Every so often a book comes along that does more than stop you in its tracks. It yanks you in, envelops you, makes the rest of the world dim and cloudy. While in thrall to such a book, everything outside its covers is unimportant. Housework, homework, any other kind of work goes to the wayside. Family and friends will be baffled, possibly irritated, hopefully understanding. And after the book is done, you wander about for a week in a cloud of irritation, expelled from the world that held you so completely.
Edith Pargeter’s The Heaven Tree is such a book. It involves a terrible blood bond between three people in the Middle Ages, a bond that descends through years and generations, and revolves around the building of a great cathedral. Do not say a word about Ken Follett’s Pillars of Earth. This is the best book about cathedral-building ever written, and many other things as well: a character study, a drama, a romance, and a ripping good yarn.
It begins simply enough with Harry Talvace, a cheerful young English lordling who gives up his birthright to follow his passion, which is carving stone. His dream is to build a great cathedral, and he at last gets the chance when he meets Ralf Isambard, a powerful and enigmatic marcher lord from the border of Wales who hires Harry as his cathedral architect. Joining this band are various other characters: Benedetta, Isambard’s beautiful and serene Italian mistress; Gilleis, Harry’s fiery little wife; and Adam, Harry’s best friend and chief stonemason. The cathedral begins to rise.
So far, so good–a bustling story of the Middle Ages, with a few fascinating sidebars into Welsh-English politics and the technical aspects of stone-carving. The book’s genius is in the slow-building dread of its plot, for Harry has made a rash promise to Isambard, and events will force him to break it. No one breaks promises to the terrible and inexorable Isambard, and Harry’s life is forfeit. No one can save him, not even Benedetta who has come to love Harry–but she can foil the execution. The scene that follows is nearly unbearable, as the life and soul of a good man are stretched between the woman who loves him and the lord who loves him too but loves vengeance more.
The Heaven Tree is technically a trilogy, though it reads as almost one book. The next continues a generation later with Harry’s son, now a young man and thirsting to avenge his father’s death. His attempt fails, and he becomes Isambard’s prisoner. A game of cat and mouse ensues as young Harry tries to remain firm against the old lord’s wiles–and find out what it is Isambard wants from him, and from Benedetta who is now living a hermit’s life in the Welsh mountains. Over everything looms the cathedral his father made, a miracle in stone that may hold redemption even for Isambard.
There are passages of extraordinary lyrical beauty. The weeks when the first Harry, knowing his death is imminent, pours his frustration and fear and will to live into his stone-carving, filling his nearly-finished cathedral with all his angel’s soul. The time when Benedetta flings the gauntlet down before Isambard. The scene by the river, nearly impossible to read. An incidental passage where a crusty old saint quietly dies in the grass outside his hut. And the final chapters where Isambard and Benedetta, in the cathedral Harry built, come to terms with everything they are and everything that has gone before them.
This is a long book, and it is slow to begin. Do not make the mistake of abandoning it after forty pages in frustration. Stick with it until Isambard and Benedetta join Harry, and their fateful triangle is in place. The Japanese have a term called en, which refers to a karmic connection between people which draws them inexorably together throughout their lives. The en between Harry, Benedetta, and Isambard is a thing of beauty and terror, blood and genius.
This book is not well known. It should be. It is a work of unbelievable power.
Last time around, I made a list of the hunks of historical fiction who have warmed my heart. I’d hate to be accused of being unfair to the boys out there, so here’s a list of the female heroines of historical fiction who make the hearts of men go pitter-pat, and had me vowing as a child to grow up more like them:
1. Elizabeth I, from countless books. My original heroine. She’s been cast in enough books and movies to make her legitimately tired, but that would probably please the queen who is still remembered fondly by Englishmen everywhere. She survived an insane father, a homicidal sister, and many hostile enemies; she inherited a shaky little island riddled with debt and left it a political powerhouse with a full treasury and a cultural renaissance; she began as a scared little girl and ended a near-goddess. Elizabeth I is the original mother goddess: brilliant, inexplicable, maddening, beautiful, and eternally fascinating.
2. Boudicca, from Pauline Gedge’s Eagle and the Raven: the red-haired queen of ancient Britain who damn near kicked out the Romans. Pauline Gedge draws a compelling vision of a blunt-spoken six-foot swordswoman who goes from reluctant ally of Rome to avenging mother after her tribe is sacked and her daughters raped. Her war didn’t quite succeed, but her legend lingers; the amazon before who all men knelt in reverence.
3. Genevieve Pasquier, from Judith Merkle Riley’s The Oracle Glass. One of my personal favorites; a girl in the court of the Sun King who turns a gift for reading the future into a first-class con. Genevieve is nineteen years old, cynical, worldly, and intelligent, and with nothing more than a classical education and a gift for fortune telling she deceives the wealthy courtiers of Louix XIV’s court into believing she is a 150-year-old sorceress who can read their futures. People that gullible deserve to be rooked.
4. Katie Nolan, from Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. One of the great mothers of all literature; tough, fierce, and hard as nails. Her prowess went beyond the feats of quiet endurance like working as a cleaning woman to keep her children fed and in school. Who can forget the moment when this illiterate Brooklyn housewife sees her daughter being molested by a criminal, goes upstairs to get her husband’s gun, and without turning a hair shoots the attacker in a place that ensures he will do no molesting ever again?
5. Benedetta Foscari, from Edith Pargeter’s The Heaven Tree. Great acts of defiance are not always done with weapons, and Benedetta Foscari, an Italian courtesan who is mistress to a ruthless medieval warlord, has a quiet but blazing moment of glory. Her warlord has decided to execute an innocent man–a man Benedetta loves. Not only does she foil his execution, but she throws her love for him in the warlord’s face before all the onlookers. One of the great eff-you moments of literature.
6. Livia, from Robert Graves’s I, Claudius. A great villainess, but one I always admired nonetheless. A scheming Roman Empress who calmly plotted, murdered, and poisoned her way through eight or nine relatives to ensure that her son became the next Emperor. Amoral, ruthless, and detestable, yes, but the woman had style.
7. Scarlet O’Hara, from Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind. The original Southern belle, but much more than that besides. Her tempestuous love life is what most of us remember best from the book, but just as interesting is her growth from spoiled teenager to flinty-eyed woman who will pay any price to make sure her family and her beloved plantation survive the American Civil War. Scarlett is not always likeable–hot-tempered, bull-headed, an indifferent mother and an overly sharp businesswoman–but she is always admirable.
8. Linda Voss, from Susan Isaacs’s Shining Through. Not a well-known heroine, and she should be. Linda comes from Jewish-German immigrant stock in Queens, and works as a secretary to a powerful Washington intelligence agent in the years just before World War II. Her fluent German lands her a job as a spy in the house of a Nazi bureaucrat in Berlin, where she spends a year and a half cooking strudel for fascists by day and smuggling secrets out by night. A fascinating dual portrait of Germany and America during the war, as well as a realistic portrayal of the sheer repetitive danger and boredom of real spy-craft. No James Bond gadgets or sexy seductions here; Linda walks the tightrope of her dangerous mission on common sense and plain New York toughness alone.
9 and 10. This one’s a two-way tie between two very different ladies from George R.R. Martin’s “Song of Ice and Fire.” Arya Stark is the ten-year-old daughter of a great lord, more inclined to practice her fencing than her embroidery. When her family is destroyed in a civil war she finds herself on her own, and swiftly turns from scruffy tomboy to lethal little street-rat, dispatching her first enemy with aplomb and waging a one-girl war on those who brought down her family. Brienne of Tarth is a very different heroine, a tall and ugly girl who trained as a knight and is shunned by real knights everywhere. Not because of her ugliness, or because she can beat the men who challenge her, but because in her shining moral courage and unflinching sense of honor she is the living embodiment of the knightly ideal. An ideal that most other knights do not live up to, and so they cannot bear to look Brienne in the face.
Any other additions to the list? I’m all ears!
Greetings all, and thanks for putting up with a month’s absence as I went on my honeymoon. In keeping with the theme of honeymoon bliss, this week’s blog post will center around favorite heroes of romantic fiction: the men I fell in love with on the page long before I ever met my husband.
If, like me, you are a woman whose heart goes pitter-pat for a man in chain mail, you are sadly out of luck in the 21st century. We resort to books instead to satisfy our craving for warriors. Here, in no particular order, are some of my favorites:
1. Aragorn, from Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” trilogy. Long before Viggo Mortensen brought him to life, I fell in love with Aragorn. He swung a sword, he knew poetry, and he helped save the world. What’s not to love?
2. Robert the Bruce, from Nigel Tranter’s trilogy of Scotland. William Wallace was the hero in Mel Gibson’s version, but Scotland’s most famous hero king springs to vibrant life in this trilogy. The writing is chewy, but Robert the Bruce is a hunk for the ages. Whether politicking with the highland clans, grieving for his much-loved wife who was held captive in England for eight years, or braining a hated enemy in single combat right before the battle of Bannockburn (true), this King was everything a King should be.
3. Ralf Isambard, from Edith Pargeter’s Heaven Tree trilogy. A more obscure and less sympathetic hero, but a fascinating one. Isambard is a medieval warlord in Pargeter’s tale of the Middle Ages: charismatic, handsome, and deadly. I hated him for three hundred pages when he executed his best friend on a point of honor and then had his adored mistress thrown into a river for falling in love with someone else–but the next three hundred pages slowly redeemed him as grief and guilt turned him from an amoral game-player to a man of grace. What’s more appealing than a redeemed devil?
4. Rhett Butler, from Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind.� Just to prove that I don’t only go for men with swords. Rhett’s charm, dash, and devotion to his lady won me over along with every other woman in America the moment I read Gone With The Wind.
5. Mr. Rochester, from Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. Some might choose Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights, but I found him a boor and a bore. Mr. Rochester has it all, the original brooding hero after which all other heroes must brood inadequately. His verbal duels with Jane prove once and for all that intelligent conversation is the best aphrodisiac: the two trade more sex in a few pages of wordplay than in all the grunting and sweating of today’s R-rated movies.
6. Derfel Cadarn, from Bernard Cornwell’s Arthur trilogy. Another sword swinger; a blond Saxon warrior who is King Arthur’s most feared champion, but on his off days loves nothing so much as to pile his little girls into his war shield and take them sledding. Cornwell coined the phrase lord of war, and this man defines it to the life.
7. Xavier March, from Robert Harris’s Fatherland. Perhaps it’s a stretch to call this book historical fiction; what it really is is alternate historical fiction. Xavier March is a German detective in the early sixties . . . in a Berlin where Hitler won World War II. Surrounded by a world filled with Nazi horrors (mostly designed by Albert Speer) March is a grim investigator beside whom all the CSI actors fall short, as he methodically goes about uncovering the biggest horror of all–the truth of the Final Solution.
8. Sam Damon, from Anton Myrer’s Once An Eagle. Another historical fiction that might be called borderline, but it does begin about a hundred years back, so close enough. Sam is an idealistic boy who joins the army in World War I, wins the Medal of Honor and a battlefield commission, and ends his career as a retired general and military observer in Vietnam. Sam is perhaps the most palpably saintly hero in fiction, but one who somehow manages not to be a bloodless prig or a cardboard white-hat.
9. Emperor Claudius, from Robert Graves’s I, Claudius. Just to prove that not all heroic men are men of action. Claudius won my heart even before I saw the TV series: a man who overcame a stammer, a limp, and a scornful family to become a fiercely intelligent scholar and one of Rome’s shrewdest Emperors.
10. Arius, from Kate Quinn’s Mistress of Rome. Another hero from ancient Rome, and yes, I am going to put in one of my own characters. What else is a blog for? Arius is a gladiator in first-century Rome, filled with violence and pain and passion. My husband, after reading Arius’s story, accuses me teasingly of liking my men “large, hard, and hurting” and I can’t say he’s wrong. If I ever met Arius off the page, I would follow him into the sunset in a heartbeat. My husband would just have to understand.
11. A man of both fierce intelligence and fierce strength, who can swing a sword like a samurai and wield a pistol like a sharpshooter, who can come up with a line of poetry or a cutting riposte at a second’s notice. Fortunately he’s neither fictional nor historical. He’s the man I married.
12. Your choice. What historical fiction heroes do you swoon over?
I happen to be getting married in two weeks, and as my thoughts lightly turn not to romance but to the necessity of dealing with things like photographers and centerpieces, I can’t help but think of famous historical weddings. How did brides of the past do it?
Perhaps the most opulent wedding in history occurred in 1368, when Prince Lionel of England wed the Italian merchant heiress Violante Visconti. Daddy Visconti, who might in the movie be played by James Gandolfini with all the resultant menace, was triumphant at having bought a genuine prince for his little girl, and pulled out all the stops. The thirteen-year-old bride wore red velvet, she had not eight or eighteen but eighty bridesmaids, the groom’s party included 1,500 knights, thirty double courses of fish and gilded meat were served at the outdoor wedding banquet, and the favors to the guests included jewels, armor, and war-horses. There’s no doubt this wedding would have landed on the cover of Brides, though the aftermath might have landed on the cover of all the tabloids: Prince Lionel died less than four months after the wedding day, and little Violante went on to be widowed twice more in fairly gruesome fashion. Maybe the thrill of her Big Day just never carried over to the resultant marriages, and she poisoned the grooms to become a Bride all over again–you never know with a girl called Violante.
Child brides, of course, are no rarity in historical weddings. Queen Margaret of Scotland was only three years old when her betrothal to Edward II of England was being planned. What was also quite common was weddings without grooms–which we have just about achieved in modern-day life as well, come to think of it.
When Princess Mary Tudor of England married King Louis XII of France, the King rather understandably did not drop everything in France to attend a wedding, even if it was his own. But the bride’s brother Henry VIII wanted to see off his baby sister, so the marriage was held in England with all pomp and circumstance, and a handy French nobleman stood in as proxy for King Louis during the ceremony. Mary was then shipped off to France, the marriage more or less complete until her actual husband could consummate it. I feel this could start a trend in today’s marriages: the bride gets her Special Day, and some self-sacrificing friend of the groom stands in for all the photos and family congratulations while the groom has a drink at the local bar.
Commoner marriage customs had their own spin in older times. Affluent brides of the middle ages wore red and green rather than white, because red and green were the most expensive colors of cloth to be had. Mary Queen of Scots was the first bride to wear white in her opulent marriage to Francis II of France, but it did not bring her good luck as she lost her husband shortly afterward and then launched on a career of ill-advised marriages and liaisons; it wasn’t until Queen Victoria that the white wedding gown became popular world-wide. Roman brides wore a flame-red veil, and began the custom of wearing a ring on the fourth finger of the left hand–a vein was said to run from that finger to the heart. Roman brides also made sure to part their hair on the wedding morning with a dead gladiator’s spear; a custom that supposedly brought luck on the marriage. It might be worth mentioning that the Romans also invented no-fault divorce.
The boys and girls of Sparta were married by being carted up sans clothes to the nearest mountaintop at night, where the girls were given a head start and the boys ran in pursuit. Whoever caught who got married. You can just see the girls developing sprained ankles when the class hunk was in pursuit, but sprinting off with sudden speed when the local bully was gaining.
All in all, historical weddings were colorful and fun, and I got a lot more ideas for my own wedding from history than from Brides magazine. So if you will excuse me, I am off to pick up my red veil and gladiator spear, arrange a shower for my eighty bridesmaids, send the instructions to my proxy groom, and then hit the treadmill so I’m ready for that nighttime mountaintop sprint.
One of the most disturbing images from the film “Gladiator” is the image of all those thousands of fans baying in excitement as the gladiators in the arena struggle, fight, and die. “How horrendous,” we shudder. “I would never do that.” But we are watching the gladiators too, aren’t we? Of course, the actors aren’t really dying . . . but we are still getting a kick out of the fight.
The debate of bloodshed vs. excitement is not a new one. In fact, it’s been raging since ancient Rome. A young patrician in first century Rome wrote a thoughtful essay about his disgust for the games, his denouncement of the waste and bloodshed–and then his subsequent unease when he went to the games for the first time and found himself getting sucked into the violence and excitement of it. We may no longer have duels to the death in modern sports, but we do still have both violence and excitement. I am a die-hard Red Sox fan, and every time I watch a game I catch parallels to times past.
The first inning rituals of lineup calling and the National Anthem? Replace with an ox sacrificed to Jupiter and an official prayer of thanks to whichever Emperor might be sponsoring the day’s current feast of bloodshed.
The brawl in the second inning when a batter charges the mound after getting hit by a fastball? Replace with the brisk main battle of Trident Men versus Swordsmen.
The batter who stands with bat on shoulder and narrowed eyes, waiting for his at-bat? Replace with the gladiator waiting in the shadows with a sword on his shoulder, waiting for his bout.
The pitcher who exits in the sixth inning after giving up a home run, but pitched so gallantly he still gets a standing ovation? Replace with the gladiator who got speared through the shoulder with a trident, but fought so bravely the crowd gave a thumb’s up and spared his life.
The seventh inning “America the Beautiful” during which the crowd laughs, chats, and gets refills on their beers? Replace with the midday executions where the Colosseum kicks back, snacks, ignores anything in the arena, and waits for the big spectacle.
The steroid scandal about the designated hitter? Replace with the gladiators who tied little bags of pig blood to their chests and bellies, in the hopes of being able to fake a mortal wound and escape the arena alive.
The roar that goes up when a player hits a walkoff home run out of the ballpark? Replace with the roar that goes up when a favorite gladiator wins out against the latest enemy and walks out alive yet again.
Above all . . . the crowd. I have seen baseball crowds roar their appreciation for half an hour straight after a tight victory. I have seen them scream for a much-loved player as if he were a god. I have seen them rain abuse on rivals with genuine hatred. Emotions run high, and hey, it’s part of the fun of baseball. But is it that different from a Colosseum crowd? If you suggested to a crowd of Red Sox fans that their chances of winning the World Series might be improved by sacrificing a Yankee fan on home plate before each game, you’d be running at about 70% approval rate. 80% if the Sox were more than two games back in the wild card.
When I wrote a book about ancient Rome which had a gladiator for a hero, I found I didn’t have to work very hard in depicting the Colosseum. I figured it probably sounded a lot like Fenway Park in full throat after an extra-inning victory. And as much as I like baseball, I like to think I wouldn’t have liked the gladiatorial games if I’d lived in ancient Rome.
But as deplorable as they were, I can see why people did like them.
When I thought of writing an ode of appreciation to my favorite historical fiction authors, I assumed I’d start with one of my favorites–Bernard Cornwell, or maybe Judith Merkle Riley. But thinking further, I’ll start with someone less well-known, and for a very simple reason: she got me hooked on historical fiction in the first place. Meet Sally Watson.
Sally Watson isn’t the best known of writers. She wrote a number of young adult historical fiction novels that ranged widely over English and American history, and most of them are today out of print. I first came across her novel Lark at about age eleven, and it remains my favorite.
Lark is the story of a thirteen-year-old girl caught in the English Civil War, stuck among staid and disapproving Puritan relatives when her own Royalist family is forced into exile. Lark runs away, trying to rejoin her family, and instead ends up joining a young Cavalier spy named James who is on a mission for King Charles II. What makes this book one that I keep revisiting, even though I am no longer eleven?
1. Just the right touch of historical detail. Watson has a feel for her period and its politics, but she doesn’t drown you in facts. I’ve read a huge number of historicals that feel compelled to educate you, and I don’t read fiction to be educated. If all I want is information, I go to Wikipedia. I read novels to be entertained, and Watson knows just how to give the historical details that are needed before stepping back to let her characters take center stage.
2. Characters. The character development in this simple young-adult book is surprisingly sophisticated. Lark grows from a headstrong girl determined to have her way at all costs, into a dignified young woman perceptive enough to know when to stand back and bite her tongue. James’s crisis of conscience over his duties as a loyal subject is serious and well handled. These characters may be young, but they are allowed to struggle with adult problems intelligently. How many adult characters struggle with adult problems intelligently in today’s fiction?
3. Humor. When did historical fiction get so serious? Lark’s inner monologues as she observes her grim and stolid Puritan relatives (named variously Honor, Repent, Temperence, Patience, Submit, and Will-of-God) is a comic gem. James’s exasperated efforts to rid himself of the persistent and resourceful Lark are no less wonderful.
4. Intelligence. Since this is a young-adult book, there is very little gore. But Watson turns this into an advantage by having her hero and heroine rely on their wits to extricate themselves from trouble, rather than bashing their way to safety. There is a priceless scene where Lark, to avoid being taken up by Puritan soldiers, pretends to be insane and James falls promptly into line pretending to be her physician. He spouts made-up medical gibberish while Lark crosses her eyes and chews on her braid; the Puritans let them go; and they continue on their way with mutual congratulations to each other’s acting ability. It’s fun watching people be smart in fiction.
5. Romance. There is a surprisingly effective romance in this book, for all that there is not so much as a kiss in it. The age difference between Lark and James is only five years, but five years is insurmountable if the ages covered are between thirteen and eighteen. Yet romance grows anyway: Lark’s adoration for the lanky, charming James is understandable from the start, and James’s big-brotherly affection deepens to something more without once crossing into the ick factor. There is no hint of anything physical between them, but their shared intelligence, courage, and zest for adventure creates a love that will have room for passion too as they get older. How nice to see a romance that is based on shared emotions and experiences, not just lust.
Lark is not Watson’s only good book by any means–a later book follows a girl who gets caught up with the pirate Anne Bonney, and yet another tells the story of an Elizabethan girl who attempts to foil a plot against the Queen and instead gets caught up in a London thieves’ den. But Lark is my favorite–it and Sally Watson brought me to historical fiction in the first place, and for that I am eternally grateful.
There’s a lot of good historical fiction out there, but there’s also a lot of bad. In no particular order, here’s a list of my top ten peeves in historical fiction.
1. Twenty-first century attitudes in historical characters. Unquestionably first on the list. Nothing makes me toss a book faster than a twenty-first century feminist striding through medieval England, or a sixth-century warrior who has long relationship talks with his wife. Unfortunately this kind of thing is widespread, and I don’t understand why–writers wouldn’t dream of giving their Elizabethan-England heroine a cell phone, but they can’t seem to resist giving her modern thoughts and opinions. The fact is that most pre-modern parents did not think it abusive to marry off their teenage daughters; most pre-modern men did not have relationship talks with their wives; and any pre-modern woman who ran around demanding equal-sex treatment would have been smacked. Them’s the facts. You don’t like it, stick to writing about the modern era.
2. Trendy historical periods. I’ll admit that Tudor England was my favorite historical period as a child. But how many more books about Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII do we really need? Ditto books about Richard III. Let’s find some new historical figures to write about. England had a lot of kings. And there are other countries besides England.
3. Choosing a historical period or country for its accessories. Scotland is the worst victim here. How many bad historical fiction books have been set in Scotland simply so the author could have Scottish accents, men in kilts, and sex scenes in the heather? I like a man in a kilt as much as anybody, but do your homework. Crack a book or two, give us some details besides the obvious ones. Don’t just watch “Braveheart” and call it a day.
4. Sex scenes in the rain. Here’s one that made its way from the movies. Scarlett Johansson and Jonathan Rhys Meyers did it in “Match Point,” Andie McDowell and Hugh Grant did it in “Four Weddings and A Funeral,” Keanu Reeves and Charlize Theron did it in “Sweet November”–and now historical fiction couples are hooking up in the rain too. Be original. A Cossack couple hooks up in the snow during a thrilling novel of the Bolshevik revolution? Not very believable, maybe, but at least I haven’t read it before.
5. Ecstatic sex scenes in general. Half the fun of a good book is a vicarious bonk, but I get a little tired of virginal heroines who have ecstatic first-time sex. How many of us really had that much fun the first time? It doesn’t all need to be pain and blood, but why not give things a little more awkwardness? Might be funny and touching as well as sexy.
6. She hates him, but she loves him. Historical fiction isn’t the only guilty genre here–it seems like most romantic couples in books these days start out fighting like cat and dog, then finally realizing (with a gasp) that they’re in love. I think this one came over from the movies too. Let’s just skip it.
7. Humorless historical fiction. When did historical fiction get so serious? Did nobody pre-21st century ever laugh?
8. She isn’t beautiful, but she is. Heroines described as not being beautiful, but all the men in the book are in love with them and their large eyes and small waists are constantly referred to.
9. The pregnancy issue. No one in historical novels ever seems to think about getting pregnant. Even women who have a lot to lose by getting pregnant–unmarried girls, married women with husbands away from home–never seem to consider the consequences. Admittedly, reliable birth control was non-existent in many historical eras. But you’d think the women in these books would give a thought to the possibility of an oops.
10. List-making. Female writers are prone to make long lists of their heroine’s clothes and accessories. Male writers go on long technical riffs about their hero’s weapons. But unless the heroine’s shoe collection or the hero’s rifle-barreled pistols are going to feature importantly in the plot, spare me the details.
This list is by no means inclusive. Any other thoughts?
Philippa Gregory made it big with The Other Boleyn Girl and followed it with The Virgin’s Lover, The Queen’s Fool, and The Boleyn Inheritance. Now there are approximately 2,500 books about Anne Boleyn, Cate Blanchett garnered an Oscar nomination or two playing Elizabeth I, a major television show called “The Tudors” is racking up viewers, and don’t even get started on the existing Masterpiece Theatre specials, novels, and historical biographies already written in the past century.
I admit to being fascinated by the Tudors myself. I spent a good deal of my childhood pretending to be Elizabeth I sitting on the steps outside the Tower of London, just as I’d seen Glenda Jackson do in Masterpiece Theatre’s “Elizabeth R.” There were other queens–Catherine the Great of Russia, Maria-Therese of Austria–but it was Elizabeth who filled my childhood fantasies. So my question for today is: Why are the Tudors so trendy?
There are other historical figures who rack up a lot of fictional space: Richard III, for example. But his fascination can be explained by the hatchet-job his reputation received at the hands of Shakespeare, which has led to a counter-balancing determination by later novelists and historians to see his better side explored. But the Tudors are different. They were a dynasty of red-haired charmers who happened to rule England during a period of historical and cultural richness, and four hundred years later we are still fascinated by them.
The Tudors had that compelling combination of charisma, good looks, and turbulent personal lives that makes for such appealing tabloid fodder today. Henry VIII certainly wasn’t the greatest king England ever had; in fact, he squandered an enormous national treasury on personal entertainment. But the man had staggering personal charm–even those who knew better, like his daughters who were both denounced as bastards and their mothers either murdered or hounded to death, forgave his misdeeds. And he was the ideal of the Renaissance man so popular in the era, a handsome prince who excelled at warfare and physical sports yet also wrote poetry, played musical instruments, read widely, and appreciated the arts. So Henry is remembered today, that fat old bastard with VD who went through wives like tissue paper. Elizabeth had every bit of his charm, and the added gift of intelligence and diligence; she is more worthy of the adulation she continues to this day to receive. Her sister Mary was less attractive, but at least she was a religious fanatic and those always give good value fictionally. Their brother Edward died too young to be of much interest, but Lady Jane Grey as a more obscure Tudor came along to spice things up with her nine-day-reign, her tragic death, and her Helena Bonham-Carter movie. Even Mary, Queen of Scots, can be included in the aura of Tudor radiance: she had Tudor blood, after all, and the red hair, tempestuous personal life, and personal charisma that went with it. To the end, Mary’s charm persuaded people to help her against their better judgment, at least until Elizabeth took her down like the stupid, conniving fool she really was.
What I find amusing is that Henry VII, the founder of the Tudor dynasty, had none of the attributes that would make his descendants so famous. He was a dour, tight-fisted king who won his throne by treachery and kept it by tight-lipped suspicion, a man notoriously lacking in generosity, charm, or good looks. He even failed the family mold by having only one wife and being relatively faithful to her. He can be remembered as a good King, one who gave England some sorely needed peace and built up a prosperous and thriving economy. But no one writes books today about him.
In an era before television, celebrities, and tabloid journalism, people looked to royalty for entertainment. Kings who got the job done, like Henry VII, might be appreciated but not remembered. Kings who swung the other way and provided entirely too much entertainment in the form of war, rebellion, and blatant favoritism (Edward II, Richard II, Henry VI) might be remembered but certainly not appreciated. The Tudors, however, managed to keep things interesting without going overboard. Henry VIII’s revolving wives, Elizabeth I’s will-she-or-won’t-she marital status, Mary Queen of Scots’s endless plotting–the Tudors kept their subjects entertained while simultaneously providing peace, stability, and a cultural renaissance. No wonder they’re so celebrated today.
That being said, I do wish writers would give them a rest for a while. How many books about Elizabeth I, Henry VIII and various wives, and Mary, Queen of Scots does the world need? I love Elizabeth I, but I don’t think I could ever write a book about her. They’ve all been written. I think all the Tudor books have been written by now. Perhaps a brilliant writer out there can find an unlit angle for a totally new novel, but I’m skeptical.
Bottom line: The Tudors are great. Let’s appreciate them–and move on.