Sharon Kay Penman

     Koby, you were right; my answering comments as they are  posted instead of saving them all for the next blog is more efficient—and gives me a fighting chance to keep the blogs shorter than Sunne.   I want to begin by thanking all of you who bravely followed me to Facebook; we solved the glitch and I no longer have an invisibility cloak.  I even managed to put up my book covers, including the gorgeous new one for the British paperback edition of Devil’s Brood.   I have also added a section for my British books in my blog, but the changes have not been made yet; same for my page of blog recommendations. 

        Speaking of recommendations, I have an on-line bookshop to recommend, www.medievalbookshop.co.uk   This is a wonderful source to find out-of-print and bargain books, and the owner is happy to accept Wish Lists from readers.  It is fun to browse, too, but be warned that you may find you’ve spent hours prowling Nick’s book attic.   I also want to remind you of www.freerice.com    It offers vocabulary tests at various levels of expertise, and every time you score a correct answer, rice is donated to the world’s needy.  I was delighted to discover they offer tests in French, Spanish, Italian, and German, too.   No Welsh yet…sigh.   Also, here is another Welsh castle site that one of my readers kindly brought to my attention.  As you all know, I am a huge fan of www.castlesofwales.com   But this site is a good one, too, for anyone interested in medieval Welsh castles, although it doesn’t have my personal favorites—the castles of the Welsh princes.  Here is the URL, www.greatcastlesofwales.co.uk/raglan_plan.htm

      I am going to take advantage of the fact that I have a captive audience here—every writer’s dream—to sing the praises of The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick.  In the interest of full disclosure, Elizabeth and I are friends and I’ve never read one of her books that I did not like.  But I think Falcons is something special.  It is set in the Holy Land, also called Outremer or Syria, in the early years of the 12^th century; it actually opens with the sinking of the White Ship.  Her major male character, Sabin Fitz Simon, is the illegitimate son of the Earl of Huntingdon, who is banished to Outremer in expiation of his many sins when his roving eye focuses upon a favorite mistress of the formidable old king Henry I.  I loved the Holy Land setting, in part because I’ve spent so much time researching the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the Crusades in the last few years.  As always, Elizabeth’s research is spot-on, and her descriptive writing is so vivid that you will feel as if you are walking the streets of Jerusalem with Sabin, fending off the relic peddlers and experiencing the delights of a Frankish bathhouse for the first time.  Falcons has a powerful love story that is firmly grounded in the MA, both convincing and moving.  I enjoyed the political intrigue and the skillful way Elizabeth has her fictional characters interact with real historical figures like King Baldwin or the Saracen lord, Usamah Ibn-Munqidh.      Another confession here—I like to write battle scenes.  I think Bernard Cornwell does them as well as any writer today, but not everyone knows that Elizabeth is just as gifted when it comes to spilling blood.   Falcons is set in a world at war, so there is enough action to satisfy the most blood-thirsty among us.  And as an added bonus, Falcons has some of the steamiest sex scenes not written by Diana Gabaldon.   For icing on the cake, Elizabeth provides a very interesting AN in which she discusses the choices she made and the few liberties she took with known historical fact; she even provides a brief bibliography.  If I had my way, all historical novelists would be compelled to include ANs, and I know many of you agree with me.   As an aside, Michelle Moran writes wonderful ANs, in which she explains why and how she had to fill in the blanks, for there is so much that is not known about ancient Egypt.     Unfortunately, Falcons has not been published yet in the US, but used copies are available at Amazon and Alibris, among others, and the paperback edition can be bought at Amazon—UK, of course.  

        Okay, now on to those of your questions I haven’t yet addressed.  Michelle, I agree with you that the “marital debt” would not have been easily enforced in the MA, given the inequality between husbands and wives.  But it is interesting that the Church took this position and adhered to it so strongly, even holding that a marriage could be dissolved if it could not be consummated.   Ken, I loved your comment about Edward, that he conquered Wales because he could; Bill Clinton said the same thing in an interview after he left office when he was asked why he’d gotten involved with Monica.    And I am fascinated by what you’re finding out about Susanna.   I did not make Gwladys Joanna’s daughter because there was no evidence to indicate she was when I wrote Dragons; as I’ve said, I relied to a great extent upon the wonderful research of Peter Bartram, who’d spent over forty years studying medieval Welsh genealogy.  But of course that was over twenty years ago and Peter didn’t have the resources of the Internet.   So I’m rooting for you to prove that Gwladys was Joanna’s. 

        Brenna, there is no secret formula for learning to accept criticism, sad to say.  Writers just have to develop thick skins if they want to prosper in our profession.  In my case, it was easier to accept the criticism of my editor, Marian Wood, because she was invariably right!   For example, I had originally written a chapter after the battle of Bosworth in which Elizabeth Woodville and others who’d loathed Richard were gleefully celebrating his death on Redmore Plain.  Marian said that my readers had emotionally invested in this man from the age of seven, and they would need time to mourn him.  I realized she was correct and so I wrote a chapter in which Richard’s niece Cecily and his nephew Jack de la Pole and his friends grieved for him.   It is never easy to be told that my writing is less than perfect.  But I believe that there was never a book written that couldn’t benefit from good editing, for editors can do what writers cannot—be dispassionate about what we’ve written.   I’ve been blessed to have one of the best editors in the business, of course.  But even if that were not so, I’d have had no choice but to bite the bullet and soldier on; for better or worse—and it’s usually for the better, it is an occupational hazard.

          I am leaving on my book tour next Wednesday, hope to meet some of you at my book signings, and hope, too, to bring back some stories to share.     I’ll close by saying that if we ever have a contest for the funniest comment posted on my blog, it would be very hard to beat Nan Hawthorrne’s entry—“Somebody has to be the granddaughter of a prostitute.  Just be glad it was me.”    

July 24, 2009           

I knew Merlin, my misnamed computer, had crossed over to the dark side, but I hadn’t realized he’d pitched a tent there.  I just wrote a new blog entry, but when I tried to publish it, it disappeared in a puff of smoke.  I will try to get this sorted out and re-post it ASAP.  Now let’s see if this one goes out okay.

July 24,2009

       I’d hoped to have a new blog posted this past week, but I was entangled with the Angevins.   At least it was productive, for I was able to finish a key chapter for Lionheart, in which Richard had confrontations with the King of Sicily and then the King of France.  Richard didn’t always play well with others, although it is hard to fault him for his feuding with Philippe Auguste, who could have taught Iago about treachery and betrayal.

       Richard also got to meet Berengaria at long last in this chapter.  Actually it wasn’t their first meeting, as I think they met about six years earlier at her father’s court in Navarre.  Ambroise, the minstrel or jongleur who accompanied Richard on crusade and wrote a rhyming chronicle about it, says that “most dear the king did love her and revere; since he was Count of Poitiers, his wish had wished for her always.”  Interestingly, the other major chronicle of the Third Crusade also says much the same thing:  “Attracted by her graceful manner and high birth, he had desired her very much for a long time, since he was first Count of Poitou.”  

      Ambroise was most likely the only chronicler who actually saw Berengaria, describing her as “a fair and worthy damsel, true and good, of very gentle womanhood.”   But the description that is most quoted is the snarky one  from Richard of Devizes, who never laid eyes upon her—that she was “more prudent than pretty.”   He also comments snidely that when Richard and Berengaria sailed from Sicily, she was “probably still a virgin.”   For what it’s worth, apparently none of these chroniclers thought Richard’s sexual urges were anything but conventional.    My favorite chronicler, William of Newburgh, calls Berengaria “a virgin of famous beauty and prudence,” but like Richard of Devizes, he never saw her either.   We know that two of her paternal aunts were noted for their beauty, as was her younger sister Blanca.   So while she may not have been another Helen of Troy, I think we can safely say that she wouldn’t have scared anyone when she went out in public.  BTW, her real name was Berenguela; this was translated into French as Berengere or Berengiere, and eventually it would become Anglicized as the name by which history knows her, Berengaria.   A shame, for Berenguela is lovely.

        Moving from the twelfth to the thirteenth century, several of you had questions about the children of Joanna and Llewelyn Fawr.  Ken kindly posted information from Joanna’s entry in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, which was originally written by the Victorian historian Kate Norgate, and was subsequently updated by the British historian, A.D. Carr.  I still stand by my position that we can only be positive that Joanna was the mother of Davydd and Elen.  A. D. Carr says she was “probably” the mother of Gwladys and Margaret, but that is not a certainty.  He cites no source for a daughter named Susanna, and I am rather skeptical of that since I’ve never heard a word about her before.   I want to repeat, though, that I have not been able to keep current on  research done since I wrote Here Be Dragons more than twenty years ago; the same is true for Richard III and Simon de Montfort.  Happily, I am totally up to date on the Angevins, having had them as my royal roommates for the past fifteen years or so.   The Oxford National Biography is a wonderful source for writers or those interested in the MA.  I have information about subscribing to it, but I’ll put that in a comment to this blog.

       Suzanne, you’d asked an interesting question earlier—why writers select certain scenes to dramatize.   Part of the answer is simple practicality; writers know we can’t turn in 2,000 page books.   So we have to leave certain scenes on the cutting room floor, especially if they involve secondary characters.  That is why I did not dramatize Isabel Neville’s shipboard childbirth scene in Sunne, or why I did not dramatize the capture of the Scots king in Devil’s Brood, although both scenes would have been fun to do.  I tend to follow my instincts when it comes to writing scenes about primary characters; I just seem to “know” when an episode or event needs to be brought center stage and when it can be relegated to the narrative account.

         Shauna, you posed an interesting question, too, asking if there is any evidence that Joanna loved her father.   Sadly, there is very little surviving evidence of medieval emotions; occasionally a chronicler will give us a glimpse into medieval hearts, as when one reported that King Henry III and his queen were grief-stricken at the death of their little deaf-mute daughter or when a chronicler noted that Richard III and Anne were devastated by the loss of their son.  Sometimes a hint surfaces midst the dry facts of the Pipe Rolls, etc, as when Edward I’s crown had to be repaired because “it pleased the king to throw it into the fire.”  This tantrum was caused by his discovery that his daughter Joanna, widow of the Earl of Gloucester, had dared to take one of Gloucester’s squires in a clandestine second marriage; despite Edward’s initial rage, Joanna eventually won him over.   

        So….I have to rely upon common sense and logical deductions about what we know of human nature.  In Joanna’s case, she took a great risk in sending John a secret warning that his life might be endangered if he invaded Wales as planned.   I can think of no other reason for her action except love for her father.    I based my conclusions about her marriage to Llewelyn in great part upon his remarkable act, forgiving her for an adultery that was very damaging to him politically.  By 1230, he was at the zenith of his power in Wales, and Henry III was no threat, a weak king who could not have punished Llewelyn for putting aside an unfaithful wife.  Moreover, public opinion on both sides of the border would have been firmly on Llewelyn’s side had he done so; there was very little sympathy in the MA for faithless wives.  But Llewelyn forgave Joanna and restored her to favor, despite her unpopularity with the Welsh.  Even more significantly, he established a friary in her memory when she died.  So it is difficult for me not to conclude that he loved this woman.  

     What of Joanna’s feelings, though?   Here is where psychology rears its ugly head.  From all that we know of Llewelyn, he was not a man to have nursed an unrequited love for 24 years, for that is how long they’d been wed at the time of her adulterous affair with William de Braose.   If she hadn’t returned his love, his would eventually have withered and died.   Theirs had to have been a marriage of genuine affection and respect in order for it to have survived such a severe test.  And the proof that they were able to repair the damage done is that friary on Llanfaes. 

     Paula, I am so glad that you were impressed by the scene in Falls the Shadow between Simon de Montfort and Rabbi Jacob and his son, Benedict, for I am as proud of that chapter as I am of anything I’ve ever written.  I wanted to show my readers how pre-carious life had become for Jews in the 13^th century, culminating in their expulsion from England by Edward I in 1290.  They were hated and scorned for being money-lenders, yet they’d been forced into this dubious profession, barred from joining the craft and trade guilds, from holding land, or attending universities.   But I also wanted to do something more difficult—to show how a medieval Christian like Simon viewed Jews, that for him, it all came down to salvation.  He recognized the courage it took for Jacob for to come to him and ask to have the rioters punished.  He saw Jacob’s soul as one worth saving and he could not understand why Jacob would not embrace the True Faith, why he courted damnation.

       This scene between these two men goes to the heart of the differences between their world and ours.  In the MA, tolerance was not viewed as a virtue, and we find that very hard to understand.   This was true for all of their major religions–Christian, Jewish, or Muslim; they were all sure that theirs was the only way to God, their faith the only means to gain salvation.     

         I am trying a new tactic to keep these blogs within a manageable length.  I am going to answer some of your queries by posting comments of my own, as I did in thanking Steven for providing the URL to the William of Newburgh chronicle.  So don’t assume I am ignoring you if I don’t respond to your questions in this blog; just check for my re-plies in the last blog!    

      And now on to a subject we seem to be discussing a lot lately—medieval sex!   Paula, you ought to co-authoring this blog with me, as this is another of your queries–the belief that women must experience pleasure during sex to conceive, a question also addressed quite well by Elizabeth Chadwick.  Elizabeth points out that there were various theories about sex, some of them quite contradictory.  For example, there was a school of thought which held that a daughter was conceived only if there was a weakness in the man’s semen; this, however, did not keep them from still “blaming” the woman if she gave birth to a daughter, not a son!   Aristotle’s teachings were quite influential in the MA, and many accepted his belief that the man provided the seed and the woman the material.  But other medieval writers believed that both the man and the woman must provide “seed” for conception to occur.  And there was indeed a belief that conception was linked to a woman’s sexual satisfaction.  I’ve seen it suggested—but never with a citation for a medieval source—that this was one of the arguments which Louis’s advisers used to convince him to divorce Eleanor, insisting that she could never give him the son he so desperately needed because she no longer wanted to share his bed.   You can see the dangers in this argument, though, for rape victims.   By pure coincidence, I am dealing with this very question in my current Lionheart chapter, with a scene between Berengaria and Joanna in which they discuss the “marital debt” and the “sin of lust” and whether conception depended upon a woman’s sexual enjoyment.  BTW, the marital debt was owed by both husband and wife; the marriage bed was the one place where the Church accorded men and women equal rights.   The Church took this “obligation” so seriously that the marital debt was still owed even if one of the partners contracted leprosy.   

     I’m going to end this blog with a mystery.  A reader asked me if any of you might be familiar with a novel about a young woman who moves from her home in the south of England to Northumbria to marry; toward the book’s end, the family meets Richard, Duke of York, father of “my” Edward and Richard.   She can’t remember the author or title, so it’s a challenge.   Anyone up to it?

July 12, 2009