Last week we celebrated my birthday with a couple of days away on the South Downs. Two years ago was rather different. While Boris Johnson was comfortably accepting assurances that he never broke any rules, we were worrying about whether we were allowed to sit down and eat a cereal bar half way through our permitted daily exercise. Spoiler alert: we did.
Friday 17 April 2020
It is 5 weeks since I went to a café. That old, BC (Before Covid) life is fast disappearing. It seems another century, another era.
The Easter weekend was dominated by skating. On Bank Holiday Monday we did the big one – skating into Central London – through Barnes, over Putney Bridge and up the King’s Road. Familiar places with the unfamiliar feel of almost empty roads. The London plane trees are now fringed in yellow/green and the sun glinted off the river at Putney in a spectacular way.
We saw three other people when we rested on a bench in Sloane Square to eat a cereal bar (is that allowed?). Otherwise it was just the ghost of Peter Jones. Will I ever shop there again?
We skated up a deserted Sloane Street to Hyde Park, with its few central London residents scattered around. We paused by the Albert Memorial, admiring the overabundance of gold leaf, and headed for Brompton Cemetery and home. Unlike Hyde Park, Brompton Cemetery was heaving – joggers, cyclists and a couple of other skaters.
The whole trip was over 20 miles. We felt very proud of ourselves and absolutely knackered. I haven’t done 20 miles since my marathon days.
After that I didn’t go out on Tuesday. On Wednesday, Tom and I had a casual stroll along the tow path. And on Thursday my sole exercise was a trip to Tesco Express. It is much less crowded now, though I was annoyed that the young guy in front of me was pissing about photographing aubergines. I couldn’t move until he had finished. Like Paddington Bear, I tried a hard stare. Maybe exchanging photographs of aubergines is the new substitute for sex.
Spring is moving fast – gloriously, abundantly. Candles are now out on horse chestnuts. The cherry blossom is drifting into gutters, to be replaced with apple blossom and wisteria. Tom photographs bluebells.
The big event of the week was Tom’s birthday. I wrapped a large pile of presents, mainly gathered before the last milonga when I wandered around Soho, visiting the Algerian Coffee Store – a long, long time ago. Tom was particularly taken by Botts Every Flavour Beans. Zoomed Mike and Gilly (our son and his wife), ate simnel cake and watched Belgravia. Not quite the ballet at the Royal Albert Hall that I had paid for, but a birthday all the same.
A guest post this week from Carol McGrath whose latest novel, The Stone Rose, is published on 21 April.
Isabella of France, the protagonist of my new novel, The Stone Rose, left her homeland in 1308 on 7th February, aged twelve. She had married Edward II of England in Boulogne in January. Edward was twenty-three and certainly, despite a reputation given him by later Historians, was not adverse to women. He already had fathered a boy named Adam by a woman unknown to History. It has been thought, too, that later he had a sexual relationship with his eldest niece, Eleanor de Clare. This was suggested as possible by Historian, Kathryn Warner. Edward and Isabella did have a successful partnership for many years despite the fact Edward was predominantly a lover of men and probably bisexual.
Piers Gaveston, the third party in this love triangle, was a nobleman from South Western France, Gascony. In 1307 he was married to one of the King’s other nieces, Eleanor’s sister, Margaret. There are three Clare girls in this story. Edward had known Piers at least since he was sixteen and he was infatuated with the dashing Gaveston. Edward’s and Isabella’s marriage was a political match designed to consolidate peace between France and England and it never mattered what the personal desires of Edward and Isabella were. Edward scandalised his kingdom and his barons were furious when he appointed his best friend whom he called his ‘brother’ and who was possibly his lover as regent of England during his absence abroad. Edward’s first cousin, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, for instance, would have been more appropriate.
Edward might have been enchanted by the exceedingly pretty, educated Isabella who was exceptionally well-connected but for some years after their marriage he paid her little attention. She was, after all, very young and he was eccentric. He enjoyed the company of carpenters, blacksmiths and fishermen. He liked to thatch and dig ditches. His other hobbies were swimming and rowing. Isabella must have found these rather odd pursuits for a king. This was the medieval era after all. Equally, Edward was cultured and loved books, music and poetry as did Isabella. Writing this part of the book, I felt the Piers’, Edward’s and Isabella’s relationship was that of a young court, often extravagant and at odds with their elders. They were, within the pages of my novel, behaving as a charmed circle. We do not actually know how Isabella really saw Piers Gaveston and the royal marriage may have been initially consummated once to make it legal and binding. Given Isabella’s youth it was unlikely they had much of a sex life. Most girls of the nobility did not produce children before they were sixteen. Yet, Edward and Isabella would have passed time in each other’s company hunting, feasting and during Christmas and Easter courts.
Isabella arrived in England into a swirling maelstrom of conflict between her husband, who was utterly infatuated with Piers, and his barons. This created a crisis that threatened to bring the country to the brink of civil war. Amongst those waiting for the royal wedding in Dover that February, amongst the great lords and ladies, was of course Piers. Edward had eyes for none other. Piers has been described by various contemporary chroniclers. He is said to have been ‘graceful and agile in body, sharp-witted, refined in manners and sufficiently well-versed in military matters.’ Others said he was ‘haughty and supercilious’ but also ‘very magnificent, liberal and well-bred.’ He was a man of ‘big ideas’ and he was ‘haughty and puffed up.’ Edward adored him and this clearly went to Piers’ head. Poor Isabella! When Edward arrived in Dover he hugged and kissed his friend but this was a tactile age when kissing was common as a greeting amongst men.
The real trouble was Edward ignored the other barons. It is assumed Isabella hated Gaveston but there is no actual evidence she did. Much later, Isabella did loath Hugh Despenser but this was a very different situation. Piers never threatened Isabella or her queenship. Nor was she ever insulted by him. However, Gaveston did poke fun at the nobility. It is hard to get a sense of Isabella’s personality in the early years of her marriage. She was young for politics and too young to begin a family. We have no glimpse of her correspondence from these years either. Edward was generous to Isabella without doubt and there is no evidence of neglect. Piers was prominent at her coronation. It was extravagant and it was written in the chronicles that at the banquet following the coronation Edward payed more attention to Piers than to Isabella.
After the coronation almost all the English barons led by the Earl of Lincoln demanded Piers’ exile. Gaveston was banished but recalled after the Earl of Lincoln’s death. Edward made Piers Earl of Cornwall. The difficult situation continued with further banishments and further threats of civil war over Gaveston’s influence on Edward, until in 1312 Piers was captured by his enemies and taken from his castle of Scarborough to Wallingford. Edward thought the Earl of Pembroke would ensure his friend’s safety on this journey south and Parliament would make a decision about his future, probably exile again. Yet, when he reached Deddington, he was kidnapped by Guy Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, an enemy Piers had frequently mocked as the Black Dog of Arden. Piers was thrown into a dungeon at Warwick Castle, given a ridiculous trial and told he was to die. He was run though by a sword and beheaded on Blacklow Hill on the road to Kennilworth, his body left there to be discovered later by travelling clerics.
Warwick Castle
Isabella was four months pregnant at this time and in the North with Edward. The royal couple heard the news near Hull. Edward never ever forgave Piers’ murder but how Isabella reacted cannot be known. She most likely did her best to comfort Edward.
I found it fascinating to translate these events into a novel, to play with their emotions, second guess these and create living, breathing historical persons and portray all three, Edward, Isabella and Piers fairly. Read The Stone Rose to find out how I wrote this first part of Isabella’s queenship, a love triangle, as a work of fiction which I hope has integrity.
About the Carol McGrath
Carol McGrath is the author of the acclaimed She-Wolves Trilogy, which began with the hugely successful The Silken Rose and continues with the brand new The Damask Rose. Born in Northern Ireland, she fell in love with historical fiction at a young age, when exploring local castles, such as Carrickfergus, and nearby archaeological digs – and discovering some ancient bones herself. While completing a degree in history, she became fascinated by the strong women who were silenced in record, and was inspired to start exploring their lives. Her first novel, The Handfasted Wife, was shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association Awards, and Mistress Cromwell was widely praised as a timely feminist retelling of Tudor court life. Her novels are known for their intricacy, depth of research and powerful stories.
For more news, exclusive content and competitions, sign up to Carol’s newsletter at: www.carolcmcgrath.co.uk
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One of the lovely things about living in Britain is how you are really surrounded by history. Most of the time we don’t notice it. Of course, living in London, I know that there are medieval places like the Tower of London, but most people don’t visit them very often. What brings home to me how much the past is all around us, is that when we go to visit some historic site, as we did recently with Ironbridge, we so often end up in another (often much older) site that we stumble across on the journey. This time it was the remain of the 12th century Cistercian Abbey at Buildwas which is a pleasant walk along the Severn from our hotel in Ironbridge.
Like most of the abbeys in England, Buildwas was closed down during the Reformation and the lead was stripped from the roof so little is left but the walls. At Buildwas, though, the remains are in better condition than many other places. (A lot of historic abbeys are essentially just a few rows of stone marking out where the buildings once were.)
A particularly well-preserved part of the building is the Chapter House (where the monks held their meetings). It’s a small building as the abbey was actually quite a small community, but its vaulted ceiling reflects the fact that this was a prosperous place.
The guide books get very excited about the original tiling on the floor. The tiles are original and very beautiful but a close look at the floor shows that they have been reset over the centuries. This isn’t the original floor. In fact, part of the reason for the relatively good condition of the Abbey may well be that it was given by Henry VIII to the Grey family, who moved into the Abbot’s House. The family lived in it until the 16th century when it was sold but continued to be lived in as a private house. By the 19th century the Romantic movement meant that people valued having medieval ruins in their back garden and the work on the Chapter House floor and other evidence of repair work suggests that the owners of Abbey House were responsible for arresting the further decay of the abbey.
The abbey is now owned by English Heritage but the Abbot’s House and some of the buildings adjacent to it are still in private hands.
The abbey had some historical significance. Abbots in the early years of the abbey often acted as agents for the Plantagenets. The political importance of the abbots is reflected in the frequency with which they were summoned to attend Parliament during the reign of Edward I (1272 – 1307). The abbey fell from grace in the succeeding centuries, but the remains are still things of beauty and a reminder of our country’s past.
So how is everyone? Let’s start with V who left for Mumbai on 14 March, planning to return on 29 March. That didn’t happen, so she is now locked down with her two sisters and brother in a small hot flat, attempting to carry on with her job, although her internet connection is too poor to get much done.
V is desperate to get back to St John’s Wood. “We keep hearing rumours about repatriation flights but it turns out most of them are fake news”. It looks as if the UK Government is only interested in British Citizens, not people like V who have a permanent right to remain.
“How are you all getting on?” I asked. “You said you wanted to spend time with your family, but would kill them after a few days”. “Yes and yes”, V replied.
Young A has done better on the repatriation front. He was stuck in a tiny shared flat in London with a professional violinist. “I hadn’t realised how much musicians practice the same thing over and over again”, he commented. His father insisted he returned home to the West of Ireland, and sent a plane ticket. Last Sunday he actually made it. He was one of 10 passengers on a jumbo jet that landed in a deserted Dublin airport, from where his brother drove him home.
Meanwhile J has been coping by googling kittens – and found “the most adorable pair of brothers” to buy from a kitten breeder in Birmingham. I had assumed that the kittens would never arrive, but J classified them as “essential”. She found a friend to pick them up, and on Tuesday the Whatsapp group was full of kitten pictures. Then on Wednesday, meltdown: one kitten wasn’t eating and one had problems breathing. On Thursday, J missed the team meeting because she was at the vets. “It was like a doctor giving a diagnosis with a bad news face”. The vet reckons the kittens have congenital defects: it would be touch and go for the next two weeks. “I will give them the best care I can”, J declared.
I phoned yesterday at 4pm and J was having lunch. “I’ve been a full time carer. I’m blending their food, and feeding pellets one at a time, But they seem to be doing better. One has done a poo and I’ve never been so proud”.
I rang M who is still upset about the collapse of her son’s business. I spent time googling Government help, and her son falls right through the many holes. “They spend their whole lives on the phone to the bank, not getting through. I don’t think they go out at all. I’ve been taking them food, which I not how it’s meant to work”, said M.
Meanwhile, K snorted at the idea that she should stay indoors, when she is a young, healthy 72. “I have my old ladies to look after”. Both D and I were a little shocked that she had made a home visit to sort out an old lady’s phone.
But everyone has something – something that is essential to them if not to the rest of the country. J has her kittens; A his family in Ireland; K her feeling of usefulness to old ladies. Tom and I have skating and Mike has his long runs in the woods (reached by stepping over the fence from a layby). V described a car journey with her brother to pick up a bottle of vodka, cutting through Mumbai backstreets to dodge the police roadblocks. My resolution for the week is not to judge.
Yesterday, we went for another skate through the Spring heat haze to Bushey Park. The horse chestnuts were almost in full leaf – with leaves resembling a 1950 prom queen. The hornbeams were bright, light, full of promise. A really beautiful day.
Here’s the road through Bushey Park lined with horse chestnuts
[You might have noticed that my beloved always notices all the trees and flowers. I’m more an animal person myself. Here (taken on the same ride) is what she didn’t think to mention.]
Sunday 12 April 2020 (Easter Day)
Hearing that Boris Johnson is in intensive care has been deeply disconcerting. I woke at 3 in the morning a couple of nights running. Not that I actually believed that there was a grown up in charge of the system, but I still clung to the illusion. And it was made worse by the propaganda that went with it. I never again want to hear that the Prime Minister is “in good spirits”. Aren’t people in intensive care allowed to be scared and distressed and disoriented? Do we have to be “in good spirits” all the time? Perhaps allowing yourself to feel what you feel aids recovery.
It also led to the frightening prospect that Johnson might die and we would be plunged into another Tory leadership election, with all candidates vowing to be more Johnsonian than Johnson.
There is clearly no science behind what we are doing. All the numbers are deeply flawed – though I’m ashamed to find that “Italy coronavirus deaths” is in the top 3 of my most googled search terms. We don’t know what we are doing or how it will end. So for now we are (more or less) following the rules and switching off our critical faculties.
I coloured in the first of my Harry Potter pictures, feeling guilty about wasting time. I then realised there was no reason to feel guilty – a eureka moment. Right now, putting myself in suspended animation and quietly colouring in is all that’s expected of me.
Good news – my sense of smell is returning, very faintly. Tom found me (suspiciously) with my nose in the Nutella jar. “I’m just smelling it,” I explained. I can now smell chocolate and also, just about, coffee – though the base notes predominate over the top, fruity ones.
I’ve had a couple of really lovely reviews for The White Rajah recently. The latest was last Friday. Here it is:
It’s amazing how much difference something like that makes. I saw it late in the day and I was quite choked up. Believe me: most writers who say they don’t read their reviews are liars. Reviews matter in practical terms (Amazon reviews sell books) but they can also be a source of joy to writers. Heaven knows we don’t do it for the money! A kind word makes so much difference.
There was one fly in this particular ointment. Someone recently commented that they thought The White Rajah was far and away better than the James Burke books (which he also enjoyed) and wondered why the John Williamson series was not more popular. (It’s a view I’ve heard before.)
I think I agree with him that the short answer is that this kind of writing is deeply unfashionable. In fact, The White Rajah was agented way back when and rejected by several leading publishers on the grounds that it was “too difficult”. That was probably partly a comment on the language (it’s a first person account by a Victorian writer) and partly the subject matter. In any case, they recommended I try something more commercial and James Burke was the result, which all goes to show that publishers understand the market better than many authors give them credit for.
The logic of the publishers was that once I had established myself with something more popular I could ease my readership onto the slightly more challenging John Williamson stories. It never worked. To my delight, sales of James Burke are healthy (even healthier since I took them back from the publisher and published them independently). I am so grateful to the people who read them and support me in writing new ones. But, however much I try, I can’t persuade more than a handful to try the substantially better reviewed John Williamson trilogy.
It’s frustrating but I suppose it is what it is. Serious novels take more effort. Although my wife is always telling me how wonderful War and Peace is, I have never read it. Even Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (which is a really lovely book) has seen me bogged down a third of the way through for years now. People don’t have long evenings with nothing better to do than apply themselves to a serious novel. I must just remember to be grateful to everyone who buys the Burke books (and my fantasy efforts). But if any of you would like to get your teeth into something more serious, it would be lovely if you could give The White Rajah a try. (And if you don’t want to commit to that there is a short story about John Williamson and the White Rajah in the recently published short-story collection, Tales of Empire.)
