Recommended

After how ever many weeks of suffering my rambling history lessons or slightly rubbish prose, I thought it time that I recommended someone who can actually write a brilliant page-turner.

     Susanna Gregory writes a series of books (totalling sixteen published so far) about a physician called Matthew Bartholomew. It’s set in Cambridge in the middle of the fourteenth century. Bartholomew is a member of the University, and helps his friend Brother Michael to solve the murders of their fellow scholars. (After sixteen books spanning about ten years, I’m unsure how many people can be left alive in Cambridge to kill off, especially as the first book ushered in the Black Death as well). These books are complex and various plot strands are intertwined within each novel so that you’re left guessing until the last page as to what actually went on. The quantity of victims in each book is rivalled only by an episode of Midsomer Murders, and the variety of chilling ends include a death by snow drift. Classic. What I love most about these books though is their protagonist. He is cleverly written so that even after sixteen books (read at least three times each) I still couldn’t tell you what colour were his eyes. This may sound annoying, but in fact because of the lack of physical description the reader is intentionally left to create their own image in their mind. It’s not all plague and murder though, there is the odd humorous scene and character to lighten the mood. I always think that they would make a good television series. But no doubt if that did ever happen I would only complain that they had got something entirely wrong. After all the book is always better. These books have got me through train journeys (and delays) that might otherwise feel endless, and is my current salvation as dissertation deadline’s loom ever closer.

     And so now I shall leave you with a passage from The Tarnished Chalice, the twelfth chronicle in the series (picked simply because it is sitting beside me on my desk as I write this).

Then Bartholomew emerged, wondering what was taking the monk so long. He stopped short when he saw the monk cupping his hands over Christiana’s as they struggled with the flame together.

     ‘My colleague,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move his fingers from Christiana’s silky skin. ‘The one who sneaks off in the middle of conversations, leaving his friends talking to themselves.’

     Christiana inclined her head in response to Bartholomew’s bow. ‘And the one who likes to linger in mortuary chapels. Reading, apparently.’

     ‘Only if I have a lamp,’ said Bartholomew tartly, elbowing Michael out of the way so he could light it himself; the monk was taking far too long over the operation.

VI. Motive Upon Motive…

Heloise’s curious grey gaze alerted Hugh to the fact that he had drifted into past recollections rather than answering her question. His hand dropped self consciously from his neck, where it had been holding the worn and dirty amulet.
     “We’ve come to pray for the souls of William Marshal and my father, who both died this past year.” They were at least his ostensible reasons for a pilgrimage to Canterbury. He could also have included his wife and child in the list of suffrages. Hugh though had no intention of revealing his true motivation - penance. Even his friend Richard was unaware of how far the past still haunted him. After Eleanor’s death his actions had become wild and undisciplined in an attempt to penetrate the numbness that had settled over him like a shroud. He had lost his lands to the Welsh, debauched himself with women and drink, and gambled away the rest of his money. On the journey to Canterbury Richard had railed against Hugh’s strictures for the forsaking of pleasures, mockingly stating that Hugh might as well become a monk. He was however happy for Richard to believe him particularly prudish, for it kept him further from the truth. Part of the reason that he had spoken up for Richard at the Earl’s table was because he saw in his younger friend the same potential for the downward spiral of self-destruction. His own soul might be beyond redemption, but he would try and save that of his friend’s. “And yourself? What has brought you to the city?” Heloise gazed back at her father, who she had just seated with much grumbling by the fire. Her tone when she turned to face Hugh was worried.
     “My father is unwell. The physicians can only say that his humours are imbalanced, which is their way of saying they have no idea what is wrong with him. But father believes that a miracle is what he needs to cure him, hence why we’re here. He thinks that Becket’s tomb will make him well again. But I…” She trailed off, her hands fidgeting with the worn leather belt looped around her shapely waist.
     “And you think?” She dropped the belt and looked him squarely in the eye.
     “And I think he should not have made this journey. It has only made him unnecessarily worse.” Hugh thought back to the soldier at the gate and his miracle story, presumably told to every pilgrim that entered the city to confirm that their journey had been worthwhile. Heloise’s calm practicality and scepticism stood in contrast to her outwardly pious actions and youth. She shrewdly guessed his surprise and continued, “A warm fire and rest will do a man more good than traipsing across the country in the cold and damp to visit a bunch of dusty old bones. No matter how holy they are. It’s common sense. And I imagine that most of our fellow pious pilgrims have come for equally practical reasons. Your own motivations seem rather unlikely, and explain nothing of the presence of your friend.” Her eyes flashed daring him to challenge her perceptions.
     “Perhaps. But perhaps they are also exactly as they seem.”
     “I cannot consider though that a man in your position and with your experience can possibly believe that a pile of mouldering bones can make lame beggars walk or forgive a man his mortal sins.” Heloise instantly wished she had bitten her tongue rather than impetuously spoken her mind. Lines of sorrow darkened Hugh’s face as he replied,
     “But don’t we all need something to hope for?” Heloise felt once again, that though his eyes were fixed upon her, his gaze had in fact turned inwards. She reached out a hand, intended to comfort and apologise, but a loud shout from the undercroft made her outstretched hand freeze and made Hugh regain his senses. They regarded each other for a moment, before a second shout and a loud clatter followed swiftly after. Heloise turned, her gown bunched in her hand so it did not impede the speed of her movements.
     “It’s coming from the undercroft. Quickly, follow me.”

V. Flashbacks…

A long high scream filled the humid night air. Hugh looked up to the open window, his hands clenched uselessly at his sides. It was not his place to go to her aid; she was in the care of the midwife now. He had escaped the suffocating presence of his men in the great hall, but still he felt confined. As he paced his agitation unsettled the horses bedded down in the stable. He stopped, rubbing a firm and gentle hand across his destrier’s flank. The motion soothed the beast, and momentarily calmed the thundering in his heart.
     It was unbearable hearing her cries of pain and being unable to comfort her. She had been his wife for less than a year, but had been his friend for many before that. Friendship had as they had gained maturity developed into love, and the match had long been approved of by both families. Another scream pierced through his heart, and he pushed a hand raggedly through the tangle of his blonde hair. He had left a week ago to check out the reports of Welsh bands encroaching on his lands. He could still picture Eleanor ripe with child raising a hand to bid him farewell as he rode out from the courtyard. Her golden hair swinging down her back in a long braid, her pale blue gown stretched over her stomach and her cheeks rosy with health and vitality. As he rode away that day he had never been so content with the hand life had dealt him. He had a wife who he adored, a child on the way, and if God wished it an heir to the lands he had gained through marriage. Many a man might envy him. When he returned however storm clouds had begun to gather. He arrived home to be greeted with the news that the Welsh continued to cause trouble and his wife had gone into labour too early. Eleanor was young and healthy, the midwife had assured him, but Hugh knew that childbirth was dangerous for women of all stations and years.
     Hugh’s gaze returned to the open window of their bedchamber. No more cries echoed forth across the courtyard. The night remained still and silent. He feared this deafening silence more; for when there were cries there was at least the hope of life –
     The sound of soft foot fall scattered Hugh’s thoughts.
     “My Lord?” A tentative and anxious female voice caused Hugh to turn slowly. His heart clenched as he saw the ghostly pallor of one of his wife’s maids.
     “Tell me.” Choked and rough as it was, he scarcely recognised his own voice.
     “Your Lady wife bore a son. But the babe was too small to live sir. And…” The maid stopped as Hugh bowed his head. “Your wife, my Lord. She is… She is also dead. She lost a lot of blood, and the labour was so long she was too weak to fight it. I am truly sorry my Lord.” She stood there waiting anxiously for some kind of acknowledgment so that she could take her leave. It was impossible to face the desperate sorrow etched into Hugh’s features.
     “Thank you Matilde. I shall attend directly.” His words were merely a meaningless courtly dressing, but she heard the quiver of badly concealed emotion in his voice. She curtseyed though he paid her no heed, and turned walking back to the hall unable to watch such a proud man crumble under the weight of his grief.
     Hugh remained still for some moments, his senses reeling as if he had been hit over the head by the pommel of his sword. It seemed impossible that she was dead. She was still so real in his mind’s eye. As tears hazed his vision, images of a gap-toothed child blurred with the radiant woman she had become. He chocked back the tears, and instead lashing out with grief-filled rage, Hugh gave a hoarse cry and punched the stone wall. He felt satisfied with the flash of physical pain that momentarily blocked the emotional pain. His hand bloodied and torn went to the amulet he wore on a piece of leather around his neck. It was a gift presented to him by Eleanor when they had still been children. A plaited piece of golden hair, hers and his intertwined as their lives had always been. But no longer. He dropped the amulet as if it had suddenly burnt his hand. He couldn’t bury himself in his grief, hiding away from the world and nursing his wounds, too many lives and livelihoods depended on his actions. He would ride out on the morrow, and fight the Welsh whatever the outcome. His life was worth little now that it had become unravelled from the careful plait it had once been.

William Marshal - The Top Ten

Having got rather bogged down with essay writing this week, I thought I’d take another detour and talk a little about William Marshal instead. (Also as my nearest and dearest will know I’m ever so slightly obsessed with the man, and will take any opportunity and means to indoctrinate hapless strangers with facts about his life). And so I present what I consider to be the top ten facts that everyone should know about this extraordinary man. (Read carefully…I will be testing you at the end)!



1. He was held hostage at the age of five by King Stephen, and was threatened with death by catapult. The Marshal’s father (being such a badass and everything) coolly shot back that he “still had the anvils and hammers to produce even finer” sons.


2. His protégé (of sorts) was Henry the Young King, a figure forgotten in history almost as much as the Marshal himself. (Henry doesn’t even make it onto my ruler which lists the Kings & Queens of England, but neither does Lady Jane Grey for that matter).


3. He was illiterate. Hollywood please take note, for in Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood he would not have been able to read the note sent to him by his spy. (Also it wouldn’t have been written in English either, because in twelfth-century England stuff was written in French or Latin, Anglo-Norman at a push. But now I guess I’m just being picky).


4. At the age of fifty he was besieging castles and running up ladders. Though once he had got to the top, he knocked out an enemy solider and promptly sat on him whilst getting his breath back.


5. He witnessed the Magna Carta. In fact he signed the Magna Carta along with the several other Earls. Considering how important school history tells you the Magna Carta was it’s funny that nobody has heard of the Marshal. (Consequently I now consider it my life’s work to make up for this deficit).


6. He was buried in Temple Church, London. The Marshal became a member of the Templar order just before his death, after having travelled to the Holy Land earlier in his life. His effigy (sans nose and leg – damn those German bombs) can still be seen today in Temple Church, along with the effigies of at least two of his sons.


7. He had five sons but none of them produced an heir before their deaths, and so his earldom passed out of the male line. Matthew Paris describes in his thirteenth-century chronicle the foolish manner in which Gilbert Marshal died. “He was…destined to clerical orders, and was reported to be weak and unskilful in warlike exercises…Whilst the earl, then, was amusing himself by checking his horse at full speed, and anon goring his sides with his sharp spurs…suddenly…both the reins suddenly broke off...the horse became unmanageable, and…struck his rider a violent blow…he…began to totter in his saddle, and soon after fell, half-dead, from his horse—with one foot, however, fixed in the stirrup; and in this manner he was dragged some distance over the field, by which he suffered some internal injuries, which caused his death.” Ouch.


8. He has a 19,214 line poem written about him, which is pretty impressive stuff considering he started out life as the fourth son of a minor royal servant.


9. He was described by the late Annalist historian Georges Duby as having a strong sword arm but a “small brain”. (I know he’s dead and that he was one of the best medievalists but still…I don’t like that guy)!


10. He was according to the Archbishop of Canterbury Stephen Langton the “greatest knight that ever lived”. Enough said.