Our Deepest Fear

When I was training teachers I read that at his Inaugural Speech Nelson Mandela had spoken some inspiring words about overcoming our fear of our greater natures.  I used to quote from Mandela’s wonderful words as I thought them a useful thing to tell to young people.

I then found out that I had been misinformed and that Mandela had not written the words at all.  In fact, he was quoting from ‘Our Deepest Fear’, a poem by Marianne Williamson from her book, ‘A Return to Love.’

Today, I had another shock.  I found out that Mandela never quoted from the poem at his speech.  His sentiments and message were similar but the words were not the same.  I apologise for misleading people in the past.  But I’m not too repentant; at least people heard the poem.

As a historical novelist I am intrigued by how facts can morph into supposed facts that are actually fiction.  And how fiction can morph into what is perceived as fiction.

Nevertheless, both Mandela and Williamson’s words are worth remembering and worth quoting.  I shall quote from the poem today.  Marianne Williamson’s book, ‘A Return to Love’ can be found on Amazon and at other retailers. 

Here’s the poem.

Our Deepest Fear
By Marianne Williamson

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness
That most frightens us.

We ask ourselves
Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.

Your playing small
Does not serve the world.
There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine,
As children do.
We were born to make manifest
The glory of God that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us;
It’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,
We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we’re liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

 

 

 

 

 

The Journey to Battle. #HistNov #SampleSunday

Oswald came striding towards us, leading his horse.  He bowed his head quickly and smiled.  ‘Are you ready, Edgar?’ he asked.

I nodded.  He swung up into his saddle and the three of us trotted past the waiting men to the head of the army.  There were over five hundred Mercians and half that number of Northumbrians, the soldiers of Edwin and Morcar.  The rest of the men were from the local area and from London.  Some attached themselves to one or other of the earls, others to me, and most to Asgar, Sheriff of Middlesex.  I glanced around for Merleswein but then remembered that he had been sent back north to ensure its loyalty to me.

At the front of the army waited Archbishop Stigand, Edwin and Morcar and all of the leading counsellors of the kingdom.  Just behind them were a group of about two hundred men clad in iron mail, huge battle axes hanging from their belts.

‘Housecarls,’ I breathed.

‘Yes,’ said Oswald.  ‘Like me, these were the men who were wounded at Stamford Bridge and could not march with Harold to Hastings.  They are recovered now and are here to guard you.’

I stared at them in wonder.  I had assumed that all of the Housecarls had died with Harold.  But here they were, the last remnant of the royal bodyguard, the best trained and most feared warriors in the whole of Europe.  They sat like rocks upon their horses and my normal guards seemed diminished beside them.

‘All of their comrades are dead,’ said Oswald, ‘fulfilling their oaths to King Harold.  These men have made the same oath to you.  None will desert you; all will serve you to their death.’

‘Will they ride with me into battle?’ I asked in awe.

Oswald shook his head.  ‘If you were to ride into battle they would.  But we will not risk you in such a venture.  You are too young and too important.  No, at this battle, Edwin and Morcar will lead the army.  The Housecarls will keep you safe in sight of the field but not on it.’

‘No,’ I cried.  ‘I am the king and I must lead my army.’  Hot tears sprung up, burning my eyes.  I did not want Oswald or Godwin to see this so I tried to blink them away.  My sight grew foggy and in the end I had to wipe my eyes with my sleeve.  ‘Like a baby,’ I thought to myself.

When my vision cleared the first thing I saw was Oswald, staring silently at me.  There was sorrow in his eyes.  ‘We cannot risk it, Edgar.  We have lost one king already to the Normans.  We dare not lose another.  It will be the end of England.’

English: Harold Godwinson falls at Hastings. Harold was struck in the eye with an arrow (left), slain by a mounted Norman knight (right) or both. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

‘But I’m not scared.  I want to fight.’

‘Of course you do.  You are the heir of Alfred and of Ironside.  But today we must ask a greater courage of you.  And that means not going into battle.  It means staying safe, keeping out of harm’s way.’

‘But that makes me think that we’re not going to win the battle.’

I paused, waiting for a swift denial from Oswald.  It did not come.

‘Oswald?’ I asked.

‘Battles are decided by God,’ he answered.  ‘If it were down to the skill of warriors then William and not Harold would have died at Hastings.  But it is God who decides.’

I turned my horse away.  How could he talk like this?

Suddenly, in the distance, a horn blew.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose up.  It was a challenge, it was defiance, it was expectation.

I looked angrily at Oswald.  He might doubt that we would win but surely the clamour of the horn promised victory.

Once more the horn blew and the army marched out.

It was a long while before I could speak again.  The army had been on the march for over an hour and the weak sun had climbed high into the sky.  Godwin started to talk about his friends and about his dog and I started to talk about Harold and how we used to play together on winter evenings before the feasting.

‘I wish I had met him,’ Godwin said.

‘He was my best friend,’ I said.

Godwin nodded thoughtfully.

Towards evening we noticed that a change had come over the army.

‘They have gone quiet,’ said Godwin.

I nodded and looked around.  At the beginning of the march the men had seemed lighter-spirited, jostling each other, calling out and laughing.  Now they marched in silence.  Was this determination, I wondered?  Or was it fear, or worse still, foreboding?  Those who were not silent muttered into their beards, private words which they wanted none to overhear.

I began to feel anxious.

**************************

The Lost King: Resistance tells the story of the struggle against the Norman Conquerors.  It is available worldwide from all Amazon, Kobo, Nook, Sony stores, Apple and WH Smith for $2.98. £1.92 or €1.68

The second book in the series, ‘Wasteland’ is also available.  The third in the series will be published later this year.

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The Start of a Life-Long Friendship. #SampleSunday #HistNov

I was awake long before dawn on the appointed day.  I pushed Rip’s head off my chest and leapt out of bed.  ‘We are going to fight the Normans,’ I told him as I struggled into my clothes.  He yawned loudly.  I had told him this twelve dozen times already.  ‘I am the King of England,’ I told him, ‘and I lead my host to battle.’  He yawned and scratched at his ear.  ‘To battle,’ I cried, ‘to battle.’  He sprang up at my cry, first among champions, tail wagging furiously.  I led the charge down to breakfast.

I was hungry but could hardly swallow my bread and cheese so took them with me as I stepped out into the cold air.  It was still black night and stars glittered above my head.  I turned to the east but there was no sign of the sun.  Above the horizon a clear white star shone bright.

‘The morning star,’ said a voice.  ‘A good omen.’  The familiar shape of Oswald emerged and placed a hand upon my shoulder.  There was a second figure beside him, but not a tall warrior.  He came close and I saw that it was a boy of about my age, although taller and broader.

‘This is my son, Godwin,’ said Oswald.  I nodded at the boy and he nodded back.

‘I thought he would be a good companion for you,’ continued Oswald.  ‘But mind you keep yourselves out of trouble.  The army will march swiftly and I won’t have time to look out for both of you.  Be ready to ride at dawn.’

Oswald nodded and strode off in the night.  I stared in silence at Godwin for a little and he stared at me.  Finally he spoke.

‘Are you really the King of England?’

‘Yes.’

‘So I am your subject?’

‘Yes.’

There was a long silence between us.

‘But we can still be friends,’ I said at last.

Godwin nodded.  ‘I’m glad.  Herrig was my friend but he died of a fever.  He coughed up blood and a lump of black matter as big as an egg.  Then he died.’

‘Perhaps it was his soul,’ I said.  ‘The black matter.’

‘Or maybe the imp that was causing the fever,’ said Godwin.  He paused, as if realising that he had contradicted me.  ‘On account of it being black,’ he explained, quickly.

I did not answer for a moment.  I did not know what a king should do when he was contradicted by one of his subjects.  Should I insist it was a soul, even though I believed that Godwin’s idea was more likely?  Would he take it as a sign of weakness if I changed my mind?  What would Harold have done, I wondered?

‘I think you are probably right,’ I said finally.  ‘If it were black then it was more likely to be an imp than his soul.’  I paused.  ‘Unless, of course, Herrig was really evil.’

I heard Godwin say ‘hmm’ thoughtfully and I smiled.  ‘I don’t think he was that evil,’ he said at last.

‘So it must have been an imp,’ I decided.

I saw Godwin nod in the first glimmer of morning.

‘Let’s visit the horses,’ I said.

Godwin and I helped a groom saddle up my pony.  Godwin did not have a pony but I ordered that the grooms find him one.  This greatly impressed him.  By the time we had mounted the dawn had come, cold and clear, with a streak of red where the sun would appear.  My heart began to hammer in my chest and my head swam.  By this time several of my guards had joined us and they looked searchingly at me.  Could they hear the pounding of my heart, I wondered?  Would they think that I was a coward?  I tried to think of anything other than the coming battle but no other thoughts would stick in my mind.  I looked at Godwin.  He seemed as excited as I was.

‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

‘Excited,’ he said.

‘How do you know you are excited?’

‘Because my heart is pounding like a blacksmith at the anvil,’ he said.

I leaned towards him and listened.  I could not hear his heart at all.  I smiled in relief.

‘Is your heart beating as hard as mine?’ he asked.

I shook my head and gave as stern and unconcerned look as I could.  Godwin seemed impressed.

*********

The Lost King: Resistance is the first in a series of books about Edgar Atheling and his resistance to the Norman Conquest.  It is available from all e-book outlets.  The third book in the series will be published this summer.

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‘We’re going to fight the Normans.’ #SampleSunday

English: Harold Godwinson falls at Hastings. Harold was struck in the eye with an arrow (left), slain by a mounted Norman knight (right) or both. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The next morning as I was finishing my breakfast, Oswald entered the room and announced that I would not be needed at the meeting of the Witan and could spend the day as I chose.  But he said that he would accompany me.

‘I will be your second hound,’ he said, stroking Rip’s head.

We wandered down to the river and began to stroll along the bank.  The morning mist was still heavy and every so often we would lose all sight of anything other than the closest bushes and trees.  Oswald said nothing although I heard him grunt with pleasure occasionally.  Perhaps it was hard being a warrior, I thought, and he liked this chance just to walk and enjoy the morning.

Finally, I plucked up the courage to ask him what was intriguing me.

‘Yesterday I had a dozen guards when I went down to the river.  Today I only have you.  Why has there been this change?’

‘Yesterday there was much doubt about the motives of Edwin and Morcar,’ said Oswald.  ‘Today there is less.  Or perhaps the wise ones choose to cloak their doubts.  Besides,’ and here he smiled broadly, ‘I am not alone.’  He gestured to the hill to our left.  I peered and could make out some five or six warriors with lurchers upon leashes.

‘There’s only six,’ I said.

‘Half the fear, half the men.’

I picked up a stick and began to swing it through the air, slashing at thistles and grass.  ‘But why should we fear Edwin and Morcar?’ I asked.  ‘They are Englishmen and should be loyal.’

‘There are many who question the slowness with which they journeyed south to join King Harold for battle.  Perhaps if their armies had been with him then he would still be alive.’

I fell silent at these words.  If only he were still alive.  I thought less about the earls’ treachery and more about how much I missed him.

‘If he was alive then you wouldn’t have to guard me,’ I said.  ‘I wouldn’t be important at all.’

Oswald stopped and turned towards me.  ‘And would you prefer that?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ I said.  ‘Of course I would.’

He ruffled my hair.

We walked in silence for a little while.

Then I said,  ‘And would you prefer that?’

Oswald laughed.  ‘You are wise for your years.  How should a warrior answer that and stay safe?  Which answer would you prefer?  That I am loyal to you the King of England or more loyal to Harold who I know you loved?’

I did not answer for a moment.  Then I swung at a particularly large thistle.  ‘I would prefer that you told me the truth.’

Oswald placed his hand upon my shoulder.  ‘Then I shall do so,’ he said.  ‘I would prefer that Harold was still alive for he was a great and noble man.  If he was alive the Norman Duke would be food for battlefield crows instead of the threat he is now.  If Harold was still king then you wouldn‘t be called to a task which shouldn’t be thrust upon one of your years.’

We gazed at each other for a moment.  I felt a sudden liking for Oswald.

 

We got back an hour or so after noon and at once noticed a change.  People seemed on edge and they moved more swiftly.  I caught the sense of this and my stomach swooped.  One of the older warriors hurried towards Oswald and spoke quickly in his ear.  My fingers gripped the fur on Rip’s neck as I watched them, waiting for what would happen next.  Oswald turned to me.

‘I think we should take you to the Witan,’ he said.

I hurried after the two men.  Four guards were at the door, swords unsheathed.  They stood aside for us and we entered the gloom of the hall.  A few men nearby looked up at me but most continued to stare at the Archbishop and a few of the senior counselmen.

‘Take your place, Edgar,’ Oswald said quietly.

I slipped across the hall and onto the throne.  Stigand glanced at me for a moment but without pausing in his speech.

‘If we are to take this action,’ he continued, ‘then every one of us must be in full agreement.’  His eyes swept across the hall.  No one spoke and no one moved.

He remained silent for a long moment and when he spoke again his words were slow yet sure.

‘The army will gather at dawn two days hence and march out to meet the invaders at Wallingford.’

Again there was a silence.  Then one of the counsellors began to beat upon the table with his fist.  Another took up the rhythm and then another and then two more.  In a moment the whole hall was beating out the time and a low growl rose from out their throats.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose up.  We were going to fight the Normans.

*******

This extract is from ‘The Lost King: Resistance.’  It is the first novel in my series about Edgar Atheling, last native King of England.  It is available from all e-book outlets.

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Guest post for Harvey Black

Harvey Black has asked me to do a guest post on his blog.  I was delighted at this invitation.

I have written about my approach to writing about war.  As always, I learned a little more about my own writing by taking a look at my work through a different prism.

Harvey’s own field is more recent than mine, by a thousand years.  He writes about World War 2 and the Cold War.

Please take a look at my contribution and the rest of Harvey’s blog at:

http://harveyblackauthor.org/

 

Outcasts: The Knighting of the Commoners #SampleSunday #HistNov

At Agnes’s insistence, John and Simon accompanied Bernard to the citadel.  They walked in silence, Simon still angry, Bernard fearful, John trying to quell the voices which rained down insults inside his head.

The citadel was crammed with men: Franks, Armenians, Syrians and Jews.  To one side was a pile of swords, spears and cudgels.  A line of men received weapons from one of Balian’s sergeants before shuffling to where a churchman stood, his hand held high in blessing.

Bernard turned his head away.  He had glimpsed Balian of Ibelin in a corner of the citadel talking with a veiled woman and half a dozen children.

At that moment the gate of the citadel was flung open.  To the astonishment of the crowd a dozen Saracen horsemen rode in followed by four men carrying a litter.  Balian kissed the woman goodbye and helped her into the litter.  The bearers made swiftly for the gate, followed by the children and last, the Saracen escort.

‘What’s happening?’ Simon asked.  ‘Where are they taking that woman?’

‘She is no ordinary woman,’ said Bernard.  ‘She is the wife of Balian.  More to the point she is grand-niece of the Emperor of Byzantium, as Saladin well knows.  Saladin has no wish to antagonise the Empire.  Maria Comnena could dance naked through the Saracen army and none would dare to look upon her.’

‘Somebody is looking at you though,’ John said.

Balian’s comrade, Jerome Sospel, was beckoning to them.

Bernard turned a worried gaze upon his friends and gestured them to come with him.

As they approached they saw Balian force his gaze from the gate where his wife and family had just departed and turn instead to examine the walls of the city.

Jerome placed his hand upon Balian’s shoulder for a moment, the briefest of moments.  Then he turned to the three friends as they approached.  ‘Bernard Montjoy,’ he said.  His voice pretended surprise.

Balian turned at his friend’s words and stared at the three men.

Bernard flung himself upon the ground, arms prostrate. ‘My lord, Balian’ he pleaded.  ‘You summoned me.’

Balian kicked him in the side. ‘Get up, Montjoy’ he said.  ‘Stop making a fool of yourself and of me.’

Bernard rose, dusting himself down, and stood abjectly, his head to one side.  ‘Mercy, Lord, upon your former servant,’ he pleaded.

Balian considered Bernard.  ‘I seem to remember that I once ordered a whipping for your insolence.  I have no need to repeat it now. I do, however, have need of you.  In your youth you were a good soldier; a sergeant, I recall.’

Bernard nodded.

‘I have need of every man who can bear a weapon.’  Balian put his hand upon Bernard’s shoulder.  ‘Most of the citizens will be good only to stop a Saracen arrow.  It is men like you who must make a fight.’

Bernard swallowed.  ‘I have a family, my lord.  A wife and two children.’

‘Then even more reason to fight.  If we hold on long enough then succour may come from the west.  And if it doesn’t arrive, yet we fight bravely, Saladin may agree to honourable terms.’

He gave a shrewd look at the Ferriers.  ‘Are these family?’

‘Friends, my lord.’

‘Can you fight, friends of Bernard?’

‘Just give me a weapon,’ said Simon.

John did not speak.  Balian stared into his eyes.  ‘Will you fight for the City?’

‘I am a pilgrim,’ answered John.  ‘I am a wrathful man.  My penance for an act of violence was to come to Jerusalem and never harm another.’

Balian turned to his comrade.  ‘What a delicious irony, Jerome,’ he said.  ‘The peaceable are lining up for weapons and this wrathful, violent man has sworn never to fight again.’

‘Perhaps he can be persuaded,’ Jerome said.

‘I can absolve him of his oath,’ said the Archbishop.  ‘Much good it will do though.’

Balian turned to him sharply.  ‘What do you mean?’

‘These are just common men,’ said Eraclius.  ‘We need knights to win battles.’

Jerome nodded.

‘You think this too?’ Balian asked.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Jerome said.  ‘The people may be brave but they need knights to command them.  Only knights will be able to inspire them.’

Balian’s shoulders slumped.  Jerome’s words confirmed the enormity of the task he had taken on.  Then he straightened.  His lips closed as tight as a scar.

‘You three, on your knees,’ he cried.

Terrified, Bernard, John and Simon scrambled to obey.

Balian drew his sword, making them flinch.  He touched them on their shoulders.  ‘Arise, Sir Knights,’ he said.

Astonished, the three men climbed to their feet.  Simon looked ecstatic, Bernard full of doubt.  John looked mortified.

‘There,’ Balian said.  ‘Now we have three more knights, which makes seven in the whole city.  It’s a start.’

******

Outcasts is available on all e-book readers including Kindle, Kobo, Nook and Tablets.  It is available from Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, WH Smith and other retailers.

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Part 10 of ‘Outcasts’. #SampleSunday #HistNov

CHAPTER 5

BALIAN OF IBELIN

Jerusalem

Fear flooded the city like a plague.  It swept down from the Church and through the streets to the citadel.  The people of the city hurried towards the high battlements, desperate to glimpse what they were terrified to see.  Bernard, John and Simon shouldered their way into the crowd and were carried along to the walls.

There were no soldiers left in the city anymore so there was no challenge to them as they climbed the steps to the battlements.

The sun was drawing close to the horizon, painting gold the plain beyond the city.  A vast army, swollen to fifty thousand warriors, was marching into place.  Even as they looked, the last formations hurried to close the gap remaining between them.

The city was surrounded.

‘Perhaps our leaders will attempt another parlay?’ John said.

‘It did no good last time and it will do no good now,’ Bernard answered.  ‘The moment those fools refused to surrender, Saladin swore he would kill every Christian.’  He sighed.  ‘Just as the first Crusaders killed every Muslim when they took the city.’

‘So we must put our faith in Lord Christ.’

Bernard shook his head, wearily.  ‘Christ’s representative Archbishop Eraclius leads us now,’ he said.  ‘So if preaching and whoring are needed to defend a city we have just the man to lead us to victory.’

They gazed out at the army arrayed below them.  Most were infantry but to the rear trotted legions of horsemen, their spears glittering in the light of the failing sun.

But what caught their eyes lay directly ahead.  Scores of catapults and mangonels were already in place, loaded with huge stones.

‘Surely they cannot conquer these walls?’ said John.  ‘Not even with those machines.’

‘The walls might be strong,’ said Bernard, ‘but there are no soldiers left to man them.’

Simon pointed.  A small group of horsemen trotted forward from the foremost Saracen lines.

‘Horsemen,’ he said.  ‘Five of them.’

Intrigued, the three men hurried down the staircase to the gate.  They waited with the crowd until a postern door slid open and the horsemen entered the city.

The leader of the group took off his helmet to reveal the lined and haggard face of an elderly warrior.

‘Balian of Ibelin,’ Bernard said.  He turned a worried face towards the Ferriers.

‘What’s wrong?’ John asked.

‘In my youth I was one of Balian’s sergeants.  When he married Queen Maria Comnena I made some jest about him marrying for a crown.  I received a flogging and my dismissal.’

‘What has he come here for?’ said Simon.

‘His wife,’ said Bernard.  ‘She’s here in the city.  I was wrong you see.  Balian married for love.’

The man who stood by Balian was a tall man of about the same age.  Where Balian looked worried he seemed calm and relaxed.  He gazed around at the city as if remembering good times he had experienced here.  He raked his fingers through his hair and then stopped.  He had noticed them watching him and a broad grin of recognition spread over his face at the sight of Bernard.

‘You know him?’ John asked.

Bernard nodded.  ‘Jerome Sospel.  Balian’s best friend and lieutenant.’

News of the horsemen had spread and a committee of churchmen pushed their way through the crowd.  They were led by Archbishop Eraclius who rushed to embrace Balian.

‘Praise God,’ he said.  ‘You have been sent to save the city.’

Balian shook his head.  ‘No.  I have come for my wife and children.  Saladin gave me free passage to collect them.  I swore an oath to stay in the city for one day only and not to take arms against him.’

A fierce cry of anguish rose from the populace at these words.  Balian glanced around at the sound but clamped his jaw tight, determined to ignore it.

‘But that was an oath to an infidel,’ said Eraclius.  He stepped closer as though about to whisper but he made his voice loud enough to carry across the crowd.  ‘It is in my power to absolve you of your oath to the Saracen.’

Balian gave him an angry glare.  ‘I have come for my wife.  Where is she?’

Eraclius peered at Balian, his mind working swiftly.  ‘She is in the palace.  Go to her.  Be joyous in your reunion.  I shall come to you there later.’

 ***

The next morning the people of the city were overjoyed to hear that Eraclius had absolved Balian of Ibelin from his oath to Saladin.  Balian was now free to take charge of the city’s defence.

‘What do you think of this news?’ John asked Bernard.

‘I don’t know.’  Bernard fell silent and shook his head.  ‘Jerusalem is my home.  Our delegates were mad when they refused Saladin’s terms; it condemned the city to destruction.’

He glanced across at Agnes who was singing quietly to their daughter.  ‘I feared for my family,’ he continued.  ‘But with Balian here…’

‘You think there may be a chance?’

Bernard shrugged.

Simon strode into the inn, his face shining with excitement.

‘Balian has asked for every man to join him in defence of the city,’ he said.  He gave a playful punch to John’s shoulder.  ‘It will be a glorious battle.’

John’s heart sank.  This was what he had dreaded to hear.

‘I came to Jerusalem to be a pilgrim,’ he said.  ‘I did not come to be a soldier.’

Simon stared at him in astonishment.  ‘To be a pilgrim is a luxury at a time like this.  The infidel is beating upon the gate.’

‘I will not kill my fellow man.’

Simon stared at him.  ‘A Saracen is not a fellow man.  He is an infidel, damned for all eternity.  That is what the church teaches us.’

‘I do not believe it.’

Simon opened his mouth to reply but Bernard raised his hand to silence him.  ‘Hush, both of you.  We should not war amongst ourselves.’

‘I do not want a war,’ John said.  ‘With Simon or with the Saracens.’

‘You may not want a war,’ Simon said.  ‘But what if the other man wants one?  What if the Saracen is determined to have one?’

Bernard turned towards John.  ‘No one wants to fight, no one wants to kill.  And no one here wants to make you take up arms against your will.’

‘He may have sworn to be a pilgrim,’ said Simon angrily, ‘but he never swore to lie supine before God’s enemies.’

John looked up, his blood swirling with rage at the insult.  He checked himself.  It was this rage that had made him come on a pilgrimage, this rage which he had to do penance for, this rage which he had sworn to master, for Christ’s sake and for his own.

‘Shall I fight the infidel alone, cousin?’ Simon asked in a cold voice.  ‘Or shall I fight with you by my side?’

John said nothing.

Simon’s face quivered with anger.  He strode off but before he could reach it the door was flung open.

A soldier looked around.  ‘Is Bernard Montjoy here?’

Bernard looked at the floor for a long moment.  Then he raised his hand.

‘Lord Balian wants you,’ said the soldier.

‘No,’ cried Agnes.

‘He commands it,’ the soldier said.  ‘He demands it.’

***************

‘Outcasts’ Book 1 of my Crusades series, will be published this month.

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Talking with Elizabeth Chadwick. #HistNov

Today, I’m delighted to be talking with Elizabeth Chadwick.  Elizabeth is the author of novels which bring to life the turbulent times and fascinating personalities of the Middle Ages.

Martin: Which authors have had the greatest influence upon you?

Eizabeth: I have always been a voracious reader. Influences are so numerous and subconscious that I wouldn’t be able to name most of them. However, a few do stand out for specific reasons. I became interested in medieval history as a subject for fiction in my teens. I discovered Roberta Gellis and thought her work was amazing. She wrote on the line between straight historical fiction and historical romance. Her research was very detailed – she read the primary sources and as a result her characters were of their time and not modern people in fancy dress. Her storylines were entertaining and often edge of the seat and her characters so believable that you felt as if they were standing in the room with you. She had one particular hero called Ian de Vipont who was the romance hero cliché of being tall dark and handsome. In a less skilled writer’s hands he could have been made of cardboard but Gellis turned him into a living breathing three-dimensional character. I learned from Roberta Gellis that it was possible to write romantic historical stories and remain true to the period.

Sharon Kay Penman, now a dear friend, was also one of my influences. Her contribution was to show me that it was also possible to write about real people and tell their story in an entertaining way without warping history.

My other main influence was Dorothy Dunnett. As well as the amazing research and the fabulous characters, Dunnett’s use of language blew me away. She’s in a league of her own. I may never be able to write like Dorothy Dunnett, but I always feel that reading her work helps me to raise my game. Fortunately although I am inspired by other authors, I don’t tend to pick up their voices when it comes to my own writing.

One of the joys of being an historical novelist is that you can range over space and time.  What made you choose the Medieval period for your novels?

It’s a long story but I’ll give you the short version! The first reason is that I was inspired at junior school by a particularly excellent history teacher who brought the subject to life in the classroom. I only had her for one year though and that year coincided with medieval study, so that gave the period an advantage.

Later in my teens I fell for a handsome knight in a children’s TV programme. I began writing what initially started out as a piece of fan fiction but quickly changed into my own tale.  I had to research the medieval period because I wanted the background to feel as real as possible. The more I researched the more interested I became and the more I want to write about those times. I have been studying for several decades now and the more I research the more I realise how much I don’t know, and the passion for the period continues. If I were to start writing about another time, the amount of research I would need to do to bring myself up to scratch would be phenomenal.

Some historical novelists are very strict about historical accuracy while others are willing to modify history to suit their novel.  Where do you stand on this?

Aha! The poisoned chalice question!  I’m one of the strict ones. I say if you need to modify history to suit the story then you’re actually not a good enough writer. A good writer will find a way that tells a terrific story without having to modify history. I add the big caveat that obviously we all have to use our imaginations and we can’t know everything. We are products of the 20th and 21st centuries and with the best will in the world we are coping with our own mindsets even while trying to put ourselves in theirs.

Part of the fun of writing for me is the challenge of finding a way round the knotty problem of telling a story when the history seems to be getting in the way. It’s like putting a puzzle together and usually once I’ve thought outside the box and reorganised the story pieces, I find something that’s a good fit, and it’s very rewarding. I think the more research you do in the background the easier it becomes to fit story and history together. You should never dump your historical research into a novel, but your research will inform how you write it and the more you research, the easier the writing and the story will become.

The other thing is that you are writing for a wide audience of readers who all have their own foibles and expectations to bring to the experience. Some will demand intense historical authenticity. Others are just in it for the story. The best thing to do is write for both types of readers. That way those who like their accuracy can relax and those who just want story can be on the edge of their seats and loving the ride.

Of course you can sometimes find the attempt to be authentic is a double edged sword.  I received a review of one of my novels where the reader said it was a fairy tale because they didn’t have side saddles in the 12^th century.  But they did and I have primary source provenance.  It goes back to the author not being able to legislate for what the reader brings of themselves to the experience.

Are you someone who plans and plots your novels very carefully or do you follow where the pen takes you?

I write about real people these days so the basic route map is laid out for me. I know where I’m going, but I don’t always know the scenery until I write it, and sometimes there are digressions along the route. I do write a very detailed synopsis at the start of the project, but it is still more like ‘guidelines really’ to quote Captain Barbossa in Pirates of the Caribbean. I research as I write and sometimes the research will throw up something that means I need to digress from my initial synopsis – but that’s not a problem; it’s all part of the fun.

How do you research your novels? 

It’s a multistrand approach. I research the absolute need-to-know detail at the outset when I’m writing my synopsis and first three chapters. Then I continue to research while I’m writing the rest of the novel. I research the primary sources and from as many different angles as possible. When I was researching LADY OF THE ENGLISH, I looked at the chroniclers who were for the Empress Matilda and those who were against her and pro-King Stephen. This helped me get a rounded view of proceedings. I also research primary source social documents to get a handle on mindset and daily life.  I look at academic secondary sources both the political and the social. I use reference works of which I have an extensive library, and also the Internet.

I go to various locations involved in the novels where I take photographs, pick up the guidebooks and walk the grounds. Even if there’s not a lot left one still gets a sense of atmosphere. I re-enact with an early medieval society called Regia Anglorum. This too helps me get a feel for the period. It brings history out of the textbook and into 3-D and is a vitally important research tools far as I’m concerned.

More controversially I use the psychic. If one believes in it then it’s a hotwire to the past. If one doesn’t, then it’s a superb way of accessing otherwise hidden realms of imagination. I have the material vetted by a professor of medieval cultural history. I am told that it’s medieval mindset coming through, so wherever it comes from that’s good enough for me.  Striving to get the mindset right is one of the holy grails of historical fiction!

Which of your characters has surprised you most and why?

I think John Marshal in A PLACE BEYOND COURAGE. He was the father of my hero William Marshal in THE GREATEST KNIGHT and THE SCARLET LION and he had something of a bad reputation. He is famous for going back on his word when his son was a hostage and under threat of death. He is supposed to have said that his enemies could go ahead and hang the boy because he had the anvils and hammers to get better sons. I was curious as to what would make a father say this about his own child. What were the circumstances behind the story? What I discovered very much overturned the accepted history and showed me that John Marshal had been judged through modern eyes and not the mindset of his own period. When I went searching I found a very different story, and just had to tell it.

What would be a typical writing day for you?  Do you have set times, spaces, routines or rituals?

A typical writing day is a long one! It’s probably best if you ask me what is a typical writing week as days tend to vary. I work seven days a week most weeks of the year. I get up, have breakfast with my husband who is retired. Then I head to my office which is a converted bedroom. I log onto the Internet and check my e-mails and Twitter. I then head to Facebook and for my followers I post a research book of the day, a research fact of the day, and the opening line from my current work in progress. Then I’ll embark on a couple of hours work. During that time I will pop in and out of Facebook and Twitter to check my feeds and answer as necessary. I’ll take a lunch break of about three quarters of an hour during which I’ll read for pleasure. If it’s a day at home then I’m back at work for the afternoon.

Work doesn’t just involve writing a novel, it also involves things like this interview, which I’ve been working on for over an hour now. Replies to queries. Blog posts. More Facebook and Twitter interaction. I’m published in both the UK and the USA by different publishers and they’ll both want input from me. For example at the moment I am writing a new novel for my UK publisher having just handed in the previous one. That has been sent back to me for copyediting. Meanwhile my American publisher has also sent me a backlist novel for editing, so I have to fit this into my working day as well. I’ll stop to cook an evening meal and do more reading and chat to my husband. Then back to work until about 11:30 pm. After that I’ll unwind for an hour or so by watching a film or TV programme. Then to bed to read for a short while and lights out about 1.30.

On a non full working day, it’s the routine as mentioned above, but I’ll go out and do the grocery shop, go to the gym or see a friend for a couple of hours. Sometimes I walk the dogs with my husband. Quite often I have to go out and give talks. Next week for example I have to take an afternoon out to give a talk at a library on Tuesday, and then I’m away in London to give another talk on Thursday so that’s almost a full working day taken out. So it’s not all about writing a novel. It’s about all the peripherals going round the writing. It’s extreme multitasking!

What’s been your favourite moment in your writing career?

That’s hard to say. There have been quite a few highlights.  Perhaps I can list a few of them. All of them are experiences I would never have had if not for my writing.

1. Having THE WILD HUNT accepted for publication and then the novel going on to win an award which was presented to me by HRH the Prince of Wales at an event in London.

2. Going on (anarchic!) breakfast TV when THE CHAMPION was shortlisted for an award.

3. Having a reader write to me and say that he’d loved one of my novels and his only complaint was that it wasn’t nice to make a grown man cry on the train!

4. Having another reader write to me who is an usher at the House of Lords and inviting me to take a personal guided tour of the Houses of Parliament and House of Lords. What an experience that was!

5. Discovering William Marshal and his family. They have become a lifelong passion

6. Winning the Romantic Novelists Association award in 2011 for the best historical novel of the year with TO DEFY A KING

7. Having THE GREATEST KNIGHT become a New York Times and USA Today bestseller

If you were to give advice to someone thinking of writing a novel what would it be?

Don’t think, get on and do it. Write from the heart and write for the sheer pleasure of the words and story. The rest will follow. Make sure that you read voraciously and eclectically. This will help you find your own voice and will show you what’s out there. It will also help you develop your personal built in editor. Writing like flying improves with the number of bum on seat hours you undertake. It also improves with the amount of reading you do. I heard one very famous lady author of historical fiction say that reading ‘trashy novels’ would ruin your voice. That’s utter rubbish. One person’s ‘trashy novel’ is another person’s marvellous read. Just enjoy reading whatever you want and you find it will help you to write in the long term.

What is your next writing project?

I’m currently engaged in a long-term project to write three novels about Eleanor of Aquitaine. THE SUMMER QUEEN will be published next June and I’m busy working on the middle novel of the trilogy THE WINTER CROWN. As each novel takes me approximately 18 months to write, I am going to be busy for a while yet! I do have a couple of ideas for after that, but I’m not saying what!

Thanks very much for talking with me today, Elizabeth.  It’s been fascinating.

********

To find out more about Elizabeth and her books please check out the following links:

My website www.elizabethchadwick.com

My main blog.  http://livingthehistoryelizabethchadwick.blogspot.co.uk/

My Twitter name @chadwickauthor

Part 9 of my new Crusades novel. #SampleSunday #HistNov

CHAPTER 4  THE FIELD OF HATTIN

THE END OF THE ARMY

The Frankish nobles stared at the carnage.

The plain was covered with the corpses of men-at-arms.  The loss of foot-soldiers was to be expected, if not on this scale.  What horrified the nobles was that a thousand knights had also been slain.

King Guy glanced at the scatter of men close by.  They were overcome by thirst, wounds and despair.  They could fight no longer.

The sun tormented those left alive, especially the wounded.  Their groans carried far across the plain.  Only the carrion birds were not dismayed by the sound.  They circled patiently, waiting until the dying gave up the struggle and the battle-field grew still.

There was one strength still remaining to the Christians.  Raymond of Tripoli had maintained command of a few of his troops, a hundred in all, knights and foot-soldiers.

The King called across the heaps of dead, commanding him to attack the Saracen army.

Raymond looked across the field of dead; disbelieving, despairing.  His dislike of Guy was deep-seated.  He had long argued against his determination to force war upon Saladin.  But he never thought the man’s folly would lead to this.

He stared for a moment at Guy.  He turned and looked at Saladin’s army and then at his own pitiful remnant of men.  Then he laughed; a laugh of desperation and bitter scorn.

Raymond sheathed his sword and forced his men to harvest their courage and whatever weapons they could find.

‘Mount up,’ Raymond cried.  ‘Find a horse and mount up.  Even foot-soldiers, even if you’ve never ridden before, mount up.’

The Saracen host, thirty thousand warriors, was drawn up in a crescent in front of them.  Raymond took a deep breath and led his hundred men towards them.

The ground was strewn with Christian corpses.  His men turned their heads when they saw they were about to ride over stricken friends or comrades.  But Raymond increased the pace and the horsemen moved into a canter.  The two armies were close now and he cried out, summoning his men to their final hopeless charge.

He drew his sword and aimed it at the nearest emir.  But as he did so, with unbelievable skill, the Saracens veered away.  A gap opened up allowing the tiny force to ride through the army unmolested to safety.

On the other side of the battle-field Balian of Ibelin realised that all eyes were on the charge of his friend Count Raymond.  He seized this brief opportunity to lead his last four followers to safety.

The Saracen army reformed and came to a halt a furlong away from King Guy and the rest of the Frankish lords.

Two men, the leaders of the victorious army, walked their horses a dozen paces in front of their warriors and gazed upon their stricken foe.

 *******

Saladin walked alone across the battle field.    Most of the nobility of the Kingdom had been captured, including King Guy.  Only Raymond’s force and four men led by Balian of Ibelin had escaped.

All around him lay the corpses of the army of Jerusalem, twenty thousand soldiers and knights, the entire defensive force of the Kingdom.

Saladin turned to the south, his eyes peering across the bleak hills.  Now, finally, he could unleash the storm upon Jerusalem.

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Back to England

Tomorrow we’re going back to England again.  This was our scheduled break to see my father, son and his family.  We had hoped to introduce my dad to my grand-daughter but because of dad’s double heart-attack he is still in hospital so that is no longer possible.

A disappointment for everyone.

Still, we’re seeing friends in London before going off to the West Country to see the family.  Looking forward to going to a BIG bookshop or two in London before we leave.

I love me Kindle and my Sony Reader but there’s nothing quite like the smell of a bookshop.

I’m using the wonderful wizardry of WordPress to post the next extract of my new novel on Sunday.  Getting very excited as I hope I’ll be able to keep to my (self-imposed) deadline of publishing the novel by the end of November.