So many of my readers have told me how much they enjoyed C.W. Gortner’s The Last Queen.  I am very happy to report that he has a new novel out, The Confessions of Catherine de Medici, one of history’s most controversial and little-known queens.   I was fortunate enough to read this book in galley form and I am sure that fans of The Last Queen will find it as compelling and surprising as I did.  But before reading the new book, which will be published on May 25th, you’ll want to read the following interview.   

Why did you write THE CONFESSIONS OF CATHERINE DE MEDICI? 

I’ve always been fascinated by Catherine de Medici. Initially, I was attracted to her because of her legend. I figured, if she has such a bad reputation there must be more to her story. I wanted to know more about who she was, to search beyond the lurid hyperbole for the person she may have been. Of Italian birth, Catherine was the last scion of her legitimate Medici blood; she dominated France in the latter half of the 16^th century, a contemporary of Elizabeth I and mother-in-law to Mary, Queen of Scots. Left a widow with small children and confronted by one of the most savage conflicts of the time, she fought to save France and her bloodline from destruction. As I researched her, I realized that, as with most dark legends, there was far more to her than popular history tells us. I thought how interesting it would be if Catherine herself could tell the story of her life. If she had the chance to explain herself, what would she say? I believe that all stories have two sides and Catherine de Medici’s is no exception.

What are some interesting facts you discovered about Catherine that is not widely known?

I found it amazing to discover how much she loved animals. In a time when bear baiting by dogs was a common entertainment, when hunting was a bloody pastime enjoyed by both genders and people rarely kept pets, Catherine was known for caring deeply about the welfare of her own animals and those at court. For example, she had the lion cages at Amboise completely restored, after she discovered how run-down they were; she also insisted that her bears not be used for any baiting and hired special attendants to look after them. When Catherine traveled about France, her bears were often seen lumbering behind her carriage! She also kept a menagerie of parrots, monkeys, and other exotic creatures; this was a time of plunder in Africa, New Guinea, and the Americas, with explorers capturing breeds which were often traumatized and ill equipped to survive transplant from their native habitats. Catherine tried her best to ensure those animals presented to her were treated well, not abused, exploited or killed for their parts – a very common practice in those days. The little dog she has in the book – Muet – is fictional, but represents this little-known aspect of her personality. In reality, Catherine had several lapdogs, in addition to the animals already mentioned.

I was also surprised to find out how religiously tolerant she was, particularly for an era of such savage intolerance and for someone of her fearsome reputation, who allegedly orchestrated a massacre to wipe out her Protestant subjects. This was a time when Catholics and Protestants were engaged in a very brutal conflict that spanned generations and divided families; popular history tends to bundle it under the titles of ‘Reformation’ and ‘Counter Reformation’ but the truth is, thousands of people lost their lives or fled their homes over the issue of faith. Catherine was the product of an ultra-Catholic upbringing; her family was intricately linked to the Vatican and her relative Clement VIII was a pope. She had every reason to fear and even despise Protestants, much as Mary Tudor did; however, Catherine showed a pragmatism toward doctrinal digressions that was actually very enlightened for her times. I do not believe she was a fanatic; I believe she honestly thought that there was a peaceful solution to the conflict tearing her son’s kingdom apart. It was her misfortune that so few around her shared her belief.

What kind of research did you do? Did you take any special trips?

I spent several years on this book to get it into its current form. I had written the original manuscript many years before that and it went through several re-writes before it was sold. Besides the over 40 biographies I read on Catherine and the important people in her life, as well as many other books on her era, I also read contemporary eye-witness accounts of the events that transpired under her reign, some written by her intimates. I don’t read French well and most of these accounts are not translated, so I had to enlist the help of friends who do speak the language. Catherine’s letters, too, provided invaluable insight into her thoughts; while many of these letters are formal in tone, as befits the time, a careful scrutiny of them does offer startling emotional information, such as the time when she wrote: “It is a great suffering to always be fearful.”

I traveled to France several times to see extant places associated with Catherine and to get a sense of the landscape. Though much has changed between now and then, I strongly believe the physical places where our characters lived offer unmatched glimpses into the past that can spark momentous changes in our work and during my first trip to Chenonceau, the chateau that Catherine embellished and loved, it happened to me. I was having trouble getting into Catherine’s “skin”, so to speak. Over half the book was written and I still felt she eluded me; there was something intrinsic missing. While touring this magnificent palace that sits on the river Cher, with its intricate gardens and honey-comb galleries, I understood what eluded me: I had made the mistake that so many of her detractors did: because she was so firmly entrenched in politics, I’d forgotten she was also a woman with a keen appreciation for beauty, a Medici to her fingertips, with all the passion that family had shown for centuries for the arts. This realization helped me immensely to re-cast her in my book, to find that flesh-and-blood person she might have been.

When combining fact with fiction, how do you balance history with story?

Very delicately! I think that as historical fiction novelists, we often walk a fine line between the facts and the fiction, in that we must adhere to the latter while staying true to the former. I always tell readers in my author’s afterword where I’ve altered or re-shaped events to fit the narrative flow; unfortunately, history can be inconvenient for a novelist, in that certain events do not match our story’s timeline and we finds ourselves confronted with editorial constraints, such as word counts, maintaining a manageable cast of characters, keeping up the pace of the story, etc. My golden rule is to never deliberately alter something if I can avoid it, and if I do alter it, make note of it so readers can know.

Do you think issues Catherine faced in her era still resonate today?

Absolutely. Religious divisiveness was a brutal part of life in Catherine’s world, with Catholics and Protestants willing to martyr themselves for their cause. This is something that many of us, much like Catherine, may find difficult to comprehend. Yet that very type of extreme righteousness remains very much a part of our modern landscape, as evidenced by acts of terrorism and genocide in several parts of the world. While we are in many ways a more enlightened society, we still carry vestiges of the past with us, and leaders throughout the world grapple with many of the issues that Catherine did, in terms of placating anger and restoring harmony among people whose lives have been devastated by conflict. 

What is one of the secrets that Catherine “confesses” in this novel?

The truth about her relationship with the Protestant leader, Coligny. I find it intriguing that so few of Catherine’s biographers have looked more closely at their enigmatic association. Coligny was at court when Catherine first arrived from Italy as a teenage bride; he was the nephew of the Constable of France, a very important man, and she and Coligny must have met long before they assumed their individual political roles. They were close to each other in age; they probably witnessed to a certain extent each other’s trials and triumphs, before circumstances arose for them to join forces. Coligny and Catherine could not have been more different, both in upbringing and outlook, yet they shared for a time a united response to the upheaval in France and a mutual desire for accord. In my novel, Catherine tells us what brought them together, and what eventually led to the definitive tragedy between them. 

Thank you so much for inviting me to your blog, Sharon, and thanks to all your readers for spending this time with me. To find out more about my work, please visit: www.cwgortner.com

Thank you, C.W., for agreeing to do this interview.  I am sure that anyone who enjoys well-written historical fiction is going to be facinated by “your” Catherine de Medici.  

May 18, 2010

     I would like to start with the good news; this past weekend, I adopted a shepherd from the Burlington County Animal Alliance.  Shadow is a beautiful boy, looks like a white wolf, but he has a very sad history of abuse; he came into the shelter half-starved and terrified.  Susan, his foster “mom,” told me that there were strong indications he’d been kicked as well as beaten, and he wasn’t housebroken even though he is about three years old; that means he was an outside dog, chained up in a yard somewhere, a cruelty in itself for social pack animals like dogs.   Shadow blossomed in his foster home, probably the first time in his young life that he’d been treated with kindness.  I have great admiration for people who work in rescue, for it is demanding and emotionally draining.  And those who volunteer to foster dogs or cats are the unsung heroes, for they take in frightened, damaged animals, transform them into family pets, and then give them up so they can continue to help other creatures in need. 

       I found Shadow by chance when I checked out Petfinder.com on impulse; I didn’t think I was ready yet to bring another dog into my house and heart.  But then I saw Shadow’s photo and felt a connection.  When Susan told me his dreadful history and that he got along very well with her small dogs and cats (an important consideration since I have a poodle who was Cody’s best pal and partner-in-crime), I had to go see him.  Well, it was love at first sight and he is now a full-fledged member of the Penman pack.  I am in awe of his sweet nature and his willingness to trust; had I suffered the abuse he did, it would likely have turned me into a serial killer.   But Susan and her family showed him that all humans are not cruel or evil and he is making remarkable progress.  This dog who was starving takes treats from my hand with a touch as delicate as a feather.  It was only a few weeks ago that he learned the housebreaking “rules,” but he has yet to have an accident inside.   He and Chelsea chase each other around like whirling dervishes.  He likes nothing better than to sit beside me while I’m working on the computer and put his head on my knee so I can rub his ears; Cody loved that, too—must be a shepherd thing J    Every now and then something scares him—a sudden noise, a memory—and he starts to shiver.   But this gentle boy is remarkably resilient and he soon relaxes again, remembering that the bad times are behind him.   We cannot erase his wretched past, but I can make sure that his future will be filled with love.

        It is true what people say about rescue dogs; they do seem so grateful to be given a second chance at life.   I realize adoption is not for everyone.    While pure-bred dogs are available through rescue groups and shelters, it is harder to find the “less popular” breeds, and if you’re set upon a puppy, that can entail a much longer wait.  But if you adopt a dog (or cat) from a shelter, you are quite literally saving a life; when I adopted Cody, I was told by a shelter worker that they have trouble placing the big dogs and I never forgot how easily that wonderful dog could have slipped through the cracks.     And by adopting through a rescue group, you will benefit from their evaluation and know in advance what sort of dog you will be getting, whether he is timid or cocky, whether he wants to be an “only child” or would be happier with other dog roommates, etc.    Rescue groups are very conscientious, too, about placing the right dog or cat with the right family, heading off “mismatches” from the get-go.   And we are fortunate in having such a wonderful resource in Petfinder.com, begun some years ago by a young couple seeking to combine their computer expertise with their love of animals; virtually every shelter and rescue group in the country list their adoptable pets on this site.   Based on my own experience, I would wholeheartedly recommend adoption for those seeking to add a pet to their family.  Adoption gave me my beloved Cody, and now the sweet Shadow, so I feel twice-blessed.

          So now you know who Shadow is, but what of Keiko and Fauvel?   Keiko is, of course, the famous killer whale and star of the Free Willy films who was rescued from a miserable captivity and eventually returned to the wild after his story attracted world-wide sympathy.  His time as a free whale was sadly much too short, but I have no doubts that this highly intelligent animal would rather have had a year of freedom than another decade of the miserable existence he’d endured prior to the Free Willy film.   And Fauvel?   He was a magnificent bay stallion, first owned by a Cypriot despot and then by an English king, better known as Lionheart.   Fauvel not only caught Richard’s eye, he bedazzled the two chroniclers who’d accompanied the king on the Third Crusade; they described him as “fleet as a deer” and “the best horse from here to Ypres.” 

             But what is the connection between a killer whale and a stallion who lived eight centuries ago?   I think they epitomize the change in attitudes toward animals over the years.  Like us, people in the MA were capable of caring deeply for their horses, dogs, hawks.  Occasionally one is mentioned in the chronicles, like the famous Fauvel.  We know that King John fed chicken to his favorite falcon.  The names of cherished horses echo throughout the chansons de geste.   Giraldus Cambrensus, a.k.a. Gerald the Welshman, related a touching story of a greyhound’s loyalty to his slain master.  While cats were not usually regarded as pets, they seem to have found good homes in many convents, as nuns were often scolded for their devotion to cats and small dogs.    But the medievals would not have been able to understand our concern for Keiko, much less the global attention paid to three  grey whales trapped under arctic ice about twenty years ago; two were eventually saved by a joint American-Russian effort with a Russian icebreaker flying the flags of both countries (surely a first!)    

          In the Middle Ages, people believed that man had dominion over the earth and all upon it.  The concept of “animal rights” would have been even more alien to them than the idea of “women’s rights.”    Obviously there are places on the planet today where the medieval attitude toward animals still prevails; understandably, people struggling to survive have different priorities than citizens of more affluent nations.  But in many countries there has been a remarkable, almost revolutionary shift in public opinion, as evidenced by laws to combat animal abuse, no-kill shelters, the rescue movement itself, and compassion toward wildlife as well as family pets, etc.  

           Of course many of our most cherished beliefs would not have taken root in medieval soil.  Religious tolerance was not viewed as a virtue since Christians and Muslims and Jews alike were sure that theirs was the only true faith.   Equality of the sexes?   Not likely in a world in which the Church itself taught that women were daughters of Eve, and “A woman who is not under the headship of the husband violates the condition of nature, the mandate of the Apostle, and the law of Scripture:  ‘The head of the woman is the man.’  She is created from him and she is subject to his power.’” (Letter from Routrou, Archbishop of Rouen, to Eleanor of Aquitaine, urging her to return to her husband, “whom you have promised to obey.”)    As an aside, marriage vows routinely required a wife to promise to obey her husband until relatively recently; when my parents were wed in 1942, they deleted this provision, but then they were rebels before their time!   Nor would medieval people have agreed with the American Declaration of Independence and its bold statement that all men are created equal.  Even in the eighteenth century, that was far from a “self-evident” truth; in the MA, it would have been incomprehensible.  

       It is not surprising, then, that medievals were much more unsentimental than we are in their interactions with animals.  I have tried to reflect that in my novels.  In my first medieval mystery, Justin de Quincy rescues a dog that was pitched off a bridge with a bag of rocks tied to his neck. Most of the bystanders are indifferent to the dog’s plight, aside from Justin and a five year old boy, and even Justin is somewhat embarrassed that he is going to so much trouble for a dog that is not his.   In Prince of Darkness, there is a scene involving an angry carter, a wagon mired in mud, and the scrawny horse who is the object of his owner’s wrath.  A man beating a horse (or dog) in public today would stir outrage; there was far less indignation in medieval Shrewsbury.

          So as much as I love writing about the MA, I would not have wanted to live in those turbulent times.   Now time-travel would be an irresistible temptation—provided that I had a return ticket.   Query to readers—have any of you imagined living in a bygone age?  If so, when?  More to the point, why?

         Lastly, Coeur de Lion’s army is still bogged down by the River Rochetaille, six miles from his objective, the coastal town of Arsuf.   I divided the chapter into two parts, a common occurrence for my chapters seem to self-replicate like amoeba.  So the two armies have been camped on opposite sides of the river for days now,   But a friend, apparently channeling Richard, informed me that he said I should “stop mucking around with that damned dog and let him get back to slaying Saracens.”   And so I shall.  

May 5, 2010   

PS  Here are some rescue websites.

www.petfinder.com

Burlington County animal Alliance (BCAA)  at www.bcaaofnj.org   (handles all breeds of dogs and cats)  Read their story about Buddy, an eight month old retriever in desperate need of surgery; his owners brought him to the shelter to have him euthanized because they could not afford the medical costs.  But he was so young and exuberant that the rescue is trying to give him a chance at a normal life.

     I am very pleased to welcome Mary Sharratt.  Mary is an American writer now living in Lancashire, England, the author of three acclaimed novels, including The Vanishing Point.  Her new novel, Daughters of the Witching Hill, is a dramatic, compelling, true story of the Pendle Witches, nine villagers accused of witchcraft in 1612 Lancashire.  

How did you come to write a novel about the Pendle Witches of 1612?

In 2002, I moved to the Pendle region of Lancashire, England—the rugged Pennine landscape that borders the West Yorkshire Dales. My study window looks out on Pendle Hill, famous throughout the world as the place where George Fox received the ecstatic vision that moved him to found the Quaker religion in 1652.

But Pendle Hill is also steeped in its legends of the Lancashire Witches. Everywhere you go in the surrounding countryside, you see images of witches: on buses, pubs signs, road signs, bumperstickers. Visiting American friends found this all quite unnerving. “Mary, why are there witches everywhere?” they’d ask me.

In the beginning, I made the mistake of thinking that these witches belonged to the realm of fairy tale and folklore, but no. They were real people. The stark truth, when I took the time to learn it, would change me forever. 

So who were these Pendle Witches?

In 1612, in one of the most meticulously documented trials in English history, seven women and two men from Pendle Forest were hanged as witches, condemned on “evidence” provided by a nine-year-old girl and her brother, who appeared to suffer from learning difficulties. The trial itself might never have happened had it not been for King James I’s obsession with the occult. His book Daemonologie—required reading for local magistrates—warned of a vast conspiracy of satanic witches threatening to undermine the nation.  

Out of the twelve accused Pendle Witches, why did you specifically choose Mother Demdike and her granddaughter Alizon Device as your heroines?

Mother Demdike, called Bess in my novel, had the most infamous reputation. According to the primary sources, she was the ringleader, the one who initiated the others into witchcraft. Demdike was so frightening to her foes because she was a woman who embraced her powers wholeheartedly. This is how Court Clerk Thomas Potts describes her in The Wonderfull Discoverie of Witches in the Countie of Lancaster, his account of the 1612 trials:

She was a very old woman, about the age of Foure-score yeares, and had

been a Witch for fiftie yeares. Shee dwelt in the Forrest of Pendle, a vast

place, fitte for her profession: What shee committed in her time, no man

knowes. . . . Shee was a generall agent for the Devill in all these partes: no

man escaped her, or her Furies.

Not bad for an eighty-year-old lady! What intrigued me is that although she died in prison before she could come to trial, Potts pays a great deal of attention to her, going out of his way to convince his readers that she was a dangerous witch of long-standing repute. Reading the trial transcripts against the grain, I was amazed at how Bess’s strength of character blazed forth in the document written expressly to vilify her.

Bess freely admitted to being a healer and a cunning woman. Her neighbours called on her to cure their children and their cattle. What fascinated me was not that Bess was arrested and imprisoned but that the authorities only turned on her near the end of her long, productive life. She practiced her craft for decades before anybody dared to interfere with her.

In contrast her granddaughter Alizon, who appeared to be a teenager at the time of her trial, seemed to view her own powers with a mixture of bewilderment and terror. Her misadventures in struggling to come to terms with this troubling birthright unleashed the tragedy which led to her arrest and the downfall of her entire family. Although the first to be accused of witchcraft, Alizon was the last to be tried at Lancaster. Her final recorded words on the day before she was hanged were a passionate vindication of her grandmother’s legacy as a healer. 

Why was it so important to write this novel in the first person?

Many other books have been written about the Pendle Witches—both fiction and nonfiction, nuanced and lurid. But even some of the better books, such as Robert O’Neill’s delightful novel Mist Over Pendle, tend to portray Mother Demdike and her family as sad, pathetic, ignorant misfits.

The whole purpose of my novel was to retell the Pendle Witch tragedy from the accused witch’s point of view. I yearned to give Bess and Alizon what their world denied them—their own voice.  

The landscape plays such a strong role in the novel. Why is that?

It meant a great deal to me to inhabit the same landscape as my characters. Bess and Alizon’s lives unfolded almost literally in my backyard. Researching this book wasn’t a mere exercise of reading books, then typing sentences into my computer. To do justice to the story, I had to go out into the land—literally walk in my characters’ footsteps. Using the Ordinance Survey Map, I located the site of Malkin Tower, once home to Bess and her family. Now only the foundations remain. I board my horse (who makes a cameo appearance in the novel as Alice Nutter’s horse) near Read Hall, once home to Roger Nowell, the witchfinder and prosecuting magistrate responsible for sending the Pendle Witches to their deaths. Every weekend, I walked or rode my chestnut mare down the tracks of Pendle Forest. Quietening myself, I learned to listen, to allow my heroines’ voices to well up from the land. Their passion, their tale enveloped me.

You say Bess was a cunning woman. Who were the historical cunning folk? 

Our ancestors believed that magic was real. Not only the poor and ignorant believed in witchcraft and the spirit world—rich and educated people believed in spellcraft just as strongly. Cunning folk were men and women who used charms and herbal cures to heal, foretell the future, and find the location of stolen property. What they did was technically illegal, but most of them didn’t get arrested for it. The need for the services they provided was too great. Doctors were so expensive that only the very rich could afford them and the “physick” of this era involved bleeding patients with lancets and using dangerous medicines such as mercury—your local village healer with her herbal charms was far less likely to kill you.

Those who used their magic for good were called cunning folk or charmers or blessers or wisemen and wisewomen. Those who were perceived by others as using their magic to curse and harm were called witches. But here it gets complicated. A cunning woman who performs a spell to discover the location of stolen goods would say that she is working for good. However, the person who claims to have been falsely accused of harbouring those stolen goods could turn around and accuse her of sorcery and slander. At the end of the day, the difference between cunning folk and witches lay in the eye of the beholder. If your neighbours turned against you and decided you were a witch, you were doomed.  

How do your Pendle Witches of 1612 differ from the more familiar Salem Witches of 1692?

While 17^th century Salem was a fairly homogenous Puritan society, Lancashire was anything but. Despite Henry VIII’s sacking of Whalley Abbey and the laws of religious conformity passed by his daughter Elizabeth I, the Reformation was slow to take root here. Many influential families of the gentry remained stubbornly Catholic in the face of persecution and death. Moreover, in the viewpoint of many Protestants, witchcraft and Catholicism were conflated. “No part of England hath so many witches,” Edward Fleetwood states in his 1645 pamphlet describing Lancashire, “none fuller of Papists.” Even Reginald Scot, one of the most enlightened men of the English Renaissance, thought the act of transubstantiation, the point in the Catholic mass where it is believed that the host becomes the body and blood of Christ, was an act of sorcery.

Mother Demdike’s family’s charms recorded in the trial transcripts mirror the ecclesiastical language of the pre-Reformation Church. Her incantation to cure a bewitched person, quoted by the prosecution as evidence of diabolical magic, is a moving and poetic depiction of the passion of Christ as witnessed by the Virgin Mary. This text is very similar to the White Pater Noster, an Elizabethan prayer charm Eamon Duffy discusses in his landmark book, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England: 1400-1580.

It appears that Mother Demdike, born in Henry VIII’s reign, at the cusp of the Reformation, was a practitioner of the kind of quasi-Catholic folk magic that would have been fairly common in earlier generations. The Old Church embraced many practices that seemed magical and mystical. People believed in miracles. They used holy water and communion bread for healing. Candles blessed at the Feast of Candlemas warded the faithful from demons and disease. People left offerings at holy wells and invoked the saints in their folk charms. Some rituals such as the blessing of wells and fields may have Pagan origins. Indeed, looking at pre-Reformation folk magic, it seems difficult to untangle the strands of Catholicism from the remnants of Pagan belief which had become so tightly interwoven. Keith Thomas’s social history Religion and the Decline of Magic is an excellent study on how the Reformation literally took the magic out of Christianity.

So are you saying that Mother Demdike and her family at Malkin Tower were merely misunderstood practitioners of Catholic folk magic?   

Alas, the truth seems more complicated than that. Although her charms drew on the mystical imagery of the pre-Reformation Church, Bess and her sometimes-friend, sometimes-rival Anne Whittle, aka Chattox, accused each other of using clay figures to curse their enemies. Both women freely confessed, even bragged about their familiar spirits who appeared to them in the guise of beautiful young men. Bess’s description of her decades-long partnership with Tibb seems to reveal something much older than Christianity.

So who was Tibb? The devil?

No. The devil, as such, played a very minor role in English witchcraft. Instead the familiar spirit took centre stage: this was the cunning person’s otherworldly spirit helper who could shapeshift between human and animal form. Bess described how Tibb could appear as a golden-haired young man, a hare, or a brown dog. In traditional English folk magic, it seemed that no cunning man or cunning woman could work magic without the aid of their familiar spirit—they needed this otherworldly ally to make things happen.

What’s next? Do you have a new novel in progress?

My current novel-in-progress Know the Ways will reveal the life of Hildegard von Bingen (1098-1179), Benedictine abbess. She was an incredible character, a polymath who composed an entire corpus of music and wrote books on subjects as diverse as natural science, medicine and human sexuality—she’s credited as the first person to describe the female orgasm in depth. A mystic and visionary, her prophecies earned her the title Sybil of the Rhine.

Her story arc is amazing. Born in an age of deep-seated misogyny, her parents offered her as a tithe to the Church at the age of seven, yet she triumphed to become one of the greatest voices of her age. And she’s not so far removed from my historical witches as one might think. She healed with herbs, crystals and gemstones and was guided by visions. I suspect that if she had been born a few centuries later, she might well have been burned as a witch.

     Thank you, Mary.  I was fortunate enough to read Daughters of the Witching Hill before it was published and I thought it was a very powerful story.

April 6, 2010

     His name was Dakota, but we always called him Cody.  Because I’d adopted him from a Jersey shelter, his past remained shrouded in mystery.  We knew the people who dumped him had gotten him at the Philadelphia SPCA, so he’d already been abandoned twice in his young life.  I use a harsh word—dumped—to describe their action because they had not done right by Cody.  They’d kept him chained up in their yard 24-7 by their own admission, and then took him to the shelter because they “could not control him.”   He was fifteen pounds underweight and suffering from Lyme Disease and chronic diarrhea, but neglect and loss had not soured his sweet nature.  Because of his size and breed, the shelter offered him to the local police department.  He flunked their test, though; they wanted their dogs to have more of an “edge.”   As soon as I heard that, I knew he was the dog for us. 

      My dad was living with me then, and when we drove to the shelter to get him, he jumped into my car as if he’d been waiting for us to take him home.   “Home” was a house with a large, fenced-in back yard and two other dogs, Caitlin, my elderly poodle, and Randy, who I called my G.K. dog, for God Knows what her ancestry was.  She was a neighbor’s dog with a sad history of abuse and neglect that I’d taken in on a “temporary” basis that would last for twelve and a half years.   Cody always liked the ladies, even though he had to settle for platonic friendships, and seemed pleased to have two female roommates.   He had lunch, explored the house and yard, and soon afterward, we heard an odd noise coming from the living room.  We discovered Cody rolling around on his back, waving his big feet in the air, and moaning like a water buffalo in rut.  We would soon learn that this was how he expressed happiness.  I know I may be ascribing human emotions to a dog, but I’ve always been convinced he suddenly realized that this home was going to be different, that he’d be welcome in the house instead of being banished to the back yard, that he’d have other dogs to play with, and enough to eat at long last, and he was overcome with joy at this remarkable turn in his fortunes. He did something else that night that I’ve never forgotten.  I’d given him the choice of sleeping upstairs with me or downstairs on the bed which my Norwegian elkhound had once used, and he’d chosen to stay downstairs.  But I awoke in the middle of the night with the sensation that I was being watched.  I opened my eyes to find Cody standing by the bed, looking down at me.  He reached out then, very gently nuzzled my cheek, and then turned and padded back downstairs to sleep.

     I did not fall totally under his spell, though, for another two weeks, not until the day we discovered he could open doors; we would later learn that he could turn the latch on the back door with his nose or hit it at the bottom so it would pop open and he would be kind enough to teach the other dogs his new skill.   But on this day, my nephew had come over to show us his puppy.  My dad and I walked out to his car to say goodbye.  Suddenly the storm door swung open and Cody and Randy burst out, racing for the woods across the street.  I should mention here that Randy was an escape artist par excellence; I’d once caught her climbing into a tree to stage a jail break.  Fortunately she was never gone long—it was the challenge that seemed to motivate her—and because she looked like a Disney dog, I didn’t worry about her frightening anyone.  Cody was another story.  German shepherds are very beautiful dogs, but they do not look warm and cuddly, especially one as big as Cody.  And so when they came flying past us, I was horrified, worrying how people might react to a huge shepherd running loose and not sure if he’d be able to find his way home like Randy could.  Just as they disappeared into the woods, I called them.  Randy, of course, ignored me and continued on her great adventure, but Cody put on the brakes, practically leaving skid marks in the grass, and then headed right back to me.   Visions of Casablanca flashed through my mind, Bogie and Claude Rains walking off into the fog together, saying “This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

     When I’ve told people about Cody’s sad past, they’ve often talked about how “lucky” he was, and that is true.   But I was lucky, too, for he came into my life at a very difficult time.  My dad lived with me for the last six years of his life when he was suffering from Alzheimer’s, surely the cruelest of all ailments; it broke my heart a dozen times a day to see this wonderful man slowly fading away.  Cody proved to be a blessing for us both.  My dad adored him, and he gave me comfort when I most needed it.   I honestly am not sure I could have gotten through some of those dark, despairing moments if not for Cody.

         Not that he was a candidate for canine sainthood; there was no halo hovering over those oversized ears.  Cody could counter-surf with the best of them and was known to root in the trash from time to time.  I remember coming into the living room one day to find my dad napping in his recliner, with a tray on his lap, and Cody standing beside him, with his nose in my dad’s soup bowl, slurping for all he was worth.  He had the grace to look sheepish at being caught out, and yes, I know I am anthropomorphizing  him, but so what?  He was always very gentle with my dad, but he also was sharp enough to know he could get away with more with my dad, too, for it amused him when Cody would surreptitiously snatch a French fry from his plate.   Cody gave my dad a lot of pleasure during his last years, and I would love him dearly for that alone.  

         The dog rejected for police work turned out to be very protective of “his” people.  I’d have backed him against the Hell’s Angels.  He hated to get wet, would never go into the backyard pool…except once.  My nephew and his girlfriend were fooling around and dove to the bottom.  When they didn’t come up, Cody became very agitated, circling the pool and barking wildly and finally plunging into the water.  Of course he then panicked and my nephew had to “save” him and help shove him back onto dry land, but we were very impressed by his gallant gesture.  I’ve never felt so safe as when I had him by my side.  But he was very well behaved out in the world, both with people and other dogs.  Randy had delusions of grandeur, yearning to be the alpha dog of the Penman pack.  She would deliberately step in front of him as they started outside; he’d merely give the canine equivalent of a shrug.  About once a year, she’d lapse into temporary insanity and force a fight with this dog who was twice her size.  It would always end the same way.  I’d hear an ungodly racket, come running to find Cody holding Randy immobilized by the loose skin at her neck, keeping her from biting him while the drama queen shrieked as if she were being murdered.  As soon as I arrived on the scene, he would release her, confident that I would keep her from launching another kamikaze attack.  She never realized how lucky she was.  I did.  He was so mellow and laid-back that I called him my surfer-dude dog.

         There is no happy ending to this story, though.  Last year he developed severe arthritis in his spine and it weakened his hind legs so that he began to have difficulty walking.  Thanks to my vet’s chiropractic and laser treatments and pain medication, we were able to give him some more good months.   He waged a gallant battle that he was bound to lose, and this past Tuesday came the day I’d been most dreading.  He’d suffered a relapse and this time did not respond to the vet’s treatments, not even an emergency laser treatment on Saturday in the midst of that god-awful Nor’easter.   His vet and I agreed that it was time, for he was too big to use one of those carts, as tall as a Great Dane and weighing over one hundred pounds, most of it pure heart.   I’d always hoped that he would let me know when it was time, and bless him, he did.  The prednisone had given him a ravenous appetite, like a shark in a feeding frenzy, but on Tuesday, he stopped eating.    His passing was peaceful; he went quietly to sleep.   He was about eleven years old, and I’d had him for nine of those years, not nearly long enough.  

          His name was Cody.  He loved to walk in the woods, to race the wind, to have his ears rubbed.  He loved beef jerky and liver and ice cream.   And me.

March 20. 2010

     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