Well, it looks as if we’re going to survive the little ice age masquerading as winter.  I’ll resist the temptation to tell the old joke about seeing the first robin of spring, frozen to death.  Ken, you’d asked if we have daffodils in the US.  We do, but mine are just starting to poke their little green stems up, under-standably wary.  Back in Outremer, it is hot and dry, with one more chapter at Acre before Richard leads his army south to the famous battle at Arsuf.  The crusaders, not surprisingly, found it difficult to adjust to the climate of the Holy Land, and their chroniclers reported men dying of sunstroke on the march.  My characters are already complaining about the heat, and have no idea that life will be even more unpleasant with the start of the icy, winter rains. 

        I think I’ve answered the questions you posed in the last blog, but if I missed any, let me know.  I thought I’d devote this blog to a subject dear to all our hearts—books.  I will start with some recommendations based on my recent reading.  I thoroughly enjoyed Michael Jecks’s mystery, No Law in the Land, if “enjoy” is the right word to apply to the misery of Edward II’s subjects in 1325.  Michael does a masterful job of showing how precarious life had become for people who could not depend upon the Crown or local officials to keep the peace; it reminded me of the suffering during Stephen’s reign.  For those of you not yet familiar with Michael’s series, the protagonist is a former Templar, who escaped the catastrophe that destroyed the Order and is attempting to build a new life for himself back in England. 

        I think I mentioned in an earlier blog what fun I had reading Margaret Frazer’s A Play of Treachery, which gives Sunne’s readers the opportunity to meet Elizabeth Woodville’s parents in their youth.  Robin Maxwell has a new book out, O Juliet.  Not many writers would be brave enough to follow in Shakespeare’s footsteps, but Robin pulls it off wonderfully well and gives us a fascinating glimpse of life in 15^th century Italy in the process.   I haven’t had a chance yet to read Alan Gordon’s The Parisian Prodigal, set in Toulouse in the early 13^th century, but I’m looking forward to it, albeit with sadness since it may be the last in this imaginative series.

        It is always frustrating when we become emotionally invested in a character and his/her times and then circumstances intrude and the relationship is abruptly severed.  (Justin de Quincy is in total agreement with me on this)  I really liked Roberta Gellis’s mysteries set in England during Stephen’s reign, centering around a woman forced to survive by becoming the madame of a high-end house of prostitution, with some help from her powerful protector, the famous (or infamous) mercenary, William de Ypres, whom you may remember from When Christ and His Saints Slept.  There are only four books in this series, although I keep hoping Magdalene and her ladies will get a reprieve.

      There are some very good books coming your way in future months.  I am a huge fan of the P.F. Chisholm mysteries, featuring a real historical figure, Robert Carey, a cousin of Elizabeth Tudor; his father was the child of Henry VIII and Mary Boleyn.  I am happy to report that a new Robert Carey novel will be published in June, titled A Murder of Crows.  I am currently reading the galleys for another writer I enjoy, Priscilla Royal, whose mysteries are set in England in the early years of the reign of Edward I.  Titled  Valley of Dry Bones, it won’t be out until the autumn, but it will be worth the wait, showing how the Battle of Evesham is still roiling the waters years after Simon de Montfort’s death.  Priscilla and I agree with William Faulkner that the past isn’t dead; it isn’t even past.

     Another book soon to hit the stores is Legacy by Susan Kay, being republished by Sourcebooks in April; this is easily the best book I’ve read about Elizabeth Tudor.  Speaking of that monarch, we have Margaret George’s upcoming novel about Elizabeth to look forward to; I don’t think it will be published till next year, but I can verify that if anyone wants the exact publication date.

      In a recent blog, we were discussing those historical rulers we found most interesting and Charles II’s name came up; he was definitely on my list.  So I was delighted to discover that there is a new novel about Charles and the most appealing of his mistresses, the actress Nell Gwyn.  It is called Exit the Actress, by Priya Parmar and will be published next January.  And I have very good news for Elizabeth Chadwick’s many fans.  I’ve often mentioned how much I enjoy her novels, so I am happy to pass along the word that her second novel about William Marshal, The Scarlet Lion, is being published in the US this month by Sourcebooks, which has already published her first novel about William Marshal, The Greatest Knight.   As I’ve explained, I never read books about characters I am still writing about, not wanting to be influenced, even subconsciously, by how other writers interpret the same facts or personalities.  So I am waiting to read Elizabeth’s William Marshal novels until I’ve finished Lionheart—which is taking a fair amount of will power, for I’ve heard nothing but raves from people who’ve already read them.  I hope to have an interview with Elizabeth on my blog in the near future once I manage to get Coeur de Lion out of Acre and on his way to Arsuf.

       Believe it or not, I actually do read books not set in the MA.  I recently finished the delightful Thereby Hangs a Tail by Spencer Quinn, the second book in a mystery series that is narrated by the detective’s dog, Chet.  I know, that is a challenge, but Spencer carries it off in high style.  If you’ve ever looked at your family dog and wondered what he was thinking about, Chet can tell you; a lot of the time, it involves food.   And I am the most enthusiastic fan of Dana Stabenow’s Alaskan mysteries who is not a blood relative of Dana’s, so it was like getting an early birthday present to have Dana’s latest, A Night Too Dark, arrive from the Poisoned Pen, where she’d done a signing.  I encountered Dana’s series during a Bouchercon mystery convention and I quite literally walked around with the book open in my hand, unable to put it down.  It was called Breakup, the 7^th in the series; A Night Too Dark is the 17^th, so if you haven’t yet met Kate Shugak and her wolf-hybrid Mutt, you are in for such a treat.

        I can’t very well do a blog about books without mentioning some that relate to the MA, so here are a few recommendations.  I may have named several of these in the past, but these books are good enough to be mentioned again.   Books relating to the Third Crusade:  God’s War by Christopher Tyerman; Saladin and the Politics of Holy War by Malcolm Cameron Lyons and D.E.P. Jackson; Logistics of War in the Age of the Crusades by John H. Pryor; Crusading Warfare, 1099-1193 by R. C. Smail; Fighting for the Cross by Norman Housley.  Here are several about medieval warfare: Religion and the Conduct of War by David Bachrach; By Sword and Fire by Sean McGlyn; War and Chivalry by Matthew Strickland.  The definitive biography of Richard I remains John Gillingham’s book, the one published in 1999; he has written several books about Richard’s reign, including Richard Coeur de Lion, Kingship, Chivalry, and War in the Twelfth Century.  I know I’ve already mentioned the books by David Miller and Geoffrey Regan, which focus only upon Richard’s campaign in Outremer.  And for those of you who might want to read “ahead” in anticipation of my next book, the one about the real Balian of Ibelin, I recommend The Leper King and His Heirs by Bernard Hamilton and The World of the Crusaders by Joshua Prawer.

        Occasionally readers have asked me to include a bibliography in my novels, but most publishers don’t see such a need when the book in question is a work of fiction.  Of course the rules of the game have changed now that writers have websites and blogs.  So I was wondering if you’d like me to add a bibliography to my website for Lionheart once it is done?  I already have a section on my website for books I recommend about the Angevins, but this would obviously be more comprehensive.  Any interest in this?

        We’ve often discussed our favorite novels on my Facebook pages and occasionally here, too, so that seems like a good way to end a blog about books.  For me, it would be To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee and Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry.  An odd pairing, I know, but whenever I’m asked about my favorite books, these two always come to mind.   Which books come to mind for you?

       And on that note, I am signing off on this, the birthday of one of my favorite kings.  On March 5^th in the castle at Le Mans in God’s Year 1133, Henry II first saw the light of day, little knowing the inspiration he would later provide for novelists of historical fiction.

March 5, 2010

 

     Well, being snowbound did produce some benefits.  I was able to finish a key chapter at the siege of Acre.  This was when Richard made his worst mistake, needlessly antagonizing the Duke of Austria, who had a personality just as prickly as Richard’s.  I tried to warn him—Richard, you do not want to do this!  But just as the teenagers in those horror films always insist upon going down alone into the basement, Lionheart forged ahead, paying no heed to me, a woman and a lowly scribe.   Based on my experiences with Henry, Richard, and John, I’d say the Angevin males definitely could have benefited from some anger management classes.   The trouble, of course, is that no one was willing to say “no” to a king, rather like athletes and rock stars today.

        This was one of my chapters that reproduce like amoebae, splitting itself in half.  This seems to happen a lot in my books.  It looks like Lionheart is going to be a very long novel; I’m sure this comes as a great surprise, right?  But so much was happening in this chapter—Richard’s clash with Duke Leopold, a bitter confrontation with the French king, Philippe, some sex, a political crisis resulting in a compromise that infuriated all sides, and a last-minute double-cross.  So it really had to be two chapters.  Especially since I wanted to take the readers on a tour of Acre with Joanna and Berengaria. 

         When I read novels about other eras, I love gritty and vivid details that make the time and place seem real for me.  So I try to add this sort of descriptive phrasing in my own novels.  I want my readers to feel the scorching heat of the Syrian sun.  (They had three names for the Kingdom of Jerusalem, calling it Syria, the Holy Land, and Outremer).   I want them to breathe in the scent from the soap-makers’ shops and the more pungent smells of horse manure, to marvel with the women at their first sight of a camel and their first taste of an “apple of paradise,” which we more prosaically call bananas.  I want readers to share their surprise at the flat roofs and treeless terrain, to feel Philippe’s disgust when he finds a scorpion in his boot.  Admittedly, none of this advances the plot line and it helps to explain why my books tend to be Moby-Dick-sized tomes.  But it’s fun to write and—I hope—to read.

     A friend of mine recently made an interesting observation about Richard’s queen, Berengaria.  She thinks that readers today want their women characters to be assertive, charismatic, bold, and beautiful.  In other words, women like Eleanor of Aquitaine.  I was wondering if you agree with her on this, and if so, will this keep readers from fully embracing Berengaria?   She had considerable courage; going on Crusade was not like a Club Med holiday, after all.   Her life was at risk more than once, for she faced terrifying storms at sea, an alarming encounter with a Cypriot despot, a deadly disease that almost made her a widow after less than two months of marriage, and the constant dangers of life in a war zone.  She would later show her courage again by fighting her brother-in-law John for her dower rights; not surprisingly, John treated her very shabbily, but she refused to back down.  Her courage, though, was the quiet kind.  She made no scenes, certainly not in public and probably not in private, either.  She was not a royal rebel like her formidable mother-in-law.  No scandals ever trailed in her wake, and she would never have thought to lead men against rebels in her husband’s absence as her sister-in-law later did. 

     We know surprisingly little about this young woman who became the queen-consort of the most powerful king in Christendom.  Aside from her courage, we know she had a strong sense of duty and she was very pious.  We know she came from a close-knit, loving family, the anti-Angevins, if you will.  We do not know what she looked like, though if the skeleton discovered in the abbey  at Epau is indeed hers, she was five feet in height.  Nor do we even know her exact birth year, though Ann Trindade, the most reliable of Berengaria’s two biographers, makes a convincing case that she was born c. 1170.  The most quoted comment about her appearance came from the snarky Richard of Devizes, who claimed she was “more prudent than pretty” and speculates that she “may have still been a virgin” when she and Richard sailed from Messina.  Only he never laid eyes upon her.  The chronicler Ambroise, who probably did, described her as “beautiful, with a bright countenance, the wisest woman, indeed, that one could hope to find anywhere.”   The author of The Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, who also accompanied Richard on crusade, said that “attracted by her graceful manner and high birth, he (Richard) had desired her very much for a long time, since he was first Count of Poitou.”   I rather doubt that she was Richard’s “beloved,” as Ambroise calls her; medieval marriages were matters of state, not the heart, and I suspect that Richard didn’t have a romantic bone in his body.  

        We do know that she managed to retain her dignity under trying circumstances; her husband’s infidelities were notorious enough to warrant a lecture from the saintly Bishop of Lincoln.  We need to remember, though, that medieval women did not expect to find soul-mates in marriage as we do; they were more likely to find their greatest joy in their children, not their husbands.  But the fact that her marriage to Richard produced no heirs meant that she’d failed in her primary duty as a queen, for in their world the wife was the one blamed, whether it was her fault or not.   Sadly, she probably blamed herself, too, for this is what she would have been taught.  Only once, though, are we given a glimpse of the woman behind the queen.   According to the friend and biographer of St Hugh of Lincoln, upon learning of Richard’s death, the bishop detoured to Berengaria’s residence at Beaufort en Vallee, where he “calmed the grief” of the “sorrowing and almost broken-hearted widow.”   Was she grieving for Richard?   For what was or what might have been?  For the precarious future she may have envisioned for herself without Richard’s protection?    We have no way of knowing.   She was a wife for only eight years, a widow for thirty-three, as she never remarried, unusual in itself, and when she was buried in the beautiful abbey she’d founded near Le Mans, she took her heart’s secrets to her grave.

        This is all we know of the real Berengaria.   I found her to be a sympathetic, even an admirable figure.   It has been her fate to be judged and found wanting—for not being able to hold her husband’s interest, for staying in the shadows, above all, for not being another Eleanor of Aquitaine.   I think that is very unfair.  We need to remember that Richard could act, but she could only react, and her expectations would have been those of a medieval wife and queen.    Women in the MA did not have the power that we wish they had, and even Eleanor paid a great price for her refusal to accept the constrictions placed upon her sex by society and the Church.  This takes us full circle, then, to my friend’s concern that today’s readers expect their female characters to display an independent spirit and boldness that would have been anachronistic for most of them.   I hope she is wrong, would be interested in your thoughts on this subject.  

       Lastly, I bought Alan Gordon’s latest, The Parisian Prodigal recently.  But Alan tells me his publisher has not offered a new contract for any more Fools’ Guild mysteries.  This is bad news for his fans, for all who like mysteries, for all who appreciate good writing.  To let his publisher know we want more of this clever series, contact St Martin’s Minotaur Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York City, NY 10010, or publicity@stmartins.com.  

 

February 16, 2010 

 

 

It is a snowy, bitterly-cold day, and this seems like a good time to do some blogging before I have to get back to the siege of Acre, where the city has finally fallen to the crusaders.  It is a relief to be able to use that term.  It was not known during the MA; they called it “taking the cross” or “pilgrimage,” the latter term certainly at odds with the modern understanding of pilgrimages!  But as I discovered when I sought to avoid it in dialogue, it is such a convenient shorthand, much more concise than “taking the cross.” 

      My blog topics seem to range all over the place, though I prefer the term “eclectic” rather than “scattershot” or “haphazard.”  Today I thought that I’d actually talk about

my new book for a change.  More specifically, Richard Coeur de Lion, for while he is

 not the only character, he does tend to dominate whenever he is on center stage—typical Angevin. 

       I’ll start by admitting that Richard was never one of my favorite kings.  I did not do much research about him for Here Be Dragons as he was a very minor character.  The impression I had was of a man who was arrogant, ruthless, a first-rate soldier and battle commander, an ungrateful son, and a neglectful king, and that is the Richard who makes a brief appearance in Dragons.   It was not until I began to do some serious research for Time and Chance and then Devil’s Brood and now Lionheart that a different Richard began to emerge.  

         In some ways, this Richard conformed to my earlier conception of the man.  He was indeed hot-tempered and arrogant and could be utterly ruthless.  He was so astonishingly reckless that it is almost miraculous he managed to live to be forty-two.  And he was, plain and simple, a military genius. 

      What else was he?   Well, I no longer agree with the infamous verdict of the 19^th century historian, William Stubbs, that he was “a bad son, a bad husband, a bad king.”  I think he can fairly be acquitted of two of those three damning charges.    Although Henry II remains one of my favorite historical figures, I think Richard and Geoffrey had very legitimate grievances and I place much of the blame for their estrangement at Henry’s door.  He played fast and loose with two-thirds of Geoffrey and Constance’s rightful inheritance and never understood why they resented his machinations and broken promises.   And he made several dreadful mistakes with Richard—trying to take Aquitaine away from him and then using the crown as bait, refusing to confirm Richard’s rightful status as his heir and attempting to blackmail him into obedience.  His worst failings as a father—even more so than his blatant favoritism—were his attempts to play one son off against another, as when he used Geoffrey to bring Richard to heel, and was then shocked that an embittered and disillusioned Geoffrey would look to the French court for aid.  Sadly, he did not learn from this mistake, either, for he then sought to manipulate Richard by making him fear that John might be chosen if he did not surrender Aquitaine.  I bled for Henry, dying betrayed and brokenhearted at Chinon, but he brought so much of that grief upon himself. 

      We had an interesting discussion recently on my Facebook page about going back in time and the ethics of changing what had already occurred.   Well, I would be seriously tempted to get Henry to abandon the toxic advice he’d supposedly gotten from his mother about the best way to handle men.  According to a contemporary writer, Walter Mapp, she taught him to “keep in suspense those who were high in hope,” for “An untamed hawk, when raw flesh is often offered to it, and then withdrawn or hidden from it, becometh more greedy and is more ready to obey and to remain.”   We cannot know if this is actually true, of course.    But Henry does seem to have applied the training of his hawks to his sons, too, and the consequences were disastrous.

          Nor was Richard a bad king.  Historians today give him much higher marks than the Victorians did.   There is an excellent discussion of how Richard’s reputation has ebbed and flowed over the centuries in The Reign of Richard Lionheart by Ralph Turner and Richard Heiser, called “Richard in Retrospect.”   They astutely state that “Richard’s reputation is tied directly to the value structures of the historians writing about him”  and point out how anachronistic it is to fault him for spending so little time in England.  It was only part of the Angevin “empire,” but Victorian historians seemed unable to grasp this concept.  Turner and Heiser also remind us that warfare was a medieval king’s vocation and Richard was caught up in a bitter war with the French king, Philippe. The irony is that the very aspects of his reign that some historians have criticized—his participation in the Third Crusade and his military successes—were what his subjects most admired.   By the standards of his time, he was a successful king, and historians now take that into consideration in passing judgment upon him.

        So…was he a bad husband, though?   It is difficult not to conclude that he was.  What I find most interesting about their marriage is that he went to great lengths to take Berengaria with him on crusade, an experience that must have been shocking for a young woman of sheltered upbringing, but then spent little time with her during the last five years of his life, even though he still lacked an “heir of the body.”  So what caused this change and their apparent estrangement?  I have my own ideas about the reasons, but you’ll have to wait to read about them in Lionheart J 

       What surprised me the most about the Richard that my research revealed?  I had not realized that his health was so uncertain.  He apparently suffered from an ailment that may have been chronic malaria and nearly died twice in the Holy Land from illnesses.  Once I learned that he was so often ill, it makes his battlefield exploits all the more remarkable.  Much of what he accomplished seems to have been done by sheer force of will; for example, after nearly dying of the mystery malady “Arnaldia” at the siege of Acre, he had himself carried out to the front lines on a “silken quilt” so that he could oversee the assault and shoot his crossbow at the enemy garrison up on the city walls.

       I was very surprised to discover that this man, almost insanely reckless with his own safety, was very cautious when it came to the lives of his men.  A fascinating paradox there, but one which goes far toward explaining why he was loved by his soldiers, who seemed willing to “wade in blood to the pillars of Hercules if he so desired,” according to the chronicler Richard of Devizes.  He also showed a strong sense of responsibility toward the men under his command.  The chroniclers often mention how he took measures to see to their safety and comfort, and once when his friends tried to convince him not to go to the rescue of knights greatly outnumbered by their Saracen foes, he responded, “I sent those men there.  If they die without me, may I never again be called a king.”   He then spurred his stallion into the fray and once again won against all odds—as he did time and time again until an April evening before the walls of Chalus. 

     I’d known that Richard, like all of Henry and Eleanor’s sons, was well educated, able to crack jokes in Latin, and a poet in two languages, French and the lenga romana of Aquitaine, what we know as Occitan.  Almost by accident, I discovered just how well- read he really was.  One of the chroniclers reported that when his friends had chided him for taking such risks with his life, he’d laughed and jested about changing his nature with a pitchfork.  I thought this was interesting, giving us a glimpse of his personality.  But recently I happened upon a proverb from Horace, “You may drive nature out with a pitchfork but it will still return.”   I admit it, I was impressed.  

      Richard’s sardonic sense of humor was another surprise.  I knew about his quip when he was taken to task for his exorbitant efforts to raise money for the crusade, that he’d have sold London if he could find a buyer.  And I knew, too, about his celebrated response to the preacher who’d dared to scold him for his three “daughters,”  Pride, Avarice and Sensuality; he quickly replied that he’d given his “daughters’ away in marriage, Pride to the Templars, Avarice to the Cistercians, and Sensuality to the Benedictines.   Baha al-Din, one of Saladin’s chroniclers, reported that he habitually employed a half-joking conversational style, so it wasn’t always easy to tell if he was serious or not.  He clearly inherited his father’s flair for sarcasm.  He was a bitter foe of Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais, a prelate better known for his prowess on the battlefield than for his preaching.  After the bishop had been captured by Richard, the Pope rebuked him for imprisoning a “son of the Church.”  Richard reputedly sent the Pope the bishop’s bloodied mail hauberk, with the comment, “Here is your son’s shirt.”

        He had good reason for loathing Beauvais, who had convinced the Holy Roman Emperor, Heinrich VI, that Richard should be treated harshly in order to break his spirit.  This surprised me, too–that for part of his captivity in Germany, he was actually kept in shackles, or as he himself later put it, “loaded down with chains so heavy that a horse would have struggled to move.”  German and English chroniclers and a letter by Peter of Blois confirm that he was indeed treated in a very unkingly manner while kept at Trifels Castle.  Perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised me so much, for Heinrich displayed a capacity for cruelty that I’ve rarely encountered in my readings about the MA.  Both Richard and Philippe were capable of being quite merciless upon occasion, but neither man could begin to compete with Heinrich in that dubious department.  When he seized power in Sicily, he dealt savagely with the Sicilians, had the former king, a child of four, taken from his mother and sent to captivity in Germany where he died soon afterward; one report said the little boy was castrated and blinded. Such was his reputation that the Duke of Austria, Richard’s initial captor, handed him over to Heinrich only “on condition he would suffer no harm to his body.”  

        What else surprised me about Richard?  That his greatest fame was as a crusader and yet he showed himself to be quite interested in Saracen culture.  In the words of Baha al-Din, “He had made friends with several of the elite mamlukes and had knighted some of them,” and he was willing to deal with the Muslims as he would have dealt with Christian foes, via negotiation and even a marital alliance.  That some of the more unlikely legends about him turned out to be true.    That notwithstanding my favorite film, The Lion in Winter, there is no real evidence that he preferred men to women as sexual partners and some evidence to the contrary.   That he may have had a second son.   Above all, that the more I learned about this man of so many contradictions, the more I could see him as the son most like Henry, surely the ultimate irony.  

       Well, those are my thoughts about Coeur de Lion.   Here is my question of the day.  Who would you choose as your favorite ruler?   And your least-favorite?   You are not restricted to the MA, and we are not necessarily talking about “great” kings or queens, though you can certainly add them to the list.  For me, it would be a dead-heat between Henry II and Llywelyn Fawr, with Charles II coming in third, and then the Yorkist kings, Edward IV and Richard III, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, Elizabeth Tudor,  and Owain Glyn Dwr, not necessarily in that order.   

       Lastly, I am delighted to be able to post here a fascinating article by Malcolm Craig, Proving Matilda, in which he sets forth his evidence for the existence of a second daughter for Geoffrey and Constance.  Thank you so much for agreeing to share this with us, Malcolm.

 

January 31, 2010

 

My senior thesis at Harvard (1967) was a study of the brief career of Geoffrey, duke of Brittany from 1181 to 1186.  He ruled Brittany iure uxoris, through his marriage to Duchess Constance, heiress of Duke Conan IV.  Two children of Geoffrey by Constance are well known.  Arthur, Geoffrey’s posthumous son, was captured by his uncle, King John, at Mirebeau in August 1202.  Arthur never emerged from captivity, and he was probably murdered at the beginning of April 1203, aged 16.  His sister Eleanor was also captured at Mirebeau.  She lived on in custody in England until her death in 1241.  From my work on the senior thesis, I knew that Ralph de Diceto, Opera Historica, had said that Geoffrey left two daughters and that Dom Gui Alexis Lobineau, in his Histoire de Bretagne published in 1707, had identified the second daughter as “Mathilde.”  I kept this information in the back of my mind.

 

In October 1973, my wife and I traveled to France, where I spent the better part of a year doing research under a French Government Fellowship.  We lived in Brittany, in the city of Rennes.  It was there, in January 1974, that I came across the charter, published by the 19^th century Breton historian Arthur de la Borderie, that provided proof of the existence of the second daughter, Matilda.  This charter records a confirmation and donation by Duchess Constance to the abbey of Saint-Gildas de Rhuys in May 1189.  The donation was made for the salvation (“pro salute”) of the soul of the duchess and the souls of her father Conan, her husband Geoffrey, and her daughter Matilda.

 

When we visited London in February 1974, Allys and I had lunch with Pofessor and Mrs. Martin Havran near the British Museum.  I told Professor Havran, who had been on my Ph.D. orals committee at the University of Virginia, about my recent discovery.  He suggested that I write an article and submit it to the Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research, whose editor he knew well.  In order to substantiate the validity of my proof of the existence of the second daughter of Geoffrey and Constance, I needed to examine the original document, if it existed, or the copy or copies upon which its publication was based.  Now French friends helped me out. Francis and Anne-FranVoise Le Breton, from whom we rented our apartment in Rennes, loaned us one of their automobiles.  In early May, we drove to Vannes, and I visited the Archives du Morbihan, where there were two copies of the charter, made circa 1300 and in 1664.  The director of the Archives, Mlle FranVoise Mosser, was very helpful to me. 

 

There was a third (17^th century) copy of the charter at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris.  After an exchange of correspondence, I was invited to visit the contemporary Breton historian, Hubert Guillotel, at his parents’ country house, north of Rennes.  In late May, I drove (in a Le Breton car again) to the former abbey of la Vieuville, near the village of Épiniac.  Robert Guillotel had bought the ruined monastery in 1938 (before son Hubert was born) to save it from demolition.  M. and Mme Guillotel and their historian son were gracious hosts, and Hubert agreed to meet me at the Bibliothèque Nationale on June 12.  The Guillotels told me that writing to the B.N. would be a waste of time.  Allys and I spent two days in Paris on our way back to the States, then another day in Luxembourg before catching our flight on Air Bahamas.  Sure enough, Hubert was there to greet me and guide me through the B.N.’s less-than-friendly bureaucracy.  I worked in the manuscript room that afternoon (closed at 5 P.M.), then all day on the 13^th.  Besides the third copy of the charter, I was able to examine other documents that were relevant to my research.  On the evening of the 12^th, Hubert walked back to our hotel with me and met Allys, who had missed out on the trip to la Vieuville.

 

After working on Cape Cod in the summer of 1974, we were back at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville in September.  After examining relevant published material, I wrote my draft of the article.  True to his word, Professor Havran helped me submit the draft to the BIHR, and it was accepted for publication.  Entitled “A Second Daughter of Geoffrey of Brittany,” it was finally published in 1977, in volume L, on pages 112 to 115.  By that time, we had returned to Tallahassee, where Allys had begun work on her M.F.A. in Art.  In 1999, the charter that proves the existence of Matilda of Brittany was published in a new edition by Judith Everard and Michael Jones, The Charters of Duchess Constance of Brittany and her Family, 1171-1221, charter number C20.

 

As a sad footnote, I have discovered through the Internet that Hubert Guillotel died in June 2004, ten days short of his 63^rd birthday, much too soon.  I had corresponded with M. Guillotel into the early 1980s, when my active academic work ended with a full-time job and growing family responsibilities.     

 

 

 

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     I am sorry it has taken me so long to post this new blog, but life has gotten very chaotic in the past month.  My beloved German Shepherd, Cody, has been waging a gallant but inevitably losing battle against old age, and he took a sudden turn for the worse just before Christmas.  It was touch and go for a while, but I am happy to report that he has rallied dramatically after getting a cortisone shot.  It now looks as if he ought to have more good days ahead of him; I can’t be sure of his exact age because he was a rescue, but he has to be about eleven, which is old for such a big dog.  The curious and my fellow dog lovers can admire him on my website—the George Clooney of canines, without a doubt.

       Then I was ill for a while, and just when life seemed about to get back to normal, Demon Spawn struck again.  This is the computer once known as Merlin, a truly evil entity.  My friend Lowell, who is to computers what Mozart is to music, rebuilt Demon Spawn just before I left for France, and then I had to do it a second time, under his patient tutelage, in November.   But his links to the Dark Side were apparently too strong to resist and all of my threats were for naught; I’d taken to whistling “When the Macs come marching in” whenever I rebooted, in hopes of reminding him of the precariousness of his position, to no avail.   This last crash was a fatal one; he will not be mourned.  Fortunately I’d set up my back-up  computer downstairs at Christmas when Cody could no longer climb the stairs to my office, and I am now able to work on it.  Lowell thinks that Demon Spawn can still be rehabilitated, possibly via a new hard drive, but then he believes no computers are beyond redemption.   As for me, I have always joked that Mac users sound like a cult, but I think it is one I am almost ready to join.   Any Mac users out there—feel free to weigh in.  The response on my Facebook page was overwhelmingly positive; it seems that Mac users love their computers as much as Cody loves ice cream.

        Again, apologies for taking so long to hold the drawing.  The winner is Mike, who posted on December 22^nd.   If you send me your address, I will put a signed copy of the British edition of Devil’s Brood in the mail for you.   I have already responded to a number of your comments for the Holiday Giveaway blog, but for those I’ve missed, I’ll catch up in the next blog.  This one is going to be rather brief, at least by my standards, because I wanted to get it up ASAP.   

        I would urge all of you to go to my Facebook Fan Club page when you get a chance; you do not have to belong to Facebook to access it.   Readers have been posting some of the most spectacular photos I’ve ever seen, mostly of Wales, but some of France, too.  There are breathtaking shots of Dolwyddelan Castle in the snow and of the haunting ruins of Dolbadarn Castle.  There are also wonderful photos of Fontevrault Abbey and the effigies of Henry, Eleanor, and Richard.  Here is the link.    http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1660007719#/group.php?gid=20574621936

        I am glad to report that all of the recent chaos has not affected Lionheart.  In fact, I just finished a key chapter at the siege of Acre, where the mystery malady Arnaldia rears its ugly head.  This struck down both Richard and the French king, Philippe, soon after Richard’s arrival.   Philippe had a milder case, but Richard came very close to death.  When he was finally on the mend, he had himself carried out to the siege on “a silken quilt” so he could fire his crossbow at the Saracen garrison up on the city walls.  That is interesting because crossbows were not a weapon ever used by the highborn back in England or France, but apparently the rules were different in the Holy Land.  What is fascinating about Arnaldia is that it defies diagnosis after 819 years; we simply don’t know what this ailment was.  The chroniclers report that men ran a high fever, suffered great pain in their joints, lost their hair and nails.  It has sometimes been suggested that it was scurvy, but that does not fit, especially for Richard, as he’d just spent a month in Cyprus, where he’d had access to a very healthy diet.  Other suggestions include typhoid fever, which seems more likely to me.   Several people with impeccable medical connections have promised to see if they can solve this mystery at long last; I will let you  know if there are any developments.

       This message now is for Steve and the young woman who wants to study in Wales and asked me for book recommendations.  Both of your e-mails were lost when Demon Spawn spiraled down into the dark.  So if you see this, as I hope you do, please e-mail me again.  This is true, too, for anyone who e-mailed me in the first week of the new year.

       We had a very interesting discussion recently on my Facebook page when an Australian friend, Fiona Scott-Doran, posted an intriguing question:  If you had the power to go back in time, would you act to change history?    This proved to be fascinating, with a split between the “activists” and those who would follow Star Trek’s Prime Directive never to interfere.   As for me, my head would tell me not to “meddle,” but I think I would have found the temptation to be irresistible.  So…that is my question for you all until I get the next blog up.   If you could go back in time, what would you do?  And if you are in the “activist” camp, what events in the MA would you like to change and why? 

January 14, 2010

 

      I hope most of you are having a better weekend—weather-wise—than we are in the Northeast corner of the US.  This is the second Nor’easter to hit in as many days.  At least it gives me a chance to catch up on e-mails, etc, and to get a new blog up before I leave for a quick research trip to France.  (I know, as the old joke goes, a dirty job but someone has to do it.)   I am so grateful to Richard’s sister Joanna for marrying the Count of Toulouse, for until now, I’d never gotten any farther south than Bordeaux.  She was also very helpful in wedding the King of Sicily, another place I’ve always longed to see.  Sadly I am not going to be able to make it to Palermo and Messina—not if I have a prayer in hell of meeting the Lionheart deadline—but I can console myself with the knowledge that I’ll get a second grab at the Sicilian brass ring with my novel about Constance de Hauteville.  And the research about Sicily’s “Golden Age” was truly fascinating.    I’ve also enjoyed delving into the history of medieval Cyprus, one reason why Richard’s quick conquest expanded to four full chapters, much to his disgust.   But the culture clash between the Greeks and the “Latins” was interesting; Latins was the term used at the time for those who adhered to the Pope in Rome rather than the Patriarch in Constantinople  And no writer could have resisted the first-person accounts of the chroniclers who’d accompanied Richard on what he called his “pilgrimage.”  (The word “crusade” was not used in the MA)

        Here’s one explaining, simply and succinctly, why they were able to defeat the Cypriot emperor’s forces so easily even though they were outnumbered: “We knew more of war than they did.”   Or here is Richard being told that Acre was about to be captured, “’God forbid that Acre should be won in my absence,’ he said, ‘for it has been besieged for so long, and the triumph—God willing—will be so glorious.’”    Here is another eye-witness chronicler describing Richard’s wedding, “She (Berengaria) was beautiful, with a bright countenance, the wisest woman, indeed, that one could hope to find anywhere.  There was the king in great glory, rejoicing in his victory and his marriage to the woman to whom he’d pledged his troth.”   {Richard of Devizes, the chronicler who famously if unkindly described Berengaria as “more prudent than pretty” never laid eyes upon her.}  Here a chronicler tells us of a fiery confrontation at Famagusta between Richard and envoys sent by the French king, who was already at Acre:  “They insulted him so much that the king became angry, raising his eyebrows.  Such things were said as should not be written down.”    

      Of course these were hardly unbiased observers, men convinced that Richard was destined to be the savior of Christendom, so the French king does not come off too well.   I actually felt some sympathy for Philippe at this point.  He had never wanted to take the cross, had been shamed into it by the Archbishop of Tyre and public opinion.   For Philippe—like Henry—was a realist, without any of Richard’s illusions of the glory of battle and no love of adventure or travel; the poor guy did not even like horses.   Then, not only did he get pressured into going on crusade, he had to do it with Thor, the God of War.  There is no doubt that Philippe was a very intelligent man and he would prove to be a capable, ruthless king, as unlike his father Louis as chalk and cheese.  Yet when it came to the forum of public opinion, he could not begin to compete with a “media-savvy” war hero, one as skilled at promoting his own legend as he was at wreaking havoc on the battlefield.  Philippe would eventually win their war because of Richard’s untimely but unsurprising death (the only surprise is that Richard lived as long as he did given the way he liked to dice with death), but he would discover that the legend lived on, for myths are harder to kill than mortal men.  

     I think I’ve responded to all of your queries in the last blog; if not, feel free to remind me what I missed.    I’d like to thank Ken again for all the research work he has done and for being generous enough to share it with us.   My very negative reaction to the suggestion that Constance of Brittany could possibly have been the mother of John’s daughter Joanna was in no way directed at Ken; I definitely do not believe in shooting the messenger!   Basically, it seems that someone with too much free time on his hands began to wonder if the chroniclers could have mistaken “Clemence” for “Constance” and with that, he was off to the races.  He does not appear to have even considered how extraordinary it would have been for Constance to bed the man who was her son’s main rival for the English Crown.  From the moment that Arthur was born, it was obvious to all that if Richard died without an “heir of his body” (a distinct possibility in light of his reckless battlefield exploits; apparently few expected him to return alive from the crusade.) the only heirs would be his nephew Arthur or his brother John.  The laws of primogeniture were still in a state of flux in the twelfth century, and men were not sure if the son of an older brother (Geoffrey) had a better claim than the youngest brother, John.  Yet we are supposed to believe that this prideful, ambitious woman, who utterly loathed all of the Angevins except Geoffrey, would indulge in some high-risk sinning with John, of all men?   I’d have to see actual photographic evidence of them in bed together to believe that one!   I will give the final word on this subject to Kathryn Gibson, whom I am sure is familiar to many of you as the woman who almost single-handedly won official recognition for Aber as the site of the palace of the Welsh princes.  Kathryn agreed to let me post her response, so here it is.  

*     *     *     *

  ‘Here Be Dragons’
>”Joan, daughter of King John who married Llywelyn ab Iorwerth in 1205, was most probably born 1191. The statement by the Pope that John ‘when unmarried fathered…’ is clear, but what it meant at the time when it was written is that in the eyes of the church his first marriage, annulled on the grounds of consanguinity, was deemed not to be a ‘marriage’. In other words because John had needed a divorce and didn’t have proper grounds, this gave him a reason that was valid.
> The statement that her mother was ‘an unmarried woman’ at the time allows us to exclude some of the likely named contenders.”

*     *     *     *

        I have a few items to pass on now.  One of my readers was kind enough to send a link to my Facebook page about the discovery of a twelfth century crusader mural in Syria.  I tried to copy and paste the link, but for some reason it wouldn’t go through despite several attempts.  So if you’re interested, just google twelfth century crusader murals in Syria and the stories will come up.    There is a Yahoo discussion group for people interested in talking about my books. Jayne Smith, its founder, asked me to post the link here.  Sharonpenmanhistory~subscribe@yahoogroups.com    And another reader sent me a link to the BBC History Magazine website; it is not strictly medieval, of course, but definitely interesting:  http://www.bbchistorymagazine.com/     

 

        This will be my last blog until mid-November, but I hope to return with some interesting stories about my pursuit of Angevin ghosts.    I’ll leave you now with this to ponder.   Remember we talked earlier about the best-selling {!) book, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and whether it signaled the decline of civilization as we know it?    Well, we have something else to look forward to—an upcoming film, Templars vs Zombies.   

October 18, 2009

     I will start with the good news.  Ken has done more research, this time about the possible identity of Joanna’s mother, and I am posting it again in a separate blog entry.  When I wrote Dragons twenty-five years ago, all that was known was that her mother may have been named Clemence, and so I had to create a past and personality for her.   What I love most about history is that it is so fluid.  New discoveries are constantly being made, turned up like seashells when the tide goes out—or like buried Anglo-Saxon gold found by an out-of-work Englishman with time on his hands and a metal detector.  A perfect example of this sort of discovery involves the mother of Henry II’s illegitimate son, Will Longsword.  For centuries her identity was a mystery, but it was recently proven that she was Ida de Tosney, who later became the wife of Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, which sheds some interesting light upon the fate of discarded royal mistresses; curious readers can find out more about this intriguing woman by reading Elizabeth Chadwick’s novel, The Time of Singing.   So people like Ken are pioneers, venturing in search of hidden treasures, just like that lucky soul who found that gold hoard in a freshly ploughed field.

            I was absolutely riveted by the responses to my last blog.  It was fascinating to learn which scenes resonated with you and why.  Most writers can only dream of getting reader feedback like this!  Several of you commented on an earlier admission of mine that I have never cried over one of my own scenes.  Since I cry very easily over other writers’ books or over sad films (I’ve never dared to watch Old Yeller or Zorba the Greek again), it does seem out of character for me.  So this question is for the writers out there.  Do any of you get teary-eyed over one of your own scenes?  

       I may remain dry-eyed, but that doesn’t mean I like killing my characters off.  This is why I included so few death scenes on my list.   As Sunne was my first novel, it was a learning experience for me, and I had to distance myself a bit at Bosworth Field, relating Richard’s death through Francis Lovell’s eyes.  I was more graphic, of course, with the death scenes of Simon de Montfort and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd.   I had an unusual ex-perience with respect to the latter scene.  I was driving along a lonely Welsh road at twilight, thinking about Llewelyn’s death scene (not written yet) and suddenly these words just popped into my head, almost as if I’d heard them spoken aloud:  “A man should die with the sound of his own language in his ears.”    I would later make use of that in the scene, and that memory remains vivid even to this day.  

      I’ve always felt very blessed when it came to battles, for so many of them occurred under dramatic circumstances above and beyond the natural drama involved when you have men trying to kill one another.   The battle of Barnet involved an eerie fog enveloping the field, causing a fatal mistake by one of the Lancastrian commanders.  During the battle of Tewkesbury, there was a surprise flank attack which could have swung the momentum in Lancaster’s favor, and then something that no writer would dare to invent out of whole cloth—a battle commander killing one of his own allies.  And of course at Bosworth, there was Richard’s daring throw of the dice, his charge to find Henry Tudor, an act of reckless courage worthy of the first Richard.    Simon de Montfort died during a storm so savage that chroniclers actually compared it to the storm that raged on Golgotha.   Since there are only so many ways to describe a battle scene, writers love it when we get “help” like this!

      I am going to have to expand my Medieval Mishaps section; another mistake rears its ugly head.   Gabriel Gonzalez, a reader from Barcelona, has alerted me that there is an error in an early chapter of Devil’s Brood in which a young Richard is taught to swear in Spanish by his new friend, King Alfonso of Aragon.   While my research had shown Aragon was bi-lingual in the 12^th century, the people speaking Catalan and Aragonese-Navaresse (the language of Berengaria, BTW), I had not been able to determine the native tongue of the royal house.   Gabriel kindly provided me with information showing that Alfonso would have been teaching Richard to swear in Catalan.   This is particularly useful information as Alfonso will be making an appearance in Lionheart, coming to the aid of Richard’s wife and sister during his German captivity.   So thanks to Gabriel, I can avoid making the same mistake again.   It can be tricky sometimes when writing of bi-lingual societies; for one thing, I have to make sure that if a character is eavesdropping on an important conversation, he or she would have been able to understand what was being said.  This issue has really come to the forefront in Lionheart, first in Sicily where Latin, Arabic, Greek, and French were all spoken, and now in Cyprus where Richard’s soldiers don’t speak Greek and the Cypriots don’t speak French.   I am currently working on a confrontational scene that will definitely require an interpreter!     

      I would like to apologize now for taking so long to post recommended books about medieval cooking and medieval sexuality, etc.   I have not forgotten, but I do not have any assistants to help out.  I have to deal with my website, Facebook, on-line chats, etc, by myself, and sometimes I have to give priority to the writing and research.  Hey, would you guys want to argue with Coeur de Lion?   Trust me, he can be just as impatient with lowly scribes as his prima donna parents.  I would also like to alert you that Elizabeth Chadwick’s website has an excellent selection of photos taken at a recent Reenactment event at Kenilworth Castle.  I think visuals like this are very helpful both for readers and writers.  When I was writing about a savage Good Friday gale that scattered Richard’s fleet, I even went on YouTube and watched some scary videos of ships being tossed around like toothpicks in storms at sea.   Lastly, can anyone recommend any novels about Henry V or Henry VI for Brenna?

        Okay, on to your comments.  Jane, I hope to be able to continue the mysteries with Justin de Quincy, especially because I’d planned another appearance by the young Llewelyn ab Iorwerth in his next adventure.   But for now my publisher wants me to concentrate upon the historicals.   Koby, I am so glad you reminded me of one of my favorite Shadow scenes, the one where Llewelyn’s son Davydd tells the bishop, “I lied.”  That was such fun to write.  Obviously that is not true for all scenes.  Sometimes they can be unbearably sad; other times they are merely necessary, acting as a bridge between one chapter and another.  Naturally I love scenes of high drama, a major reason why I still regret not being able to write of Henry’s affair with Alys…sigh.  And sometimes a scene becomes “fun” simply because of the characters involved.  I loved writing about Maud, the Countess of Chester, miss her very much in Lionheart.  I also enjoyed doing scenes with the Welsh poet-prince, Hywel ab Owain.   And I would cheer up anytime that Llewelyn’s reprobate brother Davydd sauntered on stage. 

      Jody, I haven’t yet read Helen Nicholson’s book about the Knights Templar, but I would recommend any of her books with enthusiasm.  Kristen, I gave a happy ending to the two “orphans of the Fens.”  There is so much grief and heartbreak in my books that I try to dole out a few dollops of hope whenever I can.  Cate, I really felt terrible about having Edmund die; this was the first time I’d had to kill a character.   Much later in Sunne, Edward summons the tutor who was with Edmund on the bridge.  Edward has just given the command to execute his brother George and he is looking backward, grieving for Edmund again since he cannot bring himself to grieve for George.  What is unusual about this scene is that it came to me in a dream.  I’d been trying to decide how I could convey Edward’s conflicted emotions, and it actually occurred to me in my sleep.  Not only that, I had total recall in the morning.   I thought, “Wow, let’s hope my subconscious keeps helping out like this.”   Sadly, that was the one and only time that I had any nocturnal inspiration.  

          Paula and Leigh, yes, I did love writing about Davydd ap Gruffydd.  Some of my readers agree with us.  A dear friend thinks he is the sexiest male character in all of my books; needless to say, she has a weakness for bad boys.   Other readers loathed him, blaming him for his brother’s death and the loss of Welsh independence.   But I am totally immoral when it comes to characters.  If they are born scene-stealers like Davydd, I’ll forgive them almost any sins.  One of my favorite characters in Sunne was Elizabeth Woodville, for she was so literal and humorless and utterly self-involved.  That may not have made her likable, but it did make her fun to write about.    And like you, Paula, I was moved by Henry’s comment to Will Marshal, “My son cost me greatly, but I would that he’d lived to cost me more.”   That is, of course, an actual quote from Henry, which is what gives it such poignancy.   History is filled with sad stories of estranged and hostile fathers and sons, but surely Henry’s is one of the saddest, for he truly loved his sons even while he did so much to turn them against him.     

      Carrie, I’m glad to hear that you’re writing a mystery set in thirteenth century Wales.  Stay with it and keep us posted about your progress—I know I speak for many when I say there can never be enough books about medieval Wales. 

      Joyce, I am glad you mentioned the scene between Hugh and the Bristol money-lender.  Anti-Semitism was the ugly underside of medieval life, and it can be very challenging—and uncomfortable—to deal with this subject in an honest way.  Nan put it very well when she said that she had occasion to learn to forgive what she couldn’t excuse in a character.   So many of the medieval attitudes are alien to ours—their views on religious tolerance, their utter acceptance of\ a society based upon a rigid caste system (no upward mobility in the MA), their views of women as the lesser sex, the vast influence wielded by the Church and the fear of heresy, their belief that man had utter dominion over the earth and all animals upon it.  Obviously there have always been individuals who blazed their own paths, and often these brave souls brought about genuine change; just think of the Abolitionists and Suffragettes.  But most of us are not rebels or pioneers; most people accept their world as it is.   So when I am writing of medieval men and women, I try very hard to avoid giving them our modern sensibilities.  This is particularly difficult when dealing with medieval attitudes toward non-Christians.  Most of my characters accepted their Church’s teachings, as people did in real life.  I occasionally was able to show that there were brief meetings of the mind, as in the scene with Hugh and Isaac, the young moneylender, or in Ranulf’s encounter with the two Jewish peddlers, when his instinctive suspicion and mistrust slowly waned as he was able to see them as men, men who saved his life.   When I did need a character who did not automatically accept the prevailing view that Jews were the Servants of Satan, I chose Elen, Joanna and Llewelyn’s daughter, because she was a woman who was torn between two worlds, not fully at home in either, a woman who had been born with a rebellious streak.   I have no doubts whatsoever that Elen would have been a Suffragette!  

       April, your comment reminded me of something a friend once told me.  She and her husband were peacefully reading books in bed at night, and suddenly her husband startled her by crying out, “No, Joanna, no!  Don’t do it!”   Yes, he’d come upon the scene that you didn’t want to read.   Another friend described how she was reading in bed one night when her son burst into her bedroom, exclaiming “George is dead!”  Since she had a beloved nephew named George, she understandably reacted with horror.  She was not happy with said son when he then commented, “I didn’t really think Edward would do it, not kill his own brother.”  

      Marbella, I agree with you—Nell was Eleanor of Aquitaine’s granddaughter in more than blood.   And Malcolm, I loved your comment that in his discussion with Geoffrey, Philippe suddenly realized that he was now “only one of the two smartest kids in class.”   I agree with you, Emily-Jane, that Mary, Queen of Scots, is a tragic figure, but I’m with Cindy about Eleanor; I don’t see her as tragic, either.  I read somewhere that how people respond to Mary or Elizabeth Tudor says more about the people themselves than it does about either queen.   Apparently it is rare to sympathize with both women; like Team Angelina or Team Anniston, people take sides.  For what it’s worth, I’ve always been in Elizabeth’s camp.    Any one want to comment on this or make any arguments on Mary’s behalf?  

       Jerelyn, I have to ask this.  You said you have never been able to read the Evesham battle scene in Shadow.  Were you able to read the Bosworth battle scene in Sunne?  Ken, thank you for including that quote from a genealogist about my research; that meant so much to me!  

     And now, without further ado, here is Ken’s blog entry about Joanna’s mother.  I have to say that I have a problem with genealogical research in that so much of it too often seems founded upon speculation.  I personally think the idea that Constance of Brittany could have been the mother of Joanna is ludicrous.  I am not taking issue with Ken, for these are not his own conjectures; he has done an admirable job of sifting through the various theories and then presenting them–quite fairly–for us to judge for ourselves.  I do disagree with the question Ken raises about Joanna’s age.  It is true we do not know her exact birth date, but I determined her likely age based upon a number of factors, including the birth of her son Davydd, whom we know was born in 1207 and her affair with William de Braose, for we know his age.  There is no way to know for sure, but I remain quite comfortable with my conclusion that she was probably born circa 1191.    One minor quibble, Ken.  John was born in December of 1166, not 1167, the date so often given.    This is a very widespread mistake, and what is interesting about it is that biographers of Henry and John seem most likely to make it, whereas biographers of Eleanor get the date right.     Readers who would like to know more about this dispute can find a thorough discussion in the article by Andrew Lewis, “The Birth and Childhood of King John: Some Revisions,” published in my favorite book about Eleanor, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Lord and Lady, edited by Bonnie Wheeler and John Carmi Parsons.   Andrew Lewis is the scholar who discovered that Eleanor was actually born in 1124, not 1122, the “traditional” date given for centuries.   But back to the important issue–Ken’s research paper.   Diolch yn fawr, Ken!

September 29, 2009

The Mother of Joanna of Wales, wife of Llywelyn ab Iorwerth

 

 

The Children of Llywelyn and Joanna.

 

Following my post on the children of Llywelyn Fawr and Joanna and the responses it received, I checked again through the genealogical pages on the subject of Gwladus Ddu. While it is true, as several genealogists point out, that in the absence of definite proof one way or another, the identity of the mother of Gwladus Ddu must remain ‘unknown’, I found no reason to change my personal conclusion that her mother was Joanna and not Tangwystyl.

 

One further source on the subject of their children is the following abstract from the ‘Kings and Queens of Britain’ an authoritative guide, published by Oxford University Press, page 106:

 

‘Llywelyn ab Iorwerth, b.1173, son of Iorwerth Drwyndwn (‘Flatnose’) and Marared, daughter of Madog ap Maredudd; acc. east Gwynedd 1195; married Joan, illegitimate daughter of King John, 1205; issue: Gruffudd (illegitimate), Dafydd, Gwenllian, Helen, Gwladus, Margaret, Susanna; died 11 April 1240; buried: Aberconwy.’

 

The singling out of Gruffudd alone as ‘illegitimate’ is significant.

 

 

The Mother of Joanna

 

First, let me pay tribute to Sharon. Her research for ‘HBD’, ‘Falls the Shadow’ and ‘The Reckoning’, carried out before the advent of the Internet, was truly outstanding. Practically everything she has written in that trilogy stands close examination today.

 

To prove that it is not only me that thinks so, let me quote one genealogist who is a great fan of Sharon: “I am very fond of Sharon Kay Penman’s books. Even though they are not purely biographical, I feel more comfortable relying on her work to ‘fill in the blanks’ (given the amount of research she obviously put into her books), than in actually citing some genealogical sources that I have come across in my own research (I’m sure we all run into sources like that). To anyone who has not yet read her work, I recommend it very highly, especially if you would like to get a feel for what life was like 800 years ago.”

 

That sums it up nicely! Now, on to the present:

 

 

Following the questions posed by Beth, Suzanne and Sandy in particular, I set about researching the identity of Joanna’s mother (referred to hereafter, for ease of reference as ‘Clemence’ not ‘Clementia’) through an affair with the to-be-king John. This task proved to be much more complex than I would have thought possible! After running up many blind alleys, mostly through trying to reconcile the chronology of one with the other, I have settled on what follows. I do not claim that what I have written is definitive in any shape or form, and the truth is that we will probably never be sure of her identity.

 

To start, the evidence is incontrovertible that John had TWO daughters named Joan (Joanna), as follows:

(a) The illegitimate Joanna, daughter of “Clemence,” was unquestionably born out of wedlock –– as is proved by Honorius III’s decree declaring her legitimate in April 1226, though without prejudice to the king or realm of England (i.e., giving her no claim to that throne). The decree, which has been transcribed from the original, unpublished Register of Honorius III (Reg. Vat. 13, fol. 122 ), states inter alia that “Johannes Rex anglie solutus te genuerit de soluta,” which, I’m told, translates as “King John of England, when unmarried, fathered you by an unmarried woman.”

This means Joanna can have been born no later than 1189 when John married Isabella of Gloucester. Her mother, “Clemence” was probably French or Norman, since evidence from the patent rolls of John’s reign shows that Joan was brought from Normandy to England in December 1203, to prepare for marriage to Llywelyn ab Iorwerth (see below). Joanna died in Feb 1237.

 

(b) John’s legitimate daughter Joan, by Isabella of Angouleme (married to John in 1200 at age 12!), was born at Gloucester on 22 July 1210 (see the Tewkesbury Annals in the Rolls Series, vol. 36.i, p. 59; the Worcester Annals, ibid., vol. 36.iv, p. 399; and the Rotuli Litterarum Patencium for John’s Reign, pp. 124, 143). This is the Joan who subsequently married Alexander II of Scotland and she died in 1238, some months after Joanna (this may account for some of the confusion evident between the two women). She left no issue by Alexander II.

 

Now, if we consider the whereabouts of John during the period when Joanna would have been conceived, we find the following:

 

John was born in December 1167. He was at most 21 and maybe younger than that when his daughter Joanna was born. She may well have been the eldest of all the children he fathered by his various mistresses.

 

1187 June - John in France when Chateauroux was being besieged
1187 June 23 - truce
1188 Jan. 30 - Henry returns to England, possibly with John in tow
1188 Summer - Henry sends John back to Normandy, crosses from
Shoreham to Dieppe; Henry then goes to France, John remaining in Normandy1189 June 12 - John at Le Mans when disarmed by Henry's order, and then
John fled or was led away for safety
1189 July 6 - Henry I dies in France
1189 Aug. 12 - Richard brings John back to England with him
1189 Aug. 29 - John married to Isabelle of Gloucester at Marlebridge
1189 Sep. 3 - Richard crowned at Westminster Abbey
1189 Oct. - Richard sends John into Wales to subdue the rebellious Welsh
1190 Feb. - John summoned to Normandy and forced on oath
not to set foot into England for three years
1190 June - Richard goes on crusade [John breaks his oath]
For our purposes, it is thought that the most important period, and the most
likely time for Joanna to have been conceived, is the 1187-9 period.
1187 - John spends virtually the entire year in France
1188 - John might have returned to England in January, but by
summer is sent back to France, where he appears to have
remained
1189 - John is apparently in France January - August, returning to England in August in preparation for his marriage on 29 Aug.
If John made no more unrecorded returns to England, it would appear that he spent about 80% of his time from January 1187 until his marriage, in France. He was at some point given the County of Mortain, in Normandy (before Richard's coronation).

 

 

The above information, given the period and also the fact that Joanna was brought to England from France in 1203 for her marriage to Llywelyn, lends credence to the idea that Joanna and her mother were of French/Norman origin.

 

Given also John’s well-known philandering during this period, there appears to be many candidates for the role of mother of Joanna!

 

The genealogists have identified at least six possible candidates:

 

1. Clemence de Dauntsey
2. Clemence le Boteler
3. Clemence Pinel
4. Clemence de Fougers
5. Constance Duchess of Brittany
6. Agatha de Ferrers

 

Taking the story of each of these ladies in turn, I found the following:

 

 

1          Clemence de Dauntsey

 

My previous post gave the information that Paget showed that it was Clemence de Dauntsey, who married Nicholas de Verdun. I believed that this was the Nicholas and Clementia to whom Henry 111 granted the custody of Susanna (as a hostage) in 1228. After another long search however, I could find no trace of a Clemence de Dauntsey in the records. I did find however, the opinion of one genealogist who clearly stated it as…’ I think that we (the genealogists) have established that there was no such person as Clemence de Dauntsey. That identification of the wife of Nicholas de Verdun was a blunder by Paget!’

 

 

I am happy to accept that conclusion, as further investigation of the records of the next Clemence proved more fruitful.

 

 

2          Clemence le Boteler

Clemence le Boteler was born about 1175 in Steeple Lavington, Wiltshire. Her father was Philip le Boteler (born circa 1150).

 

Clemence le Boteler married Nicholas de Verdun in 1202 (his second wife after his marriage to Joan Fitz Piers. Note, this marriage is not proven) at Alton, Staffordshire and they had one child, Rohese de Verdun who was born in 1203 or 1205 (died. Feb 1247).

 

If, indeed, Joanna was the result of a liaison between John and Clemence le Boteler (who would have been aged around 14-15 at the time), it would have been very difficult for the Le Boteler family to find a suitable husband for Clemence. Indeed some ten years pass before a marriage is arranged (by John and his family?) with a trustworthy English nobleman and property holder, Nicholas de Verdun.  Leaving aside for the moment the possibility that Nicholas had fallen in love with the 27 year old Clemence and wanted to marry her, it would have been necessary for John to provide Clemence with some property of her own so that she became a more attractive prize for her husband to be.

 

The records now show a minor player, Philip Boteler, with seemingly little property, who comes into considerable property that is passed on through his daughter, Clemence.  The CLR, 1245-51, p111 shows that although the properties of Wilsford and Stoke Farthing in Wiltshire first appear in de Verdun hands during their daughter Rohese's tenure of the family estates, they first came to the family as a result of Nicholas de Verdun's marriage to Clemence le Boteler. This is revealed in a plea of 1243 in which Rohese claimed to hold Stoke Farthing as the heir of Philip Boteler, the father of the said Clemence. [CRR, vol. 17, no 1462].

In 1228, it appears that this same Clemence and her husband Nicholas were chosen to receive custody of Joanna and Llywelyn's daughter Susanna (aged about 14?). The purpose for the placement (apart from housing a hostage), seems to be for the child to be brought up in a safe and secure environment with the opportunity for a better education. Of course, would this Clemence be the mother of Joanna, she would also be the grandmother of Susanna, though there is no reason to believe that the young Joanna knew, at this time, that there was a family relationship, if the truth were being kept from her. The custodial grant was by King Henry III, half-brother to Joanna and half-uncle to Susanna, yet the decree called Susanna, Henry's ‘niece’ and Joanna, Henry's ‘sister’.’

 

A question now poses itself. If Joanna was the daughter of Clemence le Boteler, from, apparently an English household, how do we explain what Joanna was doing in France when King John sent for her in 1203? One possible answer is that Clemence’s father, Philip le Boteler was French, rather than English. It was quite common at the time for people to hold properties on both sides of the Channel. This may also explain why he named his daughter ‘Clemence’, a name more common in French families than in English families during this period.

 

 

3          Clemence Pinel

 

The only publication where I have encountered a reference to  Clemence Pinel – wife of Henry Pinel (apart from Charles Cawley in Wikipedia) is in Alison Weir’s ‘England’s Royal Families: The complete Genealogy (London, 1989).’ This publication is noted by one genealogist as ‘not very fully annotated.’ My own trawl through the genealogy forums found scant reference to the Pinel family, including Clemence’s husband Henry Pinel. Several entries suggest that Joanna was the daughter of Henry Pinel and his wife Clemence, but no sources, capable of being checked, are offered. I am therefore inclined to discount this lady from further investigation. I could be very wrong!!!!

 

 

4          Clemence de Fougers

Clemence de Fougers was the sister of Richard de Hommet, Constable of Normandy, and Geoffrey de Fougeres. Her father was William du Fougers. We have no date of birth (or death) of Clemence, but she was first married before 1200 (no date available) to Alan de Dinan, and was prominent enough to marry in October 1200, as her next husband, Ranulph de Blundeville, Earl of Chester and Vicomte d'Avranches, recently divorced (marriage annulled?) from Constance of Brittany.

 

In 1189, aged seventeen, Ranulph had been married to Constance of Brittany the widow of Henry 11’s son Geoffrey, and the mother of Arthur of Brittany with whom King John contested the succession. Henry did not trust the Countess and wanted her married to a magnate he could trust. The marriage gave Ranulph control of the earldom of Richmond and the duchy of Brittany, but it was not a success (see subject 6. below). The couple had no issue and they separated. It was rumoured that Earl Ranulph divorced Constance for having had an affair with King John!

 

Given that Clemence de Fougers was daughter and sister of Constables of Normandy, It is thought likely that John, Count of Mortain, in Normandy, knew of her [and perhaps *knew* her, prior to her marriage to Ranulph]. A close connection to John might explain what would seem a very advantageous second marriage for Clemence to Ranulph.

 

Ranulph, 6^th Earl of Chester however, was a powerful baron and it beggars belief, at least for me, that he would have accepted a marriage to a woman who had had a known affair and a subsequent child by John, Count of Mortain some ten years previously. Particularly given the rumours surrounding a possible affair between John and his first wife Constance!

 

Whether John did have an affair (and a child) with this ‘Clemence’, for whom he arranged an advantageous marriage, who can know?? It all seems a bit tenuous to me!

 

 

5          Constance, Duchess of Brittany

Constance was born on the 12^th June 1161 in Brittany and was married to (1) Geoffrey Plantagenet in 1181. Geoffrey was killed in a riding accident in 1186 and Constance married (2) Ranulph de Blundeville, 4^th Earl of Chester, on 3^rd February 1188, in a marriage arranged by King Henry 11. This marriage deteriorated and Ranulph imprisoned Constance in 1196. Rebellions were sparked across Brittany on her behalf and Ranulph released her in 1198. Back in Brittany, Constance had her marriage annulled and later in 1198, she took Guy de Tours as her ‘second’ husband.

 

Constance died aged 40, (possibly of leprosy, possibly after giving birth to twin girls) on 5^th September 1201 at Nantes

 

The theory that Constance had an affair with John after the death of Geoffrey and before John’s marriage to Isabella of Gloucester in 1189, and that she was mother to Joanna is very contentious and has provoked much discussion within genealogical circles.

 

One comment from a genealogist states that ‘the journal ‘The Plantagenet Connection’ has published an ahnentafel of Elizabeth Plantagenet, wife of Henry V11, which gives Joanna’s mother’s name as Constance (perhaps misnamed Clemence?), Duchess of Brittany. This is the Constance who was John’s sister-in-law! Considering the well-known animosity between John and Constance and her own attempts to press her son Arthur’s interests as far as the throne of England was concerned (and we all know how disastrously that turned out!), I really find the proposed relationship a little hard to swallow. The Constance that history portrays does not strike me as on whom John could easily coerce into bed.’

 

Again on the subject of Constance, John Parsons, an eminent historian/genealogist writes:

 

‘A theory that would identify Joanna’s mother as Constance fails to take into account a very critical point in canon law. By merely having sex with John, let alone bearing him a child, Constance would have established a first-degree relationship of affinity with all of John’s siblings –– including John’s brother Geoffrey. Even though this was not a consanguineous relationship but one of affinity, any first-degree relationship would have rendered matrimony between Constance and any of John’s brothers impossible without a dispensation –– which given the party’s rank would have had to come from the pope himself. That would mean that some trace of the matter must surely have come down to us, whether it involved the request for it, the deliberations, or the actual dispensation itself. As far as I am aware, nothing of the kind exists.’

My own opinion for what it’s worth, is that had Constance been the mother of Joanna she would surely have brought her up in her household and her name would be as well known as Constance’s other children by Geoffrey (Eleanor, Fair Maid of Brittany, Matilda/Maud of Brittany and Arthur).

 

 

 

 

6          Agatha de Ferrers

 

Agatha was born about 1168 in Chartley Castle, Staffordshire. It is well known that she was a mistress of John and several family trees give her, though unmarried, as the mother of Joanna. Most genealogists however are of the opinion that it is only supposition that she is Joanna’s mother as no proof or records exist to demonstrate this.

 

One source frequently given is Sir William Dugdale, in the Baronage of England (1675-6). He states his source to be Dr David Howell’s ‘History of Wales’ (1584). Powell’s work is an enlarged edition of H Lloyd’s translation of ‘The Historie of Cambria’ by the 12^th century Saint Caradoc of Llancarfan. Another source, ‘Magna Carta Barons’ by Charles Browning, copyright 1969 also names Agatha de Ferrers, daughter of Robert de Ferrers, fourth Earl of derby, as Joanna’s mother.

 

Although she cannot be entirely dismissed as a candidate for mother of Joanna, surely there would be some trace of her in a chronicle or other historic reference, if she had indeed been the mother of the wife of the Prince of North Wales.  

 

I can find no record of Agatha having ever married and it is possible that she and John had a long standing relationship. The date of her death is unknown.

 

 

Conclusion

 

So! Who is it to be? As previously stated, the only reference we have in the records to the name of Joanna’s mother is an entry in the Tewkesbury annals which pertains to Joanna’s mother as “Queen Clemencie!” It reads in part:

 

Obiit domina Johanna domina Wallia, uxor Lewelini filia Regis Johannis et regina Clemencie, iii. Kal. Aprilis.”

 

“(Died lady Joanna, lady of Wales, wife of Llywelyn, daughter of King John and Queen Clementia, 3 Kal. April.”

 

Reference: Henry Richard Luard, Annales Monastici, 1 (1864): 101.

 

In this case the monk was evidently indulging in medieval legalism. Before her death, Joanna had been legitimised by the Pope. On the basis of that legitimisation, the Tewksbury monk evidently took it upon himself to elevate Joanna’s mother to the status of Queen, as if her mother had been King John’s wife! It is a fact however, that King John and Clemence were never married. By referring to Joanna’s mother as “Queen” Clementia, the monk who recorded Joanna’s death appeared to be showing his extreme respect for Joanna, but not attempting to alter the true facts.

 

Some Latinists have queried the meaning of this entry in the records. One has noted that ‘the use of the word ‘regina’ here could be an early example of the use of the word ‘queen’ (nowadays spelt ‘quean’) to indicate a woman of low degree, a loose woman, however you choose to render it most politely. This might have been an appropriate title for a mistress.’ Hmmmmm!

 

We will almost certainly never know for sure who was Joanna’s mother. My own feelings, following my research of the records and the genealogical tables, lean towards accepting that Joanna’s mother was named Clemence as written by the Tewksbury monk and, from the evidence available that Joanna’s daughter Susanna was handed over to the care of Nicholas de Verdun and his wife Clemence by Henry 111, that Clemence de Verdun (nee. Boteler) was Joanna’s mother.

 

I hope that Susanna was happy in the house of her maternal grandmother Clemence!

 

Well. What do you think??

 

 

 

 

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