Helen Hollick: Let us Talk of Many Things: of Books and Queens and Pirates....of History and Kings

Reviling the Reviewer – not always a good idea

2012-02-06T18:00:00.000Z

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a small piece about author bashing. It was intended as a bit of a blast against the people labelled as “Trolls” on the Internet – people who deliberately cause a rumpus in order to be noticed. In the case of some “reviewers” these verbal attacks are aimed at trashing an author’s work, and on occasion, his or her integrity (especially where historical fiction is concerned).

I argued that to review a book – even if you did not enjoy it – you do not have to be foul and abusive. The old “if you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all” quote.

I had a couple of interesting people contact me disagreeing with what I’d written. (Disagreeing in a nice sense – oddly, no trolls emerged. I’m either too fierce or not important enough!)

One correspondent in particular pointed out the other side of things from the reviewer’s perspective. And what set me thinking was one sentence:

“Reviewers are here to recommend a good read; we do not give critiques.”

She was right. Readers read review blogs, partly to discover more about an author, but mainly to decide what books to read next. So reviews should be honest and accurate – although I still emphatically state that they should not be rude or vile towards the author.

If a novel is a load of rubbish, fair enough, but be objective about it, not rude.

One thing that seems to annoy reviewers – rightly - is the obnoxious author who indignantly counterblasts any criticism of his/her book.

This is the sort of author who adds a comment proclaiming the reviewer is an idiot who cannot read or has no awareness of the English language because the book was not rated at 5-stars. “All my other reviewers understood what I was trying to say and have given it five stars. Maybe you had better brush up on your reading skills.”

Unfortunately most of these rants come from self-published or Indie authors. I suppose because the indie market is an open free-for-all at times. Some books get poor reviews because they do not deserve a good one. I’m sorry, but it is time some SP authors realised that their masterpiece was turned down by publisher after publisher and agent after agent for a good reason.

The book is not written very well.

Yes, everyone can write a book – not everyone can write a readable book.

All too many of these “wow what a great read” reviews (on Amazon, Lulu, Goodreads etc) are so very clearly added by friends and family. Just as it is easy to spot the heckling troll deliberately targeting an author in an obnoxious and rude manner, it is easy to spot the deliberate “fab book” friends and relatives review.

Look at their previous reviews, just one or two or none. Their only reviews are for this one author. Bit of a giveaway that. And most are not proper reviews just a “I loved this book” format. No detail of the plot, the writing style, the characterisation.

Now I must admit, I do this on Amazon – “Loved the book” sort of comments, but this is because I do not have time to write a full and proper review, and I am adding my personal comment as an author and reader, not a review as a reviewer.
my Amazon reviews

I have protested about reviews, but not (I hope) rudely. One review was for a previous edition of Sea Witch on Kindle and it was not a good one: “don’t buy this it looks like it’s been set by an idiot” (not the exact words, but you get the gist) The thing is, the reviewer was right. My previous publisher had plonked it on Kindle with no idea how to upload the formatting properly. The result was a heap of nonsense – maybe that is why the company went bust? I had no choice but to add a comment though – that I agreed and this edition has now been removed and replaced by a properly produced one by a more competent publishing company.

What does irritate is that this particular reviewer (last time I looked) had not removed the review. I’m assuming he or she was quite happy to trash an author’s work, but not responsible enough to notice when said author had politely responded.

As an aside regarding comments/reviews that rubbish an author’s use of punctuation and grammar: I have come to the conclusion that US and UK ideals are not on the same level playing field. To us in the UK the game the US calls football is rugby. In the same way, our way of expressing things by the use of commas, for instance, is not the same as the US way of expressing things.

Reviewers please note that! Keep in mind UK English is not the same as US English.

That still doesn’t excuse the obvious typo – but read on….

I personally welcome constructive criticism – if I’ve made errors I want to know about them – however, and this is a big “however”: please keep in mind that typesetting and production are often beyond an author’s control. (I site my own novels here – after almost 20 years as an author I have finally got some decent, quality, editions that are properly produced – and I am talking mainstream and indie here. Some editions are out there with hideous typos, despite my efforts of proof reading. If the publisher, for whatever reason, does not correct the errors, or sets the book wrong, there is nothing, as an author, that I can do about it. Nor are the titles of my mainstream traditionally published novels my jurisdiction. I opposed Harold the King being changed to I Am The Chosen King so please rant at the publisher about it, not me. And don’t rate my book with one star because of it!

I must add in here a review left for one of my books that made me laugh outright – and hopefully prospective readers will realise the ridiculousness of it.

All errors are original:

“My hopes for this book were up after reading the reviews here, but I must confess I was very disappointed.

First of all, the plot is confusing. There is no clear line through the book. Second of all, the story is not deep. The characters are not well described, so their feelings and reactions do not seem natural to them. Oh, I did understand the love between the two main characters, but only because it was stated black on white, several times - it is simply not possible for me to feel this love the two characters apparently share. For me, a book is not good if I don't at least can feel sympathy for the main characters, and understand their line of action, and I certainly cannot with this book.

Last, there's an enourmous mount of text used to describe certain more or less uncomfourtable events. An amount not balanced to the amount of text used to describe the characters. It seems unnecessary and wrong for the plot.

So, to me this book is not an example of good writing, not even a good story. Furthermore, there were several errors in this version of the book, which is very disturbing. The only reason why I give this book two stars instead of one is that I actually came through it.

I'm sorry for mistypes and grammatical errors in this review - English is not my main language.”

This reviewer has two other reviews (for novels by different authors. One is:

“I read it through, but exciting - no. I never felt I was there, I never felt sympathy for the heroine, even though I tried. It was boring and not well written. The small parts of the children's story in the beginning of each chapter - not even remotely interesting.”

Ah, well it wasn’t just my book that disappointed then.

My point is – I so dearly want to respond with maybe this reviewer would understand the text, the plot – and not call me a bad writer – if she understood English better.

A classic example of blaming an author when it is your own failing that causes the problem.

Regardless of the rather absurd context of that review, it really is not wise to respond with an indignant protest. Genuine readers will see the silliness for what it is.

Some authors leave themselves wide open for a rough ride by proclaiming themselves to be what they are not. Write historical fiction on the basis that you are a knowledgeable historian and have thoroughly researched the facts – then I have no sympathy when reviews find error after error, or condemn such an author’s novel as nonsense. I have never claimed to be anything I’m not. I do not possess a history degree (well I do have half of one – never bothered finishing it. I might one day.) My novels are “what might have really happened”. Note the word might.

Similarly if one author – published or prospective – slams another published author’s work as nonsense, then be careful that your own work is all you claim it to be, or you might be on the receiving end of the same sort of public trashing. What you send out comes back threefold.

So do reviews, good or bad, affect sales? General opinion seems to be that even a bad review is not as detrimental as it might first seem. A good reviewer should be able to state that the book didn’t work for them, and therefore receive a low star rating, but it is still possible to point out the positives, that people who enjoy such and such will love it. As example, I have received bad reviews because the reader did not like the detail in the battle scenes, or there was too much historical detail. Fair enough – but other readers prefer this sort of novel. As an author, you are damned if you do, damned if you don’t. As reviewers, please don’t damn us unnecessarily.

As authors, though, are we expected to just sit back and take it? No, I do not think we are – but there are ways, and ways, of responding to a bad review – if you must respond:

Be polite.

Ok, so it is obvious the reviewer has not read the entire book, but just picked up on one element – let’s say the central character is anti-gay. There is no need to slam the whole book because of this (er… its fiction…..) Say openly “I did not like this book because of its anti-gay stance. I therefore did not finish reading it.” A good, fair comment – what is not acceptable is “This book is rubbish because its anti-gay”. Nor is it acceptable for the author – or agent, or whatever, to retaliate with “well you are a rubbish reviewer because you haven’t read it, so don’t know what it is about.”

Be respectful.

Everyone is entitled to an opinion. So a particular reviewer or person who has left a comment on Amazon has been less than pleasant. Do you really want to lower yourself to their level?

Acknowledge that everyone has their opinion, and you thank them for theirs, although perhaps it would have been nice for the reviewer to have got the protagonists name right: its Jesamiah Acorne, not Jeremy Acorne.

Be Dignified.

Rant back if you really want to – the temptation is especially difficult to resist on Facebook threads – but state your point and leave it at that.

Remember those Trolls I mentioned earlier?
If they look you in the eye and catch your attention, you are in grave danger of turning into a troll yourself…..

A new Sport? Author Bashing

2012-01-10T00:52:00.004Z

Forget the old cruel sports of throwing Christians to lions, cock fighting and bear baiting. The advent of the Internet, social media forums and sites such as Goodreads and Amazon etc have opened up a whole new field sport.

Author Bashing.

I came across this the other day: ‘It is disappointing that some authors can't handle constructive criticism and only want adoration.’

Actually, most mainstream published authors (at least, the Historical Fiction ones I know) do not object to constructive criticism. We welcome constructive feedback from our readers because we like to know where we are getting things right – or wrong. Constructive criticism is helpful.

Note that particular word: constructive.

Yes, of course we want nice things said about our books. Wouldn’t you be hurt if you spent hours getting yourself ready for a special party, you walk in and the first person you meet sneers “You look a right tart. Couldn’t you find a hairbrush – and as for that repulsive dress….” I would wager you would turn right round and flee, tears streaming. Yet it is fine to say something similar to an author!

Not everyone has the same taste in reading – thank goodness, what a boring world it would be if we all liked the same stuff – and it is fair enough to say “I didn’t enjoy this book” – but give a constructive reason; why didn’t you like it? Don’t just trash the author. If the book is so bad it needs to be publically shredded and fed to the dustbin, then why did you read the wretched thing in the first place? I don’t have time to read dross (and yes, some books are dross!) If the narrative hasn’t grabbed me by chapter five, then I give up on it and move to the next book in my size of Everest To Be Read Pile. Nor do I waste time or energy in slagging off the author because I didn’t like the book – what is the point? I get more pleasure in praising something I enjoyed reading…. Ah but here we come back to what I stated above. It seems there are some people out there who like throwing dung at those of us who have managed to get into print. I wonder why? Jealousy, frustration at not being in print themselves? General ignorance and nastiness?

Review forums, snarky groups and pages on Facebook and the Twittersphere seem to attract these destructive comments like gulls to a rubbish tip. I think virtually every author has discovered that once a book is in print it becomes open season for vicious remarks.

And again I emphasise here – there is a big difference between saying you did not enjoy a book, and giving the reason why you did not enjoy it, and blatant, vindictive trashing.

In too many cases recently things seem to have evolved into a general marketplace where anything can be said at any time and in any tone – and authors are expected to take outright abuse because we have been published.

What, I ask, have we done to deserve this public placing in the stocks and being pelted by verbal rotten tomatoes?

Is the opinion “If an author can’t take criticism he/she shouldn’t write” really a general view – or the bleating of a mere few who enjoy being spiteful? And believe me, some of these “critics” can be extremely spiteful!

Do these people have any idea how much work goes into research, or what marketing expectations force authors to make certain decisions? Decisions that are often out of our hands because the publisher insists such and such is what they want in order to sell the book?

I have received a 1 star review for my book because the reviewer was angry that the title had been changed. I assure you I am as annoyed – but blame the publisher, not me; and did the book deserve a one star? After all Amazon accepts returns – send it back for heaven sake.

I have been “miffed” at receiving poor reviews when it comes to typos, incorrect punctuation etc – again because these have, on the whole, not been my fault but the publisher – and I can’t blame the small Indies here either, there are some awful typos in mainstream published books.

Fair enough to say “This book would have been a lot better if there had not been so many commas in the wrong place” – but is it really fair to completely trash the whole book because of a couple of obvious printing errors?

I received a scathing comment of one of my novels from a US reader who trashed my writing because I had dared (in his/her opinion) to make an ignorant error. “This author has no idea of her facts. Corn,” said this reviewer sarcastically, “grows in the US – so how could King Arthur have fed CORN to his horses circa 500 AD? Don’t touch this book, it is badly researched. I got as far as this nonsense and canned the book.“

I was furious because in this case the ignorance was entirely this arrogant reviewer’s.

Corn in the UK does not mean maize. It is an equine term for horses fed on oats and barley – race horses are “corn fed”, it is a legitimate, correct, term. I responded to the reviewer and politely requested that the review be removed.

But according to one book reviewer, anyone who took exception to her review comments must be an author plant. What? Is this reviewer saying that no one can publically disagree with her opinion? Did I, in her pomposity have to swallow the incorrect example I have just given above then?

I found this at random:

“Complete Uninspiring twaddle........slow..........dull and full of lame clichés.

Anyone wanting a decent read should avoid like the plague.”

Why be so nasty? OK, in your opinion a book is not very good – do you have to be so horrible about it?
To my mind, the above example is not a review it is blatant, vindictive, nastiness.

I have been in tears through some of the nasty things said about my books - because the tone has been vicious, not because the reader didn’t like the book. And is it just me? Why be scathing with words like “this was too violent, the battle scenes were awful” when the novel is about the most famous battle in English history – 1066 the Battle of Hastings. Isn’t it obvious that there will be descriptive battle scenes? So if you don’t like battles don’t read a book about a battle!

And what about the condescending dissing of historical fiction that is inaccurate?

First and foremost the key word here is FICTION. Historical Fiction is not non-fiction – any story of HF is just that – a made up STORY.

Yes, it is lovely to read a well written, well researched historical novel (I cite Sharon Penman and Elizabeth Chadwick) But is it fair to rubbish a novel that is obviously meant as pure fiction, where in the author’s note clearly states “this is a work of fiction. None of it is true.”

I do agree, however, if the author is foolish enough to harp on about his or her various qualifications, how important historical accuracy is lah lah lah – and then makes obvious bloopers then he or she is fair game for attack.

Is it fair to trash an author because he or she decides to use easy to pronounce names instead of unfamiliar ones?

Not all readers are up to speed with say, Welsh or Latin or Old English personal names. For Forever Queen (titled A Hollow Crown in the UK) I had several comments asking “Why use all those unpronounceable names? Were they necessary?”

Well yes, because they were the recorded names of real characters. Strictly speaking I should have used Ælfgifu for the main female character – but fortunately she was also known as Emma. But where I had to make up names I made up easy, familiar names. In my Arthurian Trilogy I had to use Gwenhwyfar because that is the Welsh version of Guinevere – and Llachue, Amr and Gwdre for her sons, again because they are the recorded names – but when I made up characters I settled for Madoc, Mabon, Elen…..

Take that wonderful novel The Clan of the Cave Bear. Shouldn’t we be trashing Jean Auel because she used names? Shouldn’t she have been accurate and used grunts?

So please, may I make a heartfelt plea for all authors? We write novels because we love writing. We write books to entertain you the reader – very, very, few of us write books to make money.

It takes us months – sometimes years – to get a novel written. Please, then, grant us the courtesy of reviewing our hard work properly, even if it is, in your opinion, a load of twaddle, review it in a courteous, constructive manner.

After all, the only person you are showing up by being discourteous, ignorant, and rude is yourself – not the author.

A final thought - if you can't say anything nice,

then maybe it is best to say nothing at all.

I wonder how many non-constructive comments I will receive for speaking my thoughts? Any rudeness will not be deleted.... but I can guarantee a scathing response....

A similar article on Trolls & how to handle rude comments is on:
Kristen Lamb's Blog

5th/6th January 1066: Harold - the Chosen King

2012-01-06T17:33:00.002Z

On January 5/6th of 1066 the King, Edward died - leaving the throne of England open to dispute. The rightful King was Edgar, son of Edward the Exile, grandson of Edmund Ironside, great grandson of Æthelred (the Unready). But Edgar was still a boy, probably only a young teenager. England knew there would be a dispute for the crown - primarily from Duke William of Normandy, and Harold Godwinsson, Earl of Wessex knew first hand of William's ruthless abilities.

Only a capable, experienced man could be placed at the helm - so the Council chose Harold.

The Normans made an outcry, of course, citing that Edward had promised the throne to William (even if he had, such a private promise would have no legal status in England) and that Harold had pledged an oath, before God, to support William in his claim.

I find it unbelievable that a man such as Harold, in his position of power, would willing agree to put William on the throne of England, yet the taking of the oath is documented fact - it is depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry.

It is known that Harold went to Normandy, though the reason is not certain; more than likely he went to retrieve his brother Wulfnoth and nephew Hakon who had been held as hostage for many years - he did indeed come home with Hakon. (Wulfnoth was never to see his freedom). Harold went on campaign with William while in Normandy and was honoured for bravery - to my mind it seems logical that William would have tried various ways of securing Harold to his side, one of which was probably by offering a marriage of alliance.
So in my novel, Harold the King (the US title is I am the Chosen King) I follow this line of thought - and explain the scene where Harold is forced, against his will to make that oath.

Enjoy the two excerpts below:

Excerpt from

Part Two ~ Chapter 27 ~ Bayeux 1064

Agatha sat completely miserable, in a corner of her father’s great Hall, as far from the glare of watching eyes as she could. She would have preferred to remain in her bedchamber, but her mother had not allowed it. The exchange of heated words between them this morning had been almost as red-hot as the blaze of the Yule log in the central hearth fire. She did not want to marry, could her parents not see that? She had a calling, her desire was to serve God. That was her duty, not the giving of her body to a man in marriage. Not that she disliked Earl Harold, he was kind and he made her laugh, but then, so did William de Warenne and Ralph de Tosny…many other men. And to go to England? Oh, she could not, could not! It was a country of heretics and pagans, where men worshipped beneath oak trees and took oath in the name of the gods, like Odin and Thunor. Where the women were all whores and their husbands adulterers…how could her father contemplate sending her to live in such a dark pit of iniquity?

As Bishop Odo’s raucous laugh boomed across the crowded Hall, Agatha shrank deeper into her holly-green woollen mantle, clasping her fingers tighter together in her anxiety. Her uncle had been there this morning. Confronted by uncle, mother and father together, what chance had she, a ten-year-old girl, of making her voice heard? If she was frightened of her father, she feared Uncle Odo’s chastisement more, for he brought the added wrath of God’s word to his reproof. Agatha knew she could withstand any punishment, any beating, but not the condemnation of God. Surprising even herself, she had shouted and clenched her fists, declaring that she would not, would not, become betrothed to Earl Harold – and her uncle had slapped her, right there in front of her mother and father. Slapped her so hard that the bruise would blacken her cheek for many days to come, in the name of God’s displeasure at her discourtesy and refusal to accept her place as a woman and wife.

A tear dribbled down her cheek. Never before could she remember enduring such misery.

“Why the tears little mistress? What ails you?”

A man’s shadow fell tall and broad across her. Her downward gaze saw only his boots. Doe hide, dyed blue. Earl Harold’s boots.

He sat beside her on the bench, near enough to exchange private talk, distant enough not to compromise her honour. “I think we are all disenchanted this day,” he said. “The rain and biting cold does sour our humour.” He tried a small jest: “They say when this rain eases, that it will turn cold enough to freeze the feathers off a gander’s backside.”

No smile touched her mouth. Another tear dribbled; she brushed it aside.

Harold decided to try the direct approach. “Your father tells me that you have been informed of our intended betrothal.” Still no response. He leant forward, cupped her chin with his hand and tilted her face upwards to look into his own.

“Am I, then, so terrible a prospect? I am not so bad to look upon and at least my breath does not smell like that of your father’s toothless old wolfhound. Nor do I scratch at fleas with my foot.”

At last Agatha attempted a smile at his absurdity, then answered him with a choking stammer: “It is England I fear, not you.”

Harold chuckled. “There is nothing especial to fear about England, sweet one. It is just as damned cold in winter as it is here in Normandy, just as wind-blustered by the northern breezes and flatulent men. Many of us in England are descended from the Viking race, as you are, and we all have as much passion for climbing the ladder of power, by whatever means, legal or murderous, as your father’s fellow countrymen. The one difference between Normandy and England, Lady Agatha, is that we live in houses built of timber, not stone, and we prefer talking about fighting rather than risk smearing blood over our long hair and our trailing moustaches.”

Agatha fiddled with her kerchief, drawing it fearfully backwards and forwards through her fingers. Whispered, “But I would know no one in England, I should be the only Norman.”

Setting his large hand over the smallness of hers, Harold shook his head. “There are more than a few of Norman birth in England, child. Our King Edward, for one, is more Norman than English.”

“But he is old and will soon die!”

“Aye, and then your father will try to enforce taking the English crown for his own. There’ll be more than a few Normans attempting to come into England when that day occurs, I’m thinking!”

The girl’s mouth had dropped open. “How did you know? Father has forbidden anyone to talk of his ambition for England!” Her mind raced. Had she inadvertently let it slip? God help her hide if she had!

Harold gently squeezed her fingers in reassurance. “You father, for all the love you rightfully bear him, is not as clever as he thinks. I have known all along. I am an important man in England; my word will carry much weight when the time comes to elect our next king. Your father has been courting me with as much energy as it seems I may need to employ should I make up my mind to take you as wife.”

Agatha seized on those last words. He had not, then, yet agreed to have her? Oh, thank God! Mayhap he would not want her and she would be free of this. He seemed so unconcerned about being used by her father as a stepping-stone to what nearly all men in Normandy privately said was an impossibility. Robert, her eldest brother, had said openly that their father was a fool if he thought he could ever persuade the English to accept him as their king. “Half of Normandy does not want him because of his tyranny and foul temper,” he had told her not so long ago. “Why he thinks England would open her arms and joyfully welcome him, I know not. Not unless that country is indeed as moon-mad as our father often credits it to be.”

Agatha had not been shocked by her brother’s discourtesy; Robert detested their father with a vehemence that was becoming close to the hatred that existed between opposing armies. That was another whisper rustling quietly through the shadows of court: one day, when he eventually came into his own strength, Robert would be pushed too far by William’s constant ridiculing and would retaliate by overthrowing his father. Except even Agatha could see that Robert, with his mood swings between spiteful bullying and effeminate parading, was not half the man her father was.

To Harold, she said, “Do you not mind that my father has been befriending you for purposes of his own? I should be most grieved to learn that I was only wanted as a friend because of my position, not because of who I am.”

Harold suppressed another laugh. She was so young and naïve. How could he take her away from Normandy and subject her to the lonely life of an unwanted, unloved wife? Yet that was what probably awaited the poor lass anyway, whomsoever she might eventually marry. At least with him she would be getting a man who cared for her welfare. There were plenty of men – men four and five times her age – who would covet the pleasure of taking such a young maid to their bed and nothing else.

“Do I mind? Non, mademoiselle, not as long as the tactics your father is using suit my purpose also. I am willing to play the blind-eyed fool to his scheming if, at the end of the day, I can return home to England with my brother and nephew.” At the seriousness of her expression, he added with an eye-wrinkling smile. “And warmed with the knowledge that I have had the honour of meeting the prettiest young lady in the whole of Normandy.”

Agatha blushed. She envied her brothers. They would have some degree of choice in whom they married. It was so hard being born a girl. All the harder, she supposed, once the girl became a woman grown. “If I were to come to England,” she said slowly, “there is the possibility that my father will become king and my mother queen. As your wife I would be at court often, would I not?”

“Oui, certainement.” What else could Harold reply? She would soon realise, as would her father, that Harold had no intention of promoting William’s hopes before the English Council. Propose a bastard-born Norman for the throne of England? Had Harold heard William’s eldest son’s scorn, he would have cheered at his good sense!

Harold, glancing across the crowded Hall, saw William fitz Osbern frantically beckoning him. Now what did Duke William’s attendant arse wiper want?

“Excuse me, mademoiselle.” Harold stood. “I am being hailed and must go.” He raised her hand to his lips. “I would ask that you keep our conversation private, for the reason that you may, one day soon, be my wife.” He raised an eyebrow and stared his meaning fully at her for a long moment.

She nodded, the kerchief again threading in agitation through her fingers. He was telling her that if she betrayed his confidence she would regret the tale-telling as soon as he had her in England. “I shall say nothing. I expect Papa wishes you to witness the oath-taking of his lords and nobles. He always insists that all take some part in the ceremony.”

Harold bowed to Agatha, then walked forward to meet an agitated fitz Osbern, who escorted him towards the raised dais to the east end of the Hall. There Mathilda sat, lavishly gowned, beside her husband; the eldest boy, Robert, scowled his displeasure from the front ranks of waiting noblemen. A few more years and he would be the first required to mount the dais, kneel before the Duke and pledge the annually renewed vow of fealty. If father and son had not succeeded in slitting each other’s throats by then.

Harold found the prospect of this ceremony distasteful. In England a housecarl pledged loyalty to his lord out of respect and love for that man. They chose which lord they would serve and their faith maintained that lord’s exalted position. If he did not keep faith with their loyalty in return then a lord would fall as swift as a mouldering fruit is plucked from the store barrel and flung to rot on the midden heap. These oaths of allegiance being sworn, monotonously repetitive as, one by one, William’s knights came to kneel and kiss his ring, did not come from the heart. There was no pride in the step of each man who came forward, no sincerity in their muttered words. This oath was made under duress: serve me, be loyal to me, or lose all you have. That was the only choice available to these harnessed mules. Eustace, Comte de Boulogne, came forward; Robert de Maine; le Comte d’Evreux; le Comte de Mortagne. Aimeri, Vicomte de Thouars. Walter Gifford. Ralph de Tosny; Hugh de Montfort and Hugh de Grandmesnil. William de Warenne. William Malet. Roger, son of Turold; Turstein fitz Rollo; Richard fitz Gilbert. Alan Fergant de Bretagne, vassal of Normandy… so many more. Harold stiffened as a man he had no desire ever to meet again knelt before Duke William. Guy, Comte de Ponthieu. He caught Harold’s displeased glower and returned it with a none too discreet gesture of lewdness.

And then eyes and bodies were swivelling towards Harold.

“My Lord Earl? Will you not also grant me the honour of declaring your intention of prospective kinship?”

The Hall had fallen almost silent. Harold stood, bewildered. William sat forward on his throne, one elbow resting on the naked sword blade that lay across his knee. His mouth smiled, but there was a glint of something else in his eyes. “Sir?” he repeated. “You are my knighted comrade. I myself put the armour about your shoulders, placed the sword in your hand, my kiss upon your cheek. You are, are you not, my declared vassal? Will soon, perhaps, become my son by marriage? I think it right you do swear the oath to me also. Do you not agree?”

This, Harold had not expected. The anger shuddered through him with the force of the bore tide that surged up the estuary of the Severn river. He licked his lips, trying to think what best to do, glanced at the watching faces hoping to spy a hint of help. No one met his eyes. Not one of William’s whore-poxed lick-spits dared face him. How many had known of this trap? How many had privately laughed at the stupidity of this damned bloody fool of an Englishman? Some? All?

And then Harold saw Hakon standing at the back, his face drained of colour, the fear on it easy to read. Behind him stood two of William’s guards, apparently positioned there by chance, but Harold could see their fingers hovering over their swords, their gazes firm-fixed on Hakon’s back. Knew as well as the lad that were he to refuse to swear then both of them would be seeing the darker side of Duke William’s damp and foul-smelling dungeon. And would be kept there until they died.

“You promised that you would take me from here!” The words leapt from Hakon’s expressive, desperate eyes. “You promised!”

In these few short days Harold had come to know Hakon as a trusted and trusting friend. Something that ran deeper than the tie of kinship had sparked between them and the years of enforced separation had dwindled into nothing but a memory.

How binding was a promise? Ah, that depended on the nature of the oath and the amount of honour within the man. When a man offered his sword to his chosen lord he was bound to keep his word or lose his honour; the promise to set an afeared youth free of his shackles was equally binding. An English lord paid homage and loyalty by undertaking to do his best by the men who served him. To rule fairly, to protect the children and womenfolk, to lead bravely in battle. To take upon his shoulders the responsibility of caring for those men who had promised to serve without question. And in the Saxon tradition, above all else, a man could knowingly declare false oath and not be perjured for that swearing, if the safety or honour of another depended on it.

They were waiting expectantly, most of them hoping Earl Harold of England would show himself the greater fool by refusing outright the Duke’s command. Harold must surely oblige them, for William had no right to demand he speak the word of faith and fidelity. It would be an oath taken against his will and better judgement. Yet had not most of the men here this day proclaimed their troth under the same harsh conditions? Swear, or lose your land and freedom. Or your life.

Duke William was holding his be-ringed hand out to Harold, the gloating smile broadening into triumph.

“We are allies, are we not?” he coaxed, his voice smooth with practised charm. “Soon, alas, we must set you on your way home to England, accompanied, no doubt, by your nephew. Soon, also, your brother – Wulfnoth be his name? Wulfnoth will honour me by escorting my eldest-born daughter to you. In return for the patronage of my kinship you will agree to represent my care and concern for the future of England’s throne. You will remind King Edward that he did favour my claim. I shall expect him to honour that favour in the making of his will, and from you also, as my sworn vassal.”

The fury choked in Harold’s throat. Vomit rose in his gullet. So this was why he had been kept in Normandy, why he had been played for the simpleton! Once the annual day of oath-taking was past, once he had pledged this foul promise, he would be free to return to England. Aye, free, but bribed with the lure of the daughter of the duchy as wife, threatened with harm to his brother if he refused. Yet for the good of another an oath might be made and broken without loss of honour. For the good of Hakon, and more, for the safety of England…They were only words, after all.

Harold stepped forward, his throat and lips dry, his fists clenched. He stared with a hard dislike at William, then knelt, touched the sword and set his lips to the Duke’s ring.

William nodded his acceptance, but before Harold could repeat the oath said quickly and with menace, “I think I may need some further assurance from you, my Lord Harold. Being that you do not reside here in Normandy.” He clicked his fingers; two servants brought in two wooden caskets. “These contain the holy relics of Normandy’s most precious saints. Swear your oath on them, Earl Harold, make your words truly binding.”

Harold’s rage almost boiled over the edge of restraint. It was one thing knowingly to break an oath made to a man, another to do so against God. Yet was not God, too, just and honourable in His wisdom? Did He not respect the time-cherished ways of the Saxon kind? Not bothering to mask the rage that was churning in his mind and stomach, Harold laid a finger on each casket, repeating aloud the words of fealty that Bishop Odo dictated to him: “I pledge to my Lord Duke William, son of Robert of Normandy, my fealty and my loyalty. Do offer my duty as Earl of England to your honour. To speak your words, as if spoken from your mouth, to the noblemen of England’s realm. To provide for you, when Edward is at the end of his noble life and called unto God, the crown, the sceptre and the throne of England, so that you may rule in the way of Edward’s wisdom.” It was done. With gorge in his mouth, but done.

Duke William nodded, satisfied. He took and held Harold’s hand between his own palms a moment. Met, as he rose to his feet, Harold’s blazing eyes.

In them there was no calm of spirit, no come-what-may frivolity. Nor was there any hint whatsoever of fear. In that one brief passing instant William realised he had made a vast error of judgement. All these long months observing Harold, assessing him, deciding his worth, moving each piece of the game, square by square, slowly, surely; calculating the ultimate goal. Again and again William had won his private tournament against this English Earl Harold.

Looking direct into Harold’s eyes, that mid-December afternoon, William belatedly understood, with stomach-churning dread, that Harold, too, had been playing a game. His foolery, his complacence, his mild manners had lulled his opponent with blithe ease into a false appraisal.

Harold said nothing more as he turned without bowing and walked away from the dais. He made his way through the low murmuring of the crowd to the doorway, Hakon following at his heel. He left the Hall and went direct to the quarters where his men lounged.

“We are leaving,” he announced curtly. “Now, as soon as horses may be saddled and our belongings packed.”

He turned away, realised Hakon had followed.

The younger man’s expression was grim, his skin grey and pale. “Now do you believe me about William?” he asked.

“I never doubted you, lad. I only misjudged the depth of how much of a bastard he is.”

Hakon headed straight to the stables. “I have nothing that I care to take with me from this cursed place. I shall await you by the gates.”

Harold made no comment, was barely listening. Over the spilt blood of death would William become King of England, and never with help from Harold’s hand. That was a second, silent oath he had made as he had spoken aloud those obscene words. Never, never, would he allow William on to English soil.

If the need came, if there was no one worthy or suitable to follow Edward, then he, Harold Godwinesson himself, would take up the crown and do his best, unless death prevented it, to protect England from Norman ambition.

and here is the scene where Harold is chosen as King:

Part Four

Chapter 1

Westminster - January 1066

The fifth day of January. For the first occasion in many a week the sky had cleared and brightened from the misery of rain into the vivid blue of clear winter sky. There was a nip of frost to the air. The sun was low, eye-dazzling, glittering through the diamond-bright grass and reeds.

Throughout the short hours of daylight Edward’s breath rattled in his chest, incoherent words flowing from his blue-tinged lips. As the sun set, burning gold over the Thames marshes, the temperature dropped to below freezing. Come morning, there would be a white crust riming the edge of the river, the courtyards would be a film of treacherous ice.

Edith was at his feet, attempting to rub some feeling of heat into them. Earl Harold stood, wrapped in his own thoughts, beside the brazier, absently adding more charcoal. By Edward’s bedside stood the King’s personal priest, Robert fitz Wimarch, the Archbishops Stigand and Ealdred and his doctor, Abbot Baldwin.

“I like not this dishumour,” Baldwin muttered, laying his fingers on his king’s feverish temple and shaking his head in resignation. There was nothing more he could do for the dying man.

Stigand bent over the bed, shaking Edward’s shoulder with anxious temerity. “My Lord King, wake up. My Lord, please rouse yourself!”

Edward’s eyelids fluttered, then, for a long moment, he lay still, quite silent, the breath caught in his throat. Suddenly his eyes flashed open and he recognised Stigand leaning over him. His eyes wide and fevered within a skeleton-like translucent face, Edward stared into the startled face of the Archbishop.

“I am for God,” the King croaked. “I have no fear of meeting Him, I look forward to sitting at His feet. Bury me within my mausoleum, now that it is made ready for my coming.”

Stigand nodded. “There is no need to fear death, for you have served God well and you go to an everlasting life from this transitory one.”

“The succession.” Edith hissed. “Quickly man! While he is lucid, ask him of my brother and the succession!”

Harold, remaining beside the brazier with arms folded, had to admit his sister was resolute.

Either Stigand deliberately misunderstood, or had no intention of mentioning Tostig’s enforced exile from England, a subject that could upset the King mortally. The Archbishop held the monarch’s bone-thin fingers and said, “We are here, my Lord Edward. Your beloved wife Edith and Earl Harold be at your side.”

“No, no. Tostig, remind him of Tostig!” Edith brushed Stigand aside and took her husband’s hand earnestly within her own.

Irritated but unable to retaliate, Stigand curtly beckoned Harold to come to the bedside. With reluctance, Harold complied. It did not seem possible that Edward was actually dying, that so much was going to change from this day forward. As a king he had fallen short of expectation, was, Harold had to admit, almost as useless as Æthelred had been, yet unlike his father, the people loved Edward. For his unstinting care and concern for the well-being of the common folk he could not be faulted. In affection, Harold had never felt anything but amicable indifference - neither liking nor disliking him. There were things he admired about Edward, others he despised, but that was so of any man. None save Christ himself was perfect.

Edith glowered at Harold, furious that he had not demanded Edward reinstate their brother as earl, or, in protest at the gross insult to the Godwinessons, gone into exile with him. As they had all those years past when their father stood accused of treason.

Harold had tried explaining to her the difference between the charge against Godwine and that against Tostig, but she had adamantly refused to listen to sense and reason, too wrapped in her own fears and disappointment to recognise the truth. Perhaps a more astute king would have made a move against the trouble brewing in the North before it came to the boil, would have urged caution or removed Tostig from office before it had been too late - but Edward was not a wise man. What was woven could not be unravelled.

Harold sighed with regret for what might have been. He supposed there was room inside the hearts of some men for one area of excellence only. For Edward, it had been in his worship of God and the building of so splendid an abbey. He stared at the sunken face beneath the white, silken beard, the blue eyes that sparkled, not with a zest for life, but from the heat of fever, ðæt wæs göd cyning - he was a good king. Harold sighed again. He could not deny Edward that epitaph, though it was not the full truth. It was not of his fault that he had made errors of judgement along his way, that he had been weak where he ought to have been strong. Edward had not wanted the weighty responsibility of a crown. He should have been an abbot, an archbishop; in that sphere he would have warranted ðæt wæs göd.

“There is much I need say!” Edward rasped. “I would have my household around me.” He glanced fretfully at those few occupants of the room. Harold nodded to fitz Wimarch who went immediately to the door.

They were waiting below, the members of the Council and other men of importance who had served the King. Were waiting for a summons or to hear that their king was no more.

In silence, save for the noise of their boots treading upon the stone stair and brushing through the fresh-spread rushes, they filed in one behind the other to encircle the King’s bed. He had asked to sit up and Robert fitz Wimarch stood behind him, tears blurring his eyes, supporting the frail old man.

“I had a dream,” Edward said, his voice clearer than it had been for many a day. “I saw two monks whom I knew well while I was in Normandy and who passed into God’s safe hands many years ago. They told me of the evils of the men around me, of my earls, my bishops and my clerics. They told me in this dream that unless I warned you to repent and bow your heads in shame before God there would come evil to my kingdom, that the land would be ravaged and torn asunder by the wrath of God.”

“That is indeed a vision of warning, my Lord King.” Stigand said with grave concern, making the sign of the cross as he spoke.

Agreeing, Ealdred of York nodded his head. “There is evil intent in all mankind and unless we humble ourselves before God we shall all face His anger.” He glanced meaningfully at Edith. “Men and women must serve God, and the chosen king, as they are commanded.”

Satisfied that his archbishops could be trusted to do their best to save the tormented souls of men, Edward spoke, with a dignified clarity, the words of the verba novissima, the will declared aloud on the deathbed, naming lands and gifts that were to go to those who had served him well. He spoke of the loyalty that his wife had shown him and said that like a daughter had he loved her. He smiled up at her, begging her not to weep. “I go to God. May He bless and protect you.”

In vain, Edith had attempted to sniffle back the flood of tears, but now gave in to her despair. She had not thought that she had felt anything for Edward, had simply endured his presence, his whining and pathetic weaknesses, but suddenly, now that she was to lose him, Edith realised that she looked upon him, this man who was three and twenty years her senior, as a father. Did she love him? She did not know, but she would miss him. She let the tears fall.

Similar tears were pricking in the eyes of them all. Some fell to their knees, others bowed their heads. Nearly all murmured the prayer of the Lord.

“Sir,” Stigand said softly, again leaning nearer to Edward, who had closed his eyes. “We would know your last wish. Would know who it is you would commend to follow you.”

Edward’s eyes opened. He attempted a weak smile at his Archbishop of Canterbury, fluttered his left hand towards Harold, who took it, absently rubbing his thumb over the taut surface of the proud-standing knuckles.

“My Earl of Wessex.” Tiredness was creeping over Edward; his words came with difficulty. He allowed his eyes to droop closed once more, his hand fall limp within Harold’s. “I commend my wife’s protection to you.”

Energy drained, his body slumped against the supporting arms of fitz Wimarch, the breath catching with an indrawn choke in his chest. The effort of putting thought and speech together had taken everything from him. “Leave, me,” he gasped. “I would make my confession.”

They left Edward’s chamber, quiet and subdued. Another death was a sober reminder that an end must come, eventually, for all who were born and breathed.

Only the King’s doctor and priest remained, and Edith. She knew the rest would go to the Council chamber to discuss the practicalities of her husband’s death - the funeral, the succession. Tears and breath juddered from her. All of it had been so pointless, so utterly and completely pointless! Oh, if only Tostig had not been so damned stupid. If only Harold had supported him. If only Edward were not to die…if only, if only. Where did those pathetically useless words end? If only Edward had been a husband to her, if only she had borne a child…

The murmur of conversation was low within the Council chamber, flickering in unison with the dance of the candle flames. All but a few of the Witan were present. Nine and thirty men. Two Archbishops: Stigand of Canterbury and Ealdred of York. The bishops of London, Hereford, Exeter, Wells, Lichfield and Durham; among the abbots, the houses of Peterborough, Bath and Evesham. Shire reeves and thegns - Ralf, Esgar, Eadnoth, Bondi, Wigod and Æthelnoth among others; the royal clerics, Osbern, Peter and Robert; Regenbald the King’s chancellor…and the five earls of England: Harold, his brothers Leofwine and Gyrth, and Eadwine and Morkere. They talked of the morrow’s expected weather, the succulence of the meat served for dinner, the ship that had so unexpectedly sunk in mid-river that very morning. Anything and everything unrelated to the difficulties that lay ahead in these next few hours and days.

Archbishop Ealdred exchanged a glance with Stigand, who nodded agreement. He stood and cleared his throat. “My lords, gentlemen, we must, however hard it be for us, discuss what we most fervently would have hoped not yet to have to.”

The light talk faded, grim faces turned to him, men settled themselves on benches or stools, a few remained standing.

“It is doubted that Edward will survive this night. It is our duty, our responsibility, to choose the man who is to take up his crown. I put it to you, the Council of England, to decide our next King.” Then Ealdred folded his robes around him and sat.

Those present were suddenly animated; opinions rose and fell like a stick of wood bobbing about on an incoming tide. Only two names were on their lips: Edgar the boy ætheling, and Harold.

The two in question sat quiet, on opposite sides of the chamber: one still asking himself if this was what he wanted; the other, bewildered and blear-eyed from the lateness of the hour. He had never before been summoned to attend the Council. It was not a thing for a boy, this was the world of men, of warlords and leaders. He was not much impressed by it.

Edgar looked from one to another, listened to snatches of the talk. He had been immersed in a game of taefl with his best friend - had been winning. One more move… and they had come, fetched him away, curse it! Sigurd always won at taefl; it had been Edgar’s big moment, his one chance to get even….

For an hour they debated, the hour-candle burning lower as the discussion ebbed and flowed. Occasionally someone would toss out a sharp question to the boy or Harold, seeking opinions, assurance. Edgar answered as well he could, Harold with patient politeness.

Midnight was approaching; servants had come and replaced the hour candle with a new one. The same words passed around and around.

“As I see things,” Archbishop Stigand said, his voice pitched to drown the rattle of debate, “we have talked of but the two contenders. Edgar?” He beckoned the lad forward. He came hesitantly, not much caring for this direct focus of attention for he was a shy boy.

Stigand continued, not noticing the boy’s reluctance. If Edgar were elected king it would make no difference that the lad did not want the title. To be king was a thing ordained and sanctioned by God, personal preference did not come into it. “He is of the blood, but not of age. Second, Harold of Wessex.” Again the Archbishop paused to motion the man forward. “He has ruled England on Edward’s behalf these past many years and has proven himself a wise and capable man. But there is a third possibility. Duke William may claim the crown through the Lady, Queen Emma, and through some misguided impression that Edward once offered him the title.”

Immediately there were mutterings, shaking of heads, tutting. Uneducated foreigners, especially Norman Dukes, it seemed, were unanimously declared as not understanding the civilised ways of the English.

Stigand half smiled, said, “I take it, then, that William is excluded from the voting?”

“Aye.”

“That he is!”

“Damned impudence, if you ask me.”

“Does he think we would stoop so low as to elect a king who could not sign his own name?”

The clerk at his table to one side was scribbling hastily, attempting to write down as many of the comments as he could; the records would be rewritten later in neat script, the irrelevancies deleted, the gist of the proceedings tailored to fit the Church-kept - and censored - chronicle.

“Duke William cannot be so easily dismissed,” Harold interrupted. He waited for the babble of voices to quieten. “The Duke will not heed anything said in this room. If he has set his mind on wearing a crown then he will come and attempt to take it, I am certain of that. If he is rejected here in this Council, the question, my lords, will not be if or how or can he attack us, but when.”

“But he may be satisfied knowing a grandson of his was to hold England.” The Chancellor, Regenbald, spoke up. “You are to wed his daughter, does that not adequately relieve the situation?”

Aye, they were all agreed, it did. All except Harold.

He stood beside Stigand, saying nothing more. It was not his place to influence Council, but it was difficult to keep his tongue silent with some of these more inane remarks. Duke William looked at things as if through thick-blown glass, his view distorted to match his own expectations. Besides, to placate William with an alliance of marriage presupposed that Harold would be elected king, and they had not, yet, done so.

The door to the chamber opened, heads turned, speech faded. Abbot Baldwin entered. He had no need to say anything, his expression of grief told his message. Archbishop Ealdred murmured a few words of prayer, joined by Stigand and other holy men. “Amen,” he said. Then he looked up, his gaze sweeping across the room.

“We are agreed then? The King commended his wife, our good Lady Edith, into the care of the Earl of Wessex. It is in my mind that by this he intended for Earl Harold to protect and reign over England.”

There came but one murmur of disapproval: from Morkere, new-made Earl of Northumbria.

“It is in my mind that Earl Harold, once crowned, may go back on his word and restore his brother to favour. I have no intention of relinquishing my earldom.” He spoke plainly, but firmly. His brother, Eadwine, close at his side, nodded. Several thegns and nobles from the northern earldoms agreed also. A bishop too, Harold noticed.

Harold stepped forward, offering his hand to Morkere. “My brother has become a jealous fool. I make no secret of the fact that I would rather have him back in England, where I can keep eye on him, but he will never return to Northumbria. You have my sworn word.”

Morkere did not take the proffered hand. “Is your word good, my Lord Earl? Did you not grant your word - your oath - that you would support William of Normandy in his claim for England?”

An uneasy silence. Harold smiled laconically. Morkere showed signs of becoming a good earl, a worthy man to hold Northumbria.

“That oath,” Harold said, “was taken under duress. I am under no obligation to keep it. I was given the choice of losing my honour or my life and freedom, and that of my men. There are oaths, and oaths, my friend.” He nudged his hand further forward, inviting Morkere to take it, still smiling. “I made that vow to William knowing full well that it was more dishonourable for a lord to endanger the lives of others than to pledge an oath with no intention of keeping it. I make this one to you with a view to the opposite.”

Aware he had to give some other insurance to convince this rightfully suspicious young man, he added, “Within our traditional law there is no dishonour in breaking a promise to a man who is himself dishonourable. To those who are worthy ’tis different.” For a third time he offered his hand. “Take my word, Morkere, Tostig will not have Northumbria while I am able to prevent it. I give that unbreakable vow to a man I call worthy to receive it.”

Morkere was tempted to look at his brother, seek his opinion, but did not. He was his own man, earl in his own right, with his own decisions to make - be they right or wrong.

Decisively, with a single, abrupt nod of his head, gazing steadily into Harold’s eyes, he set his broad hand into the other man’s. “I accept your pledge, my Lord of Wessex.” Corrected himself. “My Lord King.”

There was no need for Morkere to add anything further, for Harold understood the look that accompanied that acceptance from steady, unblinking eyes: God protect you, though, should you break it.

Harold the King (UK edition Silverwood Books)

Amazon.co.uk Paperback - £13.99

Amazon.co.uk KINDLE Kindle £5.14

I am the Chosen King (US edition Sourcebooks Inc)

Amazon.com $11.55

(also available on Kindle US)

2011-12-22T08:52:00.001Z

An amusing grammar lesson for us all to keep in mind!

On his 70th birthday a man got a certificate from his wife. The certificate paid for a visit to a medicine man living on a nearby reservation who was rumoured to have a wonderful cure for erectile dysfunction. After being persuaded, he drove to the reservation, handed his ticket to the medicine man, and wondered what he was in for

The old man slowly, methodically produced a potion, handed it to him, and with a grip on his shoulder, warned, 'This is a powerful medicine, and it must be respected. You take only a teaspoonful, and then say '1-2-3.' When you do that, you will become more manly than you have ever been in your life, and you can perform as long as you want."

The man was encouraged. As he walked away, he turned and asked, "How do I stop the medicine from working?" "Your partner must say '1-2-3-4,'" he responded, "but when she does, the medicine will not work again until the next full moon."

He was very eager to see if it worked, so he went home, showered, shaved, took a spoonful of the medicine, and then invited his wife to join him in the bedroom.

When she came in, he took off his clothes and said, "1-2-3! Immediately, he was the manliest of men. His wife was excited and began throwing off her clothes, and then she asked, "What was the 1-2-3 for?"

And that, boys and girls, is why we should never end our sentences with a preposition, because we could end up with a dangling participle.

:-)

New Look - Old Musings

2011-11-23T20:38:00.001Z

I've been busy amalgamating some of my blogs - just too many and not enough time to maintain them.
It's all very well having these ideas "Ah, I know, I'll have a page for my Arthur books, another for Sea Witch...." but to keep them all up to date - and not overwhelm readers with a list of links, is a different matter.

So my old 'Muse and Views' is now here on this blog - took me ages to transfer everything - and you'll find a list of contents on the side bar.

Also - on the PAGES (list top right) you'll find out about my books, some articles, and other things of interest - including my new and exciting delving into the Akashic Records.
So browse, read - enjoy - and please, leave a comment or two!

Thank you!

Writing Strong Women

2011-11-21T17:40:00.007Z

previous cover

Recently I had the privilege of enjoying a virtual book tour of some US book blogs to promote the release of the third in my Pendragon’s Banner Trilogy – Shadow of the King.

The format for these entail copies sent to various Bloggers who then post a review and often include a “virtual” interview of some kind. The interview usually consists of questions sent via e-mail for the author to answer.

One of these interviews from Jan "Devourer Of Books" (link is on side bar) was highly interesting, and a pleasure to answer – I have decided to expand my view here as an article. My thanks to Jan for permission to re-produce the original.

I must point out: these are my own personal thoughts and I take no responsibility for anything inaccurate! LOL :-)

Writing Strong Women in the 5th Century, without making them too modern

It is very tricky writing believable female characters in historical fiction. An author needs to make them interesting, a realistic character for the reader to identify with but to be fairly contemporary with the chosen time period. Which is where the problems often arise.

Women were, usually, not very kindly looked upon in the ‘days of yore.’
In fact, unless the woman happened to be someone powerful like Queen Emma of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine or Elizabeth I they were regarded as little more than slaves and chattels to be used and abused by the menfolk.

Or were they?

I have a personal view of this – and although I welcome debate and comments, I stress these are my own views, written from the heart not the head, and may have absolutely no grounds in historical fact whatsoever! So no taking me to task, or outraged screaming abuse at me please. I think the idea that women were brow-beaten skivvies who did nothing but work in the fields, cook, clean, sew and give birth to children comes to us as a Victorian myth based on most of our history – until very recently – being written by men. Men who were often monks and knew very little about the everyday life of a woman. The popular view of Victorian ladies is that they were supposed to be genteel, demure, sexless, brainless, witless and inclined to faint every five minutes. The Victorians have a lot to answer for.

I make that sweeping statement because they got so many “facts” of history wrong and in consequence ruined great chunks of historical truth. I cite for my evidence: there were no scythes on Boudica’s chariot, the Vikings did not wear horned helmets, Lady Godiva did not ride naked through the streets of Coventry and Cnut did not try to turn back the tide to prove he was God. (He was actually trying to prove he was not God and could not turn back the tide!) And for good measure I will throw in this error; William I, the Conqueror, was not the first King of England and he had no right to the throne. So why do we number our Kings and Queens from him? OK, I grant that is not the Victorian’s fault – but there are plenty of Victorian history books which proclaim Duke William as a ‘good thing’ – this utterly distorts the truth behind the Battle of Hastings. (see my novel Harold the King.)

My point is, I think women had a lot more going for them in the past than we give them credit for. It is only from around Victorian times that women became seriously unequal – I must add I am blatantly ignoring the Cromwell years when everything was suppressed, fun and laughter along with womanly feistiness! And I suppose I had better admit to being dreadfully prejudiced against the Victorians so I am biased. I can’t stand the period. I reckon my ancestors must have had a series of awful experiences during that era, and they have been passed down to me in my genes, hence my dislike of anything Victorian. I also detest the Normans and the Tudors. Must have had a very traumatic past life! I wish I could go back in time via regression to find out.

When writing my Arthurian Trilogy - the Kingmaking, Pendragon’s Banner and Shadow of the King, I deliberately set out to make my heroine – Gwenhwyfar (Guinevere) a feisty, no-nonsense woman who had a sword and knew how to use it. Why? Because I wanted to move away from the Medieval-based novels where woman were given away in a loveless marriage to a man twice her age as a means of alliance.

I wanted my Gwenhwyfar to have her own mind, be wise and capable – full of passion and tempestuous moods. I wanted her to be a character that modern women could enjoy, identify with, and back to the hilt. In short, I did not want her to be the usual portrayal of Guinevere because that character of the familiar Arthurian legends, I also admit, I am not too keen on. My Gwenhwyfar, despite an often difficult relationship with the man she loves - her husband Arthur, never betrays him, is never disloyal and never tarnishes her honour. They row, they disagree, they make love with exciting passion, and throughout, my Gwen sticks by her man, despite her hot-headed temper and the tragedies that befall them. I have written her like this because I firmly believe, apart from making her more interesting to a reader enjoying a darn good story, that is how she would have been, had she really existed.

In The Forever Queen (US Title) / A Hollow Crown (UK Title) I wanted to write about an English Queen that few people had heard of - Emma.
She was born in Normandy, a daughter of Duke William's grandfather, and was the wife of two kings - Aethelread and Cnut, and the mother of two kings - Harthacnut and Edward the Confessor. She was as remarkable as the better known Eleanor of Aquitaine, but like her she had to survive. Both women were powerful, Emma rules England as Regent for her husband Cnut, and tried to save her son Harthacnut's crown. What drove these women I wonder? Surely it was the desire to keep their crown.
After all, the alternative was death or the nunnery.

Is it so dreadful to make the female characters in historical novels independent, gutsy girls? After all, a historical novel is, really, nothing more than a series of well camouflaged lies written around a few probable facts that are (wildly) interpreted by the author to fit nicely into a gripping (if the author is lucky!) story.

Sharon Penman’s character Joanna, King John’s daughter in Here Be Dragons springs to mind as a wonderful portrayal of a woman to be admired. Sharon writes her beautifully, from shy timid young girl to the brave, bold wife of the Prince of Wales who defies her own father by acknowledging her husband (Llewelyn) before her father – and who earlier in the story burns her husband’s bed because she found him in it “enjoying himself” with another woman. Sharon’s view of Eleanor of Aquitaine in her most recent books is also breathtakingly realistic. Elizabeth Chadwick’s women are believable characters, women the reader instantly bonds with.

As a contrast, I loathed Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Guinevere in her novel The Mists of Avalon; what a pathetic wimp she was, although I owe her a debt of gratitude. I was so annoyed by her moaning and whining I threw the book across the room and made up my mind to write my version of how I thought Gwenhwyfar should be. Result, The Kingmaking.

There are many extraordinary strong women in many varied historical fiction books, and of course I have only mentioned my favourites from two authors who are also good friends of mine – I could have a whole list of females who have influenced me through the years. In fact, rather than ramble on here I will open a separate blog on that very subject. Ladies and Gentlemen

Historical fiction is just that – fiction. The primary objective is to entertain, although the skill of a good historical fiction author is to make the story appear believable.

To that end, perhaps it is not a good idea to make a female character have too much of a modern perspective, but then who wants to read about women doing the daily grind of cooking, cleaning and sewing in a story?

I get enough of that in real life thank you very much!

4 comments:

Kelly said...Helen,  You are spot on correct regarding women in the historical novels. Your interpretation of Gwenhwyfar that drew me to your writing in the first place.  Brightest Blessings!  Kelly Stambaugh
Michele Brenton/aka banana_the_poet said...I had exactly the same response to Guinevere in Mists of Avalon Only my reluctance to chuck such a fat book across the room stopped me. She wasn't worth pulling a muscle over!
Helen said...It didn't do much good for the book either Michele - it became somewhat divided after it's short flight! LOL I keep wondering if I should read the book again to see if I have a different view now.... yes well, one can wonder for years!
Mimi Foxmorton said...You're my hero! ;)

Hereward? The Real Robin Hood?

2011-11-21T17:35:00.003Z

by Helen

When I started writing – back in the days of being a short-sighted teenager who lived in her own very naive cocoon, with the rest of the world being unfocused, confusing and rather scary – I happily wrote pony stories and the occasional “fan fiction” spin-off to TV programs. Robin Hood (the Richard Greene version) Arthur of the Britons (Oliver Tobias) and a few westerns. All of them fitted well because being horse-mad I could also write about the horses.

Apart from my Dad and, eventually, my first boyfriend, men were alien beings. I was short sighted shy, and very successful in the Wallflower department. Back then I would never have believed I could write intimate scenes as a male character.

My interest wavered towards science fiction, and I wrote numerous stories from the heroine’s point of view, but becoming interested in King Arthur, Guinevere’s story became a new passion. It eventually occurred to me – can’t remember how or where now - that the story would be better written third person and with Arthur as the lead character. Cut a long story short (LOL – my novels are somewhat large!) I have written comfortably from the man’s view ever since. From Arthur via King Harold II to my pirate, Jesamiah Acorne.

The one novel I have written as a female lead, A Hollow Crown – to be entitled Forever Queen in the US – I had difficulty with. Initially, I could not get into Queen Emma’s head. Æthelred, her first husband, I had no respect for and it was only when starting to write the scenes with Edmund Ironside and Cnut that the whole thing at last began to gel.

I have been bogged down with re-editing Crown/Queen in preparation for the US release in November 2010, and have had to set aside my beloved pirate for a while – working on one book at a time while dealing with my elderly mother’s death, sorting out getting my cataract seen to, and running a household is enough of a plateful.

Because Crown/Queen is about to be launched with Harold the King being published in the US in March 2011, I have also been working on a synopsis for the follow-on to Harold. An idea I have been toying with for several years but not had the motivation to pursue (and being engrossed with my Jesamiah, who hijacked my imagination without quarter, the rogue!)

The plan, now, is to finish the next voyage in the Sea Witch series, Ripples In The Sand, then research and write this next serious historical fiction novel. It was to be about the years after the Battle of Hastings, 1066, the aftermath of Conquest. Which is why I have not wanted to write it. I loathe Duke William. I had a tough time writing his scenes in Harold the King. Author Sharon Penman gave me some advice at the time, when I wailed that I was having difficulty. “Think of his good points.”

Sharon, that was over ten years ago and I still can’t think of anything good about the man! So to write a whole novel with him as a central character? No way. Hence there has been no novel. Yet.

There is one other historical character for that period who is interesting. Hereward, made famous in Kingsley's Hereward The Wake. Based in the Fenlands around Ely in modern Cambridgeshire, he led a rebellion against William. Now that I can write about! In fact Hereward was not the only one to raise rebellion – William’s son and wife, Robert and Mathilda, and his half brother Odo all decided they’d had enough of him. (all cheer)

The little research I have done for ‘Hereward – A Lost Kingdom’ (working title) has proved intriguing, and I intend to write Hereward’s story, which will compliment A Hollow Crown/Forever Queen and Harold The King, weaving in an out of the two stories that are already written, and filling in the background gaps of what was going on through the years from circa 1040 - 1087.

Hereward, it seems, was the son of a Saxon Earl; Leofric of Mercia. His mother was a woman you may have heard of – Godgiva, or more commonly, Godiva. Yes, her. The one who reputedly rode naked through the streets of Coventry. Hereward had been exiled by Edward (the Confessor) at some time prior to 1052 and little is known of him until 1071 when he became a thorn in William’s backside. Very probably he rebelled against William because he felt he had a right to his father’s estates in Mercia, which covered the vast area of what is today the English Midlands: Northamptonshire, Nottinghamshire, Sheffield, Lincolnshire and Leicestershire – spreading from the east coast to the River Hafren (the Severn)and the border of Wales. Hereward very nearly succeeded in defeating William but the monks of Ely betrayed him by showing the Normans the secret ways through the marshy fens. (You may Boo and Hiss here if you wish.)

Hereward escaped, his wife was killed. He became an outlaw and wandered for several years, a desolate failure, in the dense forests. The niece of a bishop took pity on him, became emotionally involved and begged King William to grant a pardon. The two were wed, and may have lived happily ever after, although William’s men, resentful of Hereward, accused him of treachery. We do not know if he was then executed for treason, died a natural death, or lived to a ripe old age. You will have to read my novel to discover what I eventually unravel or decide.

But it struck me that some of this story sounds familiar.

Son of a nobleman Earl? Comes back from being abroad for a long time? Rebels against the King and lives as an outlaw in the Forest… a forest that, then, spread from the east coast to Wales - and remains today as what we call Sherwood.

Coincidence?

All stories start with a spark, a flame of an idea. Was Hereward of Mercia, the last Englishman to defy the despised Normans and William the Conqueror, the basis of the tales of Robin Hood?

I wonder…

The one surety. Hereward was definitely English. Not Australian. *

Image photograph: Fire From the Fens a painting of Hereward’s campaign against the Normans by artist Chris Collingwood.

* The Robin Hood movie released 2010 - starring Australian Russel Crowe - hope you got the jest!

8 comments:

Anne Gilbert sadly passed away recently. Her interesting contributions are missed on may forums.

Anne Gilbert said...Helen:  A lot of people have the same idea about the connection between Robin Hood and Hereward. From my own research on Hereward(such as it is; where I live, there's a lot of stuff just not available to me, which is one reason my trilogy is "romantic science fiction") suggested this to me quite early. The truth is, however, that the Robin Hood legends seem to have taken hold fairly late -- probably about 200-300 years after Hereward's activities. It's hard to tell, though there are some signs of this legend beginning to take hold in some form in the middle of the 13th century. By that time, there were a number of other English outlaw tales in ciruclation that appear to follow a very similar pattern to the Robin Hood tales. The Hereward legends were just among the earliest, and while they definitely had an influence, they were not the only things that had an influence on the Robin Hood tales. The fact(and I didn't know this until fairly recently), that Hereward actually existed, makes him, to me, a much more interesting figure than Robin Hood, assuming he's wholly legendary.  As to your having trouble with women characters such as Emma, and more especially "loathing" King William, I would offer one piece of possible advice: Keep your mind open and flexible. It may be "easier" for you to write male characters than female(and some women prefer doing this, oddly enough), but being a writer, you need to deal with all sorts of characters, even ones you don't like.  King William was certainly one of the more unpleasant historical characters you are ever likely to come across, especially given the fact that his spiritual descendants appear to be people like Slobodan Milosovich of Balkan war infamy and for many of the same reasons, I don't see exactly, how you can "loathe" a person who has been dead for over 900 years. This doesn't make him any more unpleasant to me, but my background, so to speak, makes it impossible for me to deal with him as anything more than a rather extreme product of his own time and circumstances. It's also painfully obvious he didn't really understand the way the English did things. His manner of rule worked fairly well on the Continent, but the English, for a variety of reasons, had learned to do things a bit differently, and this showed in the way the English, including Hereward, reacted to William's rule. King Harold was far more likeable, and he had a far better instinctive grasp of how to manage his subjects.  But be that as it may for now. I've rattled on too long, Anne G
Helen said...Anne, I do feel the Robin Hood story started somewhere - and that Hereward was the foundation. Look at the Arthur legends - they "began" in the 6th Century but were not turned into popular stories until a good few hundred years later. As for loathing William - I do. Utterly and completely, as do many of Harold's "followers". Please don't think I'm daft or anything, but I am English, my great x ?many grandparents were English. I have a very firm conviction that somehow my ancestors were connected to Harold, or Hastings - or maybe just the despised Normans, either way I know that loathing William is in my blood. It's not one of those things I can explain as scientific fact - I just "KNOW" it. I have not yet been down to the battle site at Hastings without feeling a huge sense of rage against the Normans - right down to the depth of my soul. So this is a "soul" thing, a deep ancestral emotion that has been passed down through the genes along with the shape of my nose, my blue eyes and fair hair.  And I primarily write for my own pleasure, if I can share my pleasure with other people all the better - but writing is hard enough without forcing yourself to write about people you can't stand! LOL. I will do my best for this novel though, I promise! H p.s. What do other authors think, I wonder? How do you deal with characters you don't like?
Anne Gilbert said...Helen:  I can understand "where you're coming from". Maybe my feelings aren't quite as intense, because I live and grew up on the other side of the Pond, where people just threw off their relationships to kings anyway. I don't know. Still,like you, I muhc prefer Harold to William, and William comes off pretty unpleasant and unreasonable in my book(yes, he puts in an appearance or two and he's, well, difficult to deal with). Anne G
Archivist777 said...Helen, i saw your topic and just had to put in something. i have long been a fan of Robin Hood (and King Arthur), and have been reading anything i could get my hands on concerning a new take on the tale. In fact, in my student/intern teaching stint that just ended, i was teaching about the Middle Ages of Europe and so going back through some of my resources, as well as grabbing the last of a trilogy of books of a new take on the Robin Hood legends. apparently, there is some written record of a real person having the name "Robyn Hode" and similar spellings back as far as the late 1200s - so there was a real person by that name, and he was listed as an outlaw. i think you are on a good track with linking Hereford. i was just gifted with a new book, "Great Tales from English History" by Robert Lacey, wherein i have been learning a lot about these people you mention that i have never heard of or never knew that much about! i'm loving it, and finally understanding a lot of the interaction and connections of events and people and places around England! at risk of being really rude here, and i hope it isn't, but i thought you might want to take a look at the Raven King trilogy by Stephen R. Lawhead. He also saw some connection between the legend of Robin Hood and Wales. now that i am done with school and have more time for my own reading i plan on catching up with all of your books that i am missing! and i'm looking forward to your coming projects! can't wait for your next book!5:54 AM 
Helen said...Archivist777 thanks for your comment and interest. No I haven't read the Raven King series - but I did meet Lawhead once. A very charming man who helped a nervous new writer (me) when we were on a panel at an Arthurian conference in Cardiff. But I have read Lacey's book!  Anne - glad I am not the only one to find William "difficult!
Anne Gilbert said...Helen:  The only way I could really deal with King William at all, at least to begin with, was (a)to take a kind of "fly on the wall" approach and so I made a decision to be as completely even-handed as possible. As I continued my writing, this approach changed somewhat, because I became very "invested"in my main characters, and identified in various ways with all of them, both male and female. In this way, I'm "equal opportunity". I can write from both a male and female pov if I've learned something about them, which is what has happened as I've been in the process of writing this work. King William has less of a role, but what role there is remains menacing and unpleasant(which was the only wya I could deal with it.
Helen said...Anne - I set out to be unbiased when writing Harold the King. My intention was to let the reader decide who should have won at Hastings. By the second scene of William's though, I had already changed my mind. I had slightly disliked the man but as the story started writing itself I ended up loathing him. Every time I go to the Battle of Hastings re-enactment in October at Battle the loathing gets worse and worse. I utterly detest William now! I am convinced an ancestor of mine must have crossed paths with the b*stard!

Fictional Heroes

2011-11-21T17:33:00.001Z

by Helen

Ladies First...

The first female I fell for was the Little Grey Rabbit in Alison Uttley's charming books. I loved those stories! An early memory is coming out of the Children's Library in the High Street Walthamstow clutching one of those books to my chest, so thrilled because it was one I had not "read". I was about 3 1/2.

I didn't think much of Squirrel, I thought her a bit of a muffin, but Little Grey Rabbit was so kind and thoughtful and lovely. How she put up with Hare's antics I never understood.

There must have been lots of books and characters in between, but my next heroine I met on my 10th birthday (LOL I am writing this on my 57th Birthday!)

We had a party (it didn't go well, the table got knocked over and food fell on the floor, two friends had a squabble and I recall crying for most of the afternoon) One gift I was given looked boring. I could feel it was a book. Heavy hearted I opened the package. To my utter delight and surprise it was a pony book - a story about ponies. I was pony mad and so so wanted a pony of my own (out of the question - I had to wait until I was 16 before that dream was fulfilled)

So I met the next female to influence me on that disastrous birthday – Jill Crewe lead character in Ruby Fergusson’s Jill’s Gymkhana.

I devoured that book – and the next in the series, and the next. I still have it, one of my treasured possessions (and I still enjoy reading it!)

It wasn’t just that I could identify with Jill – and so easily pretend that I was her, and share her pony, Black Boy as if he was really mine. I learnt about ponies alongside Jill’s attempts to ride and her fumblings to tack up, muck out, care for her pony. I WAS Jill! And the Jill books opened the world of pony stories to me. Soon the Pullein-Thompson sister’s books followed, and Pat Smythe’s Three J’s – and Monica Edwards (ah The Summer of the Great Secret and Wish for A Pony – I still have those on my shelf too!) Elayne Mitchell’s Silver Brumby… What I discovered from these books was that the world of fiction could be so absorbing that it became real. A substitute for the disappointments of life. By the time I was 13 I was writing my own pony stories. So Jill Crewe (and Ruby Ferguson) started my writing career.

As I grew older, it was the male characters I began to relate to – but they’ll all get a mention next time…

The first historical character I became intrigued with was a girl who found a green bronze mirror – I was 14 when I read the Green Bronze Mirror by Lynne Ellison – who I now discover, was only 14 when she wrote it. The girl, Karen, finds a bronze mirror and goes back in time to the Roman period (I think Pompeii?) I vividly recall some scenes in the book though – and I’m delighted that I’ve tracked down a copy.

The next influential woman was Guinevere. I was already intrigued by the reality of King Arthur – reading and researching all I could to discover the “truth” about him (I’m not keen on the Medieval tales of knights, holy grails, Merlin, magic and Lancelot – hate him, I’m afraid!) I wanted to discover more about Arthur as a Romano-British war lord – and I read all I could, including fiction. Trouble was, I couldn’t find much fiction to satisfy me. Then I read Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon. I’m not knocking the book – but boy did I hate her portrayal of Guinevere - what a spoilt brat of a wimp she was! At one point I threw the book across the room because I was so exasperated with her; “Pull yourself together woman – you are Queen of Britain!”

That was it. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I decided to write my own version, of how I thought Gwenhwyfar (as I call her) should behave.

The result was my first adult novel, The Kingmaking, so I suppose I should be grateful to a character I detested!

The Gentlemen. Rogues, warriors, ruffians and the 'phwor' factor!

To follow on from the female characters who have been of influence, here are some of the men who have meant much to my Book Bound life.

Various TV series drew my attention to make-believe characters. Programmes like Fireball XL5 and Stingray (well I was only young!) saw me glued to the Box. I used to dress up as Robin Hood aka Richard Greene’s Maid Marion, and for some reason I had a crush on several “cowboys”: The Virginian, Little Joe from Bonanza, Jim Crown from Cimarron Strip. Oliver Tobias as Arthur of the Britons became an early influence as did Steve in Follyfoot Farm – loved Tom Baker as Dr Who, and much later no one, ever, (so I told myself at the time) could have replaced Sean Bean as Sharpe. Didn’t we all feel that way? I enjoyed the books, but Bernard Cornwell’s written version, while superb books, was not the same as the man on the telly.

I wrote my own stories about my favourite characters, fancifully expanding the TV story-lines. I wonder if way-back-when aspiring writers wrote fan fiction? The Further Adventures of Heathcliff. What Oliver Twist did next? Another Ye Olde Knight’s Tale?

Fictional characters in books, as opposed to TV, have always had the greatest influence. As a young teenager I preferred the girl heroines, identifying with them, but as I matured the guys grabbed my attention. I worked as a library assistant for 13 years, 13 years too long as it turned out for I hated the job. The books were wonderful, the job? No.

So who were these men I met and flirted with between the pages? Winston Graham’s Ross Poldark; Paul Atreides from Frank Herbert’s Dune; Star Pilot Grainger of Brian Stableford’s The Hooded Swan. Aragorn/Strider – my heart skipped a beat for him (and this was the book – we won’t mention the movie!)

Flashman. Jeeves and Bertie Wooster made me laugh – still do. Who else is there? My editor’s own creation of Alexander in her debut novel Rogues and Rebels, set in Devon during the English Civil War; William Brown – Just William. Will Stanton from Susan Cooper’s Dark Is Rising, Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, young Sam in Karen Wright’s Winterne Series, but they are boys. Do they count?

Without any hesitation I can tell you the first character I fell hopelessly in love with though.

I was searching for novels about King Arthur in my local library (given up work by then to be a Mum) I was trying to write my own novel about Guinevere and I noticed a spine with a sword on it and a title which looked promising as Arthurian. Looked inside. Disappointment. It was about King John, still, it seemed interesting so I took it home.

What a read – what a man! No, not King John – Llewelyn ap Fawr in Sharon Penman’s Here Be Dragons. The novel completely captivated me because Llewelyn was so gloriously real. I laughed, cried, shouted and groaned my way through the scenes, desperately wanting to know what happened next but so not wanting the story to end. When it did I sat and cried because the experience had ended. I fought every battle, laughed every laugh and cried every tear with that man!

Despondency set in, how on earth could I ever write as well as Sharon? How could I write a character as vividly realistic? Create a character I and my readers would tumble head-over-heel’s in love with? Tentatively I started re-writing my Arthurian novel making Arthur the main character instead of Gwenhwyfar; I also sent a letter to Sharon thanking her for Llewellyn and inspiring me, another first, for I had never had the courage to write to an author before. (Believe me, most of us like hearing from our fans!) This was pre- e-mail and Internet, the old fashioned way of communicating. To my delight I received an answer and I then had the great pleasure of meeting Sharon herself when she was visiting England. She encouraged me, helped me, showed me where my writing was going wrong: I owe being a published author to Sharon. As a small way of saying ‘thank you’ in turn, I enjoy helping new writers get started.

Coming a close second to Llewelyn is Elizabeth Chadwick’s Greatest Knight – William Marshal. Boy is he a character to leap into a fictional bed with!

My own male characters are, naturally, my main loves and lovers. Arthur I knew intimately for more than ten years, for it took me that long to write what became The Kingmaking and half of Pendragon’s Banner. Finishing the trilogy was horrendous, Arthur had to die. I had to kill him off. I felt like I was ending a beautiful relationship; planning a murder. In the end I wrote the last chapter first then returned to the beginning, which brought Arthur ‘back to life’. Ah! The power of an author!

What was I to write next? I had to find a new man to indulge my imagination. I came across him in a dream.

I was already vaguely interested in the history surrounding the year 1066 and the Battle of Hastings, but to make that period my next novel? I did not think I had the courage or knowledge to write such an epic. I know it sounds a corny cliché, but I dreamt what was to become the second chapter of Harold the King. Four men riding beside the River Lea, the younger three are arguing, one looks up and sees a flutter of a blue cloak, a girl running across the meadow on the far bank. He had kind eyes, a gentle voice – I awoke and knew instantly that I had seen Harold and the woman he was to love all his life, Edith Swanneck.

The river Lea exists, as does the meadow just outside the town of Waltham Abbey. I walk there often with my dog.

Harold remains a hero but my heart, my very soul, has been captured by one fictional character who, I think, will never be set aside. My pirate. Jesamiah Acorne.

I met him on a beach in Dorset, England, and it was love at first sight. Walking there on a rainy afternoon, planning out the plot of a pirate-based fantasy novel I sat on a rock wondering who the hero of the story was going to be. I looked up and saw him – quite clearly – standing at the sea’s edge twenty or thirty yards away. He had one hand on the butt of the pistol in his belt, the other resting on the hilt of his cutlass. He half turned, I saw the glint of a gold dangling from his ear, an acorn earring. He nodded, lifted his hand and touched his three corner hat.

“Hello Jesamiah Acorne,” I said.

I wonder, do these historical characters become so real in novels because their spirits linger? Is that why they remain “great” men? Do the ‘made up’ ones exist in another plain? A parallel universe, a world which we quaintly describe as 'Imagination'?

I don’t know the truth of it; all I know is Arthur and Harold became real to me and Jesamiah too. He exists, albeit in my head. I hear Jesamiah talking to me, hear him laugh and grumble; can often smell the aroma of rum, even though it is a glass of wine I have in my hand…

Do these charismatic rogues and heroes become real because the authors who create them believe they are real? Or are we all just a bunch of demented scribblers?

... and the “others”.
Non Human friends and characters.

This is the third of my favourite characters musings. I’ve done the Ladies and the Gents… so here are ‘The Others’.

Many fantasy books influenced me when I was younger - as indeed they do now I’m older, I might add. Fantasy characters fuelled my imagination to rocket-sized proportions and brightened a somewhat lonely childhood. I was shy, my eyesight was poor, I had no self esteem or self confidence and very few friends. Instead, I had my other friends – the ones who were always there, who never called you names, made fun or let you down. The World of Imagination was a better and brighter place and the characters who lived there were my best friends. Many of them still are. Is there an alternative world perhaps, where furry creatures walk and talk, where unicorns shimmer, dragons fly and those characters we invite into inhabiting our minds become oh so very real?

Technically, Little Grey Rabbit should be here, not under the “Ladies” section, but she was an early heroine so she can stay where I originally put her. After her came various pony and dog books, Skipper by Judith Beresford was a favourite: I so wanted a white German Shepherd. Various bears were friends – Paddington and Winnie the Pooh, although Piglet was always the one I liked best in the stories. I adore honey and also love marmalade sandwiches. (must go make some in a minute)

Beatrix Potter was a frequent guest in my bedroom – Peter Rabbit, Mrs Tiggywinkle, Jemima Puddleduck. I found it fascinating, as an adult, to visit Hill Top in the Lake District where Ms Potter lived and painted some of the illustrations. Wonderful, wonderful place!

Then there were dragons.

Greensmoke by Ruth Manning.

Every time we went to the beach I was certain I would see a curl of green smoke drifting out from a cave and I was going to meet that benign dragon. Never did of course – although I started looking again when my daughter was little. I discovered Dick King Smith because of Kathy (The Hodgeheg, the Fox Busters, Harry’s Mad, Martin’s Mice…) and Jill Tomlinson’s The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark “Took a deep breath and fell off his branch….” Having a child is a great excuse to read children’s books.

I had a visit from a welfare worker once because Kathy was having difficulty at school with her reading (turned out she was dyslexic, but I had to discover that for myself, the school had no idea.) This wretched woman started lecturing me about how important it was to read to children in order to get them reading (toffee nosed cow that she was) She gave me a list of 30 books. “These are the sort of stories you should be reading to her.”

Until that moment she had barely allowed me to get a word in edgeways – which is what had made me so cross. I took the list, looked at it and asked to be excused for a moment. Came back a few minutes later with an armful of books. “I have all of them except one,” I announced. She sat with her mouth open for a minute, then took in that not only had I read all those books to my daughter, we had a shelf full of them and we read and re-read them, wallowing in their fun and beauty of language. OK so Kathy found it difficult to read – she knew every one of those stories by heart instead! I then showed the woman the door and told her to clear off.

I discovered more “grown up” dragons as an older teenager. Anne McCaffrey’s Dragons of Pern series were fabulous. Like most people who read Dragonflight and the other books in the series, I wanted my own dragon but had to make do with a cat.

Any unicorn books I devoured – I have pictured a cartoon movie here though, “The Last Unicorn” as I love it,

but book-wise the best was The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge. Every time I look at geraniums I think of tha book. Talking of horses - Black Beauty by Anna Sewell was an early treasure. I defy anyone to read it and not sob at the part where Ginger dies. What a fantastic, beautifully written and emotional book. A good book is one that you read again and again. I have no idea how many times I have sobbed over Black Beauty.

When I moved onto adult fantasy and the Science Fiction genre, I enjoyed The Ship Who Sang (also by Anne McCaffrey) which moved me to tears. I suppose, technically, Helva was human, as she was born with physical deformities. Her brain was placed inside a capsule and with advanced cybernetic enhancements she became the “brain” of a spaceship and with her human “brawn” took me on a flight of immense pleasure.

Another ship is a deep love of mine - The Rose, although she is really real, her fictional counterpart is Surprise in Partick O'Brian's books - and I base my own glorious Sea Witch on her.
Wizards were fascinating long before J.K.R. and Harry P. Ursula Le Guin’s Wizard of Earthsea had me hooked from page one – I especially took delight in the map of the islands.

I love maps in books (which is why I have them in my own!)
Another favourite map was that of Narnia. Reepicheep was the best character in the C.S.Lewis books I think – and I loved Puddleglum the Marshwiggle.
Once I moved from fantasy and science fiction into the world of the historical novel, the “Others” were delegated to the background for several years. That is not to say I stopped reading those genres, but I never made a deep rapport with any specific character. Until I came across a vampire with a difference.

Jazriel of the Legacy of the Dark Kind series – particularly, Blood Lament, was a Vampire that caught my heart – not so much for the story itself or the plot, but the character’s inner troubles shunted the emotions into overload.
Imagine being alive for several thousand years, never changing, forever stuck in the role you were created to play… and having to cope with a broken heart and a desire that would never come true? All Jazriel wanted was his freedom and to follow his heart, but was denied both. Stuck on the not so merry merry-go-round of life, with the ability to regenerate and cheat death leaving no option to go around and around. Imagine wanting to stop the world because you want to get off – but instead it just goes faster and faster. Even his desire to end it all by continuous self harm and an attempt at suicide by riding his precious Ducati into a brick wall, fails. The end of the series is another pass-me-the-Kleenex book.

With nearly all the books I have mentioned above, it is not necessarily the story or the writing that hooked me, but the transportation into the World of Imagination, and the intensity of feeling for the individual characters. That intimate link with time, place, and emotions.
Something I try my best to emulate in my writing.

The Real Surprise

Too Much Violence?

2011-11-21T17:28:00.000Z

A comment from a reader has set me thinking.

Are we beginning to accept – and expect - unpleasant scenes of violence, bad language, sex etc in books as we seem to be doing in movies?

I was watching the James Bond movie Casino Royale the other evening. One particular torture scene involving round parts of the male anatomy was extremely nasty - I could imagine the majority of men watching were cringing.

I was thinking that perhaps is it worse to read these sort of scenes than it is to watch them in a movie? Movies often consist of exaggerated drama. Books we tend to believe more – but that, of course, is the art of the writer: to make a novel believable.

I did find that in the first draft of my adventure fantasy novel Pirate Code I had portrayed nearly all Jesamiah’s enemies as utterly ghastly people – but a draft is precisely that – a rough draft. The characters are not formed, their true voice has not properly materialised, and that is another reason for in-depth editing: to sort out what works with a character and what does not – and balance things up a little.

And I categorically add that I do not, in real life, view men as I depict them in my novels! I haven’t yet met a man who is as fascinating or gorgeous as my heroes – Arthur and Jesamiah in particular. Part of the “fun” of writing is deliberately escaping the real world and portraying the bad guys as very bad guys and the good guys as likeable rogues.

I was aware that in my novel Harold the King, though, the balance between good and bad was a little too black and white; I did not include many of Harold Godwineson’s flaws or Duke William’s attributes. Perhaps I should have done – except I found it impossible to think of anything I actually liked about William!

So back to my original question - violence/sex/bad language is becomuing expected/accepted in movies - is the same happening to the novel?

Comments appreciated.

Past Perfet?

2011-11-21T17:24:00.001Z

Writing historical fiction – how much of it should be historical, how much of it fiction?

by Helen

I have a confession to make; well a couple actually. One of the reasons why I so enjoy writing my Sea Witch Voyages is that because they are more adventure fantasy than historical adventure, it doesn’t matter if I get the “facts” wrong. The books are stories - sailors’ yarns. Woodes Rogers and William Dampier were in Cape Town in 1711 not 1715, as I have written. The books have an element of fantasy running through them. Sorry folks, there isn’t a real goddess of the sea, a woman cannot conjure up a wind. If two men who were real people appear in my story several years later than historical fact records, does this inaccuracy matter? I do try to get the sailing detail correct because I think by making one thread in a fantasy story as realistic as possible all the rest becomes believable – and using incorrect sailing terms will ruin the story. Facts help suspend the unbelievable. A good book makes the unbelievable believable. But how much should be "real", how much "made up"?

How far does a historical fiction author have to go to provide a good read? Are facts now becoming essential, or is the story the prime importance?

One of the reasons why I have not embarked on a follow-up to Harold The King (to be called I Am The Chosen King in the US) is because I did not have the confidence to attempt it. I suddenly felt that other superb writers – Elizabeth Chadwick, Sharon Penman, Phillipa Gregory, Susan Higginbotham etc all knew so much and knew what they were writing about. How could I possibly compete with their standard of intellect? I have no idea of Latin, I have no history degrees or specialities. I merely have a love of the periods I am interested in, and an enormous empathy with my very real to me characters.

Is that enough, now, for a modern historical novel?

Jean Plaidy, Georgette Heyer, Norah Lofts et al wrote some brilliant books, but they were far from accurate; I think one I read had Elizabeth I as a married queen (I think it was a Plaidy – can’t remember, I was only a teenager when I read it, eons ago now!) Rosemary Sutcliffe my all time author heroine, made factual errors in her stories. “A sky as blue as a Robin’s egg” is a phrase I remember from her. The American robin has a bright blue egg, the English robin’s egg is much paler. But so what? Her stories bring the past alive!

There is an error I have come across in several historical fiction books; a nautical term, mostly used as an expression but sometimes mentioned when aboard a boat. Gunwale. “Up to the Gunnels”

The Gunwales (or Gunnels) are the upper edges of the side (or bulwark) of a vessel, the uppermost planking which cover the timber-heads and reach from the quarterdeck to the forecastle; i.e. from the back to the front. The term “up to the gunnels” means full up, filled to overflowing, coming from when a vessel heels over and her gunnels are almost under water. Now, the original gunne walle circa 1500 was a platform on the deck of a ship to support the mounted guns. The word ‘gun’ somewhat gives it away! Authors writing novels set pre 1500 really should not use this term as it is so out of place. I confess I used it in my first novel The Kingmaking but I changed it as soon as I realised there would not be a Gun Wall on a post Roman boat!

Others out of place phrases I have come across: “He stood still like a rabbit caught in the headlights” ... in a novel set in Tudor England. "Let off steam", "Ok".

I know I am being picky, but Elizabeth – Good Queen Bess – referred to as ‘Elizabeth I’ in a novel about Mary Queen of Scots? Until 1953 she was the only Queen Elizabeth so people in the Tudor age would not have called her 'Elizabeth the First'. Swear words. The “F” word is of Dutch origin (Fok: meaning to penetrate) and first came into use with the spread of the Dutch East India company and the merchant shipping empires, circa 1600’s. On the other hand, any author using “Gadzooks” or similar unless writing comedy, would be laughed out of a bookstore!

In a way, does it matter what words are used though? Romans would have been talking in Latin, Saxons in "Olde English"; we are writing in modern English - a translation if you like, o mmaybe it is OK to use OK? Or is it? Out of place words do not create the right atmosphere - do not add to the illusion of believability.

We all make slips - authors are only human - but I suppose there are slips, and there are slips... Romans eating rabbit and potato stew ruined a novel I was reading. A little thing, but it made me feel I couldn’t believe the rest of the story. Surely everyone knows that potatoes came to England during the Tudor period? Maybe not so widely realised, the rabbit was introduced by the Normans.

In Harold the King I mentioned snowdrops. I searched high and low to discover whether we had snowdrops in the English countryside circa 1066, couldn’t find a single reference so went with it. A few months later I discovered the little white flower came to England much later, and is not a native plant. Oh well. I have to add here, the slip of "double headed axe"! in Harold the King was a publisher's typing error that never got corrected. I had written double-handed.

I have had a few American readers contact me about being incorrect to use “corn fed horses”. Ah, now this is a difference between American English and English English. To an American “corn” is corn on the cob – yellow sweetcorn. In England the term “corn fed” means a horse well fed on oats and barley, as opposed to grass or hay. In other words a horse belonging to someone with wealth and land, able to harvest enough to feed people and horses. A “corn fed” horse is fitter, more able, as corn will “hot” a horse up. Racehorses are corn fed. A children’s riding pony… not a good idea! And technically all horses were horses, not ponies. The word 'pony' is quite a modern invention, but how many of us authors are going to write "little horse" - especially when considering prior to the 1100's most horses were little, what we now call ponies, anyway!

So how far do we go with accuracy? I read with interest a note Sharon Penman recently put on Facebook. She has used accurate moon phases for the novel she is writing about Richard I and the Crusades. While writing Bring It Close, I became aware, during editing, that I had a full moon half way through October and it was still a full moon two weeks later. These sort of inaccuracies are most important to check, I think, because otherwise the author is not bothering with the detail of continuity. And if the author can’t be bothered with his or her story, why should the reader? I once mentioned a similar sort of inaccuracy to an author I know – how could her characters see that a valley was beautiful in the pitch black of night? Her answer “No one will notice” appalled me. I noticed, and you can bet your life other readers would.

For Sharon’s novel the moon phases are the icing on the cake: when the Muslim fasting for Ramadan starts at the sighting of the new moon in her novel– it really was the start. Thanks to Google and NASA technology these dates can now be checked. But in an ordinary scene where a character is looking at a new moon on the day before the Battle of Hastings, for instance? Does it matter if the moon phase is precise? Maybe if there is a documented mention “the moon was new on the night before battle” then yes, include it, otherwise will it really spoil the story if we make this sort of thing up?

Just how much accuracy are we, as authors, now expected to include?

All historical fiction amounts to imagination and interpretation Are we, as authors, taking “facts” a little too far in our writing? Are you, as readers, expecting the “facts” to be factual?

I had a “discussion” with a Facebook friend about historical fiction. We were debating the atrocities (committed on both sides) of the Crusades. I mentioned that I knew little of the period and that most of my knowledge came from watching BBC documentaries and from good historical fiction. He poo-poohed that statement saying he never touched historical fiction as it was all romantic rubbish. I begged to differ and offered him a challenge. “Read a Sharon Penmen, then tell me historical fiction is romantic rubbish.”

I have learnt so much from Sharon's writing about the history of Wales. I was totally unaware Wales even had a prince called Llewelyn ap Fawr and was astounded to discover his wife was an illegitimate daughter of King John. “Here Be Dragons” taught me one heck of a lot of history. I was interested enough in the story to go away and look up what was fact and what wasn’t – and remembered the “facts” because they were written as enthralling, exciting – or gut wrenching sad – scenes in a novel. I was disappointed to learn from Sharon that Joanna did not burn Llewellyn’s bed, she made that scene up. The thing with such a powerful scene like that though, as the reader you feel that it should have happened!

With Elizabeth Chadwick I hang on every word about clothing and cooking and sewing; those household details that you know she has researched down to each minute stitch.

Whuch brings me back to making the past perfect. I’m not sure I have the confidence or know enough “stuff” to be able to write another epic tome of a historical fiction novel that borders on historical faction. I intend to write a follow-on to Harold the King/I Am The Chosen King. At the moment it is called The Lost Kingdom and centre around Hereward and rebellion against Duke William, but can I face the depth of research that I will have to do? The prospect is daunting.

I enjoy research, I enjoy using logic, instinct – and a heavy dose of make believe - when blending what happened and where it happened with why and how it happened. I’m not sure I want to have to be so precise with every little detail, though. I want to concentrate on the characters, their emotions what made them “tick”, in so doing, without the depth of "fact" will I be letting myself and my readers down?

Does the past have to be perfect in a novel - or not?

bren said...

Helen-

Great blog! I for one enjoy a good author's note that distinguishs between fact and fiction in a reliable manner. I loved the scene where Joanna burned Llewelyn's bed, even though it was completely fiction. I trust the author to decide what fits and what doesn't. I am not particular about the minute details-clothes, food, etc, but I am particular about someone marrying a certain character, or accusing someone of witchcraft when there was never proof of such a thing. I have never read a Jean Plaidy novel because of her innaccuracy. To be fair, she didn't have the resources we all have now and I'm not sure her novels were meant to be historical fiction as much as it was meant to be romantic fiction.

Daphne said...

I absolutely adored your Harold and think Harold the King is one of the best books I have read on the conquest. I enjoyed The Hollow Crown as well and hope you decide to go forward with your project. I don't think it has to be perfect - a great story can forgive a lot. And author's notes are a great way to "fess up".

Kelly said...

Helen,
Great blog and very insightful to your readers! Just remember, the genre is called historical "fiction". I think an author has a responsibility to be accurate but I don't think that includes everything down to the minute details. If that were the case, the wonderful storiies you, Sharon Penman and Elizabeth Chadwick write would read like dry scholarly textbooks! And there are times when the truth is stranger than any fiction writer's imagination. Take, for example, the scene in Sharon Penman's 'When Christ and His Saints Slept' when Maude escaped a seige by lowering herself from a castle window wrapped in a white sheet to blend in with the winter storm around her; then calmly walked right through Stephen's army lines to safety. I remember reading Sharon's Author's Note and being reassured that the event actually did happen! Absolutely amazing! You did touch on one thing that absolutely irks me and that is the language used. I think Sharon is a master of capturing the flavor of the times but still making it flow smoothly and understandable to all of her 21st century readers. I also love the way you make Jesemiah seem to have two completely different accents - when I read your dialog I can just 'hear' him in my head! I think that since your recent novels are centered around pirates, the accuracy of the sailing detail is crucial; as you said, that level of detail makes the unbelievable believable and if that is believable then the fantasy element of the stories becomes believable. And that's the bottom line, isn't it? To make readers beleive and love the characters as much as you do! I know I'm hopelessly enamoured with Jesemiah and can't wait to go on his next adventure with him!

Oh, and by the way, don't ever feel intimidate by Sharon Penman, Elizabeth Chadwick or any other author - you are the best at what you do and that's good enough for all your readers!

Judith Arnopp said...

Helen,
You are, as I think you know, one of my favourite authors and I am now in a fervour of excitement for The Lost Kingdom. So you have to write it now!
I have a masters in medieval history and have never noticed any failing in your work. To be honest I think a historical novel can be too detailed, often the author becomes so engrossed in getting the details right that the passion is missing. Your characters are real, your settings splendid and i am looking forward to seeing what you can do with Hereward.
I am considering doing a follow up to Peaceweaver, tracing the Godwinson brothers in Ireland and Eadgyth's sons attempts to regain power in wales. the research is daunting but hey, Helen, that is what we live to do, isnt it?

Linda Proud said...

This was a wonderful posting, thank you Helen. I've put in a link to it from my blog, where I had a few other observations to make. See http://lindaproud.wordpress.com

Anonymous said...

I think that books should not be obviously wrong to the majority of the readership, and that's it.

I wrote a story set in an alternate 1860, I decided not to bother with getting language right though I advoid modernisms.However, I spent ages getting the railway lines, journey times and hotels correct. Go figure? :-)

John Booth

maiden said...

You make excellent points and I have to agree. I have read Arthurian books where I was immediately put off simply because the writer used numerous examples of modern day terminology. I've participated in fanfiction role plays based in Dark Age Britain for almost 7 years now and would grit my teeth at people who used words that were out of place. So I do believe writers of historical fiction should take the time to research their history. And after having read six of your novels, I can say with confidence that you are one of those talented writers who have obviously done their research. I never picked up on any of the mistakes you've mentioned about your own novels. I usually look up the root of a word if it trips me up when I read it in the context of a sentence. But funny you should mention the root of 'Fuck' as I've never looked that one up, but I am guilty of using it in dialogs within the Dark Ages. Oops. *laughs* I want to believe that what I am reading 'is' historically accurate - as much as it can be. But I do not think you have to be a scholar to write about any given period in history. As I already said, your novels are outstanding and I feel as if I'm living the past when I read your works. So write the next Harold book! Don't let anything hold you back from something you are passionate about! You will know what feels right...how much research you should do and so on.
And thank you for the explanation on the corn-fed horses! I've often wondered about that term when reading Arthurian books!

It is impossible to research every little detail when writing even the shortest pieces of historical fiction, simply because the resources are endless and at times can be contradictory too. But I do believe that an author has a responsibility to give their readers an overall feeling of authenticity. And that is the bottom line for me as a reader - whether or not I believe what I'm reading.

Great blog entry!!

Cat (your nutty graphic designer)

Mari said...

Helen,

I'm learning so much from reading your blog (and Linda's). I appreciate your generosity. As most readers are not degreed in history or historical research (thank God) I believe a good story, well told, wins the day. Unless there's a glaring error that takes us out of the story, we blithely sail through and have a wonderful time!

Elizabeth said...

I think different people turn to Historical Fiction for different things. Some love the HISTORICAL aspect almost above the fiction, others the FICTION above the history. I lean towards the former because, whilst I love being swept away by a narrative, if something is written that I know is simply wrong - the author is ruined along with the book. By this, I mean I'll be incredibly unlikely to read any more of their work.
I have no problem with judgements based on evidence, where no "truth" is known and logical assumptions are made, or if an Author's Note explains any small changes.
I agree, though, that overselling research in a book is just as bad as a glaring mistake - if I want to read everything about a subject, I'll find a non-fiction book or consult primary sources (if available).
It's difficult to find the balance between research and story, but I think you handle it brilliantly! Keep up the good work!

Celia Hayes said...

I'm a bit torn also, between getting small details absolutely positively right and also to tell a ripping good story. It does ruin a darned good read to trip and fall flat over a historical anomaly. I reviewed a very interesting novel about the life of Sarah Royce, who traveled west in a wagon train about the time of the Gold Rush, but there were numerous small things that raised my eyebrow, starting with high-mountain trees growing around a spring in the desert. The book was by a professor of history,and published by a university press - so I was really taken back by that, and some other mistakes.
OTO - I am working on a story now, involving Sam Houston's retreat across Texas after the fall of the Alamo ... and I have a fourteen year-old boy (who was a historic person and the son of an Alamo defender) enlisting in Houston's army, much over his mother's objections, and then running off to fight in the San Jacinto battle. The real person did no such thing, although he did accompany his widowed mother in the retreat to the east, and might very likely have been tempted to do so. But - it makes such a good story!
(I'll cover myself by putting in historical notes at the end, of course!)

So no one likes pirates eh?

2011-11-21T17:20:00.001Z

By Helen

What is it with publishers? I hear over and over that "no one is interested in pirate novels.”

Um. Didn’t they say that about wizards a few years ago when a certain Ms Rowling was being turned down left, right and centre?

And, er, didn’t they say that about vampires? You can’t move in a book shop now without being stabbed by fangs.

The reasoning behind this publishers’ statement? “We know there are not many people interested in pirates because there are not many pirate books being published."

If you can make sense of that way of thinking then you are a better pirate than I am.

The truth is, pirate novels are not being published because publishers keep saying this load nonsense!

You’ve only got to look at Facebook to see that there are just as many pirate people as there are vampire people. Probably more, actually, especially in the USA. A good proportion of my Facebook Friends are pirate people. Even dressed as pirates in their image photos. Now I know there are also Facebook people dressed as Harry Potter wizards and Vampires a la Twilight / Anne Rice / Dracula but by the boatload? No.

Have publishers and agents, anyone in the publishing world come to that, taken the time to look at how many Pirate Fests, Pirate Ren., Fairs, Pirate Weekends, Pirate Look-a-like events there are in the US? OK admitted most of these are along the coast, but I attended one in Salt Lake City. Quite a way from the sea.

How many “Act like a Vampire” days (nights?) are there? None as far as I am aware.

How many “Wave your wand like a Wizard” days? None, as far as I am aware.

But September the 19th is International Talk Like A Pirate Day. Widely celebrated by adults more than chidren.

The UK Whitby Goth Festival which takes place during the nearest weekend to Halloween is littered with pirate people, so I am reliably informed. Goth and Pirate are, for some reason, closely intertwined. I don’t just get ghouls and ghosts and witches knocking at my door on 31st October. I get a fair smattering of pirates as well.

Pirate stuff sells. Ask any “trinket” type dealer. Pirate flags. Pirate eye patches. Pirate hats. Socks with pirate skull & crossbones. Earrings, hair bands, bags. Put a S & XB on it and it will sell. Have publishers/agents any idea of the buzz that is already going around regarding the anticipation of Jack Sparrow returning to the big screen?

When P.O.C. #1 The Curse of the Black Pearl first came out the movie even took its maker – Disney – by surprise. They were expecting a small family movie, its intention to boost interest in the Pirate Ride at Disney Land (Disney World?) That’s why Tortuga is in the movie; it is a scene from the ride. That’s why the gaol is in the movie; the dog with the keys is a character seen during the Disney ride. Before the movie, there was no Jack Sparrow anywhere on the ride.

Along came Johnny Depp. Everyone, around the world knows who Jack Sparrow is.

Depp’s classic, brilliant performance re-awakened the universal lust for fictional pirates among the adults. Especially us ladies.

We like rogue characters who are dastardly charmers. That’s why vampires took the literary world by storm. They are SEXY. That’s why vampires are popping up in nearly every genre of novel you could think of.

If only someone with a bit of savvy would realise that pirates in fiction could be an even greater lure! Jack Sparrow proved it, but publishers are somewhat like the Royal Navy and see pirates as naughty people who should not be encouraged, The stuffy upper echelons who look down on a bit of rough.

Disney totally underestimated the lure of a sexy pirate character. So is the publishing world.

Some of my readers already know this, so skip the next paragraph if you like. But for those who don't:

I fell out with my ex-agent because she wanted me to write a pirate novel for teenage boys. I refused. I wanted to write a sexy pirate novel for adults, particularly for females. The women – young, old, who loved the P.O.C. movie and who, like me, wanted more. Wanted to follow on with something to read. Wanted – craved - a pirate fix.

Beyond Frenchman’s Creek, a trilogy by US maritime author James L. Nelson and children’s/teenage stories, there was virtually nothing available. And as for pirate fantasy fiction? Forget it! There is nautical fiction by the harbour full. C.S. Forrester’s Hornblower. Alexander Kent. Patrick O’Brian. The Kydd series. But pirate fantasy?

The forums were full of “Does anyone know of a good pirate novel?”

No one did.

I was among those people asking. I could see there was a demand, so I wrote Sea Witch, a pirate-based adventure fantasy and I stuck to my guns, determined to write a pirate yarn for the market that was clamouring for them. Adults.

My ex agent said I was wrong. I will never forget her saying, scathingly, that Disney’s movie was for children, I therefore had to write my story for children.

The consequence of going against her was being somewhat brutally dumped by her and, simultaneously, by my publisher.

Like Disney she underestimated the movie. Like Disney she failed to register the adult interest. Disney, however, realised the error and movies 2 and 3 quickly came along. We’ll not go into the fact that neither of them were anywhere as good as movie 1, the point is, Disney quickly understood that their children’s movie mostly entertained the grown ups. It therefore does not need much working out that this same group of people want similar reading matter! We haven’t got it because publishers won’t publish it. Arghh!

Perhaps I was wrong to challenge my ex-agent. Maybe my instinct gut feeling was nothing more than personal stupidity. After all, no one was interested in Sea Witch. It did the rounds but I do not know if it was rejected because it was not a very good book, because ‘pirate fiction doesn’t sell’, or because no publisher was interested in a failed historical fiction author.

In hindsight I should have written it under a pseudonym. Preferably a male pseudonym. As men are not supposed to write romance, women, it seems, do not write nautical fiction. (what is it with publishers??!!)

My historical fiction was picked up in the US by Sourcebooks Inc, and I think their interest is proving to be worthwhile. They did not want Sea Witch though. For the same reason as above. At least, that is what they said.

I took advice about Sea Witch. I asked several knowledgeable people to tell me what they really thought of it, including author Elizabeth Chadwick (I know she won’t mind me mentioning her) I valued her opinion because on top of her being one of the world’s best historical fiction authors, her experience and her knowledge is vast and I knew she would be honest. If my book was pants she’d say so.

She loved it. She loved my Jesamiah. In fact, she even went as far as saying she thought Sea Witch was the best of my books. The love I put into writing it shows.

So I decided to self publish with a small independent publisher who immediately grabbed it for their embryonic, even smaller, mainstream imprint. At least they could see that there is a market for pirates!

Given my limited marketing opportunities and the smallness of my publisher my sales figures are not exactly a treasure chest of gold, but I do not have the weight of a huge publishing company behind me. My small publisher and I cannot afford to send dozens of copies of Sea Witch, or the other two in the series, Prate Code and Bring It Close to the vast army of the blog reviewers. Add to that, I have the disadvantage of my books being classified as self published in the US. They are not. I do not pay to have them published. Yes I pay a freelance editor. Yes I commissioned new covers – beyond this I do not pay a single piece of eight towards the publishing production process. But they are Print On Demand books, which is assumed to be self published. So I am struggling against that inaccuracy as well.

Another pirate book came out recently: The Pirate Devlin by Mark Keating. I’m half way through reading it. A good yarn, though of course I’m bound to say I think mine is better. (I expect Mark would say the opposite. Fair enough.) I’ve picked up on a couple of historical inaccuracies, but that’s only me being pedantic. I’ve no doubt there are inaccuracies in my books too. The point is, Mr Keating’s book is a decent pirate read. It has all the right pirate elements (although mine differs in that the Sea Witch Voyages are also part fantasy, not straight nautical fiction) I’d go as far as saying that the Pirate, Devlin, the main character, should rank among the genre of nautical fiction as proudly as any of the Kydd or Bolitho books. But then so should my Jesamiah. He would if I had the backing he deserves.

I don’t know why, I don’t keep abreast of the whys and wherefores of other people’s books, barely having enough time to keep up with my own, but for some reason the hardback version of The Pirate Devlin was published as paperback under a different title; Fight for Freedom.

Now, this is only my opinion, but I prefer the original title (and not because I didn’t read the small print on Amazon and ordered a copy of both books, only to discover they were the same. You can bet your life I’m not the only short-sighted reader.)

As an author I think it is bad enough for readers to have to cope with UK titles and US titles – and as an author I hate having to write Harold the King UK title / I Am The Chosen King US Title; The Forever Queen US Title / A Hollow Crown UK Title. The title ‘Pirate Devlin’ says what’s in the tin. ‘Fight for Freedom’ doesn’t. I’d not have bought the second because of the title (to me it says war story, to be honest) PIRATE Devlin is what caught my attention.

Which is something else that publishers have failed to realise. Dragons. Wizards. Vampires. Pirates. They are key words which attract fantasy readers like bees to honey.

I assume the reason Hodder decided to change the title was because “pirate books do not sell”?

This is a hunch, I may be wrong, but maybe Mr Keating's book didn't sell entitled as The Pirate Devlin because it was not marketed to the pirate/fantasy community but marketed into the general fiction/nautical fiction genre? Fantasy readers don’t only read fantasy you know. They like horror, and thrillers, and a bit of romance. They like rollicking good adventure!

Keating’s tag line “Sharpe at sea” (which is similar to mine: “Sharpe, Hornblower and Indiana Jones at sea) also screams that publishers have missed the point by nautical miles!

As good as Bernard Cornwell’s fiction is, Sharpe was not popular until it hit the TV screen. And what made the TV series so popular? Who rather. Sean Bean. It had nothing to do with the books, but everything to do with SEX APPEAL

Publishers. Listen Up.

Pirates ARE Popular! Sean Bean, Johnny Depp – Pirates - they ooze sex appeal! Can’t you see that? Pirate novels with a sexy hunk of a pirate (like my Jesamiah) will sell, given the right opportunity. Target the Goth set, the vampire/wizard readers and the ladies - not the Hornblower and Patrick O'Brianites (there is very little “sex” in nautical fiction) We want the fantasy of a romp with a womanising, sexy pirate. Savvy?

I wish I had a supportive agent behind me. I wish I had a larger publisher with the means to tap into the mass marketing machine. I wish I had the backing of more people with eagerness and enthusiasm. I wish I had the money to promote my Sea Witch books more.

I haven’t any of that, its just me and my pirate, on our own.

But most of all, I wish publishers would stop being so negative. To say Pirates don’t sell, makes pirates not sell.

Start saying “Guess what? Sexy Pirates SELL!” who knows what might happen? Wizards and Vampires have gone off the boil. Step forward that pirate….

I feel a change in the wind says I....

Jules Frusher said...: I so agree with all of the above - I think so many publishers are just so blinkered unless the word 'celebrity' comes into it somewhere. There is a huge market for well-written pirate books like yours - all it needs is the publicity to let the people out there know about them - and you're already on top of that. Just know that I will support you in any way I can on this issue :-)
Elizabeth Chadwicksaid...: I think your Jessemiah Acorne novels are brilliant Helen, and I have to say that thay knock pieces of eight out of the Keating title. I wish a publisher would wise up too!
Helen said...: Thank you, it's nice to know I have some support out there! (especially from two very lovely ladies! :-)
Jennifer said...: I am a huge Jesamiah Acorne fan and I would not even place myself in the "fantasy" reader category. Your Sea Witch series is just that good! One does not need to like fantasy to like pirates (I cannot stand reading about vampires and werewolves). Jes will win the hearts of any reader who picks up one of the books. Stay true to yourself and your writing, your passion comes through every page and I would not want that to change. I will not even go into my displeasure of US/UK titles being changed.
William Russeth said...: It is really silly that publishers do not make decisions by evaluating the quality of the story. With several pirates being women and some pretending to be men, it seems like a wonderful opportunity for a women's POV and wild adventure.
Judith Arnopp said...: Hear, hear, Helen! Publishers cant see beyond the end of their very short noses. The majority of bestsellers are only bestsellers because they are all that is on offer. Like UK television, there is no variety anymore, someone needs to take a risk! Give me a sexy pirate over a fag puffing, drink sodden private detective any day!
Anonymous said...: Agree completely, and wish our joint publisher was larger for positive marketing. At a recent 'writers workshop' event in London. Donna Condon (Piatkus commissioning editor) said historical fiction IS making a comeback (not for kids though), so your pirate books ARE in vogue. I often wonder if these publishers EVER ask the public what they would like to read.
Under The Black Flagsaid...: So true!!!Propably the publisher living in another planet.
Helen said...: At the New Writers' Book Fayre in Nottingham this weekend (just got back) guess what ones of all my books sold first? Yes. The pirate series.
D Michelle said...: Hear Hear! Well said and everything that goes with it! Publishers have a choke-hold on what the public in general want to read. Or rather, they did have a choke-hold but that's being loosened even as we speak. Well done Helen for having the courage of your convictions to go for it! More power to your elbow, I'm certain you'll stand the industry on its head!

A Weekend in Nottingham

2011-11-21T17:15:00.001Z

first posted by Helen Oct 2010

The place. Premier Inn, Nottingham. Comfortable, clean. Good food, nice staff (little bit pricey, I suppose, but you get what you pay for.) I wasn’t expecting the early morning cabaret entertainment though.

4.15 Sunday morning. A man is out in the corridor shouting down his mobile phone using a fair spattering of the f* word. The general gist appeared to be that he was cross because his planned evening (huh! Evening? 4.15 a.m.?) of entertainment with the females in the room next door had been curtailed. Why? It appeared that he had lost his mate. (how careless of him) Said mate had ended up in hospital, injured, and mate was p’d off at not having his calls for immediate aid and assistance answered.

4.35 Man on mobile in corridor outside my room door agrees to go and collect Injured Mate. He wasn’t in too much of a hurry though, because he spent at least 5 minutes loudly ensuring the Giggly Females in room next door knew what room he was in and assuring them he would be back soon.

Quiet. At last. Bit late though, I was now wide awake. Thank goodness for the provided tea (no biscuits though)

5.15. a.m. More door banging, calling out, falling over something that went down with an almighty crash. Giggling, cursing … ah, the Man and his Mate were back and the Giggly Females were still awake then. Good for them. So was I.

5.30. All went quiet. Hooray.

9.15. a.m. Would you believe? Loud conversation on mobile phone out in the corridor. I stormed from my very comfortable bed with the intention of giving a piece of my very tired, very grumpy, very miffed mind to said Mobiler…. Just as well I paused to look through the spy hole first.

The Hospital Victim. Telling his girlfriend/wife and the rest of the clientele of floor 3 all about his adventures – how he had been abandoned, how he had fallen over. “You should see me face” (use a thick Birmingham accent) “You really should see my face! See my face! I fell over – see my face!”

The reason why I am pleased I paused and used the spy hole? Mr Somewhat Skinny Bruised Face was walking up and down jabbering away into his mobile phone about his face – wearing only a pair of orange underpants.

I kid ye not.

So if your boyfriend/husband has orange underwear and was in Nottingham over the weekend. Please tell him that he’s bl*dy luck I didn’t come out and give him a matching bruise on the other side of his face. Or elsewhere.

I assume his mate had a good night with the girls in the room next door?

Do I feel uncomfortable at exposing these two morons? Not in the slightest. If you voluntarily elect to broadcast your personal life to all and sundry in a hotel corridor at an ungodly hour of the morning what can you expect?

Orange underpants. Not a sight to be witnessed on a Sunday morning.

(The hotel were very good. They came and removed Orange Pants from the corridor as soon as I telephoned reception, and I received a refund for having my night disturbed.)

How’s the face mate? Hopefully not bright red, it'll clash dreadfully with the pants.

Part 2 - the New Writer's Annual Book Fayre.

With not a pair of underpants in sight.

Author & Chair of New Writers - John Baird

I escaped the humdrum of home for a long weekend. Out the house, onto the train (first class would you believe! I booked the tickets early on line and first class was cheaper than standard!) Struggle up the steps, over the bridge, down the steps, up the road, cross the road – my hotel. Phew! (see part two below for Orange Escapades at the hotel LOL) This long weekend from Thursday to Sunday was intended as part treat, part work.

The treat bits were dinner with fellow author John Baird, his wife, nephew, dog and parents (fabulous dinner, Sheila, thank you) and lunch the following day with Nottingham-based author Elizabeth Chadwick and her friend Alison King.

Alison is an Akashic consultant. On her blog she says: ‘ the Akashic Record is based on the belief that everything that happens in the world is imprinted on the Akasa which is: an unseen substance which is all around us all and present in every atom of this world and of the universe. This substance is capable of being impressed by the images, thoughts, sounds, smells, tastes and feelings of what it comes into contact with, and because it is in contact with everything, everything is recorded. It is like having a multi-sensory photograph or holograph being constantly taken and kept on file.’

The quote is taken from Elizabeth Chadwick's website about the Akashic Record

I was a little nervous about my session at first, not knowing what to expect, but once I’d relaxed and we’d chatted a while I found it highly interesting and exhilarating. I’m not going to tell you much more, however, as I am still digesting what we explored and talked about. I’ll go into detail another time maybe.

Friday evening. County Hall, Bridgnorth, Notts. For the first time the New Writers UK group had expanded their annual Book Fayre into a Friday evening and all day Saturday event. And it was fantastic!

I first met up with the New Writers group five years ago. I was asked if I would care to attend their writer’s book fayre and as the purpose of the event was to encourage new writers to achieve their goal and dreams by getting published – I wholeheartedly agreed. Most of these writers were aiming at independent publishing; “Independent” being the common term now for Self Publish. But listen carefully: this is NOT vanity publishing, not with New Writers anyway! The group exists to encourage writers to independently publish books that are well written, well edited and well produced. For a variety of reasons good writers get overlooked by the big publishing houses and agents.

One of the reasons – it has to be said - often being that the writing is not up to a high enough standard. So many novice writers do not understand about the basic construction of a novel (see my hints and tips article, Discovering the Diamond for a full explanation)

Promising writers do get overlooked though – the slush pile in many an agent’s office is enormous. The old days of agent or publisher nurturing a potential writer are gone, seeing the possible diamond beneath the coating of mud is no longer viable for big business companies, it is up to the writer to ensure the work already shines as bright as it can. Here’s the rub.

It is as important to ensure that your book shines its brightest even if you are self publishing – actually, even more so. You have to prove – twice as hard – that you ARE good.

New Writers UK exists as a supportive group, giving advice, encouragement and those all important opening marketing opportunities. They recommend good companies, give publishing advice, run work shops – book fayres – if they don’t do it they’ll be happy to consider it and give it a go.

I accepted that first invitation to the second NW fayre, and had a fabulous time talking to enthusiastic, talented new writers. Only a few outsiders came along, but so what? I’ve always believed that great oak trees from small acorns grow. I went back to the third year’s event – a slightly larger location, more people attending. For the fourth year the Chair of New Writers had been awarded Nottingham County Council backing, and the venue was the splendour of County Hall – where it has been ever since.

This year, I do not know the door count, but the place was full and I spent all day Saturday talking to keen “wanna be” writers. Great fun and enthusiasm by the bookshelf. You’ll find a list of links to some of those writers below. Check them out, some good authors, good books (have to add I’ve not managed to read all of them yet – on my to-do list, but if enthusiasm and keenness counted they would all be bestsellers.)

The event is not all about individual authors trying to sell their wares from their stalls, though. We had talks and lectures – writing crime novels by John Baird, a workshop for young writers, inspiration for creative song writing by musician Bronwen Harrison (next blog will be about that!) Agent Mike Sharland came along… as you can see, a diverse and interesting programme of events.

Des Coleman

In the afternoon the announcement of the winners of the Nottingham Children’s Writer Awards, with prizes presented by Des Coleman, Nottinghamshire’s exuberant TV weather reporter.

I was a judge for this – some darn good stories and poems!

Rounding Saturday off; questions and answers, with some of the guest speakers forming the panel, first question Marketing. The answer was as interesting as the question. Authors all have one thing in common – more important than a publisher, they need a publicist.

It’s all very well getting the book that you have laboured years to write and spent money on editing, into print – but unless readers know the book exists no one is going to buy it. One of the “faults” of self publishing companies: their glossy websites proclaim “We’ll give you an isbn, we’ll create a website and we’ll put your book on Amazon!”

Whooppee do. So what?

Unless traffic is directed to that website no one will visit it. Unless it’s known that your book is sitting there on Amazon no one will buy it.

Marketing is the key – and not even the big publishers spend a lot of time on pushing Anne Other’s novel nowadays. All the glitz and glamour goes to the bestseller Celeb favourites. Sounds crazy, I know – the books that will sell anyway get the marketing. That’s how it is though, folks.

Moral of the story? If you want your book to sell. Market it.

I’ve been banging on about this these last few months. From experience I learnt the lesson. I had no marketing whatsoever for my novel A Hollow Crown (thanks to my US publisher, Sourcebooks Inc, it is now getting the recognition it deserves. Published as The Forever Queen, it will be receiving high status advertising when it is released on 1st November 2010 including front of house in the larger Barnes & Nobles stores.)

Without an agent (she dropped me several years ago) I’ve been doing what I can to get myself and my books known through sites like MySpace, Facebook and Twitter. Hard slog, but worthwhile, for not only have I met a bunch of fabulous people on Facebook and Twitter I am also making a few sales. (I’ve since abandoned MySpace – the site is too slow - too many adverts and gadgets)

One author said to me once: “I don’t like the way you are on Facebook. All you do is market your books. I’m there for my friends.” That was unkind and unfair, and a bit pointless as an author. And which of us is selling better? Me. My friends already know I’ve written a couple of books, so my prime intention is to tell other readers about my books. Note: readers not writers. It’s the ordinary reader in the street who buys more books. Writers are too busy writing and marketing their own to buy books at random.

I chat to my personal friends privately via e-mail, not on Facebook. Bottom line is – I want to “make it” as an author. When I do (note when not if) I’ll not want my private business there on Facebook for everyone to read. What I DO put in public I don’t mind sharing (my monthly journal on my main website is almost an autobiography, but there’s still a lot left out of it!)

There are a few rules though – the main one being don’t go on and on about “Read my book!” or “Buy my book”. The trick is to make yourself and your book/s interesting. You want “That looks interesting ” not, “Oh heck. Not her again ”

I happened to see on Twitter (I so LOVE Twitter!) a link to a book that sounded interesting.

I followed the link. The book looked useful. I ordered it.

It arrived the day before I left for Nottingham, so I took it with me to read on the train. Now I’d ordered books like this before from Amazon; none turned out to be much good, so I half expected the same with this. How wrong could I be! My intention was to pass it on to anyone at the Fayre who asked about ideas for marketing – uh uh, no way am I parting from Kristen’s book! The Bible of the Social media Marketing world! In it she explains how to set up a Facebook Account, how to use Twitter, what not to do, what to do. Nearly every page has my pencil notes in the margin; ‘remember to do this; this is a good idea’ or ‘ must change this, Kristen says it’s a no – no.’

Several authors asked me about marketing their books, why and how to use Facebook – well here is your answer folks!

The Writer's Guide to Social Media by Kirsten Lamb

ISBN: 1935712187 (paperback edition – it is also available on Kindle)

Buy it and promote your books with enjoyment and pride! (and Kristen, I’ve been plugging your book like there’s no tomorrow. Do I get a commission? I’ll settle for a free copy of your next book – I believe its to be All About Blogging? Let me know when you’ve got a title and publication date, I’ll be happy to help with its marketing.

~~~~~~~~~~

New Writers UK Good Writers. Good people. Good books

In alphabetical order – so no favouritism

John Baird Chasing Shadows

'If you enjoy thrillers with fast paced action then you'll love this book! ' Amanda Bowman, BBC RADIO NOTTINGHAM

I read Chasing Shadows myself when it was in embryonic form. John had sent me a couple of chapters. I was SO cross, on reading them, that I only had a few. I e-mailed straight back and asked where the rest of the book was. Why John was not picked up by one of the big mainstream houses I will never know.[ Helen]

The Golden Acorn Catherine Cooper The Adventures of Jack Brenin Book One

Jack's life changes the moment he finds a golden acorn lying in the grass. He gets caught up in an extraordinary magical adventure and enters a world he only believed existed in legend.

This brilliant story deservedly won the British Writers' Awards 2010 for unpublished writers and has now been published by Infinite Ideas.

Richard Denning The Last Seal (& other books)

‘The Last Seal’ concerns a 17th century plot to set free an evil demon imprisoned for hundreds of years. As terror and sorcery are unleashed, the fate of the city rests in the hands of a thief and a truant schoolboy.

‘Another of my ‘spotted talents’. Richard sent me his book, The Last Seal for an opinion. I gave him the honest truth. It had a good plot, brilliant characters – had the possibility of becoming a superb book,. But the construction was all over the place. He needed a good editor to show him what bits were not fitting together properly, where chapters were falling down – where the roof sagged and the foundations were rickety. Richard saw what I meant and immediately took steps. The result – a fabulous book and a keen writer who should go places!

D Michelle Gent Deadlier than the Male You think you know your neighbours, your town and your surroundings; but everyone has a secret - some are darker than others.

Suzie Litton-Wood Our JoshAn evocative story set on the canals of England at the turn of the twentieth century. An intimate window on the day-to-day life of one family in particular, who were deeply affected by the time and tides of War, the prejudices, the sense of community, the isolation, the hardship and the sheer joy of a working narrowboat family in the early 1900's. The story is told through the eyes of Jessie, a young girl, living with her family on a working narrowboat, at the time of the First World War. It is told in rich dialect and in such a descriptive way that you will feel you're actually there, experiencing every moment, their joy and their pain their laughter and their tears.............as the story unfolds.

Harry Riley The Ghosts of Edgwick Abbey and other strange tales

With modern lives running at such a fast pace we have so little time to do justice to the full length novel. This is why the ten-minute tale is so useful for reading on a bus, a plane or a boat. Here are forty short mystery and ghost stories by Harry Riley that will, shock, and surprise you and perhaps even raise a smile or two as you journey through life's tortuous highway.

Leonard Warwick The Unspoken is a novel set in Ireland against the backdrop of the Civil War, in which the secrets of the past play on into the future. It is about deceptions caused by silence and how a failure to speak spoils relationships. Tragedy strikes in rural West Cork. In the small town of Ballydoone, brothers Liam and Frankie are shot outside their farmhouse. The death of gentle and affable Liam appears to stem from vengeance, rather than war. Eighty years later Beth Milburn travels to Ballydoone to uncover her family's roots. Her journey of discovery reveals how well-intentioned deceit changed the course of the lives of those the unsaid was meant to protect.

And there is:

Janet Kimmons (e.mail only) : Michael Smedley : Pam Fish

The Devil’s Creature in the City of the Dead R. H. Stewart

There are Ghosts and Ghuls on the Grey Rock. Ghosts are spirits of the dead who for their own reasons have chosen to remain instead of moving on. Ghuls are very different. They are the remains of people who were evil in life and, knowing what lay ahead of them, chose not to go down to Hell. They move about Glasgow’s great Victorian Necropolis but are steadily decomposing until they become skeletons. Lord Antoninus, their Master, is an evil Roman Centurion who was buried on the Rock by Druids.

Mhairi MacBeth is fourteen years old and her friend, Dougie is sixteen. The MacBeth family are Magicians. Jet is a black Siamese who is Mhairi’s Companion, without whom she could not perform magic.

After Lord Antoninus releases terrible evil onto the Necropolis cruel murders take place. Mhairi, Dougie and Jet, with the help of the Necropolis’ Ghosts, fight to save the next victim - can they succeed before more blood saturates the earth of Lord Antoninus’ cave and the Devil’s Creature is fed?

Launching at the event was Claire Kinton's Dead Game

When Lance Corporal Archie Fletcher’s plane plummets into the Persian Gulf during the Second Gulf War, even his wild imagination could never have primed him for the adventure he must now undertake.

With guardian angels, a cursed centaur and mythical saints, Archie battles his way through a feral land called 'Transit'. But 'Dead Game is no easy feat. The fantasy will sweep you away to a parallel world where you will follow Archie’s fateful story full of courageous imagination - confirming that knowing deep within us all that the adventure of life must go on.

Some of the profits from sales of Dead Game will be going to charity - Help For Heroes and the Soldiers, Sailors and Air Force's association S.S.A.F.A.

I hope to be doing an author interview with Claire in November

And

Lumina - Bronwen is on the Right

Bronwen Harrison – musician and Songwriter

GUESSWORK and LUMINA

Editorial Services

Jo Field - Freelance Editor & writer's advisor (e-mail only)

for all Graphics design

Avalon Graphics

If there are any more New Writers’ Members please contact me with a short blurb about your book , an image of your cover and link to your website and I will gladly add you here. Note: I will be checking that you ARE a member.

FINALLY Last but not Least

Julie Malone - aka Karen Wright

Julie Malone has been Chair of New Writers since its start, after working hard all these years she has decided to retire and hand the reins over to John Baird (see above) My personal thanks to Julie - and very best wishes to John.

Julie writes under a pen name Karen Wright She was born in West London but moved to Sherborne at the age of seven and spent a happy childhood growing up in Dorset where she stayed until her early teens. Then, due to her father being promoted, she returned with her family to London. During her time in Sherborne, she attended Sherborne Primary school and St Aldhelms Secondary. It was a visit to Wookey Hole caves that sparked her interest in the history and legends surrounding the Mendip Hills and ultimately led to the creation of the Winterne Series of books.

The stories of fabled tunnels from Glastonbury Abbey to the outlying villages inspired the ‘Winterne’ stories and Karen allowed her imagination to run wild with the endless possibilities of what may lie within the undiscovered caves under the Mendip Hills.

The very best of luck to all New and Hopeful Writers - remember if you don't write it it definitely won't get published!

Kelly said...

LOL!! I admire your wherewithall my friend......I don't think I would have checked through the spyhole that early in the morning without at least 2 cups of caffiene running through my veins....!!!!

Helen said...

Someone has just mailed me "Did you call for the Sheriff of Nottingham to come and help - and I always thought Robin Hood wore green not orange?'

LOl. Thanks for the laugh folks - this post has kept me chuckling all day!

Elizabeth Chadwicksaid...

Oh my goodness...although could have been just slightly worse I guess. Orange underpants - no class from the bottom up I say!
I suggest an upmarket B&B next time round!

Jennifer said...

Oh Helen I am laughing so hard it is difficult to type. I imagine at the time it was definitely not amusing. Where does one find orange underpants? Never mind, I do not even want to know. I am sorry your evening of sleep was disrupted several times! It sounds as though you handled the entire situation far more calmly than I would.

maiden said...

Orange undershorts aye? Nope, Ray doesn't own a pair that colour *laughs*

I'm glad the hotel folks handled it and refunded you some cash as compensation. But I would have loved to witness you punching the guy in the hall had you actually gone out there and done him in. He deserved it! *laughs* What a blinding way to begin the morning for you!

Cat

Hampton Roads - an Interesting Aside

2011-11-21T17:08:00.002Z

an e-mail from a dear friend who runs a fabulous B & B in Colonial Williamsburg. Virginia

(the best B & B I've ever stayed in by the way - comfortable and welcoming, lovely host & hostess _and_ chock full of Colonial period history!)

Dear Helen,

Hampton Roads

For many years, I have been asking people I thought ought to know the answer, when was Elizabeth City, Virginia re-named Hampton, Virginia, because certain historical novels and other books will need to call it by the right name for their given era. No one ever knew. Finally, yesterday, I learned the answer: 1706, the year before the Union of the 2 British Parliaments. I remember when I drove you down there to have a look I mentioned that I didn’t know whether you should call it Hampton or Elizabeth City in your pirate novels, so now we know. This year is the 400^th anniversary of the founding of Hampton/Elizabeth City, the oldest place where English-speaking people have lived continuously in the New World. Unfortunately, some brilliant Confederate general in the Civil War thought the best thing he could do would be to burn it to the ground. As a result, only one house survives

Fredericksburg, by the way, has lots of history itself. One aspect that most people don’t know is that a Scottish merchant captain, John Paul, had to shoot two of his crew for mutiny as he was arriving in Tobago in 1774. The Governor of Tobago told him he’d have to stay there for 11 months so the case could be handled properly by a court, but if he disappeared in the mean time … So, Capt. Paul added Jones to his name and took passage on another ship up to Virginia, where he went to visit his brother in Fredericksburg. Shortly after, the brother croaked, so John Paul Jones inherited his brother’s house, the only piece of real estate he ever owned in America, or perhaps anywhere. The house still stands opposite the railway station, privately owned and occupied, but it does have a plaque on it.

Best wishes, John

Newport House B & B

At Newport House you will get closer to feeling the real, 18th Century Williamsburg than at any other accommodations in the area.

Cathy Millar is a Registered Nurse; her hobbies include gardening, beekeeping, needlework, and making 18th century clothing.

John Fitzhugh Millar is a former museum director and captain of an historic full-rigged ship. John is also the author and publisher of many historical books. Currently, John is working on a book about Lady Elizabeth Wilbraham (1632-1705), the world’s first woman architect.

Both are descended from people living in the Williamsburg area in the 18th century. Their son Ian was born in 1991. Also in residence is the pet rabbit, Josephine Bunnyparts

"We could not have had a more pleasant stay anywhere else in Williamsburg – in-house costume-rental, country dancing, history lessons, nutmeg syrup, and … a rabbit! The two of you excel in charm, courtesy, and hospitality, and helped our vacation be truly memorable. Huzzah!"

The New England Chamber -
this was the room I had

The New English Chamber - one of the two guest bedrooms - is finished to museum standards with numerous period pieces. The New England Chamber has central air and a private Bath Room. For increased privacy, both chambers are above stairs (upstairs).

A full breakfast usually includes delicious dishes made from authentic Colonial recipes with fruit and honey from our garden, and interesting historical conversation with your hosts.

The Queen bed with stop-fluting was designed by architect Peter Harrison and made by John Townsend of Newport RI about 1770. The extra-long twin bed with barley-sugar turnings was made of English walnut in Boston about 1700. The dressing table with block-front decorated by carved shells was designed by Harrison and made by Edmund Townsend of Newport. The bonnet-topped highboy with carved shells was designed by Harrison and made by the Townsend-Goddards of Newport. A 1760 side chair by Harrison and John Goddard of Newport has elaborate tracery.

AND...

John Millar built the 24-gun Revolutionary War frigate ROSE in 1969-70, which had a 15-year career of successful adventure/sail-training on the East Coast into the Great Lakes, and the Caribbean, as well as one glorious Summer in Europe, educating up to 31 subscribed trainees per week ranging in ages from 8 to 80..until she sailed to the West Coast to co-star with Russell Crowe in Master & Commander: to the Far Side of the World. She is now permanently on display as Surprise at the Maritime Museum of San Diego, leaving a big hole in the East Coast sail training scene.

He also designed the brig LADY WASHINGTON (copy of the first American vessel to reach the West Coast in 1787) in the 1980s for the non-profit organization in Aberdeen, Washington, that uses her for port visits and adventure/sail training cruises. She has starred in Star Trek Generations and the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie (The Interceptor).

"It's a very fine boat ...ship"

Now named "The Official Ship of the State of Washington," She was recognized for 16 years of service as a goodwill ambassador to the nation and the world and as a floating classroom for young people from across the country.

The State of Washington was named after the ship, not after George.

Bright Blessings for the Winter Solstice

2011-11-21T17:01:00.001Z

First published by Helen 21st December 2010

Somewhere in the world during the morning hours, the US mostly, people possibly saw the lunar eclipse. I didn't even see the moon as it was overcast last night here in N.E. London and even duller this morning. Didn't even see the sunrise.
Well OK I'll be honest, I wasn't even awake! There is not a lot of point setting an alarm to look at something that isn't going to be there to be seen.

If I were a deep-rooted believer in the rituals of the Pagan, Druid or Wiccan faiths I would have made the effort - but I'm not, so I didn't.
I will light candles and lanterns this evening and switch on all the garden lights (reserved for special occasions) and pay my respect to the Winter Solstice in my own, personal way.

I am a Pagan, but I do not adhere to ritual or worship. I suppose I am a subtle, personal believer with my own deep rooted feelings - ones that I believe have been passed down to me by those who came before. I am very aware of my ancestors, of the invisible thread that links me to my grandmother and her grandmother and her grandmother......

I don't believe in deities - any deity. I believe in the Power of the Universe, the energy that surrounds and binds, guides and protects us. The Great Spirit, the Creator, an entity that is responsible for the Soul and Heart of all existence, of all life, in whatever form throughout the Universe - and beyond. All the levels and forms of existence, whether in this World and Plain or elsewhere and on other Plains.

I have never liked organised religion - of any Faith - because I dislike being controlled. I have never liked being told what I can or cannot do. I went along with being C of E as a child because that was the religion of my parents, my mother in particular. I think the horrors of WWII and being a prisoner of war disillusioned my father of God, Christ, and Christian Love.

I was never comfortable in Church, hymns, especially carols, I liked because the tunes were nice, and any good song is rousing. But the meaning of the words meant nothing to me. In fact I was a little frightened of this All Seeing All Powerful God. This figure of a man in a white beard sternly watching, censoring everything - and threatening the Fires of Hell..

Religion is controlling and censoring. All the beliefs, of whatever religion, is about Control. A "do this" and you shall be rewarded, 'do that' and you will be punished type of control. Get up, sit down. Wear this, don't wear that. Attend Church, pray facing a certain direction at a certain time. Church on Sundays in Sunday best.
I'm sorry, I cannot believe that God gives a toss about whether I wear my best frock or a raggedly pair of jeans in order to enter Church to talk to Him (or her)

I understand about wearing decent clothes in order to show respect..... but to whom? God or the local community? I wouldn't walk into a Sunday Service at my local C of E or Catholic Church, or a synagogue, temple or mosque (not that I am likely to enter those latter buildings without an invitation) in old raggedy jeans, low cut top and looking like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards because I would not want to offend other people worshipping there and because I would be embarrassed at their disapproving, hostile stares. I truly don't think God would even notice. Surely He (or She) would be more interested in what I felt, in what I thought in my heart and head and soul not in what I was wearing?
Spiritual means internal. Nakedness wouldn't matter, except it could be cold and even more embarrassing. (especially with my somewhat sagged and wrinkled 57 year old rather worn body.)

Joke:
A woman decided she wanted to show her husband how much she loved him, so one afternoon she had a scented bath, put on her makeup and made herself look beautiful for her man. As she heard his car pull into the drive she arranged herself, seductively naked, on the couch in the living room.
"!Hi Honey I'm home!"
"I'm in here!"
.... "Oh." (says husband very surprised at seeing his wife sprawled naked on the coach) "Oh. You haven't got anything on."
"Yes I have." The woman replied, stroking her hand sensuously over her skin. "This is my love dress."
"Is it?" the husband replied, turning round and heading for the kitchen to put the kettle on. "I reckon it needs a good ironing then.."

.....

For myself, I don't need to picture a God / Goddess in the limitation of a human form. The Is simply IS. That's enough for me.

The IS is a power, an energy, a force. I have experienced it, have felt it. But it is Energy, A Power, A Force of the Earth and the Universe, it is not a humanised god.
The stories of gods and goddesses - Roman, Greek, Egyptian, stories of the Old Testament Bible, are all just stories made up by people in order to explain things they did not (do not) understand. Some are stories passed down of course, tradition and such. But they are stories adapted to fit the times. The Catholic & C of E Bible for instance (and all adjoining Christian-based Faiths) are about a white-skinned God and a European Christ. You don't see much about the fact that, actually, Jesus was a Jew who was born and lived in Palestine. Gods and Goddesses, whoever, whatever, were made up to satisfy non-understanding - and fear - of the unexplainable. Some of the stories were based around real happenings Jericho had an earthquake and the walls came tumbling down. There does seem to have been a wide-spread Flood. Plagues of locusts, frogs. Water turns to wine if yeasts are added (simple fermentation) The prophets really did live and preach and prey (including Jesus. Was he the son of God? Well that answer depends on your Faith.)

I do believe in Guardian Angels. No, I don't believe in blond haired white skinned beautiful shimmering people with wings... but I do concede that the Ethereal Spirit / Spirits who inhabit the Universe (Creatures of Light, Love and Protection) reveal themselves to us, either in sight, sound or feel, in human form. Let's be practical here. Not one of us would take the slightest bit of notice of an ant sitting there beside us telling us not to be afraid. And the shimmering? That's real. I've seen a person's aura, I can feel my own. Spirits coming from another plain (be it another world, the realm of the dead... whatever, wherever) have a stronger aura, a sort of cocoon buffering them from the clash of energies from this, our world, and theirs.

Now this is all very profound, and is personal to me. I have no wish to - or intention - to offend anyone. Your faith, your belief, whatever it is, is yours to choose. Equally I have the right to choose what I believe, and if you damn me for it, that is your belief also, not mine. The next plain, the Spirit World, Heaven, Valhalla, whatever, does exist in a different dimension. We'll all recognise it when we get there. If it doesn't exist, well it doesn't. I'll be dead before I find out though, so its not worth worrying about in this life is it?
My faith is the power of Nature, the beauty of the Stars, the utter wonder of a full moon hanging in a black, velvet sky, the bright light glistening on the sparkle of snow below. The awe of the days growing shorter and shorter night and darkness coming earlier and earlier until it reaches a peak, and the Earth turns back to the sun and the days grow longer and warmer and lighter.

My deity is the Skies, the beauty of a sunset, the wonder of the stars: the Earth, provider of food and shelter and life. Fire, the bringer of heat, water, the giver of life. And Spirit, the IS that holds it all together and bridges the indescribable immenseness of the different plains of existence - of past, present, future, the here and now, and there and when.

The sun and moon are important because they give us Life. They are not gods though. I will light my candles now, and if I can see her through the thick cloud that is out there, I'll bob a curtsy to the moon, for She is so full of wondrous beauty and it is my way of saying thank you to whatever it is out there that looks after us.

Bright Blessings

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Mark said...: I was awake for the eclipse, but didn't see it because of the cloud cover. Then I logged on to Irish broadcaster RTE for live streaming of the sunrise at Newgrange. That didn't happen either, because of the cloud. I was at Newgrange in person a few years ago for the winter solstice and, fortunately, there were no clouds then. It wasn't a religious experience, in any sense, for me, but truly awe-inspiring, nonetheless!
Helen said...: The awe of a sunrise, a moonrise, an eclipse, a star-pocked sky - a new born babe - is too great to be contained in the bigotry of any pious religion. The sun rose, the moon set at the beginning of the Earth, millions of years ago without any interference or worship from us. They will continue to do so long after humankind has faded away. We humans are mere blips in the Universe, and contrary to what we prefer to think, are not actually very significant or important. In a nutshell, the Is is bigger than we could ever imagine.
Paula Mildenhall said...: You have succintly summarised what I feel as well Helen. I hope you don't mind if I borrow some of this when I tell people why I don't subscribe to their religion. I sometimes say I am a pagan- but not really a pagan. I believe there is a force out there but I am vehemently opposed to organised religion. I like the way you describe it. We couldn't see the eclipse in the part of Australia where I live as there was too much cloud cover.
Helen said...: Use what you like Paula - the term 'pagan' basically means anything non-Christian. Being very pedantic I suppose I'm not Pagan either because I don't 'worship' a deity, but how else would I describe my Belief? Not spiritualist, not Wiccan (though I did look into Wiccan - found it had too many rules & was too organised) A Wiccan verbally attacked me once telling me I was insulting her religion by using the term Blessed Be & that I couldn't be a Wiccan because I didn't believe in the Goddess blah blah blah... if Wiccan is that sort of bigoted ranting then you can keep it, so I stayed with my 'Pagan' belief. No one, especially a Costume Witch, has the right to tell me what I believe. If I am wrong that's my problem, not anyone else's. How can any Faith or Belief be wrong? Nothing will ever be proven in this Life, so take joy from what _you_ have and leave everyone else alone! I have some very dear friends who are Wiccan - and the good fortune to have two High Priestesses among those friends. Both are the dearest, loveliest people who have given me the kindness of support when I needed a hefty pit-prop and the generosity of their encompassing love. One is in the US one is local to where I live. So nice to just call in and ask for a hug if I need one - a hug that is always freely and joyfully given (you know who you both are LOL) The Wiccan "laws" I have adapted to my own use, though, should be universal to all religions: what you send out comes back three fold. Send hate, you will get more hate back Send a smile you will get a wider smile back. (it works!) never condemn anyone for their personal belief. We all see the Great Spirit / the Creator / God / the Goddess through our own eyes and with our own soul and heart. remember to say 'thank you'. Two very little words with a very big meaning.

Imagined Reality?

2011-11-21T16:55:00.003Z

first posted January 2011 by Helen

I’ve spent most of the last two weeks sobbing, snivelling or dabbing at a tearful eye. Today I had another good cry. I attended a funeral.

It’s always hard when someone dies. Grief is a funny thing.

The trouble is, the person who died is not real. He is a character in a radio drama who has been spectacularly killed off.

Anyone reading this who is a regular listener to BBC Radio 4 will possibly know what I’m talking about. Fans of The Archers will certainly know!

Nigel Pargetter is no more. Ok, in reality he never was anyway, but – gosh, I liked Nigel – he made me laugh and he was a nice guy. He loved everyone, and loved life. He was kind, and quiet and gentle. The sort of person you'd treasure as a friend - because you know he would never, ever, let you down.

For those who have no idea what The Archers is – or haven’t been keeping up with the story line…. The Archers is “the story of everyday country folk” - a 15 minute daily (except Saturday) radio drama. The 1st of January 2011 saw its 60th anniversary. I have been an avid fan for over 10 years now – although I also remember hearing it on when I was a child.

The Archers are the lead characters, presently, Jill Archer & son David, married to Ruth, who run Brookfield Farm. Shula Archer, married to vet Alistair Lloyd. Kenton Archer – manager of Jaxx Bar and Elizabeth Archer – recent widow of…. Nigel Pargetter. The story is set in the made-up village of Ambridge in the pretend County of Borsetshire (basically a Midlands Shire near Birmingham) One of the characters, Peggy, has been in the series since the beginning - over sixty years. Her story line has been involved over the past few years with her husband Jack Woolley developing Alzheimer’s – a story line which has very much helped with the understanding of how people cope with this tragic illness.

There are quite a few main characters alongside the Archers and several story-lines running at once. For instance, we’ve had the local Pantomime (will Fallon actually get together with Harry?) Jamie the teenager doing his “it’s not fair” act – Pip struggling with getting through her exams …. Very much “everyday” issues, which is why I love listening to it. There IS high drama and OMG moments, but there’s also the latest batch of yoghurts in Ambridge Organics which has been labelled wrong. You really do feel that you are listening in to an on-running story of everyday folk in everyday situations – the mundane and ordinary as well as the big whammies. Just like real life.

The build up to the 60th Anniversary edition started before Christmas.

Nigel Pargetter (married to Elizabeth Archer ,…. Keep up there in the back row!) runs Lower Loxley Hall, a Stately Mansion. In order to keep it afloat he & Lizzie – with the help of other cast – run it as a business. Weddings, conferences, antiques fairs etc & the annual Christmas Bash when the grounds are transformed: A German Market, lights in the trees, an ice rink, the Hall itself decked out in evergreens, carol singers, father Christmas’s Grotto. Cranford Crystal, Nigel’s beloved Shire Horse, giving cart rides….. you see that was the thing about Nigel. He was green before green became fashionable. He recently donated part of the grounds to be used as allotments; he went by bicycle as much as he could – as the BBC website says he is most likely to say “Lizzie, do come and look at the meadow, it's heavenly. “

The BBC The Archers website also says:

“Being born of country gentry isn't always an advantage in life, as Nigel found out when he inherited the dubious charms of Lower Loxley Hall. More used to playing the loveable fool, he discovered that funding the house's upkeep is a full time job, and he's happy and grateful to have efficient wife Elizabeth alongside him at the helm.

Some of his schemes have been a little bizarre, but most pan out well, with Elizabeth's sensible guidance to iron out some of his eccentricities.

Like a over-eager puppy Nigel bursts with enthusiastic ideas, some of which are indulged and some squashed. Luckily Elizabeth gave approval to both his wine production and "green wedding" plans. “

So why did I personally like him? He was fun. He was always up to some jape with best friend Kenton; he loved life. And he was a romantic.

Every year he dreamed up some special surprise for his & Lizzie’s anniversary. This year it was a surprise meal with a hired chef at Lower Loxley – complete with harpist. Lizzie had no idea! Just before Christmas he found an old brooch of his mothers, a bit dirty & dented, so he scooted around to find a jeweller who could clean it & fix it because Nigel wanted to give it to Lizzie as a surprise for New Year.

That was Nigel – the sort of guy we all wish we had as our own.

Just after Christmas he & Kenton Archer put up a Happy New Year Banner. It was supposed to go above the main door, but Nigel & Kenton fixed it up across the roof. Pretty high that roof.

On January 2nd he and David Archer went to take it down.

And Nigel fell.
Most of us Archer’s fans are still in shock.

Today, was the funeral. It has brought up the sensitive issue of should young children attend a funeral (Nigel & Lizzie’s children are Freddie & Lily Pargetter twins, aged 9)

Jack Firth (Freddie), Graham Seed (Nigel) Georgie Feller (Lily)

I put up a tweet on Twitter the other day: “#TheArchers Am I the only one still crying because Nigel’s gone?”

Someone answered “Oh ome on, he wasn’t real!”

Ah. But that’s the point isn’t it? He seemed real.

My answer was “But as an author MY characters are VERY real to me. I take trouble to ensure they feel real. And any good story, well written, should make the characters realer than real.”

Nigel was realer than real. I’ll miss him.

Actor Graham Seed who played Nigel Pargetter
Nigel died in a fall from the roof of Lower Loxley on 2 Jan 2011.

Actor Graham Seed played the character of Nigel for over 30 years. My thanks to Graham - in the guise of Nigel - for being such a friend to me for 10 of those years.

The pictures are from the BBC Archer’s website. (I’ll probably get sued for using them :-/)

A Pet's 10 Commandments

2011-11-21T16:53:00.000Z

1. I don't live as long as you. My life is likely to last about 10-15 years. Less if I am a small pet, like a hamster or gerbil. But I will love you in my own, special way whether I am with you for 1 or 15 years or more.
2. Give me time to understand what you want of me. I only have clues to go on.
3. Place your trust in me, as I place my trust in you.
4. Don't be angry with me for long and don't lock me up as punishment. You have your work, your friends, your entertainment, but I have only you. And often I don't understand what I've done wrong
5. Talk to me. Even if I don't understand your words, I do understand your voice and your gentle hand.
6. Be aware that however you treat me, I will never forget it.
7. Before you hit me, before you strike me, remember that I could hurt you, and yet, I choose not to bite you because I love and trust you.
8. Before you scold me for being lazy or uncooperative, ask yourself if something might be bothering me. Perhaps I'm not getting the right food, I have been in the sun too long, or my heart might be getting old or weak.
9. Please take care of me when I grow old. You too, will grow old.
10 On the last difficult journey, go with me please. Never say you can't bear to watch. Don't make me face this alone. Everything is easier for me if you are there, because I love you so. And this last thing is the final, loving, service that you can do to take away my pain, even though it is so painful for you.
Remember the body may grow weak and old and finally cease to be - but love can never die

Take a moment today to say thank you to your pets. Enjoy and take good care of them because life would be a much duller, less joyful experience without our four legged family and friends.

5th January 1066 - Westminster Abbey

2011-11-21T16:37:00.000Z

The London venue for the Royal Wedding - Westminster Abbey - is steeped in over 1,000 years of history. Benedictine monks first came to the site in the middle of the 10th century.

The Abbey has been used to crown the Kings and Queens of England since 1066, for royal marriages, and is the final resting place of seventeen monarchs. History books will tell you that the first king to be crowned was William of Normandy on Christmas Day 1066 – but this is Norman propaganda (which sadly has lingered all these hundreds of years) the FIRST king to be crowned was Harold Godwineson (King Harold II) on 6^th January 1066. He died at the Battle of Hastings, defending his Kingdom and people from foreign invasion by the Normans.

The present church of Westminster Abbey was begun by Henry III in 1245 and is one of the most important Gothic buildings in England, with the medieval shrine of King and Saint, Edward the Confessor, still at its heart. The cruciform shape of the general plan first used in the 10th Century, though now hidden by subsequent additions, is still retained, but the original central and western towers, the richly sculptured stone walls, stained-glass windows, cloisters, chapter-house, dormitory, infirmary etc of the monastery have now all disappeared.

The Abbey was built on a marshy area called Thorney Island, surrounded by tributaries of the Tyburn river – also no longer visible, it is now channelled underground.

King Edgar (959–75) gave the original monastic community at Westminster substantial lands covering most of what is now the West End of London. Almost a hundred years later King Edward the Confessor re-built the Abbey during his long reign (1043-1066).

It was an important element of that time, and so I incorporated the Abbey's construction into several scenes in my novel about King Harold II, both its building and its hasty consecration on 28^th December 1065 when the elderly King Edward was dying.

The Abbey is clearly depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry. The scene starts with showing a man climbing up to the roof to erect a weather vane (indicating that the building work has only just finished) and the hand of God coming down from the sky to bless its consecration. The next scene is King Edward's burial.

One-tenth of the revenues of the kingdom was spent on building it, while the defences of London, the coast, and the Welsh marches rapidly fell into decay. The village of Charing was where the English and foreign workmen employed on building the abbey lived. Edward’s royal palace of Westminster was built at more or less the same time – that stood where the present Houses of Parliament are located, right beside the River Thames.

This Tapestry image is not the present building where Prince William and Kate Middleton will be married – but you can see some similarities. There were two towers in King Edward’s design at the western end – probably, in Saxon times, as impressive as the ones that stand there today.

All that remains of Edward the Confessor's actual building, though, are one large arch in the southern transept, the substructure of the dormitory, a few traces about the choir, and the Chapel of the Pyx, a narrow room with a vaulted roof on the south of the abbey, divided down the centre by a row of seven plain pillars with single capitals, once used as the Treasury of England where the regalia of the Scottish kings, including the Holy Cross of Holyrood, were kept.

Henry III rebuilt the Confessor’s church, providing the Gothic building we have today. Henry’s own burial there in 1272 established Westminster Abbey as the principal royal burial place for the next 500 years.

The monks at Westminster Abbey wore the black habit of the Order of St Benedict, they led a simple and self-denying life, were celibate and owned no personal property. The celebration of the daily services in praise of God was their first duty, and work, often farm work, and reading took up the rest of their time.

Very few people, even kings, could not read or write so monasteries were the main source of education. As they became richer and more monks were ordained as priests manual work ceased and they became more concerned with the administration of their Church lands and possessions. The numbers of monks varied through the centuries from 30 to 60, although only 24 were left when Henry VIII dissolved the monastery in 1540.

In celebration of the Royal Wedding

and my exciting new start with my new UK publisher

I would like to share a couple of the scenes set within Westminster Abbey that I wrote for

Harold the King (UK title) I Am The Chosen King (US title)

Excerpt from -

Part 1 Chapter 20

Harold, Earl of Essex, is talking to his wife, Edyth Swanneck, about King Edward’s building plans for Westminster Abbey.

“Edward is building Westminster with the prime intention of making it his mausoleum. He plans a grand and ostentatious tomb near the high altar. I was wondering whether I ought to incorporate plans for my own resting place.”

Edyth put her hand up to his mouth, her fingers pressing against his lips. “Please, do not talk of your death! I cannot bear to think of not having you with me!”

Harold laughed. “I’m not intending to make use of a tomb just yet, my lass! Although it occurred to me yesterday, as Edward insisted on taking us on a tour of his building work, that he had better pray for a long life. He is one and forty years old already and it could take anything up to thirty years to complete his abbey.”

The construction of the abbey at Westminster was barely further advanced than Harold’s smaller building project at Waltham, for prolonged and incessant rain had put it behind schedule. The Westminster foundations were thick with mud and flooding had always been a problem along that marshy stretch of the Thames. The periodic rise and fall of the river helped somewhat, though, for the gravel and alluvial soil brought down with the current were steadily silting up the tiny tributaries that separated the scatter of small islands. The spread-finger estuary of the Tyburn was no longer as wide, and Thorney Island itself had more than doubled its length of riverbank since the time when Cnut had first enlarged the crude little chapel of Saint Peter into a monastery for twelve monks.

Edward had in mind nearer sixty monks and a building superior to anything yet known. His abbey was to be the finest, tallest, grandest complex of buildings in all England. Looking at the ooze squelching around their feet yesterday afternoon, Harold and his father had harboured strong doubts of the practicality of the dream.

****

Excerpt from -

Part 2 Chapter 19

Westminster – June 1064

Although a chill breeze was blowing off the river Thames – the wind often became more inclement with the flood tide – Edward insisted on personally inspecting the rising grandeur that was his abbey and expected those at court to accompany him.

Leofwine, Harold’s younger brother, arriving at Westminster, had been invited to visit the building site almost before he had risen from his knee on greeting the King.

“But you must see my abbey!” Edward declared. In his enthusiasm he leapt to his feet. “It is now more splendid than ever I had imagined it would be. Come, let me have my cloak fetched, I shall show you straightway!”

“We shall all go!” Edith, the Queen, trilled as she ensured Edward’s cloak was tucked around his body and his cap fitted snug over his silvered hair, and, “Do you want your gloves, my dear? You know how your hands chap from the cold.” Treating her husband more as an ageing father, Edith had found her niche as the dutiful wife who looked to his every daily need, tending his apparel, cutting his meat, warming hands and feet, rubbing salves into his aching knees.

Edward contentedly basked in her various attentions; it was all he had ever wanted, someone to mother him. He patted her arm, smiled an aimless, distant acknowledgement, talking all the while to Leofwine. “You will be most surprised at how far the work has progressed – why, it actually begins to look like an abbey at last! You younger ones, you must come also,” Edward added, waving his arm at the children. “The fresh air will put colour in your faces.” He threaded his arm companionably through Leofwine’s. “We have been having problems with the labourers: every so often they decide to stop work for one trivial reason or another – the ramps are too steep and slippery, the conditions too wet. Yet I am paying them good wages, they get hot food once a day and I provide a Christian burial for those unfortunates who, through their own carelessness, meet with accidents. Only the other day a man stupidly stood right under a hoist – the rope had frayed and the stone that was being lifted…well, he was crushed instantly. Dear Leofwine, you should have heard the wailing from his widow! We told her it was his own fault for standing where he did; I gave her a penny from my own purse, that seemed to satisfy her.” Edward, talking rapidly, stepped through the doorway and out into the sunlight.

….

The King took great pleasure in having the younger folk around his court, their laughter a contrast to the sombre faces of his councillors and lords. There would be over-much sobriety, he often declared, were it not for their gaiety. Edith would agree with him, though never did she forget that were it not for his own refusal of intimacy, her children would be among those who romped together like inexhaustible hound pups.

The ground ascended gently from the palace, slowing Edward’s initial exuberant pace and bringing the breath puffing into his lungs. Perhaps it was his increasing age that made the slope seem the steeper? Next birthing day he would be sixty years of age and they told him often that he ought to take more rest. Piffling nonsense! He might be missing a few teeth and his sight be more blurred than once it had been, his hearing not so sharp, but he could still sit a horse and gallop with the rest of those young whelps when a stag was running. And his mind was alert, his bladder and bowels controlled; he was not yet the dotard they claimed him to be.

Ahead of the party, the east end of his abbey stood in all its splendour, a vast, soaring structure of Reigate stone, the sun’s rays striking down through the wind-hustled clouds, highlighting the lantern tower as if God Himself were pointing out its wonder.

The square, lead-roofed tower stood six storeys high, rearing into the sky above the crossed section of north and south transepts, the army of surrounding roof turrets standing like a cluster of guardian sentries. The tiled roofing, above apse, transepts and upper part of the nave, had been set in place as soon as the walls had risen to keep the stone and timber structures below dry. Once the rain was kept out, work had progressed rapidly.

From this eastern approach the holy place looked almost complete, for as was traditional with cathedral and abbey constructions, building ranged from east to west. The height of the northern transept, immediately ahead of the royal party, successfully hid the slower progress to the western end – which consisted of the half-built northern wall of the nave, one tower flanking the western entrance completed but for its roof and its potential twin standing as a single storey of stonework. There was still much to be done.

They stood a moment, the group of onlookers, heads tipped back, gaping up at the great height of the tower, marvelling at the diminutive figures of men clambering over and along the higgle-piggle of scaffolding, not one of them seemingly concerned about the distance down to the ground. For many of those watching – save for those fortunate few who had made pilgrimage to Rome, or visited the grand new cathedrals that were springing up all over France and Italy – this was the tallest building they had ever seen. It was certainly impressive.

Edward entered through the cavern in the north transept that would, one day, be the northern entrance door and proudly led his audience into another world.

The square tower was borne over the crossing by an elaborate array of unobtrusive stone arches, like the branches of a gigantic oak supporting the canopy above. Spiralling stairs reached up inside, set in artistic symmetry against plain walls that rose to the carved beams of the roof. Windows, set at especial angles, allowed in wide shafts of sunlight that harboured a myriad of floating, dancing particles of dust.

It was a beautiful church. Uncluttered by unnecessary ornamentation, its clean lines gave an overpowering sense of length and height, a continuity of unbroken space stretching from one end to the other that, when finished, would cover more than 330 feet in length. The nave would support six double bays per side – two longer than the cathedral of Jumièges. Arches, each resting on plain cylindrical columns below a triforium stage with a gallery surrounding the vaulted aisles, and above that, the clerestory shadowed below the eaves. Further windows pierced the solidity of the lower walls, bringing light cascading down into the enclosed space. The abbey of Westminster was to be long and high, but there would be no gloom within. God’s house, lit by God’s hand.

Allowing sufficient pause for gasps and a crackle of admiring applause, Edward passed the raised steps that would lead to the main altar and thrust out his arm to indicate an open space. “Here,” he said extravagantly, “is where I shall be laid to rest. Close to the bosom of God, where I shall sleep in peace within the sanctity of this glorious place.”

His audience nodded; no one dared comment that the abbey of Westminster was, at this moment, anything but a place of peace.

So much movement and noise! All bustle and business. Men swarming like worker ants; carriers of wood, stone, water and lime, men recruited locally and paid by the day. Skilled craftsmen were as numerous as the labourers. Carpenters, masons, stonecutters; those who mixed the mortar, their essential task demanding huge concentration. A building was, after all, only as strong as the mortar that bound it together. Mixed poor, and a wall would crumble as the rain washed and seeped and the wind buffeted. Somewhere within the network of ladders, pulleys, ramps, cranes, hoisting gear and treadmills, the architects were overseeing the transferral of the design on paper into reality.

Hammering, sawing, the squeal of rope on wood as hoists took the enormous blocks of stone from ground level up to the heights of the roof; the indignant bellowing of oxen, the roar of the blacksmiths’ bellows. Grunts and shouts, the overall swell of talk and laughter, grumbling and half-muttered swearing. The tramp of feet echoing on hollow ramp, the chink of chisel on stone, rumble of heavy-burdened wheels and the screech of metal against metal. The squeak of wheels as a man lumbered past with a laden handcart, sweat standing out on his face, biceps bulging.

And through it all, the swirl of grit, wood-chips and shavings. White stone dust on the floor, hanging in the air; layers deep along grooved edges of pillars and columns, of steps and crevices, on the sills of the windows. Dust that settled across the shoulders and in the hair of the working men….

***

Excerpt from -

Part 3 Chapter 11

December 1065

Before the last of the light faded from the wet December day, the twenty-seventh of that month, a tiler had managed to climb up the height of the scaffolding to place a golden weathercock in position upon the roof of Edward’s proud Westminster Abbey. Only from the west, from below the choir and from the outside, did the place resemble a building site. On the morrow they would enter through the north door, see only the splendour; the newness of the eastern end.

Harold stood alone facing the cloth-draped, bare altar. No candlestick, no salver or crucifix, nothing would adorn this holiest of places until the consecration and blessing. There was no sanctity within this wondrous building, nothing save the emptiness of space, of height, of soaring walls, pillars and arches. With night beyond the tiers of narrow windows, the darkness crowded close, only the lantern in his hand and the few candles that burnt in wall sconces creating dim islanded pools of cheerful yellow brightness.

Yet there was a presence here. What, who, Harold could not decide. Nothing sinister, not a feeling of being spied upon, no, just a comfortable awareness of not being alone. Something, some faint-echoed shadow of expectancy of waiting. God perhaps? Harold wondered. Was He already here, waiting to be formally welcomed into His house?

The Earl of Wessex walked slowly towards the first in a row of wooden benches placed across the nave in readiness for the morrow. Tomorrow, there would be people here, many people. Tomorrow, too, the articles of Holy Church would be blessed and placed upon the altar, the choir filled with song, prayers offered and accepted by God - and God himself would no longer be a distant tingle of breath, a whispered promise, a sigh upon the wind. Harold’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Left. Right. Tap. Tap. The sound reverberated through the chancel arches, down into the nave, through the enclosure of the choir. Bouncing off the walls, flying up to those rafters that soared high, as high as heaven.

Wine and water would be sprinkled over the altar while blessings were intoned and the chanting of the Benedictine monks echoed clear and sweet beneath the high vaulted roof. The perfume of incense would permeate through the odour of new-cut stone, timber, mortar and sawdust. As the Christian is baptised and confirmed by water and oil, so the altar of Saint Peter would, on the morrow, be dedicated to the Lord by anointing.

The hand of God would touch Edward’s abbey, but the King himself would not be there to witness the final glory. Edward was too ill to leave his bed, was nearing death. Outside in the darkness, the drizzle of rain beat its tedious rhythm on roof and rutted mud alike, Harold sat, wearily leant his forearms across his knees. The quiet, he had thought, might help to sort out his wild-running thoughts. He chewed his lip, tapped the pads of his thumbs together. His idea was not working.

A side door opened and a novice monk, unaware of Harold’s presence, entered and began dowsing the candles. The hour was late and until God dwelt here in His house, economy ordained the saving of tallow. The lad started as he noticed the Earl sitting there, and stammered an apology.

Harold smiled and rose to his feet. “Nay, ’tis I who must beg forgiveness, I ought not to be tarrying here, I came but to see for myself that all was ready. The morrow will be a day long remembered.”

The boy nodded that aye, it would.

Walking back to the north door, Harold paused, staring out at the rain. He would have to cross to the palace soon, seek his chamber, the warmth of his bed. Edyth was awaiting him, but he was unwilling to go to her, to ask for her quiet love, her gentle comfort. This one night, out of all those they had shared together, he did not know how he could face her. She would probably be already sleeping, for the hour was late. Most in the palace would have sought their beds, save those few of importance - the two Earls Eadwine and Morkere and Archbishops Stigand and Ealdred, who would perhaps have remained discussing matters of state between themselves, finishing the jugs of wine and tankards of ale that half an hour or so ago Harold had been sampling with them.

He looked across the winter darkness to the palace complex. A crack of light showed through one of the closed shutters of the King’s upper-floor chamber then flickered as a shadow moved beyond. His doctor? Priest?

It would not be the Queen, for she had gone to bed to nurse her angry tears almost as evening had fallen. She had spoken few words to Harold this Christmas - all of them harsh and uncompromising accusation. He snorted disdain. Did she care about Edward? Had she ever cared? Edyth had said this morning that his sister was hiding behind her fear, that were she to think about the King, then the reality of her coming loss would be too much to bear. Instead, she was wallowing in grief for their brother Tostig. Harold had not disillusioned Edyth by telling her that he knew his sister better. She grieved for the impending loss of her sovereign status, for the fact that Tostig had let her down - and she blamed everyone for their joint downfall save herself and Tostig. He sympathised with her, but Edith could not remain Queen. Her calculated greed, placed so implacably above the good of England and its peoples, had made that an impossibility.

Author’s Note:

Edward did not attend the consecration of his Abbey, fpr he was too oll. He died on January 5^th 1066 and was buried where he had asked, close to the high alter. Harold Godwinesson, Earl of Wessex was elected King in his place by the entire Council of England, as was the custom of the Anglo Saxons. He was crowned Harold II the next day, January 6^th
The first English King to be crowned in Westminster Abbey.

published in June as Harold the King in the UK by SilverWood Books available for pre-order now

published as I Am The Chosen King in the US & Canada by Sourcebooks Inc. available now

A Message to My Friends

2011-11-21T16:35:00.000Z

From Helen:
This explains why I forward jokes or post "odd" things
on my Facebook Wall or Blog...

A man and his dog were walking along a road.

The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead.

He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years.

He wondered where the road was leading them. After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble.

At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold.
He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side. When he was close enough, he called out, 'Excuse me, where are we?'

'This is Heaven, sir,' the man answered..

'Wow! Would you happen to have some water?' the traveler asked.

'Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up.' The man gestured, and the gate began to open.

'Can my friend,' gesturing toward his dog, 'come in, too?' the traveler asked.

'I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets.'

The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog.

After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence.

As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book.

'Excuse me!' he called to the man. 'Do you have any water?'

'Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in.'

'How about my friend here?' the traveler gestured to the dog.

'There should be a bowl by the pump.'

They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it.

The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog.

When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree.

'What do you call this place?' the traveler asked.

'This is Heaven,' he answered.

'Well, that's confusing,' the traveler said. 'The man down the road said that was Heaven, too.'

'Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's Hell.'

'Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?'

'No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind.'

Soooo...

Sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding jokes to us without writing a word.

Maybe this will explain;

When you are very busy, but still want to keep in touch, guess what you do?

You forward jokes.

When you have nothing to say, but still want to keep in contact,

you forward jokes.

When you have something to say, but don't know what, and don't know how,

you forward jokes.

Also to let you know that you are still remembered, you are still important, you are still loved, you are still cared for, guess what you get?

a forwarded joke.

So, next time if you get a joke, don't think that you've been sent just another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and your friend on the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.

You are all welcome @ my water bowl anytime!

6 Comments

from original post:

Jules Frusher said...: A lovely thought Helen :-). Does your water bowl have mead too? ;-)
1:17 PM
Kelly said...: Beautifully said!
Helen said...: Jules, more likely to be rum :-)
Daphne said...: I love it!
Pauline Barclay said...: Lovley! x
Maryanne said...: Beautifully Stated! My friend, Father Tuck, will appreciate this when I pass it on.

The Green Thing

2011-11-21T16:31:00.000Z

by Helen

In the line at the store, the cashier told the older woman that she should bring her own grocery bag because plastic bags weren't good for the environment.

The woman apologised and explained, "We didn't have the green thing back in my day."

The cashier responded, "That's the problem. Former generations did not care enough to save our environment."

He was right, the older generation didn't care about the green thing in their day.

Back then, they returned their milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilised and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled.

But they didn't have the green thing back then.

In her day, they walked up stairs, because they didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. They walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time they had to go two blocks.

But she was right. They didn't have the green thing in her day.

Back then, they washed the baby's nappies because they didn't have the throw-away kind. They dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts - wind and solar power really did dry the clothes. Mum made the clothes for her children and they got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

But that old lady is right, they didn't have the green thing back in her day.

Back then, they had one TV or radio in the house - not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief, not a screen the size of the state of Montana. And they had to get up to change the channel or turn it off (can you imagine?)

In the kitchen, they blended and stirred by hand because they didn't have electric machines to do everything for you. Mum cooked fresh food every day, making pies, baking cakes. They didn't have pre-packaged ready made meals back then.

When they packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, they used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.

Back then, they didn't fire up an engine and burn petrol just to cut the lawn. They used a push mower that ran on human power. They exercised by working so they didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

But she's right, they didn't have the green thing back then.

They drank from a fountain when they were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time they had a drink of water.

They refilled their writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and they replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

But they didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the bus and kids rode their bikes to school or rode the school bus instead of turning their mums into a 24-hour taxi service. They had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances.

And they didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find a friend.

They didn't have kindles or i-pads or a screen and a console to amuse themselves, they had books and real friends, not virtual ones.

The current generation laments that the older generation did not take care of the environment because we didn't have the green thing when we were growing up.....

~Author Unknown~

Sent to me by a friend born in the 1950's - as was I.... but we didn't have the Green Thing back then....