If you ask nicely enough, maybe I'll try to do one for Edward II's reign. Maybe I'm looking up pictures on Lolcats right now. Who knows?
Friday, February 27, 2009
The Reign of Richard III as Told by LOL Cats
Not long ago, it occurred to me that with all the ink that's been spilled on Richard III, there has not yet been a telling of his story through Lolcats. Naturally, this is a situation that I thought should be remedied straightaway. (There's even one at the end for you Ricardians who patiently follow this blog, hoping that I'll see the light.)
If you ask nicely enough, maybe I'll try to do one for Edward II's reign. Maybe I'm looking up pictures on Lolcats right now. Who knows?
If you ask nicely enough, maybe I'll try to do one for Edward II's reign. Maybe I'm looking up pictures on Lolcats right now. Who knows?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Search Terms O' the Month (And Last Month)
How have people reached my website lately? Let me count the ways:
was edward ii friends with the pope?
Sure! They sent each other greeting cards all of the time.
king edward ii something nice he done
Well, he made friends with the Pope, didn't he?
historical novels about the tudors
People actually write historical novels about the Tudors?
history of sir oswald spiffy
I love spiffy history.
sue higgenbotham cpa
Buddy, you are so at the wrong website.
did the woodvilles hate richard iii
Of course not! Everyone loves Richard III.
richard iii susan higginbotham
See? I told you so.
jean plaidy sex
No! No! NO!
how did kings know their protectors were loyal
Well, if they declared you a bastard, it probably wasn't a really good sign.
le despenser time team
If we're talking time machines, I would strongly advise not acquiring Gower this time round.
small timelines of edward i
Nothing about Edward Longshanks was small. Including his timelines.
skinny muscular wife whips husband
I really don't even want to think about this one.
was edward ii friends with the pope?
Sure! They sent each other greeting cards all of the time.
king edward ii something nice he done
Well, he made friends with the Pope, didn't he?
historical novels about the tudors
People actually write historical novels about the Tudors?
history of sir oswald spiffy
I love spiffy history.
sue higgenbotham cpa
Buddy, you are so at the wrong website.
did the woodvilles hate richard iii
Of course not! Everyone loves Richard III.
richard iii susan higginbotham
See? I told you so.
jean plaidy sex
No! No! NO!
how did kings know their protectors were loyal
Well, if they declared you a bastard, it probably wasn't a really good sign.
le despenser time team
If we're talking time machines, I would strongly advise not acquiring Gower this time round.
small timelines of edward i
Nothing about Edward Longshanks was small. Including his timelines.
skinny muscular wife whips husband
I really don't even want to think about this one.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
400 Posts, a Pretty New Cover, and a Tombstone
I just noticed that my last post was my 400th post! Happy 400th post to me!
Also, I was excited to see that the pretty new cover for Hugh and Bess is now on Amazon. (Naturally, you might ask: "Where's Hugh?" He's there--trust me--probably just went out for an ale with the boys.)
And if you're fearing that I'm going to bang on about historical accuracy in historical fiction again, no worries. Instead, enjoy this cautionary message from Tombstone Generator:
Also, I was excited to see that the pretty new cover for Hugh and Bess is now on Amazon. (Naturally, you might ask: "Where's Hugh?" He's there--trust me--probably just went out for an ale with the boys.)
And if you're fearing that I'm going to bang on about historical accuracy in historical fiction again, no worries. Instead, enjoy this cautionary message from Tombstone Generator:
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Accuracy Redux
Over the past couple of days, a few posts have popped up dealing with the subject of historical accuracy in historical fiction, specifically with the question of how one should depict historical figures. Here, for instance, are posts by Nan Hawthorne and Literate Housewife.
It's true, as Literate Housewife points out, that fiction is just that--fiction--and that readers should never take a novel as the last word on any subject. (For that matter, the same holds true with nonfiction; mistakes aren't confined to novels.) But it's also true that for many readers, fiction is where their reading stops, which means that a fictional portrayal of a historical figure is what sticks in a reader's mind. Thus, I believe that at the very least, an author has the responsibility to treat historical figures with respect: that is, not to distort known facts or to invent episodes that paint the person in a grossly negative light.
Of course, there is the problem that with many historical figures, not that much is known about them, and even less about their motives. Writers therefore have to fill in the gaps; I've had to do so in both of my published novels and in the novel I'm writing now. But even then, there's responsible gap-filling and irresponsible gap-filling. My work in progress involves many historical figures, including Richard III and Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. The two men are known to have encountered each other before 1483, but we don't know how they felt about each other during those years. Were they friends? Were they indifferent to each other? Hostile toward each other? I chose in my novel to make them friends, which I think is reasonable given the alliance they formed in 1483.
But say I went further than that. Say I depicted Richard and Henry not only as friends, but as young men carousing about London, engaging in group sex and raping women and boys alike. After all, I might argue (if I had a chance to argue before my lynching at the hands of furious Ricardians), there's no evidence that the two men didn't do these things, and it makes for a good story. (I'm assuming, in all of this, that I haven't added an author's note fessing up to my invention.)
Now let's go even further and say that instead of a relatively unknown writer like myself inventing a kinky Richard and Harry, someone like ______ (insert the name of the best-selling author of your choice) depicts the hapless pair in this manner. Suddenly, that portrayal has acquired a whole new credibility, hasn't it? After all, ________ sells millions of books. Surely he or she must have some basis for what he's writing. And if ________ adds a bibliography to her novel, lending it even more respectability, poor Harry and Richard don't stand a chance.
Now, there's one major flaw in my example above: Richard III is a well-known figure, who has been the subject not only of Shakespeare's famous play but the hero of many historical novels. You can go to a bookstore and find an infinite variety of Richards: the romantic Richard, the scheming Richard, the naive Richard, the studly Richard, the murderous Richard, the unmurderous Richard. Even if you don't read a single word of nonfiction about Richard III, you'll--hopefully--realize that all of these contradictory accounts can't possibly be accurate. For figures like Richard III and Anne Boleyn, then, their popularity with novelists and readers is their best protection, because no single account of them is likely to hold permanent sway over the public's imagination. Thus, though a best-selling author who depicts Richard III or Anne Boleyn in an unflattering light might have an advantage in terms of credibility over lesser-known authors, her portrayal is still going to be weighed against those of others.
But what of more obscure folk? A while back, I read a historical novel that depicted a twenty-something Katherine Woodville, with the help of her sister the queen, forcing her twelve-year-old husband (the Duke of Buckingham mentioned above) into her bed to be used as a sex toy, thereby scarring the poor boy for life. Several other novels depict Katherine in a similar vein. Now, as primary sources reveal, the historical Katherine Woodville was younger than her husband at the time of their marriage: she was around seven and he was nine. Therefore, while it's open to debate whether the couple's marriage was a happy one, there's simply no validity to the notion that Katherine was a grown woman who sexually abused her minor husband. But the average reader may not realize that, because unlike the case of Anne Boleyn, there are few competing fictional portrayals of Katherine Woodville. Worse yet, most readers can't run out and pick up a nonfiction book on Katherine Woodville to learn the truth: there aren't any, only the occasional paragraph in academic tomes that aren't readily available outside of university libraries. So Katherine, poor lady, has no one but the occasional pedantic blogger to yell in her corner when her reputation is smeared.
So yes, it's fiction, and yes, in most historical fiction, the historical figures in question are dead. But let me leave you with this thought: how would you feel if you read a grossly distorted fictional portrayal of a historical figure, knowing that he or she had living grandchildren or great-grandchildren? How would you feel if it was your own grandfather or great-grandfather who was treated in this matter?
And if slandering the recently dead is unacceptable to you, should it be any different simply because a historical figure died centuries ago?
It's true, as Literate Housewife points out, that fiction is just that--fiction--and that readers should never take a novel as the last word on any subject. (For that matter, the same holds true with nonfiction; mistakes aren't confined to novels.) But it's also true that for many readers, fiction is where their reading stops, which means that a fictional portrayal of a historical figure is what sticks in a reader's mind. Thus, I believe that at the very least, an author has the responsibility to treat historical figures with respect: that is, not to distort known facts or to invent episodes that paint the person in a grossly negative light.
Of course, there is the problem that with many historical figures, not that much is known about them, and even less about their motives. Writers therefore have to fill in the gaps; I've had to do so in both of my published novels and in the novel I'm writing now. But even then, there's responsible gap-filling and irresponsible gap-filling. My work in progress involves many historical figures, including Richard III and Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. The two men are known to have encountered each other before 1483, but we don't know how they felt about each other during those years. Were they friends? Were they indifferent to each other? Hostile toward each other? I chose in my novel to make them friends, which I think is reasonable given the alliance they formed in 1483.
But say I went further than that. Say I depicted Richard and Henry not only as friends, but as young men carousing about London, engaging in group sex and raping women and boys alike. After all, I might argue (if I had a chance to argue before my lynching at the hands of furious Ricardians), there's no evidence that the two men didn't do these things, and it makes for a good story. (I'm assuming, in all of this, that I haven't added an author's note fessing up to my invention.)
Now let's go even further and say that instead of a relatively unknown writer like myself inventing a kinky Richard and Harry, someone like ______ (insert the name of the best-selling author of your choice) depicts the hapless pair in this manner. Suddenly, that portrayal has acquired a whole new credibility, hasn't it? After all, ________ sells millions of books. Surely he or she must have some basis for what he's writing. And if ________ adds a bibliography to her novel, lending it even more respectability, poor Harry and Richard don't stand a chance.
Now, there's one major flaw in my example above: Richard III is a well-known figure, who has been the subject not only of Shakespeare's famous play but the hero of many historical novels. You can go to a bookstore and find an infinite variety of Richards: the romantic Richard, the scheming Richard, the naive Richard, the studly Richard, the murderous Richard, the unmurderous Richard. Even if you don't read a single word of nonfiction about Richard III, you'll--hopefully--realize that all of these contradictory accounts can't possibly be accurate. For figures like Richard III and Anne Boleyn, then, their popularity with novelists and readers is their best protection, because no single account of them is likely to hold permanent sway over the public's imagination. Thus, though a best-selling author who depicts Richard III or Anne Boleyn in an unflattering light might have an advantage in terms of credibility over lesser-known authors, her portrayal is still going to be weighed against those of others.
But what of more obscure folk? A while back, I read a historical novel that depicted a twenty-something Katherine Woodville, with the help of her sister the queen, forcing her twelve-year-old husband (the Duke of Buckingham mentioned above) into her bed to be used as a sex toy, thereby scarring the poor boy for life. Several other novels depict Katherine in a similar vein. Now, as primary sources reveal, the historical Katherine Woodville was younger than her husband at the time of their marriage: she was around seven and he was nine. Therefore, while it's open to debate whether the couple's marriage was a happy one, there's simply no validity to the notion that Katherine was a grown woman who sexually abused her minor husband. But the average reader may not realize that, because unlike the case of Anne Boleyn, there are few competing fictional portrayals of Katherine Woodville. Worse yet, most readers can't run out and pick up a nonfiction book on Katherine Woodville to learn the truth: there aren't any, only the occasional paragraph in academic tomes that aren't readily available outside of university libraries. So Katherine, poor lady, has no one but the occasional pedantic blogger to yell in her corner when her reputation is smeared.
So yes, it's fiction, and yes, in most historical fiction, the historical figures in question are dead. But let me leave you with this thought: how would you feel if you read a grossly distorted fictional portrayal of a historical figure, knowing that he or she had living grandchildren or great-grandchildren? How would you feel if it was your own grandfather or great-grandfather who was treated in this matter?
And if slandering the recently dead is unacceptable to you, should it be any different simply because a historical figure died centuries ago?
Monday, February 16, 2009
If You Can't Say Something Nice, Don't Say Anything at All?
Hey, where did the promised other Valentine's Day posts go? Sorry, folks--I ended up going to a hockey game. (The home team lost badly, but three people received proposals of marriage on the Jumbotron, at least one of which received a favorable response.)
Anyway, Michele over at Reader's Respite has a post about Amazon reviews today that is well worth a read. It got me to thinking about a related topic: should authors of fiction give other authors of fiction negative reviews?
There is a school of thought that says they shouldn't. One reason is altruistic: that authors should stick together and be mutually supportive. Yet another is the fear that any criticism of another author will be seen as professional jealousy or sour grapes. The most compelling reason, sadly, is a defensive one: that a negative review of another author's work might lead to retaliation against the reviewing author, especially if the other author has loyal fans eager to leap to his or her defense.
On the other hand, if fiction authors won't criticize other fiction authors' work, a valuable source of opinion is lost. Many authors, after all, are excellent readers. Should they put their critical facilities on hold when they read a peer's work?
Reasonable minds can and do differ as to literary merit, of course, but historical novelists have their own special concern. Should they sit on their hands when a fellow author--either deliberately or through carelessness--distorts historical fact or slanders a historical figure? Especially when the fellow author touts himself or herself as a diligent researcher, thus giving the reader the implicit assurance that the fellow author can be trusted?
It's a frustrating dilemma. I review books for the Historical Novels Review, and I've turned in the few negative reviews I've done with a certain dread, wondering if I might be targeted by a disgruntled author or his or her fans. (So far, no--which, incidentally, works in favor of the author in question. I might well pick up the author's next work to see if I like it any better.) With books I read on my own, I've lately tended toward a defensive stance as far as this blog and Amazon are concerned: I post reviews of novels I've liked, but not of novels I haven't, unless the author is safely dead. It's irritating to have to keep my opinions to myself, especially as to matters of historical accuracy, but it also seems like a bit of a necessity in an age where some authors can muster online forces with an ease second only to that of a high school clique leader. So I console myself with this passage from Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters:
There are days when the reeds in my backyard (well, make that weeds) get a good workout. Trust me.
Anyway, Michele over at Reader's Respite has a post about Amazon reviews today that is well worth a read. It got me to thinking about a related topic: should authors of fiction give other authors of fiction negative reviews?
There is a school of thought that says they shouldn't. One reason is altruistic: that authors should stick together and be mutually supportive. Yet another is the fear that any criticism of another author will be seen as professional jealousy or sour grapes. The most compelling reason, sadly, is a defensive one: that a negative review of another author's work might lead to retaliation against the reviewing author, especially if the other author has loyal fans eager to leap to his or her defense.
On the other hand, if fiction authors won't criticize other fiction authors' work, a valuable source of opinion is lost. Many authors, after all, are excellent readers. Should they put their critical facilities on hold when they read a peer's work?
Reasonable minds can and do differ as to literary merit, of course, but historical novelists have their own special concern. Should they sit on their hands when a fellow author--either deliberately or through carelessness--distorts historical fact or slanders a historical figure? Especially when the fellow author touts himself or herself as a diligent researcher, thus giving the reader the implicit assurance that the fellow author can be trusted?
It's a frustrating dilemma. I review books for the Historical Novels Review, and I've turned in the few negative reviews I've done with a certain dread, wondering if I might be targeted by a disgruntled author or his or her fans. (So far, no--which, incidentally, works in favor of the author in question. I might well pick up the author's next work to see if I like it any better.) With books I read on my own, I've lately tended toward a defensive stance as far as this blog and Amazon are concerned: I post reviews of novels I've liked, but not of novels I haven't, unless the author is safely dead. It's irritating to have to keep my opinions to myself, especially as to matters of historical accuracy, but it also seems like a bit of a necessity in an age where some authors can muster online forces with an ease second only to that of a high school clique leader. So I console myself with this passage from Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters:
"Mr. Wynne knows all I feel for Miss Gibson, sir. He and I have no secrets from each other."
"Well, I suppose he must represent the reeds. You know the story of King Midas's barber, who found out that his royal master had the ears of an ass beneath his hyacinthine curls. So the barber, in default of a Mr. Wynne, went to the reeds that grew on the shores of a neighbouring lake, and whispered to them, 'King Midas has the ears of an ass.' But he repeated it so often that the reeds learnt the words, and kept on saying them all day long, till at last the secret was no secret at all."
There are days when the reeds in my backyard (well, make that weeds) get a good workout. Trust me.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Not Quite There . . .
This isn't quite the Valentine that Isabella had in mind for Roger Mortimer, but maybe Edward II could modify it (courtesy of the Valentine Generator) for one of his good friends:
To my Virile Roger,
You are the knight of my armour. I want to shine with you more than any shield in the whole helmet.
The first time we blazed, I felt handsome in my face, and I was so passion that I could barely burn. I knew that we would glow together for evening.
Whenever you throb, it makes me ache madly and sigh like a lovely castle.
I will race with you passionately until the town cuddles and the day longs.
Dashing Valentine's Day!
Love, your daring man
(I promise, we'll have some better Valentine's Day posts tomorrow.)
To my Virile Roger,
You are the knight of my armour. I want to shine with you more than any shield in the whole helmet.
The first time we blazed, I felt handsome in my face, and I was so passion that I could barely burn. I knew that we would glow together for evening.
Whenever you throb, it makes me ache madly and sigh like a lovely castle.
I will race with you passionately until the town cuddles and the day longs.
Dashing Valentine's Day!
Love, your daring man
(I promise, we'll have some better Valentine's Day posts tomorrow.)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Booking Through Thursday: Author Blogs
From today's Booking Through Thursday:
Do you read any author’s blogs? If so, are you looking for information on their next project? On the author personally? Something else?
I do read author blogs, many of which are listed in the sidebar.
My posts on this blog are reflective of what I enjoy seeing on other authors' blogs. Since I mostly read historical fiction, I like reading history-related posts, particularly about people and events with which I'm not familiar. I also like reading book reviews, author interviews, excerpts, humorous pieces, rants, and thoughts about the publishing industry. Some well-traveled authors post photographs, which are always a pleasure to see.
I'm not keen on blogs where authors post mostly about their writing-related accomplishments--favorable reviews, awards won, new contracts, etc. It's the type of information that is fine on a website, but on a blog, it's frankly a little boring, at least when it's the blog's main content. An occasional announcement or an update, such as when a book's due to be released, is a different matter, of course.
Blogs focusing primarily on the creative process don't have much appeal to me either. If I didn't write myself, I might find them of more interest, but most of the time, it occurs to me that the author's time might have been better spent writing instead of writing about writing. But I know these are of great interest to some--they just don't pique mine.
Finally, some authors post mainly about their personal lives. Probably because I'm of a rather reticent nature myself, I find this off-putting and somewhat narcissistic. (It also strikes me as unwise--is it all that safe to let complete strangers know that you're going into the hospital, and why, or that you're quarreling with your lover, or that you're experiencing financial difficulties?) But these diary-like blogs must have some appeal--no doubt some readers like the idea of being privy to the sorts of things that many people would share only with those closest to them. For me, though, it's just Too Much Information.
Do you read any author’s blogs? If so, are you looking for information on their next project? On the author personally? Something else?
I do read author blogs, many of which are listed in the sidebar.
My posts on this blog are reflective of what I enjoy seeing on other authors' blogs. Since I mostly read historical fiction, I like reading history-related posts, particularly about people and events with which I'm not familiar. I also like reading book reviews, author interviews, excerpts, humorous pieces, rants, and thoughts about the publishing industry. Some well-traveled authors post photographs, which are always a pleasure to see.
I'm not keen on blogs where authors post mostly about their writing-related accomplishments--favorable reviews, awards won, new contracts, etc. It's the type of information that is fine on a website, but on a blog, it's frankly a little boring, at least when it's the blog's main content. An occasional announcement or an update, such as when a book's due to be released, is a different matter, of course.
Blogs focusing primarily on the creative process don't have much appeal to me either. If I didn't write myself, I might find them of more interest, but most of the time, it occurs to me that the author's time might have been better spent writing instead of writing about writing. But I know these are of great interest to some--they just don't pique mine.
Finally, some authors post mainly about their personal lives. Probably because I'm of a rather reticent nature myself, I find this off-putting and somewhat narcissistic. (It also strikes me as unwise--is it all that safe to let complete strangers know that you're going into the hospital, and why, or that you're quarreling with your lover, or that you're experiencing financial difficulties?) But these diary-like blogs must have some appeal--no doubt some readers like the idea of being privy to the sorts of things that many people would share only with those closest to them. For me, though, it's just Too Much Information.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Review Round-Up
Poor Buckingham, in my work in progress! Things are going from bad to worse with him. While he's busy, here's some reviews I did from the November 2008 issue of Historical Novels Review:
The Black Tower
Louis Bayard, William Morrow, 2008, $24.95/C$26.95, hb, 9780061173509
In 1818, a street beggar follows Hector Carpentier to his home in the Latin Quarter, only to transform himself into Vidocq, Paris’s master detective. What does Vidocq want with Hector, whose life with his drab mother, a trio of loutish student lodgers, and an elderly boarder is a model of law-abiding obscurity? The answer puts Vidocq and the reluctant Hector on the trail of a lost prince—Marie Antoinette’s young son Louis-Charles, supposed to have died in captivity during the Revolution. Along the way, Hector will learn some startling truths about his family and acquaintances—and about himself—all while trying to evade the men who suddenly want him dead.
This was my first go at reading a novel by Bayard, and won’t be my last. Bayard’s writing is exceptionally good, clever yet unpretentious, with wonderful turns of phrase that made me go back and re-read passages for the sheer enjoyment of it. The characters drawn from real life (including Vidocq himself) are vivid, as are fictitious ones like Hector (the narrator) and his motley companions. Even the minor characters are sharply rendered. Best of all, perhaps, is the manner in which Bayard portrays the plight of young Louis-Charles, with a self-assured combination of anger, compassion, and wit that is moving yet never maudlin.
Thanks to these qualities, readers of historical fiction, literary fiction, and mystery should all thoroughly enjoy this novel.
****
Washington’s Lady
Nancy Moser, Bethany House, 2008, $13.99 pb, 414 pp, 9780764205002
In the summer of 1757, Martha Custis, a young widow with valuable landholdings in Virginia, has no shortage of eligible suitors from which to choose. It is Colonel George Washington, however, who soon claims her affection—and who will hold it for the rest of the couple’s long, eventful marriage.
Having known very little about Martha Washington, who narrates this novel, I found her story an absorbing one. As portrayed by Moser, the first woman to hold the title of First Lady was a shrewd businesswoman, a devoted and somewhat overindulgent mother, and a loving but by no means mindlessly obedient wife, whose support was essential to her husband’s success as a general and later as President. Moser tells her story with a palpable admiration for her subject and with occasional flashes of humor.
After reading this, I was interested enough in the historical Martha Washington to seek out a biography of her—always a high compliment to a novelist’s skill.
***
Deep in the Heart of Trouble
Deeanne Gist, Bethany House, 2008, $13.99 pb, 395pp, 9780764202261
In this sequel to Courting Trouble, set in 1898 Corsicana, Texas, Essie Spreckelmeyer, well into her thirties, is no longer hunting a husband. Instead, she’s devoting herself to Sullivan Oil, which she and her father own, and to the Corsicana Velocipede Club. Then Tony Morgan, the disinherited son of the owner of Morgan Oil, comes to Corsicana under an assumed name, determined to learn the oil business from the bottom. He is not counting on becoming romantically involved with a “bloomer gal” like the independent-minded Essie, who for her own part is none too happy with Sullivan Oil’s new employee.
Like its predecessor, Deep in the Heart of Trouble is well-written with believable, sympathetic characters, including Mrs. Lockhart, who uses her extensive library of romance novels to give Tony hints on courting Essie. There’s plenty of humor here, and even a mystery. Both old acquaintances of Essie and new ones should heartily enjoy this novel.
****
An Uncertain Dream
Judith Miller, Bethany House, 2008, $13.99 pb, 376pp, 9780764202780
In the third novel of Miller’s Postcards from Pullman series, Pullman, Illinois, is in turmoil in 1894 as its railway workers go on strike. Olivia Mott, assistant chef at the Hotel Florence, finds herself caught up in the middle of events, especially since the man she loves, Fred DeVault, is among the strikers. Meanwhile, Olivia’s friend Lady Charlotte, who had gone to live with her parents in England, travels back to America with her out-of-wedlock son after her father dies, leaving his family heavily in debt.
The last in the series, An Uncertain Dream, like its predecessors, is a realistic look at the company town of Pullman and the toll that its labor unrest takes on its citizens, including Olivia and her friends. Miller offers no pat or easy solutions to the dilemmas facing her characters, but ends her series on a hopeful note. This was a worthy ending to a well-researched and well-written trio of novels.
The Black Tower
Louis Bayard, William Morrow, 2008, $24.95/C$26.95, hb, 9780061173509
In 1818, a street beggar follows Hector Carpentier to his home in the Latin Quarter, only to transform himself into Vidocq, Paris’s master detective. What does Vidocq want with Hector, whose life with his drab mother, a trio of loutish student lodgers, and an elderly boarder is a model of law-abiding obscurity? The answer puts Vidocq and the reluctant Hector on the trail of a lost prince—Marie Antoinette’s young son Louis-Charles, supposed to have died in captivity during the Revolution. Along the way, Hector will learn some startling truths about his family and acquaintances—and about himself—all while trying to evade the men who suddenly want him dead.
This was my first go at reading a novel by Bayard, and won’t be my last. Bayard’s writing is exceptionally good, clever yet unpretentious, with wonderful turns of phrase that made me go back and re-read passages for the sheer enjoyment of it. The characters drawn from real life (including Vidocq himself) are vivid, as are fictitious ones like Hector (the narrator) and his motley companions. Even the minor characters are sharply rendered. Best of all, perhaps, is the manner in which Bayard portrays the plight of young Louis-Charles, with a self-assured combination of anger, compassion, and wit that is moving yet never maudlin.
Thanks to these qualities, readers of historical fiction, literary fiction, and mystery should all thoroughly enjoy this novel.
****
Washington’s Lady
Nancy Moser, Bethany House, 2008, $13.99 pb, 414 pp, 9780764205002
In the summer of 1757, Martha Custis, a young widow with valuable landholdings in Virginia, has no shortage of eligible suitors from which to choose. It is Colonel George Washington, however, who soon claims her affection—and who will hold it for the rest of the couple’s long, eventful marriage.
Having known very little about Martha Washington, who narrates this novel, I found her story an absorbing one. As portrayed by Moser, the first woman to hold the title of First Lady was a shrewd businesswoman, a devoted and somewhat overindulgent mother, and a loving but by no means mindlessly obedient wife, whose support was essential to her husband’s success as a general and later as President. Moser tells her story with a palpable admiration for her subject and with occasional flashes of humor.
After reading this, I was interested enough in the historical Martha Washington to seek out a biography of her—always a high compliment to a novelist’s skill.
***
Deep in the Heart of Trouble
Deeanne Gist, Bethany House, 2008, $13.99 pb, 395pp, 9780764202261
In this sequel to Courting Trouble, set in 1898 Corsicana, Texas, Essie Spreckelmeyer, well into her thirties, is no longer hunting a husband. Instead, she’s devoting herself to Sullivan Oil, which she and her father own, and to the Corsicana Velocipede Club. Then Tony Morgan, the disinherited son of the owner of Morgan Oil, comes to Corsicana under an assumed name, determined to learn the oil business from the bottom. He is not counting on becoming romantically involved with a “bloomer gal” like the independent-minded Essie, who for her own part is none too happy with Sullivan Oil’s new employee.
Like its predecessor, Deep in the Heart of Trouble is well-written with believable, sympathetic characters, including Mrs. Lockhart, who uses her extensive library of romance novels to give Tony hints on courting Essie. There’s plenty of humor here, and even a mystery. Both old acquaintances of Essie and new ones should heartily enjoy this novel.
****
An Uncertain Dream
Judith Miller, Bethany House, 2008, $13.99 pb, 376pp, 9780764202780
In the third novel of Miller’s Postcards from Pullman series, Pullman, Illinois, is in turmoil in 1894 as its railway workers go on strike. Olivia Mott, assistant chef at the Hotel Florence, finds herself caught up in the middle of events, especially since the man she loves, Fred DeVault, is among the strikers. Meanwhile, Olivia’s friend Lady Charlotte, who had gone to live with her parents in England, travels back to America with her out-of-wedlock son after her father dies, leaving his family heavily in debt.
The last in the series, An Uncertain Dream, like its predecessors, is a realistic look at the company town of Pullman and the toll that its labor unrest takes on its citizens, including Olivia and her friends. Miller offers no pat or easy solutions to the dilemmas facing her characters, but ends her series on a hopeful note. This was a worthy ending to a well-researched and well-written trio of novels.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Joan of Kent's Marital Misadventures
Though Elizabeth Woodville was the first post-Conquest English-born queen consort, this was only through mischance. Had Edward III’s eldest son, known popularly as “the Black Prince,” survived his father, the prince’s English bride, Joan of Kent, would have become his queen. And Joan of Kent had a scandalous marital history that outdid Elizabeth’s.
Joan, born around 1328, was a granddaughter of Edward I. Her father, Edmund, Earl of Kent, was the youngest of Edward I’s sons, a product of his second marriage. Her mother was Margaret Wake, the sister of Thomas, Lord Wake.
When Isabella, Edward II’s queen, invaded England with her lover Roger Mortimer, the Earl of Kent sided with the pair against his half-brother. Later, however, he became disillusioned with the queen and Mortimer. Believing Edward II, whose funeral had been held in 1327, to be still alive, he entered into a conspiracy to rescue him from captivity and restore him to the throne. Whether Edward II was actually alive is a question way beyond the scope of this post, but suffice it to say that the conspiracy proved a fatal one for the Earl of Kent. He was beheaded on March 19, 1330. His wife, who was nine months pregnant, and her small children, including the two-year-old Joan, were imprisoned. Fortunately, the family did not suffer long, for Edward III arrested Roger Mortimer at Nottingham Castle in October 1330 and executed him a few weeks later.
The hero of the hour at Nottingham had been William de Montacute, who despite being a good decade older than the 18-year-old Edward III had become a close friend. William himself had young children, including his son William, born on June 28, 1328. Apparently because of Queen Philippa’s interest in the late earl’s children, Joan of Kent was taken from her mother’s care and raised with the young Montacutes. She also seems to have spent some time with the king’s children, but the details of her upbringing are quite murky.
At age twelve, Joan somehow became romantically involved with Thomas Holland, who was born around 1315 and thus was around thirteen years her senior. The age gap, and Joan’s extreme youth, would not have shocked her contemporaries—such gaps were common enough between partners, and a twelve-year-old girl could consent to marriage—but Thomas was clearly not of Joan’s social class. She was a king’s granddaughter and the first cousin to the reigning king; he was a younger son of Robert Holland, who had been murdered in 1328. During Edward II’s reign, Robert Holland had sided with Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, only to desert him. This act of betrayal had not ingratiated him with Edward II, who kept him in prison until he was released by Isabella and Mortimer. But there were still grudges against him, and Lancaster’s younger brother, Henry, might have sanctioned his murder.
Thomas, then, as the second son of a disgraced, turncoat lord, would not have met with overwhelming excitement on the marriage market. But Edward III’s reign offered great opportunities for men of disgraced families to redeem themselves through military service, and Thomas, who had been campaigning for the king probably since the early 1330’s, was a household knight by 1338. It was probably at court that he encountered Joan. In the spring of 1340, the couple secretly married. The marriage might well have been a love match on both sides, since Joan, who had one living brother at the time, was not an heiress. According to testimony later given before the papal courts, the couple had witnesses to their marriage, which took place around May 1340, without a priest being present. The marriage was then consummated.
The wedding, however, remained a well-kept secret, and later in 1340, Thomas went to Prussia on crusade. Joan’s elders, meanwhile, were making other matrimonial plans for her. The elder William de Montacute had been made Earl of Salisbury by Edward III in 1337, and the new earl began to look around for suitable marriages for his children. Thus, in early 1341, Joan of Kent found herself with a second husband—the younger William de Montacute, a boy of about her own age. According to her and Holland, she was coerced by her family and friends to proceed with the marriage—not surprisingly, since she was but thirteen years old and her family and friends included the king and queen themselves. Thus, Joan and William, however unwilling Joan might have been, began married life together. On February 10, 1341, they were granted the castle, town, and manor of Mold in north Wales—not the most romantic-sounding habitat for newlyweds.
Thomas Holland, meanwhile, returned home to England later in 1341 or 1342, and must have been taken aback, to put it mildly, to find his wife married to the son of the king’s close friend. Under these circumstances, he apparently decided not to contest the matter, but to bide his time until he was in a position to challenge the marriage in the papal court. Probably he did not confront the Montacute family about the marriage, for after the Earl of Salisbury’s death following a jousting accident in 1344, Holland became steward to the new earl. It must have been an uncomfortable position for Joan, but fortunately, Holland was more of a soldier than a steward.
The French campaign of 1346-47 was a turning point in Holland’s relationship with Joan. Having captured the Count of Eu at the siege of Caen in 1346, Holland was granted 80,000 florins by Edward III in exchange for his prisoner. He might not have seen all of the money, but he saw enough of it, in 1347, to begin proceedings in the papal courts to have Joan returned to him.
Many of the documents for these proceedings have survived, and have been published by Karl Wentersdorf. Nineteen-year-old William Montacute was unwilling to give up his wife, and for a time she was apparently held in seclusion by him and was prevented from obtaining independent counsel. There were changes of attorneys for both William and Joan, with William’s final attorney being a man by the splendid name of Reginald Bugwell. At last, in 1349, a verdict was issued in favor of Thomas Holland, and on November 13, 1349, a papal bull was issued ordering that Joan be restored to Holland and that the marriage be solemnized in a church ceremony. A remarkable aspect about these proceedings, which took place in Avignon, is that while much of this was going on, the Black Death was ravaging Europe; yet business, including the necessary travel between England and Avignon for the parties’ counsel, went on much as usual.
Holland and Salisbury, meanwhile, were both made Knights of the Garter when the order was founded by Edward III. Both appeared at the St. George’s festivities at Windsor in April 1349, and jousted on opposite sides of the tournament that followed. As Ian Mortimer has noted, watching the tensions between Joan’s husbands must have been far more agreeable than brooding about the pestilence.
Once the Pope dissolved Salisbury’s marriage, the earl hastened to find himself a new bride. His next one, Elizabeth Mohun, the daughter of yet another founding Garter Knight, John, Lord Mohun, presented little potential for prior marital entanglements: she was only about seven years of age at the time of her wedding to Salisbury.
It should be noted that it has been suggested by Chris Given-Wilson and Alice Curteis that Holland and Joan started an affair after Holland joined the Montacute household and that the story of the prior marriage was concocted by the pair so that Joan could be freed of Montacute. This is possible, of course, though it seems likely that such a scenario suggested itself to the papal judges, who nonetheless rejected it in favor of Holland’s version of the story.
Fortunately, William de Montacute and Joan’s marriage had produced no living children to be affected by its dissolution. Joan went on to have five children with Thomas. When her surviving brother died childless in 1352, she inherited his estates; in 1360, Thomas Holland was given the title of Earl of Kent. It was not one he enjoyed for long, however, for he died in Rouen on December 28, 1360. His later career had been a successful one, with increasing responsibility; a few months before his death, he had been appointed Edward III’s captain and lieutenant in Normandy and France.
Joan soon found consolation with another: the heir to the English throne. Edward the Black Prince, born on June 15, 1330, was still single, though various marriages had been proposed for him over the years. It is quite safe to say that Joan, twice married under faintly scandalous circumstances and an English-born mother of five children, was not considered one of his potential brides. Edward himself had had romantic entanglements, including one with a lady named Edith Willesford, which produced a son, Roger Clarendon, around 1350. (Clarendon was later executed by Henry IV for spreading rumors that Richard II was alive and for supporting Owain Glyn Dŵr.)
Edward’s long bachelorhood has given rise to speculation that he had been secretly pining to marry Joan for years, though as Edith’s case shows, he was clearly capable of finding consolation elsewhere in the meantime. Nonetheless, his marriage with Joan does appear to have been a love match. Without waiting for royal permission or a papal dispensation (needed because of their close kinship and the fact that Edward was godfather to Joan’s sons), the couple married secretly in the spring of 1361. This time, the marriage could hardly be kept secret for long, however, and by summer, a resigned Edward III was petitioning the pope to grant the couple a dispensation so that they could marry publicly. The Pope granted the king’s request on September 7, 1361. As a penance for their impetuosity, the couple was ordered to build and endow two chapels.
In October 1361, Edward and Joan were duly married (remarried, that is) at Windsor Castle by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The king and queen, along with three of their children, John of Gaunt, Edmund of Langley, and Isabella, Countess of Bedford, attended. Edward III’s younger sister, Joan, Queen of Scotland, was present also.
Edward and Joan appear to have been a loving couple. In a letter addressed to Joan following the battle of Najera in 1367, he addresses her as “my dearest and truest sweetheart and beloved companion,” and when he returned to Bordeaux from Spain, Joan met him and the couple “walked together holding hands.” Edward was also content to let Joan spend freely; in 1362, she spent 200 pounds on jeweled buttons alone. In all fairness, however, the prince himself was a lavish spender, as was his mother the queen, so Joan can hardly be blamed for joining in on the fun.
Edward died in 1376. He and Joan had had two sons together. The eldest, Edward, died young; the youngest ascended the throne as Richard II following Edward III’s death in 1377. Thus, Joan never became queen, only mother to the king. It is interesting to wonder what she might have been like as a queen consort: though she was popular with the people and had a reputation as a peacemaker during Richard II’s reign, chroniclers made much of her marital misadventures. Gossip went so far as to question Richard II’s legitimacy; Adam Usk wrote that it was said that “he was not born to a father of the royal line, but of a mother given to slippery ways—to say nothing of many other things I have heard.”
Joan of Kent died on August 14, 1385, having been in poor health that was probably exacerbated by her concern over her son John Holland, who had murdered Ralph Stafford and whose pleas for mercy from Richard II were seemingly going unheeded. (He ultimately received a pardon.) Though she died as Princess of Wales, Joan requested burial not by her royal husband at Canterbury, but at Stamford by the man she had married as a young girl: Thomas Holland.
Sources:
Richard Barber, The Life and Campaigns of the Black Prince.
Chris Given-Wilson and Alice Curteis, The Royal Bastards of Medieval England.
David Green, Edward the Black Prince, Power in Medieval Europe.
Ian Mortimer, The Fears of Henry IV: The Life of England’s Self-Made King.
Ian Mortimer, The Perfect King: The Life of Edward III.
Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (online version).
Karl P. Wentersdorf, “The Clandestine Marriages of the Fair Maid of Kent.” Journal of Medieval History 5 (1979), pp. 203-231.
Joan, born around 1328, was a granddaughter of Edward I. Her father, Edmund, Earl of Kent, was the youngest of Edward I’s sons, a product of his second marriage. Her mother was Margaret Wake, the sister of Thomas, Lord Wake.
When Isabella, Edward II’s queen, invaded England with her lover Roger Mortimer, the Earl of Kent sided with the pair against his half-brother. Later, however, he became disillusioned with the queen and Mortimer. Believing Edward II, whose funeral had been held in 1327, to be still alive, he entered into a conspiracy to rescue him from captivity and restore him to the throne. Whether Edward II was actually alive is a question way beyond the scope of this post, but suffice it to say that the conspiracy proved a fatal one for the Earl of Kent. He was beheaded on March 19, 1330. His wife, who was nine months pregnant, and her small children, including the two-year-old Joan, were imprisoned. Fortunately, the family did not suffer long, for Edward III arrested Roger Mortimer at Nottingham Castle in October 1330 and executed him a few weeks later.
The hero of the hour at Nottingham had been William de Montacute, who despite being a good decade older than the 18-year-old Edward III had become a close friend. William himself had young children, including his son William, born on June 28, 1328. Apparently because of Queen Philippa’s interest in the late earl’s children, Joan of Kent was taken from her mother’s care and raised with the young Montacutes. She also seems to have spent some time with the king’s children, but the details of her upbringing are quite murky.
At age twelve, Joan somehow became romantically involved with Thomas Holland, who was born around 1315 and thus was around thirteen years her senior. The age gap, and Joan’s extreme youth, would not have shocked her contemporaries—such gaps were common enough between partners, and a twelve-year-old girl could consent to marriage—but Thomas was clearly not of Joan’s social class. She was a king’s granddaughter and the first cousin to the reigning king; he was a younger son of Robert Holland, who had been murdered in 1328. During Edward II’s reign, Robert Holland had sided with Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, only to desert him. This act of betrayal had not ingratiated him with Edward II, who kept him in prison until he was released by Isabella and Mortimer. But there were still grudges against him, and Lancaster’s younger brother, Henry, might have sanctioned his murder.
Thomas, then, as the second son of a disgraced, turncoat lord, would not have met with overwhelming excitement on the marriage market. But Edward III’s reign offered great opportunities for men of disgraced families to redeem themselves through military service, and Thomas, who had been campaigning for the king probably since the early 1330’s, was a household knight by 1338. It was probably at court that he encountered Joan. In the spring of 1340, the couple secretly married. The marriage might well have been a love match on both sides, since Joan, who had one living brother at the time, was not an heiress. According to testimony later given before the papal courts, the couple had witnesses to their marriage, which took place around May 1340, without a priest being present. The marriage was then consummated.
The wedding, however, remained a well-kept secret, and later in 1340, Thomas went to Prussia on crusade. Joan’s elders, meanwhile, were making other matrimonial plans for her. The elder William de Montacute had been made Earl of Salisbury by Edward III in 1337, and the new earl began to look around for suitable marriages for his children. Thus, in early 1341, Joan of Kent found herself with a second husband—the younger William de Montacute, a boy of about her own age. According to her and Holland, she was coerced by her family and friends to proceed with the marriage—not surprisingly, since she was but thirteen years old and her family and friends included the king and queen themselves. Thus, Joan and William, however unwilling Joan might have been, began married life together. On February 10, 1341, they were granted the castle, town, and manor of Mold in north Wales—not the most romantic-sounding habitat for newlyweds.
Thomas Holland, meanwhile, returned home to England later in 1341 or 1342, and must have been taken aback, to put it mildly, to find his wife married to the son of the king’s close friend. Under these circumstances, he apparently decided not to contest the matter, but to bide his time until he was in a position to challenge the marriage in the papal court. Probably he did not confront the Montacute family about the marriage, for after the Earl of Salisbury’s death following a jousting accident in 1344, Holland became steward to the new earl. It must have been an uncomfortable position for Joan, but fortunately, Holland was more of a soldier than a steward.
The French campaign of 1346-47 was a turning point in Holland’s relationship with Joan. Having captured the Count of Eu at the siege of Caen in 1346, Holland was granted 80,000 florins by Edward III in exchange for his prisoner. He might not have seen all of the money, but he saw enough of it, in 1347, to begin proceedings in the papal courts to have Joan returned to him.
Many of the documents for these proceedings have survived, and have been published by Karl Wentersdorf. Nineteen-year-old William Montacute was unwilling to give up his wife, and for a time she was apparently held in seclusion by him and was prevented from obtaining independent counsel. There were changes of attorneys for both William and Joan, with William’s final attorney being a man by the splendid name of Reginald Bugwell. At last, in 1349, a verdict was issued in favor of Thomas Holland, and on November 13, 1349, a papal bull was issued ordering that Joan be restored to Holland and that the marriage be solemnized in a church ceremony. A remarkable aspect about these proceedings, which took place in Avignon, is that while much of this was going on, the Black Death was ravaging Europe; yet business, including the necessary travel between England and Avignon for the parties’ counsel, went on much as usual.
Holland and Salisbury, meanwhile, were both made Knights of the Garter when the order was founded by Edward III. Both appeared at the St. George’s festivities at Windsor in April 1349, and jousted on opposite sides of the tournament that followed. As Ian Mortimer has noted, watching the tensions between Joan’s husbands must have been far more agreeable than brooding about the pestilence.
Once the Pope dissolved Salisbury’s marriage, the earl hastened to find himself a new bride. His next one, Elizabeth Mohun, the daughter of yet another founding Garter Knight, John, Lord Mohun, presented little potential for prior marital entanglements: she was only about seven years of age at the time of her wedding to Salisbury.
It should be noted that it has been suggested by Chris Given-Wilson and Alice Curteis that Holland and Joan started an affair after Holland joined the Montacute household and that the story of the prior marriage was concocted by the pair so that Joan could be freed of Montacute. This is possible, of course, though it seems likely that such a scenario suggested itself to the papal judges, who nonetheless rejected it in favor of Holland’s version of the story.
Fortunately, William de Montacute and Joan’s marriage had produced no living children to be affected by its dissolution. Joan went on to have five children with Thomas. When her surviving brother died childless in 1352, she inherited his estates; in 1360, Thomas Holland was given the title of Earl of Kent. It was not one he enjoyed for long, however, for he died in Rouen on December 28, 1360. His later career had been a successful one, with increasing responsibility; a few months before his death, he had been appointed Edward III’s captain and lieutenant in Normandy and France.
Joan soon found consolation with another: the heir to the English throne. Edward the Black Prince, born on June 15, 1330, was still single, though various marriages had been proposed for him over the years. It is quite safe to say that Joan, twice married under faintly scandalous circumstances and an English-born mother of five children, was not considered one of his potential brides. Edward himself had had romantic entanglements, including one with a lady named Edith Willesford, which produced a son, Roger Clarendon, around 1350. (Clarendon was later executed by Henry IV for spreading rumors that Richard II was alive and for supporting Owain Glyn Dŵr.)
Edward’s long bachelorhood has given rise to speculation that he had been secretly pining to marry Joan for years, though as Edith’s case shows, he was clearly capable of finding consolation elsewhere in the meantime. Nonetheless, his marriage with Joan does appear to have been a love match. Without waiting for royal permission or a papal dispensation (needed because of their close kinship and the fact that Edward was godfather to Joan’s sons), the couple married secretly in the spring of 1361. This time, the marriage could hardly be kept secret for long, however, and by summer, a resigned Edward III was petitioning the pope to grant the couple a dispensation so that they could marry publicly. The Pope granted the king’s request on September 7, 1361. As a penance for their impetuosity, the couple was ordered to build and endow two chapels.
In October 1361, Edward and Joan were duly married (remarried, that is) at Windsor Castle by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The king and queen, along with three of their children, John of Gaunt, Edmund of Langley, and Isabella, Countess of Bedford, attended. Edward III’s younger sister, Joan, Queen of Scotland, was present also.
Edward and Joan appear to have been a loving couple. In a letter addressed to Joan following the battle of Najera in 1367, he addresses her as “my dearest and truest sweetheart and beloved companion,” and when he returned to Bordeaux from Spain, Joan met him and the couple “walked together holding hands.” Edward was also content to let Joan spend freely; in 1362, she spent 200 pounds on jeweled buttons alone. In all fairness, however, the prince himself was a lavish spender, as was his mother the queen, so Joan can hardly be blamed for joining in on the fun.
Edward died in 1376. He and Joan had had two sons together. The eldest, Edward, died young; the youngest ascended the throne as Richard II following Edward III’s death in 1377. Thus, Joan never became queen, only mother to the king. It is interesting to wonder what she might have been like as a queen consort: though she was popular with the people and had a reputation as a peacemaker during Richard II’s reign, chroniclers made much of her marital misadventures. Gossip went so far as to question Richard II’s legitimacy; Adam Usk wrote that it was said that “he was not born to a father of the royal line, but of a mother given to slippery ways—to say nothing of many other things I have heard.”
Joan of Kent died on August 14, 1385, having been in poor health that was probably exacerbated by her concern over her son John Holland, who had murdered Ralph Stafford and whose pleas for mercy from Richard II were seemingly going unheeded. (He ultimately received a pardon.) Though she died as Princess of Wales, Joan requested burial not by her royal husband at Canterbury, but at Stamford by the man she had married as a young girl: Thomas Holland.
Sources:
Richard Barber, The Life and Campaigns of the Black Prince.
Chris Given-Wilson and Alice Curteis, The Royal Bastards of Medieval England.
David Green, Edward the Black Prince, Power in Medieval Europe.
Ian Mortimer, The Fears of Henry IV: The Life of England’s Self-Made King.
Ian Mortimer, The Perfect King: The Life of Edward III.
Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (online version).
Karl P. Wentersdorf, “The Clandestine Marriages of the Fair Maid of Kent.” Journal of Medieval History 5 (1979), pp. 203-231.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Booking Through Thursday: Too Much Information?
From today's Booking Through Thursday:
Have you ever been put off an author’s books after reading a biography of them? Or the reverse - a biography has made you love an author more?
I don't read that many biographies of authors, especially nowadays, but for the most part, I'd say no to both. Charles Dickens is my favorite author, and as reading biographies of him will show, he engaged in some very unbecoming behavior, especially involving his separation from his wife. Yet unattractive as this aspect of his personal life is, I still love his novels. As for a biography making me love an author more, I wouldn't say it's increased my affection for an author so much as it's given me another perspective on his or her books, and deepened my appreciation of them. Dickens again is a good example of this, as is Charlotte Bronte.
On the other hand, biographies have tended to confirm my existing prejudices against certain writers. For instance, I tried several novels by Anthony Trollope before giving up on his books. Not only did I find most of his novels on the dull side, and sorely in need of pruning, there was a sort of snobbishness that emanated from them. (I don't know if I would have the same reaction to them now--it's been a good twenty years since I've tried one.) When I later read in his autobiography about Anthony's dismissive attitude toward the books of his mother, Fanny--whose hard work kept the family going--my reservations about him were confirmed.
Finally, although biographies are not involved, there are living authors whose behavior has kept me from reading their books. Authors who have engaged in plagiarism or who have passed off fiction as nonfiction, authors who have engaged in bullying tactics after receiving negative or even neutral reviews, and authors who simply have too-big egos are ones whose books I won't read, even if they might have merit. Life is way too short, and my list of books to be read way too long, to bother with such people.
Have you ever been put off an author’s books after reading a biography of them? Or the reverse - a biography has made you love an author more?
I don't read that many biographies of authors, especially nowadays, but for the most part, I'd say no to both. Charles Dickens is my favorite author, and as reading biographies of him will show, he engaged in some very unbecoming behavior, especially involving his separation from his wife. Yet unattractive as this aspect of his personal life is, I still love his novels. As for a biography making me love an author more, I wouldn't say it's increased my affection for an author so much as it's given me another perspective on his or her books, and deepened my appreciation of them. Dickens again is a good example of this, as is Charlotte Bronte.
On the other hand, biographies have tended to confirm my existing prejudices against certain writers. For instance, I tried several novels by Anthony Trollope before giving up on his books. Not only did I find most of his novels on the dull side, and sorely in need of pruning, there was a sort of snobbishness that emanated from them. (I don't know if I would have the same reaction to them now--it's been a good twenty years since I've tried one.) When I later read in his autobiography about Anthony's dismissive attitude toward the books of his mother, Fanny--whose hard work kept the family going--my reservations about him were confirmed.
Finally, although biographies are not involved, there are living authors whose behavior has kept me from reading their books. Authors who have engaged in plagiarism or who have passed off fiction as nonfiction, authors who have engaged in bullying tactics after receiving negative or even neutral reviews, and authors who simply have too-big egos are ones whose books I won't read, even if they might have merit. Life is way too short, and my list of books to be read way too long, to bother with such people.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
The Richard III Motel: All Rooms Double Occupancy
As Lady Despenser mentioned on her blog a few days ago, Edward II has his very own hotel in San Francisco. But did you know that he's not the only Plantagenet to have entered the hotel business? Lo and behold, I was flipping through an old book on Richard III this afternoon when this fell into my lap:
With the high importance the medieval world placed on hospitality, it seems quite fitting that at least two American inns should be named for English monarchs, though I'm not entirely sure I'd care for the room service at the Edward II hotel, and I think I'd hesitate before checking in for an extended stay at the Richard III motel. Something tells me the room rates wouldn't be great at the Henry VII hotel, but the beds would probably be excellent at the Edward IV motel.
Any monarchs you think should join the hospitality business?
With the high importance the medieval world placed on hospitality, it seems quite fitting that at least two American inns should be named for English monarchs, though I'm not entirely sure I'd care for the room service at the Edward II hotel, and I think I'd hesitate before checking in for an extended stay at the Richard III motel. Something tells me the room rates wouldn't be great at the Henry VII hotel, but the beds would probably be excellent at the Edward IV motel.
Any monarchs you think should join the hospitality business?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Mini-Review: Richard, The Young King To Be
Yay! My footnotes are finally done!
Since I had some free time yesterday, I finally finished Josephine Wilkinson's new biography, Richard, The Young King To Be. It covers Richard's life until 1475, ending with Edward IV's anticlimatic excursion to France.
On the whole, I thought this was well done. Though highly sympathetic to Richard, it avoided the romanticism of Paul Murray Kendall (no escaping with Anne to breathe the free air of the moors, for instance). Richard's marriage to Anne is viewed as a pragmatic move by both parties, rather than as a match of childhood sweethearts, and Wilkinson even dares to suggest that one of Richard's illegitimate children could have been born during his marriage, as opposed to the traditional Ricardian view, which insists that they were born either in his unmarried days or through immaculate conception. In addition to noting the identification of Katherine Haute as a possible mistress of Richard's, she comes up with another candidate as well. Richard's land transactions involving the Countess of Oxford, the Countess of Warwick, and the young Duke of Bedford are examined in detail, and though Wilkinson puts most of the blame on Edward IV and Clarence, she doesn't absolve Richard entirely.
I did have a couple of reservations. Moving dangerously close to Kendall territory, Wilkinson presents the young Richard as idolizing his brother Edward. (One such passage reads, "For him, Edward was the realisation of the the angelic prophecy that foretold the return of the righteous, sacred king" (p. 98). This is psychologically quite plausible, but it's not something we know as fact, and Wilkinson doesn't produce any sources to verify her assertion. Later, during a brief excursion into the future, Wilkinson states categorically that Edward V was illegitimate and that the Woodvilles were planning to "depose" Richard from his protectorate by rushing Edward to London so that he could be crowned immediately (p. 134). Wilkinson, like other writers who accept Richard's accusations against the Woodvilles as fact, doesn't explain why, if the Woodvilles were trying to rush to London, Anthony Woodville dawdled so long at Ludlow with his charge and met Richard III at his lodgings instead of pressing onto London. Maybe Wilkinson will attempt an explanation in her next book.
All in all, though, this was an interesting look at a part of Richard's life that has been given relatively scant attention by historians. As it appears that this will be a two-part biography, I'll be interested in seeing that Wilkinson makes of the older Richard.
Since I had some free time yesterday, I finally finished Josephine Wilkinson's new biography, Richard, The Young King To Be. It covers Richard's life until 1475, ending with Edward IV's anticlimatic excursion to France.
On the whole, I thought this was well done. Though highly sympathetic to Richard, it avoided the romanticism of Paul Murray Kendall (no escaping with Anne to breathe the free air of the moors, for instance). Richard's marriage to Anne is viewed as a pragmatic move by both parties, rather than as a match of childhood sweethearts, and Wilkinson even dares to suggest that one of Richard's illegitimate children could have been born during his marriage, as opposed to the traditional Ricardian view, which insists that they were born either in his unmarried days or through immaculate conception. In addition to noting the identification of Katherine Haute as a possible mistress of Richard's, she comes up with another candidate as well. Richard's land transactions involving the Countess of Oxford, the Countess of Warwick, and the young Duke of Bedford are examined in detail, and though Wilkinson puts most of the blame on Edward IV and Clarence, she doesn't absolve Richard entirely.
I did have a couple of reservations. Moving dangerously close to Kendall territory, Wilkinson presents the young Richard as idolizing his brother Edward. (One such passage reads, "For him, Edward was the realisation of the the angelic prophecy that foretold the return of the righteous, sacred king" (p. 98). This is psychologically quite plausible, but it's not something we know as fact, and Wilkinson doesn't produce any sources to verify her assertion. Later, during a brief excursion into the future, Wilkinson states categorically that Edward V was illegitimate and that the Woodvilles were planning to "depose" Richard from his protectorate by rushing Edward to London so that he could be crowned immediately (p. 134). Wilkinson, like other writers who accept Richard's accusations against the Woodvilles as fact, doesn't explain why, if the Woodvilles were trying to rush to London, Anthony Woodville dawdled so long at Ludlow with his charge and met Richard III at his lodgings instead of pressing onto London. Maybe Wilkinson will attempt an explanation in her next book.
All in all, though, this was an interesting look at a part of Richard's life that has been given relatively scant attention by historians. As it appears that this will be a two-part biography, I'll be interested in seeing that Wilkinson makes of the older Richard.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Snippet Time!
I'm inserting footnotes into an article I'm doing about the Woodville siblings, which is such a time-consuming and tedious process that it hasn't left me much time for blogging this week. (Next time, I'm just going to say, "Because I read it somewhere," for my references, and leave it at that.) Anyway, I thought some of you might like to see an excerpt from the novel I'm working on, which is called My Heart Split With Sorrow (from Buckingham's speech in Shakespeare's Richard III) until I find a title I like better. Six-year-old Katherine Woodville has just stumbled into a family wedding:
As I stood there, at a loss for words and sensing that I had somehow done a Bad Thing, the groom turned and stood, making me gasp. He was tall--well over six feet—and dazzlingly handsome, with hair of a rich, almost coppery auburn. Small, sallow, and of middling appearance, I was none of those things, and I averted my eyes as if caught gazing into the sun. “Well, now. Who is this young lady?”
“Katherine, sir,” I managed.
“Kate,” the groom said as I thrilled from my head to my toes. How did this man know that I loved to be called “Kate,” only Mother insisted on the more dignified “Katherine”? He turned to my sister. “I’ve changed my mind, I’m afraid. This will be my new bride.”
“She’s a trifle young for you,” said my sister a little tensely.
“Oh, maybe a bit,” the man conceded. He smiled. “Some other lucky man will have little Kate, then. Lady Kate? Can you keep a great secret?”
“You had better,” my mother warned.
“I know Kate will,” the man said reassuringly. He looked down—a long way down--straight into my eyes. “Kate, I am getting ready to marry your sister. But it is a great secret. No one can know until I announce it personally.”
“Your family would not approve?” I ventured, as he was being so confiding.
“Indeed no.”
“That is a pity.”
“But they will come to understand in time.” He cleared his throat and looked thoughtful for a moment, then appeared to make up his mind. “But there are other reasons why there are difficulties just now. I suppose you have not seen our King Edward yet, Kate?”
“No.”
“Have you heard much of him?”
I was delighted by his question, for it gave me the opportunity to demonstrate what a good Yorkist I was, a great necessity in our family, since it was not so terribly long ago that Papa and my brothers Anthony and Richard had fought for the house of Lancaster. Having gone over to what now all agreed heartily to be the right side, Papa had sternly informed us children that we should always speak well of the House of York. As with all of my father’s advice, I had heeded it dutifully, but I seldom had the chance to put it into practice, for all of my brothers and sisters, being older and much wiser, were naturally much better Yorkists as well, and never made a mistake I could correct. “No,” I admitted. “But I hear he is very brave. And very handsome.”
The second man laughed, a sound that made the chapel echo. He was well over a decade older than the groom and less handsome, though his ruddy face was a good-humored one. “Ned, there’s a fine courtier for you! Shall I?”
The younger man nodded, and the older man reached in a purse and drew out a fine gold chain, then handed it to me. (Later, I was to learn that he always kept one or two on his person, in case of emergencies.) “There’s a reward for your loyalty, Lady Kate.”
“Thank you,” I said vacantly, staring at the chain. It was lovely, and even to my inexpert eyes looked frightfully expensive. Was my sister marrying a highwayman?
The younger man laughed at my expression. “You see, Kate, I am the king. And I have come here to marry your sister.”
There were any number of dignified and proper responses I could have made to this announcement. I, of course, made none of them. My mouth gaped open, most unattractively I fear. “You?” I asked. “Her?”
“Me. Her.” The king nodded. “She will make a lovely queen, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I admitted feebly. Elizabeth was indeed lovely; indeed, I sometimes thought that she and my brother Anthony had taken so much beauty for themselves that was not enough left for the other ten of us children, especially me.
“But you must keep this a secret, Kate, as I have said. You will promise?”
“On my life!”
“Good girl,” the king said. He grinned. “Or I would be obliged to put you in my Tower as a lesson, you know.”
My previous promise was empty compared to the one I made now. “I swear and hope to die if I break my promise,” I vowed, kneeling and making the sign of the cross for good measure. I might have gone further and prostrated myself had Elizabeth not interrupted.
“Time passes. Ned, I know the child will not tell. Can we please resume the ceremony?"
As I stood there, at a loss for words and sensing that I had somehow done a Bad Thing, the groom turned and stood, making me gasp. He was tall--well over six feet—and dazzlingly handsome, with hair of a rich, almost coppery auburn. Small, sallow, and of middling appearance, I was none of those things, and I averted my eyes as if caught gazing into the sun. “Well, now. Who is this young lady?”
“Katherine, sir,” I managed.
“Kate,” the groom said as I thrilled from my head to my toes. How did this man know that I loved to be called “Kate,” only Mother insisted on the more dignified “Katherine”? He turned to my sister. “I’ve changed my mind, I’m afraid. This will be my new bride.”
“She’s a trifle young for you,” said my sister a little tensely.
“Oh, maybe a bit,” the man conceded. He smiled. “Some other lucky man will have little Kate, then. Lady Kate? Can you keep a great secret?”
“You had better,” my mother warned.
“I know Kate will,” the man said reassuringly. He looked down—a long way down--straight into my eyes. “Kate, I am getting ready to marry your sister. But it is a great secret. No one can know until I announce it personally.”
“Your family would not approve?” I ventured, as he was being so confiding.
“Indeed no.”
“That is a pity.”
“But they will come to understand in time.” He cleared his throat and looked thoughtful for a moment, then appeared to make up his mind. “But there are other reasons why there are difficulties just now. I suppose you have not seen our King Edward yet, Kate?”
“No.”
“Have you heard much of him?”
I was delighted by his question, for it gave me the opportunity to demonstrate what a good Yorkist I was, a great necessity in our family, since it was not so terribly long ago that Papa and my brothers Anthony and Richard had fought for the house of Lancaster. Having gone over to what now all agreed heartily to be the right side, Papa had sternly informed us children that we should always speak well of the House of York. As with all of my father’s advice, I had heeded it dutifully, but I seldom had the chance to put it into practice, for all of my brothers and sisters, being older and much wiser, were naturally much better Yorkists as well, and never made a mistake I could correct. “No,” I admitted. “But I hear he is very brave. And very handsome.”
The second man laughed, a sound that made the chapel echo. He was well over a decade older than the groom and less handsome, though his ruddy face was a good-humored one. “Ned, there’s a fine courtier for you! Shall I?”
The younger man nodded, and the older man reached in a purse and drew out a fine gold chain, then handed it to me. (Later, I was to learn that he always kept one or two on his person, in case of emergencies.) “There’s a reward for your loyalty, Lady Kate.”
“Thank you,” I said vacantly, staring at the chain. It was lovely, and even to my inexpert eyes looked frightfully expensive. Was my sister marrying a highwayman?
The younger man laughed at my expression. “You see, Kate, I am the king. And I have come here to marry your sister.”
There were any number of dignified and proper responses I could have made to this announcement. I, of course, made none of them. My mouth gaped open, most unattractively I fear. “You?” I asked. “Her?”
“Me. Her.” The king nodded. “She will make a lovely queen, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I admitted feebly. Elizabeth was indeed lovely; indeed, I sometimes thought that she and my brother Anthony had taken so much beauty for themselves that was not enough left for the other ten of us children, especially me.
“But you must keep this a secret, Kate, as I have said. You will promise?”
“On my life!”
“Good girl,” the king said. He grinned. “Or I would be obliged to put you in my Tower as a lesson, you know.”
My previous promise was empty compared to the one I made now. “I swear and hope to die if I break my promise,” I vowed, kneeling and making the sign of the cross for good measure. I might have gone further and prostrated myself had Elizabeth not interrupted.
“Time passes. Ned, I know the child will not tell. Can we please resume the ceremony?"
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Mysterious Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Stafford
In researching my novel featuring Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, I naturally had to do some digging regarding his mother, Margaret Beaufort--not to be confused with the other Margaret Beaufort, mother to Henry VII. This was a frustrating dig!
This Margaret Beaufort was one of five daughters of Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and Eleanor Beauchamp. Her father was killed at the first battle of St. Albans on May 22, 1455. All three of her brothers met violent ends during the Wars of the Roses: the eldest, Henry Beaufort, was executed by Yorkist troops in 1464; the second, Edmund Beaufort, was executed after the battle of Tewkesbury; and the third, John, died in battle at Tewkesbury.
Margaret married Humphrey Stafford, Earl of Stafford, the eldest son of Humphrey Stafford, the first Duke of Buckingham. According to a manuscript cited by Carole Rawcliffe, the marriage took place in 1444. Probably Margaret was a child when she married, as her eldest son was not born until 1455.
Margaret was pregnant with her first son, Henry Stafford, when her father was killed at St. Albans. Many sources, even the Complete Peerage, mistakenly claim that the Earl of Stafford, Margaret's husband, was killed at St. Albans as well, but he, like his father the Duke of Buckingham, survived the battle with wounds. Margaret and Humphrey's eldest son, Henry, was born on September 4, 1455.
In 1458, the the Earl of Stafford died of the plague. He had been appointed in 1457 to the council of Prince Edward, son of Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou. Margaret Beaufort was left a widow with two sons, Henry and Humphrey.
The first Duke of Buckingham was killed at Northampton in 1460, making Margaret's son Henry the second duke. His wardship and marriage were in the hands of the first duke's widow, Katherine, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Bourchier. Later, Edward IV purchased the wardship, and Henry and his younger brother were eventually brought into the household of Elizabeth Woodville. Humphrey, along with Henry, was made a Knight of the Bath and shared Henry's tutor, but he apparently died young, for there is no trace of him after the 1460's.
Margaret Beaufort, meanwhile, remarried. Her second husband was Richard Darell, variously spelled as Darelle, Darrell, and Dayrell, who was a younger son in a family of five brothers. The two had a daughter, Margaret.
It is here where things get murky with Margaret. The Collections for a History of Staffordshire contains this entry:
The editor concludes that this entry indicates that Margaret was an "imbecile." So was she actually incapacitated, mentally or physically? It's difficult to say for sure from this single entry, but it does sound as if Margaret was being made the responsibility of Elizabeth (apparently her mother-in-law, Elizabeth Calston, who died in 1464) rather than as staying with her as an ordinary guest. It has been suggested that Margaret was staying with Elizabeth during her pregnancy, but "such rate to continue during the whole time of the presence of the said Countess" suggests a more indefinite term.
Whatever the reason the countess was staying with Elizabeth, almost nothing else is heard of her. She is noted as presenting a rector, John Southwell, to Wells in Norfolk in 1463; in 1465, Richard Darell presented William Dudley to Wells in Margaret's right. (Dudley was later Bishop of Durham.) British History Online (Romsey) indicates that she had manors at Stanbridge Earls, Wexcombe, and Bedwyn. (See text by note 206.) Even her death date is unclear. Some sources give the date as being in the 1470's, and others give it in 1480, but the latter appear to be confusing her with her Stafford mother-in-law, Katherine Neville, who died that year. She was certainly dead by May 22, 1481, when Richard Darell and his second wife, Jane Baron, deeded over some land. Thus, she was spared the knowledge of the beheading of her only surviving son on November 2, 1483.
Some of the countess's obscurity might be explained by her Beaufort connections: as her father and all of her brothers died in the service of the House of Lancaster, she was unlikely to be welcome at Edward IV's court or to relish going there. Nonetheless, the countess's second husband, Richard Darell, was not out of favor with Edward IV, but was appointed to a number of commissions. He also served as one of his stepson's councilors and in 1483 was present at the coronation of Richard III. Having steered clear of his stepson's rebellion later in 1483, Richard Darell died in 1489. In 1480, he and John Tuchet, Lord Audley, arranged for Audley's heir, James Tuchet, to marry Darell's daughter by Margaret Beaufort, named Margaret after her mother. It was a short-lived marriage, for by 1488, James Tuchet had remarried. Like her mother, Margaret Darell was spared grief by her early death, for James Tuchet was beheaded in 1497 after rising against Henry VII.
This Margaret Beaufort was one of five daughters of Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and Eleanor Beauchamp. Her father was killed at the first battle of St. Albans on May 22, 1455. All three of her brothers met violent ends during the Wars of the Roses: the eldest, Henry Beaufort, was executed by Yorkist troops in 1464; the second, Edmund Beaufort, was executed after the battle of Tewkesbury; and the third, John, died in battle at Tewkesbury.
Margaret married Humphrey Stafford, Earl of Stafford, the eldest son of Humphrey Stafford, the first Duke of Buckingham. According to a manuscript cited by Carole Rawcliffe, the marriage took place in 1444. Probably Margaret was a child when she married, as her eldest son was not born until 1455.
Margaret was pregnant with her first son, Henry Stafford, when her father was killed at St. Albans. Many sources, even the Complete Peerage, mistakenly claim that the Earl of Stafford, Margaret's husband, was killed at St. Albans as well, but he, like his father the Duke of Buckingham, survived the battle with wounds. Margaret and Humphrey's eldest son, Henry, was born on September 4, 1455.
In 1458, the the Earl of Stafford died of the plague. He had been appointed in 1457 to the council of Prince Edward, son of Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou. Margaret Beaufort was left a widow with two sons, Henry and Humphrey.
The first Duke of Buckingham was killed at Northampton in 1460, making Margaret's son Henry the second duke. His wardship and marriage were in the hands of the first duke's widow, Katherine, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Bourchier. Later, Edward IV purchased the wardship, and Henry and his younger brother were eventually brought into the household of Elizabeth Woodville. Humphrey, along with Henry, was made a Knight of the Bath and shared Henry's tutor, but he apparently died young, for there is no trace of him after the 1460's.
Margaret Beaufort, meanwhile, remarried. Her second husband was Richard Darell, variously spelled as Darelle, Darrell, and Dayrell, who was a younger son in a family of five brothers. The two had a daughter, Margaret.
It is here where things get murky with Margaret. The Collections for a History of Staffordshire contains this entry:
Wilts. Richard Darelle, late of Litelcote, armiger, was summoned at the suit of Alexander Darelle, executor of the will of Elizabeth Darelle, in a plea that he should pay to him a sum of 45 marks, which he unjustly withheld, and Alexander stated that on the 1st August, 3 E. IV, [1463] the said Richard had placed Margaret, the Countess of Stafford, to board ("ad mensam") with the said Elizabeth during her lifetime, paying to her for each week for which the Countess was at board with her the sum of 13s. 4d. for her diets ("pro dietis suis"), such rate to continue during the whole time of the presence of the said Countess ("essencie ipsius Comitesse") at board with Elizabeth, and notwithstanding the said Countess had remained at board with her from the said 1st August for the 45 weeks following, the said Richard had not paid Elizabeth during her life for the said arrears, and had refused to pay her executor, notwithstanding frequent requisitions made upon him, and he produced the testamentary letters of the said Elizabeth, which satisfied the Court that he was her executor. Richard Darelle appeared by attorney, and denied that he had detained the money, as stated by Alexander, and appealed to a jury which was to be summoned for the Quindene of Easter Day. A postscript shews that the Sheriff had made no return to the writ up to Michaelmas term, 6 E. IV. m. 341, dorso.
The editor concludes that this entry indicates that Margaret was an "imbecile." So was she actually incapacitated, mentally or physically? It's difficult to say for sure from this single entry, but it does sound as if Margaret was being made the responsibility of Elizabeth (apparently her mother-in-law, Elizabeth Calston, who died in 1464) rather than as staying with her as an ordinary guest. It has been suggested that Margaret was staying with Elizabeth during her pregnancy, but "such rate to continue during the whole time of the presence of the said Countess" suggests a more indefinite term.
Whatever the reason the countess was staying with Elizabeth, almost nothing else is heard of her. She is noted as presenting a rector, John Southwell, to Wells in Norfolk in 1463; in 1465, Richard Darell presented William Dudley to Wells in Margaret's right. (Dudley was later Bishop of Durham.) British History Online (Romsey) indicates that she had manors at Stanbridge Earls, Wexcombe, and Bedwyn. (See text by note 206.) Even her death date is unclear. Some sources give the date as being in the 1470's, and others give it in 1480, but the latter appear to be confusing her with her Stafford mother-in-law, Katherine Neville, who died that year. She was certainly dead by May 22, 1481, when Richard Darell and his second wife, Jane Baron, deeded over some land. Thus, she was spared the knowledge of the beheading of her only surviving son on November 2, 1483.
Some of the countess's obscurity might be explained by her Beaufort connections: as her father and all of her brothers died in the service of the House of Lancaster, she was unlikely to be welcome at Edward IV's court or to relish going there. Nonetheless, the countess's second husband, Richard Darell, was not out of favor with Edward IV, but was appointed to a number of commissions. He also served as one of his stepson's councilors and in 1483 was present at the coronation of Richard III. Having steered clear of his stepson's rebellion later in 1483, Richard Darell died in 1489. In 1480, he and John Tuchet, Lord Audley, arranged for Audley's heir, James Tuchet, to marry Darell's daughter by Margaret Beaufort, named Margaret after her mother. It was a short-lived marriage, for by 1488, James Tuchet had remarried. Like her mother, Margaret Darell was spared grief by her early death, for James Tuchet was beheaded in 1497 after rising against Henry VII.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
What? A Despenser in Trouble?
One of the little tidbits that I never got to use in either The Traitor's Wife or in Hugh and Bess (coming out in a new edition later this year) is the fact that in 1344, yet another member of the Despenser family got into trouble. This time, it was Gilbert le Despenser, the third son of Hugh le Despenser the younger and Eleanor de Clare.
Gilbert was born before July 9, 1322, when Edward II granted him a remainder interest in the manor of Melton Mowbray, which had come into the king's hands thanks to his triumph in the so-called "Despenser war," which had erupted when Hugh the younger's land-grabbing and the king's complaisance outraged their enemies. My educated guess is that Gilbert was born during the unrest, which began with the devastation of the Despensers' lands in May 1321 and ended with the battle of Boroughbridge and the execution of the Earl of Lancaster in March 1322. Had Gilbert been born before the civil war broke out, it seems likely that the king would have given him a present of land at that time or that his father would have made some arrangements to endow him with land, as he seems to have done for the second Despenser son, Edward.
Edward and Gilbert (along with their younger brother, John) were fortunate enough to escape the grimmer consequences of their father's downfall in 1326. At age eighteen, their eldest brother, Hugh, had been entrusted with Caerphilly Castle, which he held against the queen until 1327, when he surrendered it in return for the promise of his life. He was kept a prisoner until 1331, even after the fall of Isabella and Mortimer. Hugh the younger's widow, Eleanor, herself was confined to the Tower, and three of the Despenser girls were forced to take the veil. The boys apparently shared their mother's imprisonment (the order releasing Eleanor in February 1328 refers to her children as well), but once she was free, they were too. One wonders why Isabella and Mortimer, having forced three Despenser girls into convents, were so lax with their brothers. Perhaps having vented their spite on the girls and imprisoned the oldest son, they were content to let the younger boys alone.
Gilbert is next heard from in 1342, when he and his brother Edward fought under the banner of their brother Hugh at Morlaix in Brittany. Sadly, only two of the three brothers came home alive: Edward was killed in the battle.
It is on December 20, 1344, that this mysterious order appears in the Close Rolls:
So what was our friend Gilbert up to? Sadly, I haven't a clue. The maddeningly vague term "certain excesses" appears quite frequently in the Close Rolls, usually in tandem with the equally unenlightening "trespasses." Nothing more is heard of the charges against Gilbert. He had distinguished mainprisers: Hugh, his oldest brother, had worked his way back into royal favor through years of loyal military service, and the Earl of Northampton, a cousin of Edward III and of the Despensers as well, was one of the most distinguished commanders of his day.
Gilbert's offenses, whatever they were (if any), did not hamper his future career. He served at Crecy and Calais, either as one of the king's household knights or under his brother Hugh's banner. In 1349, one John de la Ryvere acknowledged owing 900 pounds to Gilbert. He served Edward III again in 1359-60--his brother Hugh had died in 1349--and with John of Gaunt in 1369. On March 6, 1370, Henry de Wakefield, keeper of the king's wardrobe, gave Gilbert 15/. Os. 7\d. for the wages of himself, his men at arms, and archers. That same year, Edward III granted Gilbert "40 marks yearly, to be received at the Exchequer during his life, for the good service rendered by him to the same Lord the King."
Gilbert died on April 23, 1382. He had been married to Ela de Calverley. The couple had a son, John, who died at age 14 in 1375. Whatever the youthful folly that had put him in the Tower in 1344, Gilbert, aged at least sixty at his death, could congratulate himself on having reached a ripe old age for a Despenser male.
Gilbert was born before July 9, 1322, when Edward II granted him a remainder interest in the manor of Melton Mowbray, which had come into the king's hands thanks to his triumph in the so-called "Despenser war," which had erupted when Hugh the younger's land-grabbing and the king's complaisance outraged their enemies. My educated guess is that Gilbert was born during the unrest, which began with the devastation of the Despensers' lands in May 1321 and ended with the battle of Boroughbridge and the execution of the Earl of Lancaster in March 1322. Had Gilbert been born before the civil war broke out, it seems likely that the king would have given him a present of land at that time or that his father would have made some arrangements to endow him with land, as he seems to have done for the second Despenser son, Edward.
Edward and Gilbert (along with their younger brother, John) were fortunate enough to escape the grimmer consequences of their father's downfall in 1326. At age eighteen, their eldest brother, Hugh, had been entrusted with Caerphilly Castle, which he held against the queen until 1327, when he surrendered it in return for the promise of his life. He was kept a prisoner until 1331, even after the fall of Isabella and Mortimer. Hugh the younger's widow, Eleanor, herself was confined to the Tower, and three of the Despenser girls were forced to take the veil. The boys apparently shared their mother's imprisonment (the order releasing Eleanor in February 1328 refers to her children as well), but once she was free, they were too. One wonders why Isabella and Mortimer, having forced three Despenser girls into convents, were so lax with their brothers. Perhaps having vented their spite on the girls and imprisoned the oldest son, they were content to let the younger boys alone.
Gilbert is next heard from in 1342, when he and his brother Edward fought under the banner of their brother Hugh at Morlaix in Brittany. Sadly, only two of the three brothers came home alive: Edward was killed in the battle.
It is on December 20, 1344, that this mysterious order appears in the Close Rolls:
To Robert de Dalton, constable of the Tower of London, or to him who supplies his place. Order to release Gilbert le Despenser, knight, from prison by the mainprise of William de Bohun, earl of Northampton, and Hugh le Despenser, as he is staying under arrest in the Tower by reason of certain excesses charged against him. By p.s. [16509.]
So what was our friend Gilbert up to? Sadly, I haven't a clue. The maddeningly vague term "certain excesses" appears quite frequently in the Close Rolls, usually in tandem with the equally unenlightening "trespasses." Nothing more is heard of the charges against Gilbert. He had distinguished mainprisers: Hugh, his oldest brother, had worked his way back into royal favor through years of loyal military service, and the Earl of Northampton, a cousin of Edward III and of the Despensers as well, was one of the most distinguished commanders of his day.
Gilbert's offenses, whatever they were (if any), did not hamper his future career. He served at Crecy and Calais, either as one of the king's household knights or under his brother Hugh's banner. In 1349, one John de la Ryvere acknowledged owing 900 pounds to Gilbert. He served Edward III again in 1359-60--his brother Hugh had died in 1349--and with John of Gaunt in 1369. On March 6, 1370, Henry de Wakefield, keeper of the king's wardrobe, gave Gilbert 15/. Os. 7\d. for the wages of himself, his men at arms, and archers. That same year, Edward III granted Gilbert "40 marks yearly, to be received at the Exchequer during his life, for the good service rendered by him to the same Lord the King."
Gilbert died on April 23, 1382. He had been married to Ela de Calverley. The couple had a son, John, who died at age 14 in 1375. Whatever the youthful folly that had put him in the Tower in 1344, Gilbert, aged at least sixty at his death, could congratulate himself on having reached a ripe old age for a Despenser male.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
The Richard and Harry Show
Well, I'm chugging along in my work in progress, and the Duke of Gloucester, aided by his friend the Duke of Buckingham, is on the verge of usurping the throne, with grim consequences for everyone concerned. Since my characters are so busy, I am too, but I thought I'd stop by and pass along this interesting online book I came across a few months back, Devon--Records of Early English Drama by John M. Wasson. These records show (among other things) payments made to various nobles' minstrels when they appeared in various towns. Interestingly, Buckingham and Gloucester's minstrels appeared together on several occasions in Barnstaple:
1470-1
Receivers'Accounts NDA: Roll 2010
Et de xvj d datis minstrall' ducis Glawcestrie et de xij d datis minstrall" ducis Bokynham [others are named here too]
1475-6
Receivers'Accounts NDA: Roll 2014
mb 1 (External expenses)
Et de viij d. minstrall' ducis de Bokynham. Et de iiij d. minstrall' ducis Gloucestrie [This must have been quite a show; the Dukes of Norfolk and Clarence, among others, also had minstrels there.]
1476-7
Receivers'Accounts NDA: Roll 2015
mb 1 (External expenses)
Et de iiij d. minstrall'ducis de Bokyngham et de iiij d. Minstrall Henrici Botrugan Et de viij d. Custodi vrsorum domni Clarencij. Et de v s. solutis vj Ministrallis domni Regis. Et de xij d. duobus ministrallis ducis Gloucestrie
[Note the presence of the Duke of Clarence's "bear ward" and the king's minstrels here.]
With regard to the record for 1470-71, this must refer to a period after May 1471, since these accounts run from September to September and Gloucester was in exile with his brother Edward IV from September 1470 to April 1471, and fighting against forces of Lancaster in April and May 1471. It's interesting to note that Buckingham (born in 1455) was still a minor in 1471, a ward of the king who had been put in the custody of Elizabeth Woodville in 1464. The fact that the teenage Buckingham had a minstrel who traveled about suggests that even if he was still under the queen's care, he must have had something of a household at the time, contrary to Elizabeth's detractors, who portray her as ruthlessly exploiting her ward and keeping him from living the normal life of a noble adolescent male.
Well, back to Harry and Richard!
1470-1
Receivers'Accounts NDA: Roll 2010
Et de xvj d datis minstrall' ducis Glawcestrie et de xij d datis minstrall" ducis Bokynham [others are named here too]
1475-6
Receivers'Accounts NDA: Roll 2014
mb 1 (External expenses)
Et de viij d. minstrall' ducis de Bokynham. Et de iiij d. minstrall' ducis Gloucestrie [This must have been quite a show; the Dukes of Norfolk and Clarence, among others, also had minstrels there.]
1476-7
Receivers'Accounts NDA: Roll 2015
mb 1 (External expenses)
Et de iiij d. minstrall'ducis de Bokyngham et de iiij d. Minstrall Henrici Botrugan Et de viij d. Custodi vrsorum domni Clarencij. Et de v s. solutis vj Ministrallis domni Regis. Et de xij d. duobus ministrallis ducis Gloucestrie
[Note the presence of the Duke of Clarence's "bear ward" and the king's minstrels here.]
With regard to the record for 1470-71, this must refer to a period after May 1471, since these accounts run from September to September and Gloucester was in exile with his brother Edward IV from September 1470 to April 1471, and fighting against forces of Lancaster in April and May 1471. It's interesting to note that Buckingham (born in 1455) was still a minor in 1471, a ward of the king who had been put in the custody of Elizabeth Woodville in 1464. The fact that the teenage Buckingham had a minstrel who traveled about suggests that even if he was still under the queen's care, he must have had something of a household at the time, contrary to Elizabeth's detractors, who portray her as ruthlessly exploiting her ward and keeping him from living the normal life of a noble adolescent male.
Well, back to Harry and Richard!
Monday, January 05, 2009
Review: A Secret Alchemy by Emma Darwin
A Secret Alchemy is narrated by two historical characters, Elizabeth Woodville and her brother Anthony, and by one fictitious one, Una Pryor, a historian who's returned to England from her home in Australia to sell her English property. During her stay in England, the recently widowed Una, who's working on a book about Anthony Woodville and his reading, visits the cousins with whom she was raised and encounters the man whom she loved as an adolescent.
Anthony's story begins with the last journey of his life: he is bound for Pontefract Castle, where he knows that the future Richard III has scheduled his execution. Elizabeth tells her story from the quiet confines of Bermondsey Abbey, to which she has retired from the court of Henry VII. Neither tells his or her life story from beginning to end; instead, they each focus on a few selected episodes, such as Elizabeth's courtship by Edward IV and Anthony's exile abroad. As a result, the cast of characters is relatively small: we meet Edward IV, Edward V, a few Woodvilles, Anthony's lover, and Elizabeth's long-time attendant and confidante. There's a cameo appearance by Thomas Malory and a couple of very brief ones by the future Richard III.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading Anthony's and Elizabeth's stories, and had tears in my eyes after reading both (which doesn't happen very often, especially when I know the ending). Anthony's tale, especially the love story Darwin gives him (which I found very plausible) and his terrible grief when he realizes that his charge Edward V is at the mercy of Richard III, is very moving. Elizabeth, who's so often reduced to a caricature by historical novelists, is beautifully drawn here. She's strong-minded and courageous, yet vulnerable. There's even a touch of humor here and there, as when Elizabeth's earthy sister Margaret comments on the queen's morning sickness.
The contemporary story, Una's, was well done also. I didn't find it as compelling as the medieval ones, but Darwin did a nice job of working the historical strands and the contemporary strand into an integrated whole.
Darwin has researched her novel with care, and she provides an afterword putting the tales of Anthony and Elizabeth in their historical context.
I heartily recommend this novel.
Anthony's story begins with the last journey of his life: he is bound for Pontefract Castle, where he knows that the future Richard III has scheduled his execution. Elizabeth tells her story from the quiet confines of Bermondsey Abbey, to which she has retired from the court of Henry VII. Neither tells his or her life story from beginning to end; instead, they each focus on a few selected episodes, such as Elizabeth's courtship by Edward IV and Anthony's exile abroad. As a result, the cast of characters is relatively small: we meet Edward IV, Edward V, a few Woodvilles, Anthony's lover, and Elizabeth's long-time attendant and confidante. There's a cameo appearance by Thomas Malory and a couple of very brief ones by the future Richard III.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading Anthony's and Elizabeth's stories, and had tears in my eyes after reading both (which doesn't happen very often, especially when I know the ending). Anthony's tale, especially the love story Darwin gives him (which I found very plausible) and his terrible grief when he realizes that his charge Edward V is at the mercy of Richard III, is very moving. Elizabeth, who's so often reduced to a caricature by historical novelists, is beautifully drawn here. She's strong-minded and courageous, yet vulnerable. There's even a touch of humor here and there, as when Elizabeth's earthy sister Margaret comments on the queen's morning sickness.
The contemporary story, Una's, was well done also. I didn't find it as compelling as the medieval ones, but Darwin did a nice job of working the historical strands and the contemporary strand into an integrated whole.
Darwin has researched her novel with care, and she provides an afterword putting the tales of Anthony and Elizabeth in their historical context.
I heartily recommend this novel.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Seals!
No, not the type with flappers. I was Googling last night and was excited to find this book: Seals by Walter de Gray Birch.
Here's the seal of Eleanor de Clare, heroine of The Traitor's Wife, and her second husband, William la Zouche. Eleanor's, of course, is the second one. (Look at the end of the post if for some reason Google's not letting you see the images below.)
Seals By Walter de Gray Birch: "
"
And here's the seal of Eleanor's eldest son, Hugh le Despenser the even younger (died 1349), the hero of Hugh and Bess:
Seals By Walter de Gray Birch: "
"
Neat, eh? Zouche and Hugh, of course, are shown with their coats of arms, while Eleanor has a shield with the lions of England (reminding us that she was a granddaughter of Edward I) and another with the arms of Clare (her father, of course, was Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester).
Zouche and Eleanor:
Hugh:
Here's the seal of Eleanor de Clare, heroine of The Traitor's Wife, and her second husband, William la Zouche. Eleanor's, of course, is the second one. (Look at the end of the post if for some reason Google's not letting you see the images below.)
Seals By Walter de Gray Birch: "
"And here's the seal of Eleanor's eldest son, Hugh le Despenser the even younger (died 1349), the hero of Hugh and Bess:
Seals By Walter de Gray Birch: "
"Neat, eh? Zouche and Hugh, of course, are shown with their coats of arms, while Eleanor has a shield with the lions of England (reminding us that she was a granddaughter of Edward I) and another with the arms of Clare (her father, of course, was Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester).
Zouche and Eleanor:
Hugh:
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
New Year's Resolutions
No, not mine: they're way too boring. Thanks to Nan Hawthorne's suggestion, these are New Year's Resolutions of some people we all know and love. And Gabriele is joining in over at The Lost Fort! If everyone keeps to their promises, it should be a productive year.
Nan's:
Henry II: To spend more time with my sons.
Brian Boru: No more wives!
Harold Godwinson: To let the fyrd go home early for harvest this year -- 1066.
Richard Sharpe: To see Boney.
William of Normandy: To get in touch with my Inner Bastard.
William Rufus: To get more time off from being king, like spending more time hunting in the New Forest.
Robert the Bruce: To spend more time on the web.
Robin Hood: To tell my girlfriend I'm not the Marian kind.
Brother Cadfael: To look into $4 prescriptions at Walmart.
Nan Hawthorne: To keep up with updating medieval-novels.com better.
Susan's:
Lady Godiva: To work out more often.
Henry II: To spend some real quality time with Eleanor.
Richard I: To pay a visit to that place over the Channel, whatever it’s called. Oh, that’s right—England!
John: To schedule an appointment with that public relations guy.
Hugh le Despenser the elder: To be more strict with little Hugh.
Richard II: To get rid of that Henry Bolingbroke fellow before he really becomes a pest.
Owen Tudor: To get up my nerve to ask Queen Catherine for a date.
Margaret of Anjou: To assert myself more.
George, Duke of Clarence: To get along better with my brother Ned.
Warwick the Kingmaker: Not to sweat the small stuff.
Perkin Warbeck: To find myself.
Thomas More: To complete my unfinished book so that posterity will know what a truly great guy Richard III was.
Nan's:
Henry II: To spend more time with my sons.
Brian Boru: No more wives!
Harold Godwinson: To let the fyrd go home early for harvest this year -- 1066.
Richard Sharpe: To see Boney.
William of Normandy: To get in touch with my Inner Bastard.
William Rufus: To get more time off from being king, like spending more time hunting in the New Forest.
Robert the Bruce: To spend more time on the web.
Robin Hood: To tell my girlfriend I'm not the Marian kind.
Brother Cadfael: To look into $4 prescriptions at Walmart.
Nan Hawthorne: To keep up with updating medieval-novels.com better.
Susan's:
Lady Godiva: To work out more often.
Henry II: To spend some real quality time with Eleanor.
Richard I: To pay a visit to that place over the Channel, whatever it’s called. Oh, that’s right—England!
John: To schedule an appointment with that public relations guy.
Hugh le Despenser the elder: To be more strict with little Hugh.
Richard II: To get rid of that Henry Bolingbroke fellow before he really becomes a pest.
Owen Tudor: To get up my nerve to ask Queen Catherine for a date.
Margaret of Anjou: To assert myself more.
George, Duke of Clarence: To get along better with my brother Ned.
Warwick the Kingmaker: Not to sweat the small stuff.
Perkin Warbeck: To find myself.
Thomas More: To complete my unfinished book so that posterity will know what a truly great guy Richard III was.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Reading Round-Up, and What's In Store for 2009
First, as it's the end of the year, I feel morally obliged to list some reading highlights.
For fiction, I especially enjoyed Sharon Penman's long-awaited Devil's Brood, Jean Plaidy's French Revolution trilogy, Michelle Moran's The Heretic Queen, and Louis Bayard's The Black Tower.
In nonfiction, my favorites were James Swanson's Manhunt, about the search for John Wilkes Booth; Julia Fox's Jane Boleyn (a book that has absolutely spoiled most historical fiction dealing with Jane-as-warped-wacko for me), Linda Porter's The First Queen of England: The Myth of “Bloody Mary," and Ian Mortimer's The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England.
Both lists could probably be quite a bit longer, but I didn't keep any sort of record of what I read this year, so I'm relying mainly on what jumps out at me from my shelves. I'll probably think of other things once I sign off for the evening.
What am I reading these days? I just finished Alice Harcourt's The Clandestine Queen, a 1979 historical novel that covers Elizabeth Woodville's life from her time as a lady in waiting to Margaret of Anjou through the birth of her first royal son, Edward V. There are some anachronisms (use of "your majesty" and certain nicknames that sound more modern than medieval, for instance), but Harwood has clearly done her research as far as the historical events of the period are concerned. I found it a pleasant, if workmanlike, read, and I look forward to reading the other Harwood novel I have on hand, which deals with Perkin Warbeck and his bride.
Courtesy of Sourcebooks, I also have a copy of Georgette Heyer's The Conqueror, which I take with me to the gym and read while on the treadmill. I confess to being confused from time to time as to who is William's enemy and who is not, but as the characters themselves seem a bit confused on this point too, I can live with it.
On the nonfiction front, I recently finished David Starkey's Henry VIII: Virtuous Prince. Issued in anticipation of the 500th anniversary of Henry's accession to the throne, this book covers Henry's youth and the early days of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. It's arranged chronologically and thematically, with chapters on Henry's education and on his early relationship with Wolsey, for instance. I found it very readable, although it could have used a better editing, especially since it's intended for a general audience and not for specialists. (For instance, Starkey discusses the rebellion of 1483 without ever naming Henry Buckingham as a participant, then, some pages later, mentions Henry Buckingham with the expectation that the reader will somehow know who he is.) Next on the nonfiction list, I believe, will be Alison Weir's biography of Katherine Swynford.
And now, what does this blog have in store for 2009? I've got a few posts in mind already, including Eleanor de Clare's father, Gilbert de Clare, Joan of Kent's messy marital litigation, and Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham's mysterious, possibly insane mother. This should be the year too when I do a post on Anthony Woodville, having done his brothers and sisters already. As usual, we'll have some fun here, starting on New Year's Eve when sundry familiar figures make their New Year's resolutions. Stay tuned!
For fiction, I especially enjoyed Sharon Penman's long-awaited Devil's Brood, Jean Plaidy's French Revolution trilogy, Michelle Moran's The Heretic Queen, and Louis Bayard's The Black Tower.
In nonfiction, my favorites were James Swanson's Manhunt, about the search for John Wilkes Booth; Julia Fox's Jane Boleyn (a book that has absolutely spoiled most historical fiction dealing with Jane-as-warped-wacko for me), Linda Porter's The First Queen of England: The Myth of “Bloody Mary," and Ian Mortimer's The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England.
Both lists could probably be quite a bit longer, but I didn't keep any sort of record of what I read this year, so I'm relying mainly on what jumps out at me from my shelves. I'll probably think of other things once I sign off for the evening.
What am I reading these days? I just finished Alice Harcourt's The Clandestine Queen, a 1979 historical novel that covers Elizabeth Woodville's life from her time as a lady in waiting to Margaret of Anjou through the birth of her first royal son, Edward V. There are some anachronisms (use of "your majesty" and certain nicknames that sound more modern than medieval, for instance), but Harwood has clearly done her research as far as the historical events of the period are concerned. I found it a pleasant, if workmanlike, read, and I look forward to reading the other Harwood novel I have on hand, which deals with Perkin Warbeck and his bride.
Courtesy of Sourcebooks, I also have a copy of Georgette Heyer's The Conqueror, which I take with me to the gym and read while on the treadmill. I confess to being confused from time to time as to who is William's enemy and who is not, but as the characters themselves seem a bit confused on this point too, I can live with it.
On the nonfiction front, I recently finished David Starkey's Henry VIII: Virtuous Prince. Issued in anticipation of the 500th anniversary of Henry's accession to the throne, this book covers Henry's youth and the early days of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. It's arranged chronologically and thematically, with chapters on Henry's education and on his early relationship with Wolsey, for instance. I found it very readable, although it could have used a better editing, especially since it's intended for a general audience and not for specialists. (For instance, Starkey discusses the rebellion of 1483 without ever naming Henry Buckingham as a participant, then, some pages later, mentions Henry Buckingham with the expectation that the reader will somehow know who he is.) Next on the nonfiction list, I believe, will be Alison Weir's biography of Katherine Swynford.
And now, what does this blog have in store for 2009? I've got a few posts in mind already, including Eleanor de Clare's father, Gilbert de Clare, Joan of Kent's messy marital litigation, and Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham's mysterious, possibly insane mother. This should be the year too when I do a post on Anthony Woodville, having done his brothers and sisters already. As usual, we'll have some fun here, starting on New Year's Eve when sundry familiar figures make their New Year's resolutions. Stay tuned!
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