Henry to forgive and release his mother. But on this date in 1155, there was only joy in the birth of this beautiful baby boy, heir to the Angevin empire, with no one imaging it would end as it did.

The Devil’s Brood, page 528, Hal’s death scene.
* * *
Hal’s lashes swept down, shadowing his cheek like fans as tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, although the bishop was not sure if it was meant for him, for Henry, or the Almighty.
“I bring more than words,” the bishop said and, taking a small leather pouch from around his neck, he shook out a sapphire ring set in beaten gold. He started to tell Hal that this was Henry’s ring, but saw there was no need, for Hal could not have shown more reverence if he’d produced a holy relic.
“He does forgive me, then!” he cried and gave the bishop such a dazzling smile that for a moment the ravages of his illness were forgotten and they could almost believe this was the young king of cherished memory, the golden boy more beautiful than a fallen angel, able to ensnare hearts with such dangerous ease. Then the illusion passed and they were looking at a man gaunt, hollow-eyed, suffering, and all too mortal.
* * *

Edward of York--the Sunne in Splendour

This is a day late, but on February 26, 1461, Edward of York and the Earl of Warwick were given a tumultuous welcome into the city of London, the citizens having refused entry to Marguerite d’Anjou. This was one of my favorite scenes in Sunne, so here are a few passages:
Sunne in Splendour, pages 83 & 84
* * * * *
It seemed as if every church bell in London was pealing. Seeing the smoke spiraling into the sky from a dozen different directions, knowing that meant the jubilant Londoners were burning bonfires in the streets as if this were the June Feast Day of St John the Baptist, Cecily breathed a brief prayer that God might mercifully spare the city from fire this noon, for there was no way the fire bells could ever be heard or heeded.
The volume of noise was increasing; she’d not have thought it possible. The shouts were audible now, shouts of “York!” and “Warwick!” But, overriding all, one name again and again, a hoarse chant that sent shivers of emotion up Cecily’s spine…Edward! Edward! Until the entire city echoed with the sound, with the name of her son.
(omission)
As another outburst of cheering rocked the churchyard, eclipsing all that had gone before, she knew even as she straightened up that her son had ridden through the gateway.
He was astride a magnificent white stallion with a silvery tail that trailed almost to the ground and he seemed to be enveloped in light, with the sun directly over his head, gilding his armour and tawny hair.
“Oh, Ma Mere!” Margaret gasped, in a voice that was strangely uncertain, unexpectedly awed. “He does look like a king!”
“Yes, he does,” Cecily said softly, forgetting that she had to shout to make herself heard. “He does, indeed.”
(omission)
Cecily clutched at her composure, smiled at her son. “Never have I seen such a welcome, Edward…never in my lifetime!”
“Welcome, Ma Mere?” he echoed and kissed her lightly on both cheeks so that his voice reached her ear alone. “I rather thought it to be a coronation.”
For a moment, their eyes held, smoke-grey met the most vivid of blues. And then Cecily nodded slowly and Edward turned back to face the crowds thronging the churchyard, raising his hand in careless salute of the continuing cheers. She watched, the faintest of smiles curving the corners of her mouth.
* * * * *

Leonard Nimoy, R.I.P.

Sad news for all of us who grew up with Star Trek.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/enterta...

Lake Superior iconic photo follow-up

Thanks to Jo, here is a follow-up to that story of the man caring so tenderly for his aged dog. Many of you have seen that photo of him for it went viral—his dog had loved the water but was too crippled by arthritis to swim, so his owner would stand in Lake Superior for hours, cradling his dog in his arms. The dog died over a year ago and I am happy to report that he has now adopted another dog, who hit the dog lottery for sure. http://www.kare11.com/story/news/loca...

Something to smile about

The world remains ice-encased for many of us and so I thought you all might like a few videos sure to make you smile. Since I don’t have the power to speed spring up, this is the best I can do.
http://www.care2.com/greenliving/cute...

http://biggeekdad.com/2015/01/adorabl...

The Poisoned Pen

For those of you fortunate enough to live in Arizona and to be within driving distance of my favorite bookstore, the Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, you can get a signed copy of Priscilla Royal’s new mystery, Satan’s Lullaby, this afternoon. Here are the details. http://www.poisonedpenevents.com/?ai1... Of course you can also get a signed copy of her mystery if you win the book giveaway currently being conducted on my blog. It should run through the end of the week, so there is still time to enter. Merely post a comment under the interview and you’re in, as simple as that! http://sharonkaypenman.com/blog/?p=496
Meanwhile, try to stay warm. I keep telling myself that spring is bound to put in an appearance eventually, but then I remember reading that there was once “a year without a summer” and I start to shiver again.

St Thomas???

I think we can safely say that February 21, 1173 was not one of Henry II’s favorite days, for it was upon this date that Thomas Becket was proclaimed a saint by the Church. They’d obviously put him on the fast-track for canonization since it was barely two years since he’d been martyred in Canterbury Cathedral. It is unlikely that Henry then viewed his erstwhile friend and adversary as saintly; he knew Becket too well for that. But it is quite possible that he changed his mind after he’d been driven to his dramatic, desperate penance before Becket’s tomb, since the Scots king was captured at Alnwick at the very time that Henry was on his knees, entreating Becket’s aid to save his kingdom. It certainly convinced their contemporaries and the rebellion fell apart, leaving Eleanor to pay for the sins of their sons.

Winter is coming.

Well, the wind-chill makes it feel like minus 11 here this morning. This winter has been quite mad. But it does have an austere beauty as long as we don’t have to be out in it. Here is a spectacular photo of a frozen Niagara Falls. http://time.com/3713115/niagara-falls...
Meanwhile, here is more Game of Thrones news for my fellow fans. No word yet about the next book, although GRRM did warn we should not expect it this year….sigh. A collection of his short stories will be making it to the silver screen, though. Details here. http://time.com/3694875/milla-jovovic...
And here is a link to some Game of Thrones fans building The Wall in Boston. They have so much snow there that with enough help, they could probably build it to scale. http://www.nbcnews.com/watch/nbc-news...
Stay warm and safe, folks. Our friends Down Under could use some cheer, too, as Australia is being hit by two powerful cyclones at the same time.

Crazy George and Bloody Mary

Today, many of us continue to freeze. Yesterday, there were two bleak events on the medieval calendar. On February 18, 1478, the worst medieval royal brother ever, George of Clarence, was privately put to death in the Tower after being convicted of treason in a trial presided over by his brother, Edward. Somewhere John’s ghost must have been thinking, “Wow, was I lucky!” John’s sins were worse than George’s, but George was probably put to death not for what he did, but for what he knew—a lethal secret that threatened the legitimacy of Edward’s children. I say “probably” not because I have doubts myself, but because not everyone agrees with me and I am trying to be fair. Of course if only these skeptics read Sunne, then they’d see how irrefutable my arguments are.  Also on February 18, 1516, Mary Tudor was born. It was a day of rejoicing for her parents, but in hindsight, it is hard to celebrate a life that was destined to be so unhappy. Of all the many sins to be lain at Henry Tudor’s door, surely the way he treated his daughter has to be one of the worst. Yes, she grew into a bitter, insecure, stubborn woman, but that was because Henry was such a miserable, mean-spirited, and abusive father.
Back to our Winter that Will Never End, here is a striking time-lapse video of Boston being buried in yet another snowstorm. And credit to Boston’s mayor for putting their misery into terms we can understand; he said that enough snow had fallen to fill Gillette Stadium 90 times! http://www.nbcnews.com/watch/nbc-news...