The ancient hurch of St James in the village of Little Clacton, which features in my novel The Undeparted Dead. It has changed hardly at all since Mariana’s time.
This is the story of Alaïs, “forgotten princess of France”. One of the things HF (historical fiction) does best is to take a minor, mostly ignored and almost forgotten historical character and recreate him or her, rather as a paleontologist recreates a long extinct animal from a fragment of fossilised bone.
I first noticed Alaïs in the film The Lion In Winter, where she is portrayed (by the beautiful Jane Merrow) as very much Henry II’s mistress, the king flaunting the lovely girl in front of his ageing queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. But is that how it really was?
On this reconstruction of Alaïs’ story we have an older Alaïs, Alaïs afterwards, in the days of Bad King John, when Henry has long been dead and Richard is dead and Eleanor at 78 years old is on her last legs. The story revolves around some letters said to have been written by Eleanor years earlier while she was a prisoner in Shrewsbury. Henry, who was trying to prevent her from plotting with Richard, their son, to replace him on the throne, did not allow her to correspond with anyone, so her letters had to be smuggled out. Some were eventually concealed in Canterbury Cathedral and it is those which she is worried might compromise both herself and John, and which she asks Alaïs to retrieve and return to her. So Alaïs makes the journey from Paris to Canterbury, ostensibly as a pilgrim.
In Canterbury she is kidnapped and the excitement starts. Who has she been kidnapped by, and why? King John? Dowager Queen Eleanor, having lured her there for that purpose? The Knights Templar, for their own devious purposes? And what on earth could have been in those letters?
It is rare for me to be hooked from the first page, but I was here.
For a first novel, it is stunning. Look at her depiction of the Dialogue between “that old pair of inseparables, the Body and the Soul“, where the Body “had all the witty lines, some I suspect made up on the spot … [it is Alaïs narrating] No wonder the bishops railed against the theatre. Laughter was probably the greatest danger to orthodoxy.” Or her description of Eleanor in old age, and her comments on arranged marriages … “Although she was standing upright with no help, she looked so brittle I thought her bones might break before we got to a greeting […] As I approached, she held out her hand for me to kiss. It was freckled with age spots, clearly visible in the sun, which at just that moment decided to spread out like butter over us all. […] ‘Queen Eleanor.’ I bent low.’Princess Alaïs,’ she responded, as if we had parted on that day after breakfast.” They speak of the future (and think of the past), of Eleanor’s granddaughter Blanche of Castile, who is to marry Alaïs’ nephew, the heir to the French throne. “‘Blanche is safely installed at the court of your brother [Eleanor tells Alaïs] and the two children seem to like each other. It may be a marriage more successful than many that have been arranged by politics.’ And I knew she was thinking past me, to that time when she was married to my father because their fathers had decreed it. But then, I recalled, she later married Henry for love, and that didn’t work out too well either.”
It is all wonderful stuff, and this is (for me at least, and I suspect for all who read this book) the definitive Princess Alaïs.
The past is a mirror of the present, albeit a distant mirror. In her introduction, Barbara Tuchman quotes Voltaire: “History never repeats itself; man always does.” In this history of “The Calamitous 14th Century” (the very apt sub-title), she has added human interest as well as validity to this approach by focussing on a particular person’s life. She wanted someone who saw and lived through more than most common folk ever could, she tells us, yet who was not exceptional as a king or saint would inevitably be. She finally lit on Enguerrand de Coucy VII, “the most experienced and skillful of all the knights of France” (according to a contemporary), whose life from 1340 to 1397 suited her perfectly. As did the fact that he married the eldest daughter of Edward III of England and became the Duke of Bedford for several years until he and the princess separated and he renounced his allegiance to the English Crown.
By following the man through the history of his times, Barbara Tuchman manages to go everywhere, see everything important, and yet keep her feet firmly on the ground.
It is a period I am very familiar with (Coucy is a contemporary of Mariana’s) but on almost every page, there is something that will surprise most readers. Did you know that in 1306, the year before Philip the Fair turned on the Templars, he expelled the Jews from France, thus wiping out his own debts to them and also, incidentally, the debts of the peasants, who used to borrow from Jews to tide them over when times were bad and they needed tools or seed – but his son, Louis X, brought the Jews back on terms that made him a partner with a two-thirds share in the recovery of their debts? Which of course led to the predictable pogrom against the Jews and a widespread uprising against the rich landowners and the Church. The Templars themselves Philip accused of heresy and sorcery in order to get out of his enormous debt to them; it also enabled him to lay hands on at least some of their fabulous wealth.
Elements of witchcraft, magic, and sorcery were taken for granted in medieval life, [she writes] but Philip’s use of them to prove heresy in the seven-year melodrama of the Templar’s trials gave them fearful currency. Thereafter charges of black arts became a common means to bring down an enemy and a favoured method of the Inquisition in its pursuit of heretics, especially those with property worth confiscating. In Toulouse and Carcassonne during the next 35 years the Inquisition prosecuted 1,000 persons on such charges and burned 600. French justice was corrupted and the pattern laid for the fanatic witchcraft persecutions of subsequent centuries.
As easy to read as a well-written novel, yet immensely detailed and, so far as I could tell, as reliable as history gets. Essential background reading for those who enjoy novels set in the fourteenth century.
And her original thesis? Yes, after reading this I must say I agree: times change, people don’t. Which is one of the things that make HF so fascinating.
“There are many reasons why novelists write, but they all have one thing in common – a need to create an alternative world,” wrote JOHN FOWLES.
I was asked the other day if that was true of me.
I suppose every novelist has created a story, a world, of his own that he already lives in in a very real sense and would give his left arm to visit in reality. That certainly applies to me and the the Mariana de la Mar universe.
You know what they say: If you can’t find the book you want to read, write it yourself. There’s more to it than that. It’s really: Create that world, your world, yourself.
But of course there are other books, other alternative universes, I would love to visit …
The Anglo-Saxon Period
Northumbria was governed, under the King, Ethelred II, by an earl named Uhtred. He belonged to one of the great magnate families of northern England, had held his office of earl for at least ten years, was famed for his military prowess, and was the lord of extensive acres and many retainers. What is more, he was connected by marriage to the royal family: his third and current wife, in 1016, was a daughter of King Ethelred II. Earl Uhtred was, thus, a figure of immense wealth, power and prestige; quite simply, the most important man in the north of England. It was essential for Canute to secure his submission and gain his loyalty.
Earl Uhtred came to the meeting accompanied, as a great nobleman should be in a display of status, by an escort of military retainers – forty of them, we are told, and though the figure be both round and biblical we are not required to disbelieve it. As befitted a ritual exchange of peace, and given the guarantee of safe-conduct, weapons and body-armour would have been left with the horses outside, in the care of grooms and servants. Uhtred and his men entered the hall and stood in a body before Canute. If it were one of those brightly sunny days that you sometimes get in northern England in early spring they would have needed time for their eyes to accustom themselves to the gloomy interior.
Treachery was afoot. Another northern magnate, an old enemy of Uhtred’s named Thurbrand, had prepared an ambush with Canute’s connivance. Suddenly, armed and mailed men sprang out from concealment behind the hangings and slaughtered Uhtred and his men, every one. After a desperate and bloody mêlée which lasted perhaps only a few minutes, forty-one corpses lay among the rushes on the floor.
This act of treachery and slaughter set in motion the chain reaction of counter-violence and yet further violence, a bloodfeud that lasted for three generations and almost sixty years, which is the subject of this book.
This book is ostensibly about Earl Uhtred of Northumbria, son in law of King Ethelred II and “most important man in the north of England”, but like Barbara Tuchman’s A Distant Mirror, it is really a history of a place and period made more accessible (more reader-friendly) by focussing like a biography on one key figure. That key figure, Earl Uhtred, was treacherously murdered in 1016, setting in train a bloodfeud that spanned the closing years of Anglo-Saxon England and the early years of Norman rule.
The first chapter explains exactly what a bloodfeud was and was not, setting it in context as something familiar and normal and “right” in an age when “justice” was hard to come by. This is followed by the best brief history of Anglo-Saxon England I have ever read, taking us from the original settlements to Alfred and Wessex and the Danes, the emergence of the Wessex dynasty as Kings of all England, and so to the great King Edgar (excellently depicted, by the way, in Anya Seton’s Avalon).
The focus then switches to the north and the history of Northumbria and the northern context before returning to the south and Edgar’s son Ethelred the Ill-advised (more often known as the Unready, but Ill-advised is a better translation) and Athelstan and Edmund Ironside, and how the situation in which Canute was able to demand the attendance, unarmed, of such a man as Uhtred, came about.
It is not just a story of a bloodfeud, it is a whole history of the period up to the Conquest by one who, again like Barbara Tuchman, is both an entertaining and fluent writer and an historian with an intimate knowledge both of his chosen period and of the man and the sequence of events that in his view best represent and embody that period.
Highly recommended both to those already hooked on the Anglo-Saxon period and to newcomers.
Medieval Magic and Mystery
- real Middle-earth, set between the Underworld and the Spirit World
- Anglo-Saxon sorcery and shamanism
- Shamanic healings
- the loss of the soul
- encounters with spirits, including the three Wyrd Sisters
- finding one’s guardian spirit (totem animal)
- a Saxon sorcerer/shaman
- a young Christian scribe from Christian Mercia on a mission in pagan Wessex
Way back when, The Way of Wyrd opened a whole new world to me and many others: the shamanistic world of pre-Christian (Saxon) England, the world that was in some respects the original of Tolkein’s Middle-Earth.
I have classified it here as Fiction, though (like much of the best HF) it is also a documentary novel – in this case (to quote the Preface) “a report of a major research project into Anglo-Saxon sorcery […] in which each event and detail of the teachings is reconstructed from the Anglo-Saxon evidence.”
The book is divided into two parts, the first tells how a young Christian scribe, Brand (our narrator), meets Wulf, the wolfman, the sorcerer, and is eventually obliged to acknowledge the reality of Wulf’s powers; the second is the story of Brand’s own encounters with “wyrd” and the World of Spirits.
And as Brand comes to understand what “wyrd” means and is, so do we, at least to some extent.
After what is in effect a classical healing narrative (it is a shamanic healing and Wulf the sorcerer is clearly what we now think of as a shaman), we go back to Brand’s arrival on the south coast where he is part of a mission imposed on the pagan king of what is presumably Sussex (the realm of the South Saxons) by the Christian king of Mercia, Wulfhere, son of Penda, the “most powerful warlord in the land”.
Wulf later explains that and another healing, this time of a horse, in terms of “life force”, and goes on to introduce Brand to runes, carved on a stick as a protective amulet. He explains why people fear him – and why warriors do not fear death. He speaks of the Wyrd Sisters – then suddenly announces that “they have come to loosen your fibres”. Brand is terrified.
In the second part of the book, the point comes where the natural and the supernatural intersect – which is of course what sorcery and witchcraft are all about, as is made abundantly clear in this book, but misunderstood (or totally ignored) in most orthodox religion and science (though the greatest scientists – men such as Newton and Einstein – like the great trailblazers of religion, do not make that mistake): things go together, happen together (co-incidence) but it is not a matter of one causing the other.
‘By sorcery [Wulf explains], I mean the forces that rule Middle-Earth. I have told you that, for the sorcerer, everything vibrates the web of wyrd, whether it is an act of the gods or the movement of the tiniest insect. Your arrival trembled the web. The flight of the ravens trembled the web. My presence vibrates the web. All our lives are locked together in the shimmering world of wyrd in which all things are enmeshed, and connected to one another by the threads of wyrd.’
I had been impressed by Wulf’s explanation of a web which contained all things, but now that I was supposedly caught within it, the idea seemed sinister and I could not accept it …
Finally, Brand loses his soul, and has to travel to the Underworld to beg the assistance of “the mighty smiths” before he makes the leap into the World of Spirits in a desperate attempt to retrieve it.
Of particular interest to me now (on rereading the book) were Wulf’s explanations of such common symptoms as fever and sweating: so different, yet quite as likely and as reasonable as our explanations, and his remedies at least as effective.
And this: ‘You must draw your spirit to you along your fibres by singing your own song. That way the guardian spirit will find you […] Do not worry about the words, just make the sounds that come to you. The spirits will understand.’ He gripped my arm. ‘You must do it, Brand. You must! If you do not sing, you will see only visions of death. […] I cannot tell you what to sing, or how to sing. It is your guardian spirit we are seeking. It must be your song. […] Float your word-hoard on the waves of wyrd; the power to release your guardian spirit lies within you alone.‘ These might be words for any poet – indeed any writer!
Essential reading for anyone interested in the culture and beliefs of the early Middle Ages – Middle-Earth.
Mariana was no exception …