Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 85

August 15th in history

You know the old “if a tree falls in the forest” philosophical puzzler. Well, I came up with one of my own. “If a historical figure is not mentioned in any of my books, should I still mention him or her in one of my Today in History posts?” I’ve decided that the answer is yes, assuming said historical figure is someone I find at least remotely interesting, of course.
On August 15, 778 AD, Roland, hero of the Chanson de Roland, was slain at Roncevaux Pass, trying to defend Charlemagne’s rear guard from the Basques.
August 15, 1040, the man known to us as Macbeth became King of the Scots when he defeated King Duncan in battle. Macbeth died on August 15, 1057, said to have been slain by Duncan’s son. He is, of course, the subject of one of Shakespeare’s most powerful and darkest plays, although the real Macbeth’s reign and personality differ markedly from the Bard’s Macbeth. Remind you of any other king who stars in one of Shakespeare’s plays?
On this date in 1196, Heinrich von Hohenstaufen’s even more odious younger brother, Konrad, Duke of Swabia was murdered. There are two accounts of his murder, both of which put him in the worst possible light One alleges that he was killed by the husband of a woman he’d raped, and the other version is that while he was raping a virgin, she bit him in the eye and he died of the resulting infection.
On August 15, 1369, Philippa of Hainault, queen of Edward III, died, thus freeing her lady in waiting, Alice Perrers, to come out of the shadows as Edward’s mistress, which she’d been for the past six years, since the age of fifteen.
August 15th was also the birthdate of two of the 18th century’s most interesting figures: Napoleon Bonaparte in 1769 and Sir Walter Scott in 1771. Napoleon was a military genius, of course, with ambitions to match his intellect. He also had a concise, if cynical, way with words, famously remarking that God was on the side of the largest battalions, although he was probably not the originator of that sardonic quip. He also said “Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake” and “Revolution is an idea which has found its bayonets” and “In politics, stupidity is not a handicap” and “If you are going to take Vienna, take Vienna.” Sir Walter Scott is sometimes called the first historical novelist, although I have doubts about that myself. He probably did as much as anyone to nurture the legend of evil Prince John in his Ivanhoe saga.

Postbirthday thoughts

Thank you all again for so many kind and eloquent birthday wishes yesterday. It was a very good day and you guys made it even better.
A sad week for Hollywood, with the losses of both Robin Williams and Lauren Bacall. And the world situation is so dire that it is hard to know where to begin. Pray for those in need, in the line of fire, threatened by ISIS, Ebola, flooding, fires, and man’s inhumanity to man.
Here is one small moment of light, a brief video sure to elicit smiles from anyone who watches it.
http://www.cnn.com/video/data/2.0/vid...

Books Again

New blog up! It always seems mildly miraculous when I manage this feat, for it means sneaking away from the 12th century when my characters are briefly distracted. No great surprise, I'm sure, that this one is about books, too. http://sharonkaypenman.com/blog/?p=460

BOOKS AGAIN

I am sorry it has taken me so long to get a new blog up, but I have had to make a choice between keeping current on Facebook or putting up new blogs, and since most of the action seems to occur on my Facebook pages, that is the road I’ve chosen.   I am not the most co-ordinated of people, so my balancing acts end in a splatter more often than not—one reason why I’ve yet to venture onto Twitter like so many of my fellow authors.  I just hope this will not make me such an anomaly that when I die, they’ll carve on my tombstone, “Only writer never to tweet.”

In my last blog, I recommended a number of books that I thought would interest my readers.  But I forgot a few, so here I go again.   Those who want to protect their bank accounts might want to stop reading here.

In that blog, I’d recommended a few series that I never miss—Bernard Cornwell, Dana Stabenow, Priscilla Royal, Sharan Newman, Steven Saylor, C.J. Harris, P.F. Chisholm—all but Dana’s set in bygone times–the Middle Ages, ancient Rome, Saxon, Elizabethan, and Regency England.  But there are more, of course.

I was a fan of the Brother Cadfael series written by Edith Pargeter under her pseudonym Ellis Peters.   And how could any reader not love Amelia Peabody, the marvelous creation of Elizabeth Peters?  They both were very prolific writers, and I wish I knew their secret of continuing to produce books of such high caliber.  So often a series begins to get stale if it goes on too long; I am sure many of you can name writers who’ve continued with a series beyond its natural shelf life.   But Elis Peters and Elizabeth Peters were notable exceptions.    Another writer whose books I eagerly anticipated was Margaret Frazer.  I was lucky enough to call her a friend, and I miss her very much, for she was a wonderful human being as well as a very talented author; to learn more about her, see my blog here.  http://sharonkaypenman.com/blog/?p=390 .  It is very sad to think that we’ll never have another new Brother Cadfael or Amelia Peabody adventure or be able to sympathize with Sister Frevisse when her quiet convent life is interrupted yet again by the discovery of a body at her nunnery’s door.    But it is some small comfort that all three of them have left a rich legacy of books for us to revisit and for new readers to discover.

I also highly recommend Laurie King’s Mary Russell series, set during and after the first world war.  Her imaginative premise is that a brilliant young girl crosses paths with Sherlock Holmes, then in restless retirement in Sussex.  It is the first time that the fabled detective has encountered a mind as agile and insightful as his own and he cannot resist taking her under his wing, first as his apprentice, then as his partner, and eventually as his wife.  Yes, I know that very idea must sound heretical to Conon Doyle purists, but trust me—Laurie King pulls it off with panache, making their unlikely union both credible and fascinating to her readers.

I suppose Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone mysteries might be considered historical, for they are set in the pre-computer age, the 1980’s.   Sue is another writer who has not only defeated the staleness dragon, she has gleefully trampled it into the dust.  She has been moving through the alphabet—from her first, A is for Alibi to her latest, W is for Wasted—and the series is just as fresh and vital today as it was at its initial launch.   The ending of this successful series is bound to be bittersweet for her legion of fans; I will certainly miss Kinsey and I confess that I’m curious to see how Sue manages to concoct a relevant title that begins with the letter X.

I’ve often praised Elizabeth Chadwick and Margaret George’s historical novels, but it is always worth doing again.   Same for Brian Wainwright, who has written both an excellent historical novel in Within the Fetterlock and a wickedly clever spoof in The Adventures of Alienore Audley.   I am not sure how Richard III would have reacted to it, for we don’t really know much about Richard’s sense of humor, and he has always struck me as a man who was firmly rooted in the Middle Ages.  But I’d wager that his more irreverent brother Edward would have thought it was hilarious.

I’ve had readers tell me that my books introduced them to the compelling world of the Welsh princes, others who were unfamiliar with Simon de Montfort until they read Falls the Shadow, and still more who confessed that they had a totally different opinion of Richard III after The Sunne in Splendour.   I cherish these compliments, for books have so often led me away from familiar roads and onto intriguing byways that I’d otherwise have missed.  This is one reason why I want my writers to be trustworthy when it comes to research.  I knew nothing of 16th century Japan until I read James Clavell’s Shogun.  What little I know of the Valley of the Kings and 19th century archaeology comes from Amanda Peabody via Elizabeth Peters, who had a PhD in Egyptology.  And thanks to Christy Robinson, I have become aware of a truly remarkable woman, Mary Dyer.

Christy has written two scrupulously researched novels about Mary Dyer, titled Mary Dyer Illuminated and For Such a Time as This, both of which are now on my towering TBR list.  She has also crafted one of the best opening lines that I’ve encountered, a very important skill for writers as that first sentence is the bait, meant to lure readers in.  I’ve spent a lot of time and trouble with those first sentences in my own books; my personal favorite is “Richard did not become frightened until darkness began to settle over the woods,” probably because it was my first such sentence.   Mary’s is “Mary Barrett closed the wide gate of the farmyard behind her, and though she did not know it yet, this was the day she’d see her death.”   After a beginning like that, who would not want to know more?    I have asked Christy to write a few paragraphs about Mary, her compelling history, and the novels, and they can be found at the end of this blog.

I’m already on page three, so I will save the rest of my book musings for a future blog.  I will end with a mention of another extremely gifted writer who has created her very own genre.  A few years ago, I was doing a panel discussion at my favorite bookshop, the Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Arizona, with Diana Gabaldon.   Afterward, we were taking questions from the audience and someone asked me if I could offer only one bit of advice to aspiring authors, what would it be.

I admitted that I’d made a monumental error when I first began writing Sunne; I did not write in chronological order.  At that time, I was writing for myself, not for publication, and so I felt free to hopscotch through the story of the Yorkist kings.  If I felt like doing a scene between Edward and his icy Woodville wife, I did; if I then wanted to write about Richard’s turbulent childhood, I did.   This scattershot approach spared me any attacks of Writer’s Block and was fun, too.  I proceeded on my merry way for more than four years, only then to have the only copy of this opus stolen from my car, a loss so traumatic that I could not write for almost six years.

When this mental log jam finally broke and I began again, I repudiated my earlier carefree method and embraced the traditionalist’s view—to write the book in chronological order.    I then explained to the Poisoned Pen reader that I felt this approach provided the inner discipline I needed and—most importantly—it allowed for character development.  I cited Edward as an example.   The cocky seventeen year old we meet in Chapter One is very different from the weary, cynical wastrel who dies forty years and many chapters later, whispering to his daughter that the worst secrets are those about to be found out.   If I’d written his story piecemeal, how could I have portrayed the slow deterioration of his character?

At this point, I became aware of the amusement of some of the audience members, who were glancing over at Diana and laughing.  She then confided that she always wrote in that “scattershot” way, and the monumental success of the Outlander books certainly made a very convincing argument in favor of it—if you happened to be a writer named Diana Gabaldon.  I was fascinated by her revelation, but remain convinced that the chronological approach is still the best approach for the rest of us.   Diana doesn’t need to play by the rules, not with that sort of talent and imagination.   So I am delighted that the Starz Outlander series has been getting such wonderful reviews, both from her devoted readers and those elitist critics who look askance at any book or film that can be labeled “historical.”    Then along came a modest little series called Game of Thrones.    As most of you know, I am a passionate Thrones fan, and I am sure I will enjoy Outlander very much, too.    And  I also harbor a small hope that somewhere  a Hollywood producer is mulling the success of these breakthrough series and then calling out to his loyal assistant, “Hot damn, historicals sell!  Who knew?  Find me a historical for my next project, maybe one set in the 12th century.”

And now, Christy Robinson on an awe-inspiring woman of great courage, compassion, and strength, who blazed across colonial America like a comet and would be martyred for her faith.

*     *      *      *     *

Thank you, Sharon, for the opportunity to appear in your blog. Even though my novels’ story is set in the 17th century, and half in England, half in New England, my characters’ lives were written somewhat in your fashion. They’re not light, fast reads: they’re chewy! I’ve ripped a few pages (metaphorically speaking) from your historical novels, and have constructed the missing bits by thinking through the events moment by moment, and knowing close associates and enemies of my characters. I developed an Excel spreadsheet with all the characters’ events, as well as national news (epidemics, wars, heads of state), plotted by year—for 50 years before my story, and 40 years after. This blew apart a number of myths, and filled in what must have happened in the quiet times. And it set me on a path to discover documents that have lain hidden in archives for 350 years. Those documents showed me that in Mary and William Dyer (to steal your book title for a moment), Here Be Dragons!

The two stand-alone but sequential novels center on Mary Dyer, 1611-1660, an Englishwoman who emigrated with her husband William to Boston, Massachusetts, in 1635. (Perhaps you’ve seen the Mary Dyer statue in Boston.) They were married as Anglicans, but after passing some strict requirements were admitted to the Puritan church in Boston. In a short time, they were part of a “grace” movement led by Anne Hutchinson. Mary’s third pregnancy resulted in the premature stillbirth of an anencephalic girl, which was later disinterred and pronounced a “monster” that was proof of Dyer’s and Hutchinson’s heresy. In 1638, they and other families were ordered out of the colony. They purchased several islands from the Narragansett Indians and formed the colony of Rhode Island. From the very beginning, though they were all religious people, the founders determined to form a secular democracy. (Governors John Winthrop and Thomas Dudley of Massachusetts disdained democracy. They had a theocracy, a church-state coalition.)

Mary gives birth eight times, six live to adulthood. William rises in government positions as well as in farming and trading. He’s appointed the first Attorney General in North America. He’s commissioned Commander-in-Chief Upon the Seas for the Anglo-Dutch war in America, and the Dutch city of New Amsterdam builds the “wall” of Wall Street to protect themselves from Dyer and his colleague, John Underhill. Mary returns to England for a visit in 1652, becomes a Quaker, and goes back to America via Boston in early 1657. Because she’s a Quaker and Massachusetts hates Baptists and Quakers with a murderous passion, she’s immediately cast into prison without trial, though the court meets several times to settle civil and ecclesiastical matters. William rescues her, and back in Newport, they become part of the church-state conflict roaring across New England. As many of her friends are tortured and executed, Mary determines that as a woman of high social status, her martyrdom for liberty of conscience will be so shocking that the persecution will have to stop. So she violates her banishment-on-pain-of-death to commit civil disobedience. Twice. The second time, in 1660, she’s executed by hanging. Friends write a protest letter to King Charles II, and he orders a stop to capital punishment. Meanwhile, William Dyer and colleagues are writing the Rhode Island charter for the king to seal and grant them. The charter, granted in 1663, includes religious liberty and the importance of secular democratic government. In the 1780s, the charter became a template for the United States Bill of Rights, specifically the First Amendment regarding freedom of speech, assembly, and religion. Even in today’s increasingly secular society, that right means liberty for all, not liberty for *some* who would impose their beliefs and behaviors on others.

So, Sharon, to bring it back to your blog—breathing life back into the legendary Mary Dyer, and telling William’s story for the first time ever (because Mary got all the ink!), has something of you in it through analysis of your research methods and writing style. History has to be seen in context, not in abbreviated quotes for political capital. I’m so excited about the 5-star reviews from readers, including English-lit professors (because I was a book editor before an author) and history educators. The books are found here: http://bit.ly/Church-State . I’ve written two other books, keep four blogs, and am plotting out a new novel, to be set in England in the 1650s. The main characters will allow a cameo appearance by Mary Dyer. Because I can.

*     *      *     *      *

“Because I can.”   The mantra of writers everywhere!   Thank you, Christy.

August 12, 2014

Game of Thrones goes to Spain

Next season on Game of Thrones we will be visiting the exotic realm of Dorne, which does sound like it might be a more appealing place to live than some of the other sites we’ve seen in the first three seasons. So here is a preview of Dorne---AKA Spain. I’d definitely prefer it to the Wall.
http://www.cnn.com/2014/07/03/travel/...

Richard III in Leicester

Many of you have probably seen this, but I wanted to share it for those who have not. Interesting photos. http://www.cnn.com/2014/08/07/travel/...

Miracle at Mirebeau

This post is a few days late for it refers back to August 1, 1202, when John gained his first and only great military triumph, swooping down upon Mirebeau Castle, where his mother, Eleanor, and daughter, Joanna, had taken refuge, now under siege by an army led by Eleanor’s own grandson and John’s nephew, Arthur, the young Duke of Brittany, and his de Lusignan allies. Eleanor managed to get a messenger off to John as the siege began, but he was eighty miles away and none expected him to get there before the castle fell to Arthur and Eleanor was taken prisoner. His father Henry and brother Richard had been famed for their lightning-like assaults, seeming to appear out of nowhere to the great vexation and fear of their foes; the French king was once heard to complain sourly that Henry must have learned how to fly. But mere mortals could not match their derring-do, and John was nothing if not mortal. Neither Eleanor nor his Breton adversaries imagined that he could get there in time. But he did, rescuing his mother and capturing all of the leaders of the besieging army, including Arthur. Here is a brief scene from Here be Dragons, pages 159-160
* * *
Eleanor had never seen John so elated; there was about him an intense, surging excitement, an intoxication of the senses bordering upon euphoria. “And Arthur? What of Arthur?”
John’s eyes showed suddenly gold “Arthur and Hugh and Geoffrey de Lusignan, all taken. They were breakfasting on pigeon pie, had not even time to draw their swords. And their faces….” He laughed again. “Ah, Madame, to see their faces!”
“You have indeed won a great victory,” she said, then put her hand upon his arm. “Come now, sit and I’ll send for food. Do you even remember when you’ve last eaten?”
“No,” he admitted. “Why? Think you that I’m in need of sobering up?” He grinned, let her lead him toward the table, and then stopped without warning, swung about to face her. “Arthur and the de Lusignans were not alone in their disbelief…were they?” he challenged. “You never expected me to come to your defense, never expected me to reach you in time, never expected much of me at all, did you..Mother?”
Eleanor saw now how exhausted he truly was; his voice was slurred, husky with fatigue, his eyes hollowed and feverishly bright, at once triumphant and accusing. “It was not a question of faith, John,” she said carefully. “Do you not realize the extent of your victory? You have done what most men would swear to be impossible, covered some eighty miles as if you’d put wings to your horse, arrived in time to save me from capture, to take the town, all your enemies. That is a feat more than remarkable, it is well nigh miraculous” She paused, and then said that which she knew he’d waited all his life to hear, what she could at last say in utter sincerity. “Not even Richard could have hoped to equal what you did this day.”
John looked at her, saying nothing for a time. “I should have known that the highest praise you could offer would be a comparison with my sainted brother. Well, that is an honor I think I’ll decline, Madame. I’ve no longer any inclination to compete with a ghost.”
“Ah, Johnny….” Eleanor was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of her own exhaustion, of the toll these last days had taken. “I am proud of you, I swear it,” she said softly. But she’d waited too long. John had already turned away.
* * *
There is a story that the members of the Algonquin Round Table, whose most famous member was Dorothy Parker, were discussing a man none of them liked. One of them then said of this pariah, “He is his own worst enemy.” The sharp-tongued critic Alexander Woollcott at once shot back, “Not while I am living.” (At least I think it was Woollcott)
Well, this anecdote could easily apply to John, who was his own worst enemy and yet had his share of men eager to claim that honor. Not surprisingly, he soon tarnished his brilliant victory at Mirebeau by treating the captured barons and knights so badly that one of his most important vassals went over to the other side out of disgust. Some of the prisoners were starved to death, and sadly, it has been suggested that Richard’s cousin and close friend, Andre de Chauvigny, was one of them; we know he was taken prisoner at Mirebeau, having chosen Arthur over John after Richard’s death, and he was dead before the year was out. As for Arthur, he disappeared behind the walls of Rouen Castle and was never seen again; John’s contemporaries and later historians and future historical novelists like me all reached the same grim conclusion—that John had Arthur murdered. Arthur’s heir, his sister, Eleanor, was taken to England and never knew a day of freedom again, being kept in comfortable confinement, first by John and then by his son, Henry III, for the next thirty-nine years until her death in August of 1241.

Game of Thrones

Here is a link to a funny cartoon about our favorite series, which probably echoes what many fans feel.

http://www.arcamax.com/thefunnies/wum...

A bloody August battle

August 4, 1265 was the date of a history-changing battle, one in which Simon de Montfort was defeated and killed by his godson, the future Edward I, after he’d been trapped at Evesham by Edward’s army. Simon was expecting reinforcements from his son, also called Simon, and Bran in my novel to save me from ever having to write “Simon said to Simon” When he first saw the approaching force, Simon assumed it was Bran, for they flew his banner. But he did not know that Edward had ambushed and scattered Bran’s army as they encamped outside Kenilworth Castle, foolishly bathing in the lake and dallying with the inevitable camp prostitutes. When a scout gave Simon the devastating news, he and several of his men climbed up into the abbey’s belfry tower. Below is a brief scene from Falls the Shadow, pages 514-515
* * *
The wind was rising. It tore leaves from shuddering trees, flattened the marsh grass, and hurled dark clouds toward the fleeing sun. By the time Simon reached the north window in the church tower, the storm was nigh. He could see it sweeping across the vale, bearing down upon them from the north, shadowing the army of the king’s son. Edward had taken up position on the crest of Green Hill, closing off the loop of the River Avon with a line of steel. A mile lay between their thousands and Evesham, no more. Simon needed but one glance to know that he and his men were doomed.
He sucked in his breath, jolted by a surge of purely physical fear, the body’s instinctive reaction to peril. But he’d faced death too often, had long ago learned how to make fear serve him; self-preservation was a powerful motivating force in and of itself. The fright bred into bone and muscle was a familiar foe, one he knew he could vanquish. But what followed it was far more terrifying, a fear born of the brain, one that offered him a haunting glimpse of the future, a lightning-lit landscape of desolation and lost faith. Was their dream to die with them, too? Had it all been for naught?
No. No, it could not be. They would not be abandoned in their time of need, for their cause was just and would prevail. He would not fail his trial of faith, would not disavow a single yesterday. Death came to all men, but defeat only to those who doubted. Fear not, I am thy shield, trust in me and be not afraid. He unclenched his fist, eased his desperate grip upon the shutter latch, and then turned to face those who’d followed him up into the tower, followed wherever he led, his sons, his friends.
“We must commend our souls to God,” he said, “for our bodies are theirs.”
* * *

Why kings should never shoot their own artillery

So what happened on August 3rd? I am sure Rania will cover the spectrum for us (thanks, Rania!), so I’ll confine myself to one event. It does not concern a historical figure I’ve written about, but his demise was unusual enough to deserve a mention. On August 3, 1460, the thirty year old King of Scotland, James II, was killed when a cannon he was attempting to load exploded. I can think of several earlier kings who’d have been unable to resist the urge to fire a cannon, saved only because artillery guns were unknown during their reigns. It is definitely something the Lionheart would have wanted to try, and I can also see a young Edward I or a young Henry V giving it a go. But as far as I know, James has the dubious distinction of being the only monarch blown to Kingdom Come by a cannon. If I am wrong, I am sure at least one of my readers will know who else was so unlucky! I can think of a few kings whom I’d have liked to be blown to smithereens by a cannon, but that is another story, isn’t it?