K.L. Clark's Blog, page 4

The White Queen, episode 2

Elizabeth: Edward, Warwick hates you!

Edward: No, he loves me.

Warwick: No, she’s right. I hate you now.

Isobel: Anne! I’ve just found out I’m a pawn!

Henry VI: I could be wrong, but I think I might be Jesus.

Elizabeth:  I’ve just been told my father’s dead.

Audience: So have we.

Margaret Beaufort: My son will be king!

Gloucester: Hang on, I’m pretty sure I just foreshadowed that I’ll be king.

Elizabeth: I’m going to put a curse on a bunch of people.

Audience. Knock yourself out. I think we’ve lost interest.

The White Queen, episode 1

Edward: I want you.
Elizabeth: You can’t have me.
Jaquetta: I see dead people.
Warwick: Edward!
Edward: Let’s get married. Secretly.
Elizabeth: Cool!
Anthony: He’s lying to you.
Elizabeth: No, he’s not.
Edward: No, I’m not.
Warwick: Edward!
Elizabeth: Curtsey, scum!

 

All I can do now is hope I get to catch the rest of it on youtube.

Dakota FitzPercy & the End of the World

Ever wondered why the world didn’t end last December? Now, for the first time, the whole story is made public. Well, more public than Dakota’s facebook page, at any rate.

EOTW -9

The expression on my master’s face was most grave when I slipped into his chamber. Not because I’d slipped into his chamber, I was quite entitled to do that. In fact, he’d requested it of me. His secret carrier pigeon brought me a message as I crept through the dark streets of London in search of the kind of information that a sneaky spy like me might make use of. No, his face was grave because he had grave news.

“You have nine days to save the world,” he said.

I sat down and took the cup of wine he held out to me. My master had one of the finest wine cellars in all of Christendom. The liquid in the cup I now sipped in a most refined manner was as red as rubies and tasted like really good wine. I set the cup on the table, leaned forward to show I was listening and listened.

“I’ve checked with every seer in the land,” my master said. “Every witch, every soothsayer, every astrologer, every crackpot with a bong, and they all say the same thing. The world is going to end. Really soon.”

“And I have to stop it?” I said.

“I can’t think of anyone else who could. You’re the best of the best, Madison…”

“Dakota,” I murmured.

“…You’ve been in and out of more tight places than the Bastard of Fauconberg.”

I flushed to hear my lover’s name. Not because the mere mention of his name made me hot with desire, fervid with lust and longing and a deep deep need for him to rip the clothes from my back and bend me over a… It was because I was angry with him. He was never there when I needed him! Always off on some adventure or other, usually involving a scantily clad virgin and a pirate. With him as the pirate.

I shook my head to clear it and found that I’d missed about half of what my master needed to tell me. Still, I could always work it out as I went along.

“I’m counting on you, Tiffanee…”

“Dakota.”

“And so is the rest of the world. Even the bits we haven’t discovered yet.”

I picked up the cup, drained the rest of the wine – which really was very good – and thought about how I was going to go about saving the world. Apart from the obvious. One thing was clear. I was going to need the Bastard of Fauconberg in my bed… by my side.

EOTW -8

I was woken next morning by my good friend, the Bastard of Fauconberg, bringing me a lovely cup of piping hot sweet tea. I held the delicately patterned eggshell thin porcelain cup and saucer in my hands and breathed in the fragrant steam. With his network of contacts across the known world, the Bastard was privileged indeed to enjoy many delights of the far and mystic east long before anyone else in England. Sharing this unique bounty was just one of the many things that made me feel just that little bit better than everyone else. As feelings go, it certainly beats the alternative.

I was contemplating this when the sheet slipped, causing me momentary embarrassment.

“Oh dear,” I said. “The sheet has slipped and my hands are full! Could you just… Oh, my.”

Twenty minutes later, after casting a rueful glance at the delicately patterned eggshell thin porcelain cup of lovely stone cold tea, I watched the Bastard dress. Which was something I enjoyed only marginally less than watching him undress.

“What have you got on today?” I said.

“Oh, long day of pirating,” he said. “I’ve three virgin rescues pencilled in for this afternoon and five Spanish caravels to plunder. Oh, and I’m getting a haircut at three.”

I lay back on my pillows, stretching and sighing languorously, sated by love but not, sadly, by tea. “I have to save the world. I’ve got an appointment with a rather nice chap over in Southwark who might be able to help.”

“Why bother?” he said. “We could just sail away to the Caribbean like we did last time. Leave these chumps here to deal with it on their own.”

“Thing is, Tom,” I said, because, apart from the Bastard of Fauconberg, his name was Tom, “If the world ends, so will the Caribbean. And with it will go all the dusky maidens you’re so very fond of and that Spanish contessa. The one with the flashing eyes.”

“And your prince.” The Bastard grinned. “The one you pine for, despite your hard and gritty exterior.”

I waved a hand dismissively which, from a supine position has less affect than one might like, and said, “The prince was lost to me a long time ago, Tom. He matters naught. The world, on the other hand, matters a great deal. And I must get up and dressed and over the river.”

Father Brimspoon was a jolly chap with a face that creased into smiles at every opportunity and blue eyes that twinkled without warning.

“I’ve been searching my secret arcane texts for some clue,” he said. “Earthquakes, pestilence, rain of frogs, death of the firstborn, that kind of thing. I’ve come up with nothing! I’m wondering if the world might not be planning just to sigh itself to gentle sleep.”

“Hardly in keeping with the spirit of an apocalypse,” I said.

“I know! Back in my day, we did things properly. No-one can be bothered now. I did try casting the world’s horoscope, but I’m buggered if I can work out if it’s a Capricorn or a Leo. I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. The Squatting Monks of Ooo might have something. There’s a book in their library I’ve been trying to get my hands on for decades. I was just about to put the kettle on, have a nice cup of tea, if you’d care to join me.”

I thanked him most kindly but said I wouldn’t, if he didn’t mind. I’d had enough cups of tea for one morning.

Standing on the banks of the turgidly flowing, stench-filled, corpse laden banks of the Thames I thought what a great pity it would be if all this vanished. Impossible to imagine it, really, on a morning like this, with the cries of carrion birds in the air, the curses of boatmen on the river and the raucous shouts of the ladies of whatever-time-of-the-day-they-could-make-a-quick-profit. With a sigh laden with all the words I couldn’t express, I turned my back on the river, slipped in the mud and would have ended up sprawled in the garbage bin of the shallows had I not been caught by a large net.

“What has we here?” an unpleasant voice sneered. “I thinks I shall takes it to my barge and has a closer look.”

I sighed again, but this time it expressed not my sadness at the imminent end of all beauty and joy but frustration at what I was sure was going to turn out to be yet another waste of my time.

 EOTW -7

When I came to my senses, I found myself bound, hand and foot, hanging from a hook, some two or three feet in the air.

Amateur! I thought.

I was in some kind of small, dark, fetid, smoke-filled room. I cast my eye about and decided it really wasn’t worth the bother of describing. Small, dark, fetid and smoke-filled were it’s more interesting features. And it swayed. Or rather, I did, gently swinging like some kind of smoking hot pendulum. The unique combination of stenches – sweat, death, rotting fish, oranges and beer infused piss – told me I was still on the river.

Someone shared this space with me. A waft of pickled onions and grit; and the sound of stricken bellows told me it likely the chap I met on the riverbank.

“Ah, it’s awake,” he said. “I was wondering if it ever would.”

He came closer to me, craning his neck to look. He licked his lips and cupped his crotch and I prayed I hadn’t stumbled into the fervid fantasies of a bored legal secretary.

“I’s Shee-teh-poh,” he said. “And I has plans for you.”

“Oh, please don’t tell me you intend to ravage me,” I said. “Or worse, carry me off to a church to make me your wife. I really don’t have time for all that today.”

Shitepot laughed, coughed, hoiked up something noxious and spat it onto the floor, laughed again and said, “It thinks I wants to marries it! Oh, it does has ideas above its station. When I’s marry, ’twill be to a hardier body than yours. All those squishy bits! Hows they helps with hauling on ropes, I asks it!”

I was most offended. I am in possession of no squishy bits. Every part of me is firm, rock hard and bitchin!

“No,” he went on. “Shee-teh-poh has no marryings, No woman to ties him down, Fancy free and loose of foot, is me! Plays the field. Sows the wild oats. Plenty of fishies in the river. I just dangles my worm and they bites!”

I’d had enough. I flipped onto my back, hauled myself up the short length of rope by my feet, caught a free finger in the hook, lifted myself off and, with a neat twist on the way down, landed on the deck at Shitepot’s feet. He had the intelligence to reel back.

Using an ancient and secret technique learned from the monks of the Most Venerable Order of Tofu in the high Himalayees, I wriggled free of my ropes and grabbed Shitepot by the throat. Not that there was any ancient and secret technique for the last bit. That wasn’t covered in the otherwise exhaustive and venerable Tofu curriculum. It was one of the many areas in which I was self-taught. Shitepot dangled from my hand, squealing.

“These ‘plans’ of yours,” I said. “What do they entail?”

“The world ends,” he said. “Big party, important mans, pretty girls. You was to go out with a bang. Hur hur hur!”

I threw him against the wall, very hard, found the way out, went up on deck and breathed in the slightly less fetid air. I took stock of myself. My boots were gone (and with them, my favourite dagger), my clothes were in tatters but not a hair was out of place. Channeling my secret powers of weapon-finding, I picked up a nearby belaying pin. I was hunting for something nice and sharp when I heard footsteps behind me. Shitepot really did want throwing in the river!

I whipped around and found myself looking not at a misshapen bargeman but the fair and handsome form of Lord Hastings. He smiled at me.

“I was just coming to collect you,” he said. “I’d have come much sooner if I knew it was you old Shitepot found.”

It could have been worse. It could have been Anthony Wydeville. In which case, my self-administered vow to stay faithful to the Bastard of Fauconberg, or Prince Edward, whichever happened to be around at the time, might have been tested. As it was, I could resist Hastings, though with difficulty, because his dear wife was a very dear friend of mine.

“I’ll walk you through the city,” he said. “Party’s not due to start for another hour or so, so you’ve time to clean up. Or whatever else you may wish to do.”

“I was on my way to see the Squatting Monks of Ooo,” I said.

“That can wait, can’t it? Ned will be so thrilled that you’re back in the country.”

Lord Hastings leapt from the deck and onto the bank of the river. He looked up at me, still smiling. With a sigh of resignation, I started down the ladder, resisting the urge to kick him in the face when he so kindly helped me down.

EOTW -6

“It’s not as if there’s anything we can do about it,” Edward IV said. “The End of the World is… Well, it’s the end!”

He leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, his feet stretched out, legs apart. Here was a man sure of himself, sure of his power. His sheer animal magnetism, which oozed from every pore, might have been impressive, had such things been capable of impressing me. I got the feeling that any woman who wanted him could have him with a snap of her fingers. Given that I’m hardly ‘any woman’, I doubted I’d need to waste energy on the snap.

“Ms FitzPercy seems to think otherwise,” the frail and angelic® Richard or Dickon said. “I do think we should give her the courtesy of listening.”

His nose buried in a cup of wine, his brother Clarence gave a gentle hiccough.

The door to the adjoining chamber opened just a crack and the sound of merry laughter spilled out. With a sigh, Hastings got up and went to close it, spotted something that piqued his interest and went through it instead.

Richard or Dickon frowned, Edward chuckled and Clarence asked if there wasn’t some more wine somewhere.

“There must be a way to stop it,” I said. “I’ve been asked to try and I’m jolly well going to!”

Edward looked at me coolly, his mind snapping back from whatever it was he thought Hastings was up to.

“I didn’t even know you were back in the country, Dakota,” he said.

“My lord of Warwick cares very deeply for the world,” I said. “He’s of the opinion that life won’t be much fun without it. He consulted his favourite shaman, who cast her bones, read the chicken entrails and went into a trance, just to make triple sure of her findings, and she said that the answer lies here, in England.”

“Is he here?”

“Wherever he is, Sire, he’s on your side. In his own, albeit strange, way he’s always been on your side.”

Edward said ‘tcha!’. Richard or Dickon frowned again. Clarence said, “Bastard! Said he was going to make me king, he did. And am I king? No, my stupid bloody brother still is!”

“I was on my way to consult with the Squatting Monks,” I said, “when your friend Shitepot entangled me in his net.”

“Not my friend,” Edward said. “One of Hastings’ chaps. Will is of the opinion that quantity is more important than quality. If I’d known you were here, Dakota, you’d have received a more civilised invitation.”

He stood up and went to the window, rocking back on his heels, his hands still clasped but this time behind his back.

Richard or Dickon kept his eyes fixed on his adored older brother. Clarence toppled gently sideways and landed in a heap on the floor.

“I think you should keep your appointment, Dakota,” Edward said. “But I don’t think you should go alone.”

The door behind me opened. Thinking it was Hastings come back, I didn’t turn around. Ned did, looking over his shoulder at whoever it was behind me.

“I want you to listen to everything Ms FitzPercy has to say, Anthony,” he said.

I stiffened. Not him! I prayed. Oh, please God, not him!

“Even if it takes all night,” Edward went on. “And in the morning, you’re to visit the Squatting Monks. I don’t want you to let her out of your sight. Keep her close by at all times.”

Anthony Wydeville, my nemesis, the bane of my life, the man I once nearly surrendered my honour to in the back room of a tavern in Bruges, sat down in a chair beside me. He hooked a leg over the arm of the chair and grinned at me.

“My pleasure,” he said. “Perhaps we can talk over a private supper in my apartments?”

I looked at Edward, but he gave me no rescue. I looked at Richard or Dickon, but he was frowning again. I’d have looked at Clarence, but his gentle snoring made me suspect he’d be of no help. There was nothing for it but to share an intimate supper with Anthony Wydeville and spend all night in his company, talking about the End of the World.

EOTW -5

Anthony Wydeville wasn’t only one of the most exquisitely designed men in England, he was also one of the most learned. What he lacked in warlike masculine energy, he more than made up for in good manners and intelligent conversation. (And if you’re going through my notes, dear Thomas, yes, you could learn something from this. Reading a book every now and then and learning not to spit on the floor while I’m eating wouldn’t do you any harm.) He had luscious brown hair (like warm honey), the softest of grey eyes and calves and thighs so shapely one would think them sculpted by the finest of artists. (Keep reading, Tom. You never know, it might get worse.)

“Do you truly believe the world is going to end?” Anthony said.

“Well, no,” I said. “I’m going to make sure it doesn’t. But if your question is do I think someone, or something, is intending to bring the world to an end, then yes, I do. My master…”

“The earl of Warwick,” he said. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! If any of us had any doubts that he somehow slipped away after Barnet, leaving a conveniently dressed corpse for us to find, they were swept away when the Trinity weighed anchor and sailed out of Sandwich Harbour. Add to that Lady Montagu’s habit of calling her new husband John instead of William, Margaret of Anjou muttering to herself in German and both the duchesses of Clarence and Gloucester referring to their father in the present tense, and a certain level of suspicion begins to build. If he’s in back England as well, he’d best keep low, for I’ve not yet forgiven him for taking my father’s head and Ned is still a bit miffed at the whole fleeing to Burgundy thing. So, your master, the earl Warwick, believes what?”

“That the signs all point to one thing – the world will end in less than a week.”

“How?”

I shrugged, fully aware of the way it made my magnificent bosom rise and fall. “That’s what I don’t know.”

“And the Squatting Monks?”

“May know something,” I said. “Or nothing.”

He looked at me from across the table, far too close for comfort. His eyes said, I want you. Which I was used to in a man, only I was terribly afraid mine were responding in a most brazen manner. I only had to reach out a hand… (Oh, and Tom, where were you last night? I’m not sure your explanation is quite as convincing as you’d like it to be. When you said “I’ve got no plans” I thought that perhaps that meant you had no plans, that you’d be in when I got home. Not that it’s at all important. You can do as you please. Just as I can.)

I shook my head, pushed back my chair and stood up. “We should go and see them now. We’re wasting time here.”

He didn’t move. “I remember a back room in Bruges. I was this close.”

“So was I. It’s no use, Anthony. I love another. Depending on what mood I’m in and who happens to be around. But you and me… That’s never going to happen.”

“Pity.”

“Yes,” I said. “it is.”

He sighed and stood up. “The Squatting Monks, then. I only hope one of them’s still up.”

The house of the Squatting Monks was squeezed between a stable and a house of ill repute, the entrance a short way up a dark and stinking alley. I let Anthony lead the way.

He knocked on the door and a little hatch slid open at about belly height.

“What do you want?” a voice said.

Anthony bent down. “We need to talk to someone about the end of the world.”

“The Red Rose tavern,” the voice said. “He’s usually there around four. Likes a table in the corner. Tall chap dressed in white. You can’t miss him.”

The hatch slid shut with a snap. Anthony knocked again, but all was silent. He turned to me with a rueful smile.

“What shall we find to do to keep us occupied until tomorrow afternoon?” he said.

“I have to wash my hair,” I said.

Back in my secret quarters, I closed the door and fell into my bed. Anthony’s face refused to leave my mind. My skin tingled still where his gentle hand had touched my arm, my lips waiting for the kiss than never came. The Bastard of Fauconberg was nowhere to be seen and I so needed to debrief him. I lay on my back staring up at the ceiling. It was going to be a most uncomfortable night.

EOTW -4

If I could just go a week without being stalked, captured and threatened with marriage to some unbearably nasty piece of pond scum…

The Red Lion wasn’t far from my secret quarters. I thought I might be able to get there without incident, but some unbearably nasty piece of pond scum had other plans.

Waking up in a dark, cold cellar to find oneself naked can be a bit of an inconvenience. Within five minutes, I’d felt my way round every surface, fashioned a weapon from a discarded spoon and was awaiting developments. By the time a trapdoor opened above my head and a basket tied to a rope dangled its way down, I’d already formulated seven escape plans.

“It puts the lotion on its skin,” a voice said.

“No it doesn’t,” I said.

I grasped the rope and climbed up, emerging into the murky light of an abandoned kitchen. A quick karate chop to my kidnapper, followed by a slightly more strenuous rolling of him into the hole in the floor, a rifling of a cupboard hung with all manner of gowns, a swift dressing in one of the more acceptable styles and one last look around before opening the door that led into the street, saw me out the door and in the street.

The first thing I saw was a man holding a sign on which was painted: The Ende Beith Knygh. Further along, a shop selling secondhand chamber pots was holding a Goyng Outte of Byzynesse sale. Outside it, a painted lady of whatever time she might turn a profit was having a heated argument with a fat man who was desperately trying to change his appointment from next week to today. A tavern boasted an Ende Of Ye Worlde Partye and several unkempt monks offered me a chance at redemption before it was too late. Word, it seemed, had leaked out.

All around me, the crowds milled. Some were shrieking, some were praying, some were loading carts with baggage. Others still were selling all their worldly possessions. I was swept along, which isn’t like me at all.

In all the confusion, a hand clamped onto my arm and a voice hissed in my ear: “Quick, into the time machine!”

Intrigued by the notion, I allowed myself to be bundled into a kind of carriage. In the seat opposite me was an elderly lady, quite well dressed, who looked at me from under furrowed brows.

“I’m glad you could join me.” She extended an imperious hand. “I’m the Countess of Richmond, the King’s Lady Mother. Or I will be once I sort all the mess out. I was on my way to 1499 to write a letter to Queen Isabella when I got caught up in all this. It’s rather bothersome, you know. If the world ends now, my son will never be king!” She smiled at me. “You look bewildered.”

I doubted that but decided to play along. “This is a time machine?”

“Yes.”

“And you travel through time?”

“Yes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Well, I’m on my way back, actually. I took those brown chappies a whole wagonload of stone, but it’s the wrong sort, apparently. Applying a logical mind to difficulties always falls apart when some stubborn bugger refuses to play along. Why they couldn’t just write it all down on a piece of paper is beyond me. So, that’s where we stand. The calendar runs out in four days and can’t be extended. Where would you like me to drop you off? I was thinking 1065. There’s a chap who could really do with my help.”

“But you’re from the future,” I said.

“Don’t try and think about it, dear, you’ll only end up with a headache.”

Slipping back into some past time was tempting. There were several kings and nobles I could think of who could do with my help. But it felt a little like running away. And without the Bastard of Fauconberg. Or Prince Edward. Life just wasn’t worth living.

“No,” I said. “I’m needed here.”

Maybe she could take me back to last night. I could tarry a moment or two longer over supper… I gave myself a stern talking to that involved words that no-one else need hear and shook my head.

“What time is it?” I said.

“When?” the Countess of Richmond said.

“Now,”

“Around six, I think.”

I’d missed the meeting at the Red Rose.

“If you could take me back to, say, three, half past…”

“Of course, my dear. You just sit tight. Would you care for a glass of midori while you’re waiting?”

She poured me a glass of something green. I sniffed it.

The countess laughed. “There’s a whole universe of wonder out there for an adventurous woman with a time machine to explore. The court of Charles II! He’s a bit of a derp, admittedly, but such fun!”

As the carriage lurched into motion, I settled back among the cushions and thought about the possibilities. What I couldn’t achieve with a time machine!

EOTW -3

“Oops!” the Countess of Richmond said.

Not the thing a girl likes to hear when she’s trapped in a time machine with a demented old lady.

“What?” I said.

“This thing is so temperamental! It’s got the timing wrong, again. I really should change the oil. Or something. It’s a quarter past three, but we’re out by a day.”

“Have we gone forward or back?” I said.

“Forward, I’m afraid.”

“So this is tomorrow?”

She frowned at me. “No, this is today. It will have going to have been tomorrow, but it isn’t any more. Your stop, I believe.”

The carriage rattled to a halt and I got ready to get up…

Waking up in a dark, cold cellar to find oneself naked can be a bit of an inconvenience. Within five minutes, I’d felt my way round every surface, fashioned a weapon from a discarded spoon and was awaiting developments. By the time a trapdoor opened above my head, I’d already formulated seven escape plans.

“So,” came a voice from above. “Have you made up your mind yet?”

This time there was no convenient rope.

“Um, yes. Yes I have,” I said. “I’ve decided to do whatever it is you wanted me to do.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Mother will be so pleased!”

Something rattled down past my ear. When it stopped I put a hand on it. It was some kind of ladder. Taking a deep breath, I set my foot on the bottom rung and climbed up.

Waiting for me at the top was an unbearably nasty piece of pond scum.

“I’ve bought the rings!” he said. “And your gown is such a delight.”

A quick karate chop to my kidnapper, followed by a slightly more strenuous rolling of him into the hole in the floor, a rifling of a cupboard hung with all manner of gowns, a swift dressing in one of the more acceptable styles and one last look around before opening the door that led into the street, saw me out the door and in the street.

I was met by a breathless and redfaced Bastard of Fauconberg and a cool as a cucumber Anthony Wydeville.

“We’ve just come to rescue you,” the Bastard said.

“No need,” I said.

“We followed clues and everything!”

“Well, I followed clues,” Anthony said. “Your friend here just ran around in circles threatening to hit people.”

“Well, thank you both,” I said. “But you needn’t have gone to any trouble.”

“Oh, no trouble at all,” Anthony said. “We heard there was a spot of bother and thought we’d check it out. You seem to be fine, that’s the main thing.” He offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

The Bastard of Faoconburg glared at both of us. I smiled at him sweetly and blew a kiss, then I took Anthony’s offered arm and we set off for the Red Lion.

He sat at a corner table, dressed in robes of gold and white, a heavenly aura emanating from his being. We ordered three glasses of beer and joined him.

“You’ve come to ask me about the end of the world, I take it?” he said.

“Can you stop it?” Anthony said.

The Archangel Gabriel, for indeed it was he, sighed. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. It has nothing to do with us. I’ve checked seven times and there’s nothing scheduled. You need to talk to our other branch.”

“You mean…” The Bastard of Fauconberg looked rather pointedly down at the floor.

“Yes.” Gabriel looked at us, one at a time, his gaze at last settling on me. “You’ve got a task ahead of you, my dear. It always falls on one such as you.” There was a dramatic pause. “You’re going to have to make a deal with the devil.”

A profound silence fell, broken at last by the Bastard of Fauconberg. “Bloody hell!”

“I’m going to have to get further instructions,” I said. “From my master.”

“You’ve not much time,” Gabriel said. “You have quite a journey ahead of you.”

“Why her?” Anthony said. “We’ve big strong lads we can take with us. With big sharp axes.”

“It takes a certain kind of mind to defeat the Lord of Darkness,” Gabriel said. “And the only one here who possesses such a mind is the girl. I wish you luck.”

“You can’t help?” I said.

The Archangel shook his head and I got the impression of feathery wings shimmering in the golden light. “I can’t help.”

I downed my beer and stood up. “We’d best get moving, then.”

My heart beat a little faster and I’m sure my eyes glowed with excitement. I’d tell my master this news and he’d summon his men and sharpen his sword. We’d ride out with such an army behind us! Finally, one of my long held ambitions was about to come true. I was going to follow the earl of Warwick to the gates of hell.

EOTW -2

We marched three armies out of London, following the directions most thoughtfully jotted down by the Archangel. My master and I rode side by side. The dear Bastard’s men came behind us and, at the rear, Anthony Wydeville’s motley band of musicians and writers, painters and translators from the Greek muddled along, wondering why on earth they’d been got out of bed so early.

“Our enmity is on hold for the duration,” Anthony said to Warwick when they came face to face, barely concealed contempt and a mutual longing to get their hands about each other’s throat giving the two a sense of shared purpose. “For the sake of the world and all its glories, I shall set aside my thirst for revenge. Once that is done, all bets are off.”

“Suits me,” Warwick said. “But you’ll have to catch me first.”

I was in a merry mood for I had spent a most pleasant evening with the sweetest Bastard in Christendom. From the fresh plucked roses he presented to me, through the fine meal, good wine, sparkling (for him) conversation, to the words of love and admiration that carried me from table to bed as if my feet had wings, I could fault nothing. He had learned his lesson, and most abjectly. I purred in his ear, telling him how glad I was I’d taken up his invitation to a private supper instead of Anthony’s.

“He’s hardly a man, though, is he?” the Bastard said. “All that reading. It thins a man’s blood! I’ve seen his codpiece, you know. It’s nothing to write home about.”

So now, on this sparkling winter’s morning, I hummed softly to myself as we rode to meet our destiny.

“Stop that!” my master said. “It’s really irritating.”

We turned left at Barnet, Warwick taking a moment to shred the signpost to match sticks.

We collected the Archbishop of York along the way. He greeted his brother most warmly, winked at me and scowled most darkly at Anthony. He seemed a little nervous.

“He’s worried that, once the other side of the gates of Hell, he’ll not find his way out,” Warwick said. “My dear brother has lived a life entirely free of sin, yet this nagging sense of guilt eats away at him. Once he skewers his first demon, I’m sure he’ll feel better.”

In a quiet, unassuming village of no account, we found the Portal alluded to by our good friend, the Archangel. We led our armies through it and I was sure I’d find some hellish landscape on the other side. Instead, we emerged into the same sort of sparkling winter’s day that we had just left. Tranquil, is the word I’d use to describe it. Our sense of peace didn’t long last, however. Space doesn’t allow me to detail all the adventures that befell us. Some involved fearsome giants, others great bands of trolls. There was a river of blood to wade through and another of sparkling cider. We crossed a canyon on a narrow, swaying rope bridge, hungry crocodiles, their teeth snapping, lying in wait below. We tramped through a maze of caves and tunnels beneath a massive mountain. We aided a band of dwarves on their quest while we were there, slew an elderly dragon, and continued on our way.

At last, we came to a broad road paved with golden stone. On each was carved a motto: I’ll do it tomorrow… Just leave it, I’ll sort it out… If I just prop this up with a brick… The cheque’s in the mail… I’ll mark them all ‘poison’ before I go to bed… Use by dates are just suggestions… Oh, that poor injured badger, I’ll just pick it up… We were definitely on the right road.

“Well, Makayla, this is it,” Warwick murmured.

“Dakota,” I said. “If I’m going to die saving the world, I’d like you to get my name right.”

He bowed his head. “Dakota. You’ve done me good service. I thank you for it.”

I felt a warm glow suffuse my being. It stayed with me right up until the sky darkened, the ground shook and, before our very eyes, a set of wrought metal gates rose from the very bowels of the earth. They were decorated with the visages of terrifying demons; birds with dusty black wings settled on the top, croaking their warning. Blood dripped from spikes and bits of it kept bursting into flame. Behind me, the Archbishop muttered a prayer.

“This really is it,” Warwick said. “I wonder if there’s a bell?”

EOTW -1

We took tea in the Devil’s parlour, which was opulently – if grimly – furnished. There was a certain repetitiveness to the decor. Skulls and flames, bodies skewered on spikes, depictions of men having their livers eaten by eagles and, tucked away in a corner, several scenes that our host might have thought ‘erotic’. I didn’t and even the Bastard of Fauconberg blushed when he saw them. The Archbishop just couldn’t relax, though the rest of us managed it to varying degrees. It was a little unsettling to find that both my master and Anthony Wydeville seemed right at home.

Along one wall, shelves stretched from ceiling to floor. On them were kept souls in jars, silently screaming. And if you’re wondering how I knew they screamed if I couldn’t hear them, I shall simply invite you to be in the same room as a thousand soul jars so you might find out for yourself. It was the most hideous, blood curdling, heart stopping non-sound I’ve ever not heard.

The Devil’s hand hovered above the teapot. “Shall I be mother?”

He poured us each a cup and gestured towards a plate of biscuits. Not even his Grace, who did so enjoy a nice biscuit, dared to take one.

“Why have you come?” the Devil said.

“We’ve heard some unpleasant rumours regarding the end of the world,” Warwick said. “And we were led to believe that perhaps this was something you were planning to do.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. So looking forward to it!”

“We’d like you to not do it, please.”

The Devil shook his head. “Sorry, can’t be done, I’m afraid. Once these things are set in motion, it’s the devil’s own job to stop them. It’s momentum, you see.”

I was tired and crotchety, not having spend the most comfortable of nights in the Devil’s guesthouse. The screams of the tormented kept me awake half the night. The sound of footsteps creeping between Warwick’s room and Anthony’s (or vice versa) kept me awake the other half. Seven times I had to lead one or other of them back to their bed, their claims of ‘sleepwalking’ entirely unconvincing. In the end, I joined the Bastard and the Archbishop in the parlour, where they’d found a rather nice bottle of something which they were most happy to share.

“I don’t like this, Dakota,” the Archbishop said. “I don’t like it at all! Mortal man has no business wandering around in Hell.”

“It’s not the most pleasant of places,” the Bastard said. “But I’ve seen worse. Port-au-Prince on a Saturday night, for one.”

My sleepless night, bad mood and disturbingly fuzzy head led me to impatience. I fixed the Devil with a withering gaze. He failed, entirely, to wither.

“You are the Prince of Darkness, are you not?” I said.

“Well, one of the Princes of Darkness, at any rate.” The Devil smiled. “I’m the one who can function without Sharon. But I assume you have a point to make?”

“I do. You have no business ending the world. Those of us who live on it are rather fond of it.”

“And what would you do, young lady, to save it?’

I nearly said ‘Anything’ but I caught a glint of mischief in the Devil’s eye and instead said, “What did you have in mind?”

“A duel! Just you and me. Your friends can watch. Then gather your lifeless body and carry you home, wailing and lamenting.”

“If there’s a duel to be fought…” Warwick said.

“Then I shall be the one to fight it!” Anthony said.

The Bastard of Fauconberg sniggered. “He’s talking real fighting, Wydeville. Not just prancing around on a horse to the breathless gasps of the fair sex.”

“I can fight!” Anthony bristled. “Right now, if you like. You and me, outside. Winner takes all!”

The Bastard laid a proprietorial hand on my arm. I shook it off. I wasn’t in the mood to be fought over today, however jolly it sounded.

“So,” the Devil said. “What do you say?”

“What kind of duel?” I said.

“You have a certain grace about you. So I propose we dance. To the death.”

I thought I could handle that and smiled.

“Naked,” he went on. “On a plate of iron. With a fire underneath it. Last one to die wins. We’ll do it straight after breakfast,” He stood up. “In the meantime, why don’t you take in the sights? I can find someone to show you around.”

I looked around at four pale faces and the laughing red visage of the Devil.

“Oh, dear God!” the Archbishop said.

“There must be some other way,” Warwick said.

“Yes, this is men’s business,” Anthony said.

“Naked,” the Bastard said.

“I’ll do it.” I stood up, spat on my hand and held it out to the Devil. ‘Bring it on!”

Day Zero

I spent a sleepless night being shown dance steps by my companions. I’d rather have been alone, working out some kind of strategy.

Anthony Wydeville showed me an elegant minuet, as slow as a glacier. I didn’t think it would impress the Devil.

Warwick stamped his feet and snapped his fingers in a wild Spanish dance, taught to him by a captive gypsy, his prowess forever to be hidden from his wife, who had once been a Queen and was well known for her short temper and jealousy at the faintest hint that Warwick had been in the company of a captive gypsy.

His Grace, the Archbishop, remembering a dance from his youth, but not the steps, nor the order in which those steps were danced, flushed a bright red and retired early.

The Bastard of Fauconberg stripped off his clothes and danced an energetic hornpipe.

“Solidarity,” he said, by way of explanation for his nakedness.

I shooed them all away, lay down on my bed and thought up several plans, discarding the sillier ones and refining the ones I thought had some chance of success. At the back of my mind, a little voice said, “You only have to dance for longer than the Devil,” but this sounded far too simplistic and I dismissed it.

The chamber was vast, the audience innumerable, the groans and screams indescribable. The iron plate was wide and long, the pit beneath it deep and the fire that burned in that pit had flames that varied from yellow to white hot. Warwick and Wydeville took their places in the front row. The Bastard stood behind me, massaging my shoulders and giving me last minute advice.

“He leads with his left,” he said, “you go with the right. Listen to the music and, above all, keep to the beat.”

The Archbishop, bothered by the idea of my nakedness, had blessed me before we left our quarters. He held me in his arms for a moment and kissed me on both cheeks.

“There’s some chaps here,” he said, “from Ancient Greece. I thought I might spend a quiet hour or two with them, going over some things. Take my blessings with you, and the Lord’s. I’ve always been most fond of you, Dakota. Remember that, whatever happens.”

Now, the Devil appeared in a puff of sulphurous smoke. A little showy, but if that was the best he could do…. He was already naked, his red skin glistening, his horns polished to a fine lustre and his forked beard neatly forked. I undressed quickly and handed my clothes to the Bastard.

“I love you, Dakota,” he whispered.

I climbed the steps to the platform, the Devil doing the same on the other side. The surface was hot, hotter than hell, and I resisted the urge to hop from one foot to the other. “Rise above it, Dakota,” I told myself. “Remember all that Zen.”

There was no announcement, no preliminaries at all, just a thunderous clash of chords and the contest began…

They say the Devil has the best music, and they’re not far wrong. Such a joyful, monstrous, cacophonic melange of melody! Such driving, pounding, sensual rhythms! I kicked up my feet and flailed my arms.

Flail! Flail!

I spun and jumped, two steps forward and three steps back. A jump to the left and a step to the right. Left leg in and shake it all about. Knees up (apparently) Mother Brown. I danced the frug, the watusi and the mashed potato. I danced minuets and quadrilles. I reeled and polkad as if my life (as it did) depended on it.

The Devil danced like a demon. Whirling and leaping, squatting and kicking. He was going to be hard to beat.

I marvelled at his innovative dance steps.

“My little baby sister can do it with ease,” he shouted.

“Put your hand on your hip,” I countered. “And let your backbone slip.”

All the while, hanging onto the ladder for dear life, darling Thomas shouted words of advice. I didn’t catch any of them, but I’m sure they were wise and most encouraging. When I could, I danced near him and blew him a kiss.

This is what was going to get me through this test. The love of a Bastard. If only Prince Edward had thought to send me a message, I’d be holding a laydown misere.

This is for the world, I told myself. For all the puppies and kittens. This is for the cutpurses and vagabonds. For the priests and politicians. The wives and daughters; husbands and sons. The mothers, the maidens and the whores.

I danced my memories of trees and oceans. My feet spun the history of indoor plumbing. My arms drew the shapes of a ginhouse and a church house; a school house and an outhouse. My feet were on fire! (No, really, they were. Actually on fire.)

Still the Devil outdanced me.

In their seats in the front row, Warwick and Anthony Wydeville watched me. The first bit his lip and the second winced each time I missed a beat.

I felt myself tiring, knew I’d twisted last summer but couldn’t for the life of me work out how to twist again. I tried my hardest to feel the beat from the tambourine, but I was no longer seventeen and most certainly wasn’t having the time of my life.

I stumbled, catching myself before I fell to my knees. The Devil laughed and executed a masterly backflip.

“Get down!” he screamed.

I was going to fail. I couldn’t go on. Maybe if I just stood in one place and shuffled my feet for a time…

Then it happened. The miracle. Somewhere deep within the music came the words that revived me, reminded me of what I was and what I must do.

“Hey, sexy lady.”

Yes! He was talking to me, singing just for me.

“Hey, sexy lady.”

The Devil paused, missing a beat and landing awkwardly. I lifted my head and my arms, crossed them in front of me and danced liked I’d never danced before.

“Hey, sexy lady.”

The Devil faltered.

A hundred songs, layered one upon another, drove me on. The Devil staggered and reeled, panting like a broken winded horse.

With every breath, every beat, every nonsensical word of every song, I grew a little stronger. When finally, the Devil fell into a sobbing heap on the floor, I spun round one last time, dropped to my knees and slid, stopping just inches from his pathetic form, both fists raised and a cry of triumph on my lips.

“OPA!”

It was done.

From all accounts, it was a most beautiful day. The sky was blue, the sun shone and a mighty wind blew the Trinity across the trackless ocean. Our escort of porpoises leapt with joy, chattering to each other nineteen to the dozen, giddy with the joy of life. Warwick stood at the wheel, the wind in his face and the call of his new home in his heart.

I saw none of this, for I was in my cabin telling the darling Bastard of Fauconberg how much I loved him. I made careful note of the words I used, for I didn’t want to repeat myself when I greeted Prince Edward.

The dear sweet Bastard sat beside me, bathing my poor burned feet and wrapping them in bandages.

“You saved the world, Dakota,” he said.

I lay back and stretched my arms above my head, enjoying the most delicious feeling anyone could ever experience and so few did. I had saved the world. Again.

Some of the earl of Salisbury’s men – Sir Robert Ogle

The other day, I found an article by AJ Pollard, The Northern Retainers of Richard Nevill, Earl of Salisbury, that sent me into my happy dance. Not that I want to clutter up the landscape with a lot of extraneous names and faces, but it will help me bring depth and texture to a couple of pretty crucial chapters. It was sheer luck – and the late mediaeval practice of recycling scraps of parchment – that allowed this list to survive. Ignored for centuries, someone took a closer look at this scribbled on scrap and said “Hey, this is a list of the earl of Salisbury’s northern retainers!” Pollard says its journey began at Middleham, where it was picked up during Salisbury’s months of exile in Calais, when Middleham Castle was in the hands of others. Some time later, the scrap was used as a flyleaf in a wholly unrelated work.

It’s a list of 19 men and the fees paid to them, compiled sometime between 1457 and 1459. Where it comes in handy for me is that among the mass of men accompanying Salisbury and his sons from Middleham to Ludlow (or, in the case of his sons, not quite Ludlow) there are now some with names. This list partly corresponds to the list given in The Poleaxed Source Books (which have their flaws, but are a good place to start) of the men who fought for (Y) at the battle of Blore Heath.

Pollard has grouped the men into: 1. substantial local gentry who lived closed to Middleham, linked together through marriage and pretty much all of an age with Salisbury; 2. Salisbury’s men living in ‘enemy’ country, within the earl of Westmorland’s sphere of influence; 3. those who lived in Percy/Clifford country.

I thought I’d try and track a few of them down, see what I can find. (There is one man listed as fighting for Salisbury at Blore Heath who doesn’t appear in Pollard’s list who intrigues me.) Here’s what I’ve managed to find. Today’s chappie is:

Sir Robert Ogle of Bothal  

Bothal is some 35km south of Alnwick, so very much in the heart of Percy territory. Ogle first comes to notice at the first battle of St Albans, where he led Warwick’s archers through the back gardens of houses and into the market square, surprising the half-ready ‘Lancastrians’ and breaking the deadlock.

I don’t have a birthdate for sir Robert, but it’s likely to have been around 1400. He married Isabel Kirkby of Kirkby Ireleth. They had two children, a son Owen and a daughter, Isabel or Elizabeth, who married Ogle’s fellow retainer, Sir John Middleton of Belsay.

Norham Castle
http://www.britainexpress.com/gallery-image.htm?photo=144

Ogle was constable of Norham castle and, from there, negotiated a year’s truce with the Scots in 1461. In 1462, he was created Lord Ogle and appointed steward of the forfeited Percy estates. The following year, when the Percies declared for Henry VI and occupied the northern castles of Bamburgh, Dunstanburgh and Alnwick, Ogle endured a 15 day siege at Norham. His garrison was relieved by the earl of Warwick, who followed that up with a raid into Scotland. Ogle died in November 1469, possibly of wounds received at the battle of Edgecote.

References

Pollard. AJ. 1976, The Northern Retainers of Richard Nevill Earl of Salisbury, Northern History

–. 1990, North-eastern England During the Wars of the Roses, Clarendon Press

What does it take to be called an ‘Amazon Fora Troll’?

Nothing, apparently.

Yet, there’s my name, on the STGB list. Click on it, and you’ll find two reviews. (That’s two reviews.) Mind you, it wouldn’t matter if I’d posted 100 reviews, still wouldn’t make me a troll. And if I’m not a troll, how can anyone trust that the other people listed are trolls? Like Kathryn Warner, who writes the best Edward II blog in the universe. She knows her stuff and she reviewed a book. Yep, that’s what she did – she reviewed a book. (I might say this a little more slowly so you can fully understand the horror. She. Reviewed. A. Book.) Some other people reviewed the same book and suggested that if you want to read about that particular time in history, two other writers had written better books. Yep, that’s right. In reviewing a product, two people thought that someone else’s product was better. Kathryn didn’t. She reviewed the book on its (lack of) historical accuracy and, for that, she’s named in a whole STGB post about the (non-existent) conspiracy to do Author A down in favour of Author B…

Oh, stuff it, I’m already on their ‘trolls’ list, so what more can they do? (I’m sure they believe this will damage my ‘brand’, this organisation that is so up in arms about the Amazon/Goodreads review process damaging writer’s brands. But if you’re not prepared to try and inflict actual damage on the people your (alleged) crazed fantasies insist are causing imaginary damage, then what’s the point of your existence? Actually, STGB, you might just want to answer that anyway – what’s the point in your existence?  (See what I did there? I used the word ‘alleged’ which means I can say anything I like.)

So, back to the story… There’s been an ongoing saga – two sagas, actually, that seem to have morphed into one, both bleated about in blogs, on facebook and in other internet fora. Both are about ‘nasty’ reviewers destroying the good names of the (sarcasm alert) World’s Best Writers. One involved a writer phoning the place of work of an Amazon commenter in an attempt to get them sacked. (Yes, that’s right. That’s what you do when someone annoys you. You phone their workplace and try to get them sacked.) The other involved some pretty nasty things being said about another writer. (Yes, that’s what some writers do – they attack other writers. Then, when they read a review of their work that doesn’t gush and fawn, they cry “I’ve been attacked!” Self-awareness much?) I’ve been on the periphery of these two sagas, attempting (in my capacity as occasional Voice of Reason) to get both these writers (who I don’t know well but share a couple of fora with) to stop getting involved in the Amazon/Goodreads review process because the only people they will hurt are themselves. And guess what? Their ‘brands’ have been damaged by all this. Which feeds their (alleged) paranoia even more.

I’m going to post a couple of links so that anyone who isn’t already aware of all this can see for themselves. I’ve alluded to these two stoushes before but, being well brought up, I mentioned no names. Well, the time for that is over. Linking Kathryn Warner and Sharon Penman (yes, that’s right – Sharon Penman) in a sordid little bit of ‘subterfuge’ and ‘sabotage’. So that Sharon Penman (I might just say that again – Sharon Penman) might sell more books than Katherine Ashe… Because, as we all know, Sharon Penman (not sure you heard me the first time – that’s Sharon Penman) is so desperately in need of sales and readers that she has no choice but to sabotage the practically unknown Katherine Ashe. FFS, STGB, sprinkle a bit of Lots-O-Logic onto your blog posts and it makes this kind of nonsense vanish clean away!

So Katherine Ashe self-immolates on the twin altars of Trashing Another Writer and Refusing to Accept She’s Not Infallible When It Comes to History (ok, not so snappy, but I try) and instead of taking a step back and saying “What could I have done to prevent this? Ah, I know! Maybe I shouldn’t have trashed that other writer! Perhaps I could have engaged my critics in an intelligent and reasonable way!” retreats farther and farther into (alleged) paranoia and calls in the STGB bullies. Because they are bullies. Worse than anything they imagine the people on their little list are. Some people read your book and didn’t like it, Katherine. Learn something from it. Get over it. Move on. Just don’t drag the good names of Kathryn Warner and Sharon Penman (*sigh*) into your (alleged) fevered imaginings. If you don’t fancy reading the ‘lost in a rainforest’ blog, here’s a couple of things Katherine Ashe has to say about fellow (and more successful) writer, Katharine Ashe: she writes ‘trash’; she’s the ‘mistress of the bodice ripper’; she ‘churns out’ books. Charming! And this is the writer who (according to one STGB commenter) doesn’t “ruin the reputation of another author for her profit”. Right. Oh, and while we’re about it, there’s a clear accusation in that comment that Sharon Penman (that’s THE Sharon Penman, in case you’re wondering) is somehow involved in this sordid little conspiracy.

And what does this conspiracy consist of? Three 1 star reviews for a book. Dated (respectively) 8 April 2010; 2 July 2012; and 16 February 2013. Two of them suggest that two other writers (not just Sharon Penman (no, there isn’t another, less well known Sharon Penman this refers to)) have written better books than the one in question. So a very small conspiracy that moves at the speed of pitch. You need to grit your teeth and think really hard to turn these three, unconnected, comments into ‘subterfuge’. But one bunch of people can do it – STGB! They can turn any review or comment into just about anything they fancy. And, while they’re about it, they can (ominous music) Put Your Name on a List!

Then there’s the other story. Of the writer who (ill-advisedly) launched himself into an Amazon flame war because a friend of his received a fairly unintelligible negative review. “What do I do?” the friend said. “Stand back,” ex-marine Lloyd Lofthouse said. “I’ll deal with this!” Which led to him phoning an Amazon commenter’s place of work and (allegedly) trying to get them fired. Which, further, has led to post after post after post about the ‘nasty trolls’ out there who just don’t have the sense to recognise (alleged) literary genius when they see it. And about how being involved in an Amazon flame war is just exactly the same, in every way, as being raped.

Katherine, Lloyd, please listen to me. People are going to read your books and maybe not like them. They’re going to tell other people that they don’t like them. Get over it.

And then there’s the petition. Yes, that’s right. Some writers believe that they should be able to decide who comments on their work and who doesn’t. They want the right to block commenters and reviewers from having their say on Amazon. They really do. They want to control what is said about their books. But they want to be able to say what they like about other people’s books. The other day, in a review written by one of the most (alleged) fervent STGB bullies, I found this: “I’ll tell you, I couldn’t even get through Twilight.” Yes! That’s one of the (alleged) leading lights in STGB – the How Dare You Say Something Negative About a Book What I Wrote! people – putting down in black and white that they failed to enjoy a book so much they didn’t finish it. Why isn’t this name (“Chris”. though there is some question as to whether it’s the writer’s real name) on the STGB ‘Amazon Fora Trolls’ list? I mean, that’s a really nasty thing to say about someone’s book! How dare “Chris” be so unkind! It’s probably a conspiracy. She’s suggesting, after all, that people shouldn’t read Twilight (whatever that is) but some other book by another author instead. SUBTERFUGE!!!

Also mentioned (and linked to) is the Don’t Defame the Dead ‘campaign’ and facebook group. The implication here is that it’s targeted at particular writers. It isn’t. It came from something that Sharon Penman once said, that Kathryn Warner thoroughly agreed with (she’s up to her eyeballs in nonsense about Edward II et al) and that a couple of us ran with. Here’s my DDTD contribution, with the link to Kathryn’s at the end. There’s nothing sinister in it and nothing to suggest that there’s any great conspiracy lurking behind the plaintive plea.

Here’s Kathryn Warner’s review of Montfort. This is, apparently, all the evidence anyone requires that she (and the other reviewers ‘outed’ by STGB) is in cahoots with Sharon Penman (sorry, I’m still trying to process that in my head – Sharon Penman!) to boost Penman’s sales at the expense of Ashe. I’d be ashamed of myself if I tried to blame slow (or non-existent) sales on (imaginary) fans of Genuine Great Author being out to get me. I’d call in the favour I asked some time ago and get a very good friend of mine to bitch slap me till I started talking sense again.

Kathryn Warner is highly knowledgeable in her field. If I need to know anything about any of the Three Edwards, their lives and times, I go to Kathryn. She is the furthest thing from a troll or a bully that anyone could wish to meet. There’s nonsense that needs to be stopped; heads than need to be pulled in and egos that need to be deflated. I don’t call for STGB to be silenced. They have the right to talk whatever nonsense they like; anything else would require me to sink to their level and I have this thing called dignity that prevents that. But they need to be very careful about who they make allegations about. I’m expecting a retraction in their next blog – apologising to both Kathryn and Sharon Penman. It might be a false hope, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

The entertainment business – music; books; films; tv; sport &c – is not for the thin skinned or the fainthearted. If you aren’t prepared to take criticism (and yes, sulk a bit if you get a bad review; drink a bottle of wine; vent to your husband/wife/best friend, but don’t take it to Amazon or facebook or Goodreads) then don’t get into it. And “I didn’t like this book much” however its worded doesn’t give any writer, or their friends, the right to go after the reviewer. Suck it up and move on.

As for me being an Amazon troll… I’m expecting someone to try and start a flamewar on one of my two reviews. They may be disappointed.

UPDATE: Two comments left on the STGB blog by people named in their ‘Amazon Fora Trolls’ list have not only not been published, they’ve been removed from the moderation queue. That’s two people who have been labelled ‘troll’s by this group and not given the right of reply. Not the actions of a group that wants to be seen as aboveboard and honest. You want to call someone a troll without a shred of evidence and then not give them the right of reply? Or is it just difficult to pretend that someone’s evil when others can read their words?

UPDATE:

Rather than actually approving either of the comments, this was posted on the STGB site overnight. Further evidence of their methods. If you have nothing to fear, STGB, let your critics speak for themselves. And Katherine Ashe did call Katharine Ashe’s books ‘trash’. Just click on the link to the ‘lost in the rainforest’ story and you’ll see it right there.

Passion, cathedrals and Richard III

“I’m starting to wish they’d left him where he was.” A comment on a Richard III related facebook page. Not one I agree with entirely, but I see the point being made. If he was still where he was originally buried – in the ruins of Greyfriars Priory under a social services carpark in Leicester – there’s whole bunches of arguments we wouldn’t now be having. But to wish this monumental discovery unmade would be to lose a good deal more than just the tension in the air. There are things we now know about Richard III (with more, surely, to come) that were impossible before his remains were found. So, they were found and now they have to be dealt with. Reburied. And that’s just the latest in a line of displeasure that began within a week of the press conference announcing his identity.

The Leicester University team were criticised; the Leicester and not York (or Westminster or wherever) burial decision was criticised; and now there’s angst and turmoil over the tomb. And for a couple of months now, I’ve just been staring open-mouthed, muttering “Why can’t we all just be glad he was found? Why add all this drama?”

Reacting and responding to some of this displeasure has taken me on something of a journey. It began with disbelief – how could anyone be so ungrateful to the team that found Richard? to the cathedral that’s going to be his burial place?; then frustration and (I’ll admit) a bit of snark; and now I’m in a slightly calmer place, two profound moments of insight and understanding later.

Firstly, the sheer disconnect between ‘Ricardians’ and the ‘rest of the world’ (profound insight #1). I’ve said before that Ricardians come in a bewildering variety of flavours, so I should make it clear here that I’m referring to white-hot-with-passion Ricardians, who bristle with indignation, even hostility, when someone questions the received belief that Richard could do no wrong. This is a minority group, but very vocal. One or two of them can lead the agenda in a given forum, shortshrift given to anyone who doesn’t fall in behind them. I’ve met a few and find them very difficult to have rational conversations with. Their voices are so loud that they drown out those of us who want the discussion to be a little less strident (and that is, by far, the majority of us). They react swiftly, and sharply, to any perceived criticism of Richard and they are often ‘distraught’ or ‘astounded’ by the things others say or do. They feel that they’re in danger of losing ‘their’ Richard, that other people – who probably hate him, or at the very least, don’t love him – are getting their hands on him. And it hurts (profound insight #2).

There are calm and rational voices in this discussion belonging to people who believe that Leicester cathedral’s decision should be changed, that the words they’ve chosen are unfortunate and that it’s all gone horribly wrong. But these voices are being drowned out. With death threats and abusive emails being sent to the Dean of York this  is the view many people now have of Ricardians as a whole. And it’s an entirely incorrect view. No-one does the group they represent any favours by acting in an irrational, or criminal, manner. Lack of self-awareness in this causes a good deal of harm. If someone says “That’s the wrong way to behave, it makes people think poorly of us as a whole” then that’s probably a sad, but unavoidable, fact. Harm has been done by the strident and the unhinged. The rational among us now have to work double time to mitigate this harm. Firstly, by making it very clear that we are rational.

My profound moments of insight are hardly new or exclusive to me. There’s probably some lovely sociology or psychology jargon that covers them in a neat and scholarly way, but as I don’t know what that jargon is, all I can do is press on on my own.

I’ll take them out of order. While one occurred after the other, it’s the second that has priority.

Profound Moment of Insight #2 – When you share something you love with the rest of the world, you give a little of it away.

And that allows the rest of the world to see it through their own eyes. They might have picked up your interest in whatever it is, but they haven’t been infected by your passion. An episode from my childhood might be a good illustration of this. When I was about 10, I found a bower bird nest.

http://www.cosmicintelligenceagency.com/2012/08/7-aug-2012-and-venus-in-cancer/

I kept it a secret for a long time, then one day I showed my mother. She wasn’t quite as impressed as I was but that was ok. Then, without consulting me at all! she took a group of other people down to see it and it was all spoiled. What had been my glorious wonderful secret thing belonged to other people. I was incapable of expressing my feelings to myself, let alone my mother, and she thought I was being awfully silly. But the magic had gone! People who just didn’t understand had seen the nest! And how could they understand? They weren’t me! They didn’t stumble on it and stop in their tracks, breathing in the wonder of it.

That’s how I think it is for some Ricardians at the moment. Richard III is theirs. He belongs to them. And while the dig in Leicester was going on, the excitement of it masked the looming reality: the rest of the world was soon to be made aware of Richard, and they weren’t going to magically, miraculously, come to see him the way Ricardians do. In fact, some might even have some harsh things to say! But the harsh things can be dealt with. After all, Ricardians of various flavours have been countering the harsh for a long time now. I think what’s worse is that people who didn’t care much about Richard not that long ago, now have some practical things to say. Not only has Richard been taken away by the rest of the word, he’s been taken away by people who now have to do something about him and they just don’t care! Not in the right way, anyway.

Richard III never did belong exclusively to Ricardians but now the illusion that he did is gone. There are other voices out there now that can’t just be ignored. People want to discuss him and they can’t be silenced. “But they didn’t care about him not that long ago!”. And I understand this, I really do. But it was the Richard III Society that put up the money for the dig and the research, two members in particular who got the whole thing going and kept it going. For this the names of Philippa Langley and John Ashdown-Hill should go down in Ricardian annals for all time. They worked hard, sometimes against stiff odds. And they achieved what they set out to. The Society as a whole did. And this is where it gets tricky, because it was the Richard III Society that gave Richard to the rest of the world. We can’t even pretend he’s exclusively ours anymore. We shared him with the world and gave a bit of him away.

Profound Moment of Insight #1 – When people with a passion and representatives of the rest of the world set out at opposite ends of a long road, there’s little chance they’ll manage to meet in the middle

Any group of people with a deep and burning passion for someone or some thing is a puzzle to the rest of the world. The deep and burning passion people have lived with their passion for some time (though a few manage to be burningly passionate after reading a single novel, but that’s another story.) When the rest of the world is made aware of the object of that burning passion, fire and love and belief don’t immediately manifest themselves in their hearts. The rest of the world rather likes to make up its own mind. Having done that, some of them may join the deep and burning passion group. Others won’t, their interest will be heightened but they won’t necessarily buy into anything. That’s the way of things.

There are three ways of convincing members of the rest of the world to join that group. One is by presenting the ‘facts’ as the group sees them (or as individuals within the group see them), encouraging them to look at other ‘facts’ as the group might not see them, and allowing minds to be made up, objectively and dispassionately. The second way is to just present the ‘facts’ as the group sees them, a kind of take or leave it approach. And the third is far more insidious and dangerous. There is a history related forum (probably not the only one) on the internet that, checked off against a ‘cult-like features’ list, comes dangerously close to cult-like. This is a factory for producing ‘people who think like us’ and weeding out ‘people who don’t’ (or ‘haters’). The first method is the one I favour. I get uncomfortable when someone tries method 2 on me and cults make me fight back. With a vengeance. The rest of the world hasn’t been given time to make up its mind. It’s being beset, from all sides, by already established views of Richard. “Keep up!” they’re told, and it’s not easy. We’ve had time to process it all, get used to it, follow the dig, shed a tear at the press conference, get our hopes up about what it all means. The rest of the world hasn’t. They woke up one morning to a bewilderment of information (and misinformation) about Richard and Ricardians and I’m not surprised they’re confused and bemused. So we should tread a little more gently and softly.

I’m sure the Chapter of Leicester Cathedral didn’t mean to be unkind or patronising with they spoke of Richard representing both the ‘honourable and dishonourable’. To me, they come across as more puzzled than patronising. Nor do I believe the phrase ‘modest dignity’ found in their design brief for Richard’s monument to be any kind of ‘slap in the face’. They have practicalities to consider, and they have to take into account that the jury is still out on just where Richard sits on that honourable/dishonourable continuum. Even the Ricardian jury is out. There a range of views within Ricardian circles, ranging from ‘he could do no wrong’ to ‘I think he might have done a little bit wrong’. So if we’re not united on our stance (and why should we be?), how on earth can we expect the rest of the world to be?

So, we have at one end of the road some very vocal, devoted and passionate Ricardians who want a tomb along the lines of the original design.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-leicestershire-21427369

Which is quite lovely. If that can be achieved without causing impediment in the cathedral itself, it’s a ready-made solution. The decision seemed to have been made, but as I wasn’t part of the discussions and haven’t seen any kind of minute or document to show that – unequivocally – the decision was made and fully accepted by the cathedral, it’s hard to know quite why it was unmade (if it was unmade). I do understand the disappointment. That tomb would have been pretty cool.

Whatever the history of this, we’re at a different place now. The tomb, as is, has been declared too large and too obtrusive. Whether that’s the case or not, again I don’t know for certain. I’ve never been to Leicester cathedral. All I can do is listen to those who have.

The place we’re at now is the design brief from the cathedral that states very clearly that what they’re looking at is a ledger stone. Or  ’a slab’ as it’s rather disparagingly referred to from time to time. “They want to throw him under a slab!” Well, no, they don’t. They’re already auditioning choirs for a funeral that’s more than a year away, so ‘throwing’ Richard under anything isn’t in any way a realistic foreshadowing of what is to come.

Here’s the ‘slab’ they ‘threw’ Henry VI under:

And Henry VIII, Charles I and ‘an infant child of Queen Anne’:

I’m not saying ‘what’s good for one (or three) kings is good for all kings’ but maybe let’s not see this as any kind of calculated insult. The intensely passionate Ricardians are starting from their end of the road with ‘He’s our king. We love him and we demand something that reflects our love and his greatness as a king!”. (Fair enough.) And, at the other end, the rest of the world, represented by Leicester cathedral are saying, “But there are practicalities to think of! Rules and regulations! And he wasn’t, by any means, the perfect man or the perfect king you believe him to be. Look, we’ll do our best but we can’t handle a 7′ tomb.”

These two paths are doomed to not meet in the middle.

There might be something that can be done to persuade the Chapter to change their minds. It won’t be done by getting ‘distraught’ and seeing them as the enemy. It won’t be done by newspaper polls. It might be done by quiet, calm and rational argument, which I’m sure is being tried behind the scenes. But maybe the decision is made and can’t be changed. If that’s the case, then the money raised by the Society should be used to make the best, most respectful and beautiful ledger stone a king of England ever had. Maybe then we can get back to what’s really important – a man who everyone thought was lost forever has been found. Setting aside differences with university, cathedral and the rest of the world would let us get back to that. It’s something we should be marvelling at, not nitpicking.

Guest post for Sarah’s History for Women’s History Month

My post on Alice Montacute, countess of Salisbury.

http://sarahshistoryblog.wordpress.com/2013/03/10/alice-montacute-countess-of-salisbury-guest-post-by-author-kl-clark/

My thanks to Sarah for inviting me to contribute to a very exciting month of guest posts. Check them all out while you’re there!

Historical conjecture and speculation

There’s been a lot of discussion lately about historical conjecture and speculation, whether it’s right or wrong; whether specific examples are right or wrong. It’s a complicated and vexed issue because it’s always right and never wrong; or never right and always wrong, or sometimes right… only we might never know for sure which.

How we respond to conjecture and speculation is entirely subjective. Even when we run it through our most objective of objective filters, it’s subjective in the end. That’s because it’s more about belief than knowledge; more about ideas than facts. But that’s the important part of the process that’s often missed: running it through filters of objectivity. Not just accepting it because it fits our preconceived ideas, or because we like the person doing the conjecturing and speculating.

At it’s most logical and sound, where  bits aren’t added and others taken away, when its expounded by the most intelligent person in the universe, we can only plot it on a ‘likeliness gauge’; on a ‘I could buy that’ scale, where 0 is ‘not at all’ and 10 is ‘without reservation’. And the same piece of conjecture and speculation is going to be in different places on this gauge and on that scale for different people. Fascinating? Yes. Frustrating? Hell, yes!

See, the same standards should be in place across the board. Each piece of conjecture and speculation (ok, C&S from now on because my hands keep stumbling over the -ject- and the -tion) should be judged on its own merits. Does it stack up? How much filler is needed to make it work? Does it fit other more established ‘facts’? What sources have been mined? What sources have been ignored? Is there any evidence of cherrypicking? For it to work, is a leap of faith and/or logic required? Does it have internal logic? Instead we get: Do I approve of the person who is conjecturing and speculating? What ridiculous analogies do I have to make in order to refute it? Does it contradict the C&S that I’ve already internalised? (The last question will nearly always be ‘yes’. That’s the nature of the beast. But if we run it through the earlier questions, we might come to the intriguing conclusion that either might be right. And that’s ok.)

The trouble is that so much of history has become a matter of belief, especially (and you knew this was coming) the bits of history that involve Richard III. Person A (who really really likes him) conjectures and speculates the very best of and for him. Person B (who hasn’t got a view either way) conjectures and speculates more neutrally. Person C (who thinks he was evil personified) conjectures and speculates the very worst. I know which of the three I’d be more likely to listen to.

One of the things I hear most often from the Persons A of this world is: “Be more openminded!”. Which I’ve learned actually means: “Start thinking like we do!”. (Maybe I should have included Person D in this (who quite likes Richard but is prepared to deal with findings that lean more towards our friend C than A).  Or Person E (who thinks he was a bit of a villain but is prepared to give him credit where it’s due). There are probably quite a lot of other Persons involved in this, a whole alphabet of them. And that’s because responses to Richard III don’t just come in two flavours. There’s a whole beachside gelato bar out there!) Anyway, back to the ‘openminded’ thing. Of the Persons so far, B, D and E come  closer to the ‘openminded’ goal than either A or C. And B, D and E are getting tired of hearing that they’ve missed it. “Be quiet, closeminded fool!” we get told. “Go away and repeat the mantra “Richard could do no wrong” and don’t come back until you believe it.”

As for the notion of ‘objectiveness’… I’ve come to understand that, in another semantic twist, it to has come to mean “thinking like we do” as well. Saying “I don’t know what happened, I want to read everything I can and think about it for a bit. Here’s some ideas, they might be wrong, but hey! it’s a start!” isn’t, apparently, ‘objective’. Saying “I’ve just read all this stuff written by various Persons A and they’re dead right!” is ‘objective’. Apparently. In fact, the more actual objectivity you have, the more you’re shoved into the Person C basket. And they’re not hugely more objective than the Persons A. See how complicated it is? No wonder I’m exhausted!

So, just to set the record straight, I’m not a ‘traditionalist’ (with or without a capital T), I’m not an ‘opponent’. And I’m not an ‘atheist’. (Well, I am, but not when it comes to Richard III. Because he’s not a deity.) I’m just someone who wants to find out (if that’s at all possible) what went on, without too much interference from Persons A and C.

So, you’ve written a book…

I wasn’t planning to write yet another post about the bad behaviour of authors, but the last few days have seen yet another mini-explosion of authorial hooliganism that I just had to put pen to paper… fingertips to keyboard. This has been prompted (again) by writers’ responses to critical reviews, two in particular. One was erudite, well written, well researched and referenced. The other was head-scratchingly unintelligible. I’m not going to provide links because I don’t want to add to the flamewar. Instead, I’m going to use these reviews, and the fallout, to annotate yet another Advice for Writers list.

So, you’ve written a book…

That’s quite an achievement, if you’ve done it well. For the sake of the exercise, I’ll assume that you have. You’ve gone through several drafts, checked grammar, spelling and formatting. You’ve let people you trust read it and thanked them for their honest feedback. If you have the funds, you’ve sent it to an editor. It’s as good as you can get it and now it’s for sale. And review. Your work is Out There in the world, waiting for people to buy and enjoy. You’re sitting back and waiting for all the glowing reviews that you just know are going to come flooding in because you’ve written the Best Book Ever!

Here’s what you haven’t done: you haven’t entered and won a cleverness competition with all the people out there too stupid and too illiterate to write a book; you haven’t provided the world with a masterpiece that all who read will gasp and marvel at; you haven’t proved your intellectual dominance and invincibility. Someone’s going to read your book and they’re not going to like it. You can’t help that. You’ve done everything you possibly can. It’s not your fault the world doesn’t hail you as it should.

You read a review and you learn that, according to one person (or maybe even more) your story stinks, your dialogue is stilted, you’re repetitive, your sentences are too long, you’ve made errors of fact, the formatting’s out, you didn’t proofread as carefully as you might have, the twist at the end is baffling, the prose is turgid, your plot unengaging, your characters unlikeable and one-dimensional. And this hurts. It hurts bad. You have every right to be hurt by these words. Your first instinct is to believe that this reviewer is out to get you. They want to destroy your writing career. Because they’re jealous. And stupid. They’ve probably only read two books in their whole life! Maybe they need therapy. And, if you only took the time out of your busy life to explain why they should have loved your book, they’ll understand, read it again and fall in line with all the other people who love your book. A visit to Amazon to leave one little comment won’t hurt, surely?

And here’s where it starts.

See, there are people who spend a lot of time on Amazon, buying books and reviewing them. Some of them are kind in their criticism. They genuinely want to be helpful. They believe that if they point out the flaws in a book, the author will be able to use this in their future work. “The dialogue was a little stilted” might lead the writer to improving their dialogue. It’s what happens to the reviewer in their workplace. They get performance reviews that aren’t designed to make people feel bad. They’re designed to let people know how they’re going with their work and make improvements where they’re needed. That’s the way to look at book reviews. Even though – and this is a crucial point – they’re not written for the benefit of writers but for the benefit of potential readers. The reviewer is less interested in you knowing that your dialogue is stilted than in letting potential readers know this. Some might not care, others might not notice, others still might disagree. I never buy a book before I’ve read a bit of it. A lot of people are the same. “Oh, someone thinks the dialogue is stilted,” we might say. “Better check that out.” Then, after the ‘look inside’ has been done, we’ll either agree, disagree or not care. This will influence our decision to buy the book, but isn’t that what reviews are all about? You’re asking people to pay for something. Anyone who hands over money in return for a product or a service has the right to know as much about the reliability, suitability or performance of that product or service as they can. And, if they use that product or service and find it unsatisfactory, they have the right to let other people know that. That doesn’t mean they’re jealous of the product-maker or the service-provider, nor does it mean they’re out to get them. (Sometimes, a review is personally motivated, but this is rare and can usually be spotted. Writers with sockpuppet accounts are always rumbled in the end. “I didn’t enjoy this book” however badly worded, poorly spelled or expressed isn’t a sign of jealousy and spite.) Most reviewers aren’t even thinking about the writer when they post a review. They’re thinking about themselves and others who might take a look at the book with a view to buying it. THIS IS WHAT THE REVIEW PROCESS IS FOR! Writers behaving badly threaten this process. I am one writer who will not thank them for that.

But you’re hurting and the review was written by someone who doesn’t know how to use commas! And they spelled ‘dialogue’ wrong! Clearly, they’re an illiterate, jealous 10 year old, full of spite and malice, who wants to make you cry. They need educating. You have links to all the fine, positive, glowing reviews that you’ve received for your book. You have all those awards you paid good money to win. And you have clever people, people with taste and intellect, who all just love your book! If you just pointed this out to that illiterate, stupid, malicious, possibly certifiable reviewer, they’ll be ashamed of their words and the hurt will go away.

Except there are lurkers on Amazon just waiting for a foolish writer to stick their heads up above the parapets and respond to a critical review. They do this because they’re sick of writers rallying friends, fans and family to shout down a review and insult a reviewer. They want the Amazon (and Goodreads) review process to be a safe place for readers to express their opinions. They want to be able to read the reviews of a book – from the 1 stars to the 5, from the glowing to the critical – without fear that they, or some other poor soul, will be trashed and bullied by a band of marauding writers. They don’t want to see every 1-3 star review spammed by the writer, copying and pasting their writing cv. They don’t want to see someone who struggles to put two sentences together be told they need therapy. When they see that, the red mist comes down and they (some of them) go a little bonkers. They start calling you names. They call your sanity and intelligence into question. They defend the reviewer you’ve just trashed with a vengeance. So you go in harder. Maybe you do something incredibly stupid (and potentially threatening) as to find out where they work, or live, or eat lunch, and then tell them that you know these things. That might shut them up! Because YOU have the right to behave however you like. You’re a writer! The pinnacle of human achievement. An intellectual and literary giant, striding through humanity waving your book in people’s faces. And they’re just…

They’re just people who have a real life, a personal life, a private life. And this is off-limits to you, the writer.

So, here’s my Advice to Writers bit:

1. Don’t go to Amazon or Goodreads to respond to a review of your own or a friend’s book. If you feel you must rebut, save it for your blog. Don’t stray into personal insult, stick to the points. Better yet, when you discuss this review on your blog, find the bits that are useful and thank the reviewer for pointing them out.

2. Don’t throw a facebook pity party to get your friends, fans and family to respond to a review. People can see that a mile off. Your friends, fans and family will have a ‘defend our friend/favourite writer/spouse’ thing going on and they will be feral. This will hurt the reviewer, which is your aim. It might intimidate them to silence. Which is your aim. It might get other people out on your side as well… No, it won’t do the last. It will attract the lurkers I talked about earlier. And they will call your feral and raise you a feral.

3. If you ignore this advice and get into a flame war with reviewers or lurkers, keep reminding yourself that calling their place of work, or their home, or letting them know that you know where they live, where they work or where they eat lunch is to stray into Sociopathland. You have no right to do any of these things. If you keep it up and migrate to Stalkerland, YOU will be the one who ends up in trouble. Meanwhile, your name will be on a sizeable number of Never to Be Read lists. Maybe you can comfort yourself with the notion that controversy sells books. It might. You might get a spike in sales. That doesn’t mean you’ve won a bunch of hearts and minds. When all those avid bandwagon jumpers read your book and find out it’s YOU, the obnoxious writer, that’s controversial, not your work, they’ll drop you like last week’s cold potato. You’ve gained nothing in the long term, except a reputation for being obnoxious. And a bullly. And possibly even a stalker.

4. This applies to you as friend-of-writer as well. If your writer friend gets a less-than-stellar review and they say “Please go to Amazon and vote this loser down!” take a deep breath and try and find a better way to help them. Remind them of what they have to lose. Help them put this one (or two, or even more) review into perspective. Read it and find the bits your friend might find useful. If necessary, say something like “That’s just one person. Look at all the positive reviews you’ve got!”.

5. Don’t go to Amazon or Goodreads to respond to a review of your own or a friend’s book.

6. Don’t go to Amazon or Goodreads to respond to a review of your own or a friend’s book.

More particle physics – the ergo-on (or How one finding can provide ‘proof’ for diametrically opposing sides)

Let’s call them Team Villain and Team Saint, the two polar extremes in the Richard III debate. If we drew a venn diagram, there’d be no intersection between these two sets. They have nothing in common. Except dogged persistence; absolute faith in the rightness of their position, an inability to move an inch and a talent for making everything in the record support their point of view. On reflection, they have a lot in common. Which is a little worrying.

We see evidence of it everywhere, not just in arguments about Richard III. How many battles have been fought over the centuries by forces who both knew that God was on their side? I’ve thought long and hard about this (for at least as long as it took the water to boil for the cup of tea that’s sitting on my desk) and have come to a startling conclusion. There is a sub-atomic particle that causes two or more sets of people with mutually exclusive points of view to both (or all) claim a single fact as proof positive that they are right and everyone else is wrong. I call this particle the ergo-on.

The ergo-on doesn’t change facts depending on who’s looking at them. What it does is link two unrelated facts to form a causal relationship. It doesn’t care what those facts are, and can link any two, possibly more. Ergo-ons are particularly fond of children, though they’re happy to hang around adults. Here’s a small example of an ergo-on at work, from the life of my sister. (Whose permission I haven’t sought to tell this story, but hey! she’s my sister.)

She startled our mother once by saying she didn’t want to go on a particular train journey because “the waiters drop chips in your tea”. On further interrogation, our mother discovered that, on her first and (so far) only train journey, a waiter had indeed dropped a chip in my sister’s cup of tea. “Trains” and “Chip dropping waiters” were linked by the ergo-on to form the conclusion: Waiters on trains always drop chips in cups of tea. I don’t want chip flavoured tea, or tea flavoured chips. Ergo, I should avoid trains.

Ergo-ons can link a single idea with two other competing ideas to form two quite separate, and mutually exclusive, conclusions from the same fact. It’s the only way to explain why Richard III’s scoliosis can prove both Team Villain and Team Saint absolutely right. It works like this.

Team Villian: Richard had scoliosis. Sir Thomas More said he had severe spinal deformity and he was right. Ergo: More was right about everything he said concerning Richard.

Team Saint: Richard had scoliosis. Sir Thomas More said he was a hunchback and he was wrong. Ergo: More was wrong about everything he said concerning Richard.

Being a moderate and a member neither of Team Villain or Team Saint (I’m toying with Team Let-Him-Be-What-He-Was, but I’m not sure it’ll catch on), I have no patience with ergo-ons and swat them with rolled up newspapers when they come buzzing around.

This is how I think the scoliosis/what More said should be dealt with.

Team Let-Him-Be-What-He-Was: Richard had scoliosis. Sir Thomas More said he was a hunchback. Now, a hunchback and scoliosis are two different things, so either More’s information was garbled; ‘hunchback’ was less specific than it is now; or the story was deliberately changed to make Richard seem worse. However, it was clearly not (as has been strenuously argued in the past) made up from the whole cloth. Whether it’s garbled, a misunderstanding or deliberate distortion, there is a kernel of truth in it. Richard did have a misshapen spine. (I’m sorry about words like ‘deformed’ and ‘misshapen’ but there really aren’t any other concise alternatives.)

Team LHBWHW goes on: So, clearly we can’t disregard everything More has to say, because some of it does seem to have a nub of historical truth in it. But nor can we accept everything he has to say, because at least this story, nub of historical truth or not, is some distance away from what we now know to be the truth. So maybe what we need to do is approach More with caution, but not be dismissive, examine each thing he says, triangulating it (where possible) with things other people have said and try to work out, on the balance of probabilities and the preponderance of evidence, which bits of More are truth-nubby and which aren’t.

I’ve used More and the scoliosis as an example because the two opposing ergo-on influenced conclusions mentioned above have actually been uttered over the last day or so.

Both Teams might need to give a little ground in order to bring them a little closer to the actual Richard. The as actual as we can hope for Richard, at any rate. Ergo-ons don’t belong in the discussion. Therefore-ons might, but they’re much more circumspect and sensible. They care which facts they link and are agitated by the prospect of linking unrelated facts to form embarrassingly conflicting conclusions. It sets up a cognitive dissonance wave that breaks all the therefore-ons’ bonds, yet leaves the ergo-ons’ bonds intact.

Team LHBWHW is feeling a little squeezed by both sides at the moment, but we’re holding ground. With any luck, and a dedicated ergo-on eradication campaign, we might just push the boundaries back and give the newly unearthed Richard the ‘coming home’ gift he deserves – the chance for him to be who he was, not what those on either extreme want him to be.