WHERE WAS I?

Apologies dear followers, contributors and general readers, but I am suspending this Blog as of today, October 11th 2010. Hell no, I hear the world cry, how can we live without those Who Am I?/Where Am I? historical fiction excerpts? 

The fact is, I've just realised that even if I write 1000 words a day of my third novel, every day, it will be Christmas before I finish the first draft. On top of that, there's still so much research I must do. Everything else, including world travel, trainspotting and camel-racing, must now play second fiddle or more accurately, no fiddle at all. 
(The exception is rugby and the Ashes cricket tour to Australia of course, let's not be silly here).


But the Blog has to go. By that I mean all the effort of sourcing material and posting. I'll leave it 'live' just in case anyone wants to send me a contribution, either from a novel they've read or one they've written -- find me via my website contact page or email me direct. All posts here are still open for comment of course.


Thanks to everyone who has contributed - your books remain available for purchase on this page. And the free ebook offer for Libertas and Goliath remains open to all visitors for now.

See you in Jan 2011!

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WHO AM I?

Or more to the point, who am I referring to? Of whom is Saladin speaking in this passage from Chapter 8 of The Swords of Faith, a novel about the Third Crusade by Richard Warren Field?

September 19, 1187
The Road from Ascalon to Jerusalem
Mid Morning
“He is asking my permission to violate his oath,” Saladin said. He was smiling as he shook his head.

Saladin and his entourage of guards and top command leaders had halted in the midst of a large column of soldiers. Support personnel with supplies, including catapults and large wooden components for siege engines, marched with the column. The column moved at a comfortable travel speed across a gently rolling, brownish-green terrain, through a mild, late summer climate. Saladin’s entourage remained mounted.

Saladin held up a letter he had just finished reading. “He says the people of Jerusalem have taken him into custody and demand he organize the defense of the city.” 

Taqi al-Din frowned with an “I-told-you-so” expression, then snorted in disgust. “Why do we ever accept the oaths of these Franks?” 

“At least he asks permission to violate the oath,” al-Adil said. “Usually the Franks just get one of their priests to release them from the oath, on the grounds that an oath to a non-Christian is not binding.” 

Saladin studied the letter. “We keep hoping to teach our opponents … something of honor.” He grinned. “XXXX writes me in perfect Arabic, respectfully, as if I am his sultan.” 

Taqi al-Din shrugged. 

“He’ll violate his oath. We know that,” al-Fadil said. “Make him squirm. Deny him permission.” 

Saladin shook his head. “Since we know he will violate the oath regardless of what we say, it costs us nothing to be magnanimous. We have yet another opportunity to demonstrate the superiority of our faith.” 

Al-Adil nodded. Taqi al-Din grinned. Al-Fadil shrugged. 

“In fact, we’ll take it a step further.” Saladin looked at Imad al-Din.
“Prepare our reply. Release XXXX from his oath.” He turned to his guards. 

“Take a squad. Tell XXXX we will escort his wife and children to Tyre, their safety guaranteed by my orders.” 

“What if XXXX believes this is a trick to take his wife and children hostage?” al-Fadil asked. 

Taqi al-Din laughed out loud. 

“They know our sultan,” al-Adil said. “They’ll know it’s no trick.” 

Saladin smiled. His brother’s observation was the greatest compliment possible. Even his enemies could count on his reputation of honor. Adherence to the principles of Islam—the world knew this was the source of that reputation. 

“In the meantime,” Taqi al-Din said, “we have reports from our advance scouts that Franks from Jerusalem are gathering all the supplies they can find to prepare for our attack. We have posted advance guards around the water supplies.” 

“We will be in position outside the Holy City before the sun sets tomorrow. That will end their runs for supplies.” Saladin looked at Taqi al-Din. “Don’t despair of our gesture of generosity to XXXX. The Holy City’s days of captivity will be ended by fire and sword as I have sworn. XXXX may yet curse his presence there to witness our triumph. Within the next four Fridays, we will have Friday prayers in the Holy City.” 

Taqi al-Din nodded and smiled.

Click comment below to post your answer. Even if only to have an educated guess, or just a stab in the dark. Here's a clue: If you saw the movie “Kingdom of  Heaven,” you may have an advantage.

1.    King Guy/Guy of Lusignan
2.    Conrad of Montferrat
3.    Balian of Ibelin
4.    Richard the Lionheart

When a few answers have rolled in, I'll give more details about this event in history included what each of the above were up to at this time. Meanwhile, you can find out more at Richard's website.

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WHO AM I?

"When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes"

Which medieval scholar said that? Clue: he was born in Rotterdam.

A. Thomas Aquinas
B. Desiderius Erasmus
C. Venerable Bede

Click 'comment' below to leave your answer.

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WHERE AM I?

I'm breaking my own rules. Here's a passage from Libertas, a tale of bravery, love and hope set in Spain and the Mediterranean in the closing stages of Julius Caesar's civil war. The sort of book that ought to be romping up the historical fiction charts but has just about got a toe-hold thus far. Written by me, Alistair Forrest. Nuff said. First, read this excerpt and answer the simple question below. Then, buy the book (UK and European readers scroll down to 'featured books' below left, US readers see the panel in this post). Sitting comfortably..?

A pair of eagles flew south, not circling on the hunt, but fleeing. Behind them a vast flock of smaller birds blackened the sky, ten thousand tiny wings rending the heavy air. Dogs barked everywhere, while above the clamour the terrified screams of stabled horses announced the dread demons of hell.

Alone in the garden, I sank to my knees, nauseous and sweating as if gripped by sudden fever. The tremor silenced the world, if only for the briefest moment that lasted for an eternity, the blacksmith god stirring from his slumber.

[*****] growled and spat a plume of black and yellow smoke high into the air, and the ground shook as Vulcan fanned his fires. I lay flat on the tilled ground that boiled and heaved, a deafening roar filling my ears, my head, my whole body, pulsating through me with crushing blows as the world convulsed in hideous agony.

As suddenly as it came, all was still.

I lay prone, my mouth filled with gritty soil, my fingers curling into the soft ground. Slowly, I lifted my head against the leaden weight that crushed down upon me, focusing on trembling leaves then further from my worthless world of terror to where dust settled on a pile of rubble that had been a corner of Corban’s house, shrouded as if by an untimely nightfall. Beyond, a pall of hideous smoke lay over Aetna.

But Vulcan was not finished. With a great crack of his hammer, he thrashed his forge and fiery tongues surged upwards; again and again he hammered while frenzied Titans hurled their rocks in confusion and anger and the great Cyclops bellowed its anguish. Huge fissures streaked the yielding slopes of the mountain, pouring forth effusive, crimson torrents as the mountain surrendered to the remorseless spite of the gods.

I tried to call out to Nahalia, but I could only croak pitifully. Hauling my reluctant body to my knees, I fought off another wave of nausea and crawled towards the violated house. A door was swinging timorously from twisted hinges, behind it a swirling blackness and the sound of protesting beams. I pulled myself inside and my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Eventually I found my voice and called for Nahalia; a gentle sob told me she was alive. I found her hiding under our bed, unhurt apart from the same sickness that had overcome me. I held her close, whispering irrelevancies that meant the world to her, then helped her from the house.

We found Corban, or at least a protruding arm, crushed beneath the awful weight of collapsed masonry, still clutching a dead mouse that he had been removing from the house when Vulcan awoke. We tried in vain to recover his broken body, the stones too heavy for us in our weakened condition.

We knelt beside his untidy tomb and Nahalia prayed in a tongue I did not understand, but we shared a common grief for the old man and there, in our fear and his peace, we wept.

QUESTION: Which Mediterranean island are we on? Click comments below and give your answer plus heaps of praise, you know the form!

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WHERE AM I?

Here’s another passage from one of Jen Black's books, Dark Pool. Simple question, where is Lord Sitric's hearth-hall? Last time we ran an excerpt from one of Jen's books we made it far to easy, so no clues this time.
 

Lord Sitric's hearth-hall was ablaze with light that evening. Hanging lamps lit the centre of the hall and wax and rush candles glowed from each support pillar. Hareth flinched on the threshold. "My eyes hurt," he muttered. "Make them take down the wall hangings."

Finlay glanced around. "It's not the hangings," he said, staring at Sitric's huge personal banner in the middle of the long wall. "He's pinned the sun to the wall. Look."

Hareth squinted up at the huge banner with its silver and gold stitching. It rippled in the up draught of warm air, and reflected the light in a ceaseless dazzle. "How could we have missed that this morning?"

"It certainly comes alive in the light. And here comes our impolite guide from this morning," Finlay said softly, staring across the hall. "I feel I might hit that young man before the night is through."
 

Click 'comment' below to give your answer.

Jen Black's The Dark Pool is the sequel to Banners of Alba and is available as an e-book from Fictionwise.com.

Jen Black's blog

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WHERE AM I?

This excerpt is from The Demon's Parchment by Jeri Westerson, part of her Medieval Noir series featuring the "enigmatic, flawed and sexy" disgraced knight turned detective, Crispin Guest. In this passage, it is 1384 and Crispin (called the Tracker) and his apprentice, Jack Tucker, have been hired by a French Jewish physician to track down some stolen parchments. Crispin is none too pleased with having to deal with a Jew in a country that expelled its Jews nearly a century before. He and Jack are going to meet with him in a place where Crispin is no longer welcomed.
 

The sun bled in streaks of faded color between slashes of heavy gray clouds. Crispin and Jack set out and walked for nearly half an hour down long, snowy lanes toward [X]. As they entered each parish, they heard the echoing timbre of church bells even above the howl of wind, each tower with its own characteristic sound. The deep tones of St. Paul’s, whose shadow hovered over the Shambles, soon dispersed and they entered into the domain of the tinny jangling of St. Bride. A few more streets and then St. Clement Danes’ urgent claxon gave way to Saint Martin-in-the-Fields’ timid pealing before even that sound was finally overshadowed by the rich resonance of the bells of [X].

Charing Cross stood rigid in the icy cold of the crossroads. Its cross and steps were snowcapped and solemn. Jack’s admonishment kept preying on Crispin’s mind: You’re taking money from a Jew? Was he that desperate? The answer came swiftly. His rent was due in a few days and he had no money with which to pay it. Martin Kemp, his landlord, was kind to him and often did not demand the rents on time, unlike his shrewish wife, who enjoyed constantly harrying Crispin on that very point.

Money. It had never been an issue before. Not before his ill-fated decision to join with those conspirators seven years ago, at any rate. There was money aplenty then. Shameless amounts of it. Wasted on trinkets for foolish women and wine with dubious friends. Where were those friends now? And where the women? He had tossed coins so carelessly to bards and beggars. He sunk sackfuls of it on gardeners for his estates in Sheen. His former manor was not far from the royal residence and appearances had to be maintained. If the king wished to stay at the Guest Manor, then it must be as well appointed as the king’s own. He recalled one year when he harassed the tenants for their rents early in order to supply his kitchens for the king and his retinue. There was many a time he had nearly paupered his own household in order to feed and house all of court. But he had not complained, for this had been for the old king, Edward of Windsor, King Richard’s grandfather. For the old king, he would have done anything. Even commit treason so that his son John of Gaunt and not his grandson Richard could sit on the throne.

Alas. Those days were long, long gone. His lands had been taken along with his knighthood, and the loyal tenants on the Guest estates called another man their lord. Crispin knew not who, nor did he care to know.
He glanced down at his own seedy coat and the sturdy cloak that hid its shabby appearance from view. Yes, that was a long time ago.
 Flurries arrived with the waning sun and Crispin quickened his step to keep warm. They followed the Strand now, heading out of [X] toward [X]. The shops and houses did not seem as crowded and the street opened onto a wider avenue where the spindly trees of gardens could be spied beyond the rooftops.

Crispin set his mind to the task at hand. What papers could a Jew value so much that he would seek him out? He must be desperate to venture from court, knowing that he would not be welcomed outside of it. He almost laughed. And to seek a man who was not allowed into court! A fine pair they were.

It was a simple theft, no doubt. Someone inquisitive about the Jew. Perhaps it was stolen as a simple prank. That made one of two possibilities: The papers were long gone, destroyed. Or someone thought them valuable enough to try to sell to a third party. If the latter was the case then they still might yet be recovered. If the former, well, he’d take his money from this Jew and be troubled by him and court no more.

So where are we? Three questions below, click on comment and have a go, even if you can't answer all three...

What city were they leaving?
What city were they entering?
What building were they going to?

Jeri Westerson's website.
Crispin Guest's blog

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WHERE AM I?

The last post was so easy-peasy. This time you'll have to try harder! This is an excerpt from a book I recently reviewed, An Involuntary King by Nan Hawthorne, which is based on a fictitious kingdom on eighth century England's eastern coast. Made up though this kingdom be, as well as the main characters, you do bump into some real historical figures in some intriguing historical locations. So this conversation between a fleeing queen (rescued by a dark and stormy knight - had to get that phrase in) and a monk named Willihad will give you a location clue. So, where is she?

"So I knew I must flee, to save myself and my children. I could see no other way than to let the mercenary lord help me. I could not simply walk out the gates of the stronghold."

"My lady, I credit that, but what concerns me is what you may have implied to the man in exchange."

Josephine turned hot eyes on the monk. "Forgive me, brother, but I made it quite clear that if he thought that my accepting his succor meant he could have me, he should withdraw his offer. Further, I told him that once we arrived wherever he would take me I would not live with him, not in any fashion." She glared, but something made her stop and think. "Oh," she said contritely. "I see. 'Wherever he would take me'."

Willihad' s eyes were warm with understanding. "That is why, my daughter, I wanted to speak with you. I feared you did not realize your own complicity in the elopement."

"It is not an elopement!"

"My lady, methinks you are the only person who knows that."

Josephine sat and thought about what he was saying. Her heart felt torn between what she believed, what she wanted to believe, and what the reality of her situation was.

"I suggest we pray together on this. Shall we do so at the shrine?"

"St. Cuthbert's shrine? Indeed, I should very much like that. I've not had time yet to visit it."

They gathered up the twins and made their way to the shrine of the holy man.  The Bishop and the boys were at the shrine as well.

"Mama, Cutberp!" Tavish cried.

"I was reading some of my verse about the lives of the saints, daughter. They were keen to see the place where one of them, a most holy saint, is buried."

Peter glanced at his mother. "Mama, when they took him out of his tomb he wasn't all rotted!"

The adults laughed softly. "Will you pray at the shrine with us, my boys?" Willihad asked.

Click comment below for your answer. No multiple choice this time. Told you it would be harder...

(There's an interview with Nan Hawthorne posted Wednesday August 18 2010 on this Blog, about how the author copes with blindness in her writing and book reviewing.)

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WHERE AM I?

You’ll find this tricky unless you’re reasonably good at Scottish topography! However, to help you along, author Jen Black and I have agreed to give you a clue - the place is at the mouth of a river that used to be called “Nis”. Och, that’s too easy, so forget I just said that while you read this excerpt from Jen Black’s first book The Banners of Alba, set in Scotland in 1035AD. The question is: Where am I?
 

"The ship glided smoothly forward with the incoming tide and
Ratagan studied the shoreline. Plump mallards and eider ducks,
beaks shovelling through the mud and weed, waddled through the
shallows of the broad, tree-lined estuary. Gulls swooped and dived over the wooded hill with the ancient ruined walls that stood like bones stark against the sky. She thought of the raucous colonies of long tailed gannets and fulmars that plundered the turbulent seas of the north and west, and a sudden longing for the white sand, turquoise water and golden brown gneiss of the western coast took
her by the throat and made her concentrate her gaze on the wooden landing stage where men and horses waited. She recognized no one. He had not come to meet her.

The horses made light work of the track up to the tall palisade
that ringed the new fort on the small hill by the river. Men within
would be able to stare down the length of the silver ribbon of water
winding through the thatched huts of (guess the name!) all the way to the estuary. A breeze brought fresh, flowery scents and from a turn in the track, she glimpsed the ring of soft green hills encircling the fort,
and the fainter rim of higher hills beyond. Her spirits began to lift."

Is it:

A) Edinburgh
B) Aberdeen
C) Inverness?


Click comment to give your answer...

Visit Jen Black's blog here.

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BLIND AMBITION: INTERVIEW WITH NAN HAWTHORNE

When US author NAN HAWTHORNE decided to review my first novel, Libertas, she kept me up to speed on her (astonishing) progress and fired the occasional question across the Atlantic ether. It became apparent that she needed to be sure of certain facts and phrases because she is legally blind… and that led to a number of questions of my own. It's a privilege to have one of the most prolific reviewers of historical fiction with us for this Blog's second interview...

Q Nan, you read an incredible amount and yet you are virtually blind. How do you do this?

A Let me define blindness as it applies to me in particular.  I have a condition that completely obscures my central vision, sort of the opposite of tunnel Vision.  Instead of seeing a narrow tunnel of whatever I am looking at, it is what I am looking at directly that is blocked. For a while, many years ago, I could just barely manage to read with peripheral vision… try it… it ain't easy. But that was quite a while ago.  It's not what is popularly known as age-related macular degeneration, which is a growing issue for aging Baby Boomers, but a congenital and hereditary condition. I didn't even know I had it until my twenties. By then I had already formed my lifelong obsession with historical novels.

Up until recently I was pretty much confined to the audiobooks provided by the National Library Services for the Blind and Physically Handicapped of the U.S. Library of Congress.  They have been around for as long as there has been manageable recording technology.  There was Braille before that but I am not a Braille reader.  The selection of books though immense is still limited compared to the selection someone who can read visually has access to.  So I have been pleased at all the new tools for reading that give me an opportunity to read even more.  Besides the NLS's latest, digital talking books, which are just audiobooks available in a digital format, there is the Kindle 2 with text-to-speech, a wider selection of unabridged commercially produced audiobooks, TextAloud, an application that converts plain text into speech, and my latest tool, a Plustek Bookreader, a sort of scanner that turns text on paper into speech, so I can now read any book.

Nevertheless, I mostly rely on digital talking books, audiobooks, and my Kindle 2.  The Bookreader can read anything, but it is a tedious and labor intensive process, so it is not my first choice.

As for reading a lot of books, I always have.  Remember, I can do dishes and housework and lie in bed in the dark and read... and the only time I don't have a book going is when I need to concentrate on writing!

Q You've also written a very long book, An Involuntary King, and you have another soon in progress. Tell us how you go about achieving so much.

A My desktop computer is equipped with unforgivably expensive software that not only increases the size of the text on my monitor but also reads aloud to me.  It is reading aloud each word as I type it now.  Really, most disability is no more than a mechanical problem.  A matter of how I get something from my mind into the computer.  That's not difficult with the tools available now.  The hard part is being able to write a ripping yarn, and I've been able to do this since I was seven.  The hardest part for me is research, but as more and more material is becoming available on the web.  I am not afraid to find a scholar and email her or him and ask questions, and they rarely are anything but pleased to reply.  With the Bookreader I can read library books.  But doing what, say, Sharon Kay Penman does, going to England or France and poring through early records... that I would need help with, not to mention money to travel!

Q And your blogs... how do you make appearance choices and, dammit, where do you find the time to do all this?

A I can see, just not detail.  I am also artistically and visually inclined.  The hard part is that the way the screen magnifier works is that it only shows a fragment of the view on the monitor at any given time.  Here is a screenshot so you can see what I mean. 


The result is that I don't get the overall effect until I turn the magnifier off.  I have been startled by how small my font is and how my blog borders, for instance, are so wide.

As to the second part of that question, I am a workhorse.  I love to work.  I find it hard to be idle even for a few minutes, though I do dearly love naps.  I do not have a "job" so that is not in the way, and unlike many other people I know, I don't let other people make demands on my time.  I don't have to ferry kids here and there, and since I can't drive, I have no errands.  My cats are quite happy to have me home with them all the time.

Q You seem to depend on new technology (such as your talking Kindle) and old (your husband!) - if you could ask the world's best electronic engineer for something more, what would it be?

A Oddly, I have never thought of this before.  I think I would like a mobile device, meaning something easy to tote about, that can access books remotely either from a store or a library, that has a speech synthesis program that as much as possible mimics the human voice.  We are close now, but unfortunately publishers are balking at making their books available out of fear people won't bother to buy their audio books.  This is ridiculous since anyone who does not have any choice will listen to the dreadful speech synthesizer on, for instance, the Kindle.  The other part of this is that I would want every single book ever written formatted so that it could be read digitally.  I am still somewhat at the mercy of someone who "chooses" books for me.  For good or ill, the NLS has a limited collection.  They have to choose what they think people want, and believe me, a book on the development of Anglo Saxon towns is not among that group.

Another cool device does exist, a handheld reader that you can move across a page and convert it to speech, but like most products for the blind it is highly overpriced.  I can't afford one.

Q Does being visually impaired make you angry and frustrated? How do you manage to remain positive?

A I used to be better at being positive, but losses in acuity and therefore independence have made that harder of late.  Fortunately I am so restless that I tend to forge ahead just to keep busy.  I would say my greatest frustration is not being able just to walk into a bookstore or library, pick up a book and peruse it.  Others are frustrated by not being able to drive.  Not me.  I am quite  happy cruising the Internet superhighway.  Sir Timothy Berners-Lee, who invented the web,  is my big hero.

Angry?  With whom or what?  What would make me angry is anyone who does not see the Nan behind the lousy vision, who admires me but not because I am bright and witty and resourceful but that I am all those things in spite of my vision loss.  I get angry with people with disabilities who don't strive for excellence or fall back on "they won't let me..." and with non-disabled people who do not see that making the world accessible is self defeating, since the one minority group everyone is eligible for is disability.  It will happen to you, and it could happen overnight.  Don't you want the world already prepared so you can go on with your life?

Q You are not afraid to speak your mind. Have you made any enemies?

A  I don't see the point of a book review unless you tell the truth as you see it.  It happens I actually know what I'm doing so my reviews are not the sort of "loved it/hated it" pap that abounds on the Internet.  Reviews are written for readers so they can decide whether to bother with a book, not to encourage authors, as the editor of one review blog I got kicked off of for my candor insisted.  That being said, I'm not willfully critical, never nasty.  Of course, there are a few authors who might not be so sanguine about my reviews, but I find that if an author really cares about her or his work, as, for example, you do, they want the truth.  Since I clearly am able to see under the surface of their work, I can offer views of both the depth of a work and also suggest better ways something could be written.  If even after that they hate my review, then so be it.  At least it was intelligent.

Q Of all the historical fiction you've read and reviewed, which three made your heart beat most passionately with their sense of time and place?

A Hmmmm, let's see.  Edward Rutherfurd's "The Dublin Saga", really two novels, "The Princes of Ireland" and "The Rebels of Ireland", while not consistently, had me riveted and emotionally involved.  I fell in love with Ireland after first seeing Disney's "The Fighting Prince of Donegal", and like Robin Hood, who turned me into the person I am today in terms of values, pursuits, identity, I am quite passionate about that land's history.  Rutherfurd's sense of the flow of history as it affects individual lives spoke to something in me.  I felt what it would be like to be part of that turbulent history.

Bernard Cornwell's "King Alfred" novels (Saxon Series - ed) really caught my imagination as well, not surprising with my fascination with Anglo Saxon and Norse England.  His gritty guts-all-over-the-place dramatization overcomes the tendency of novelists of the medieval era to make that time pretty.  I also find his willingness to aver the more savage aspects  of human nature refreshing.

One obscure novel that fits this discussion is Brandy Purdy's "The Confession of Piers Gaveston".  Within three sentences I knew I was reading something insightful and skillfully rendered.  I am not generally that big a fan of first person narrative as it, I believe, should only be used only if that style will reveal something important.  This is one case where it was perfect.  Purdy manages to convey that even the narrator, Piers Gaveston himself, doesn't know everything about himself and his motivations, knows perfectly well he is lying to himself and others, and this says more about his character and a more honest look at his time and life than just telling his story would.  It is sad to me that of Purdy's novels, this one gets so little recognition.

Q And have you ever read about a character in historical fiction that made you feel as though you were meeting them in person?

A Oh yes, and in Francis Crawford of Lymond's case, it scared the bejeesus out of me!  In the first volume of his Chronicles by Dorothy Dunnett, "Game of Kings", I was blown away by the breadth of his characterization, from irritatingly clever and caustic to utterly destroyed.  The succeeding five novels took me from admiration to anxiety to downright alarm.  I would not have thought any ending could seem to work with all that constant turmoil, but Dunnett managed it exquisitely.

Another one that deeply affected me is William de Braose in Edith Pargeter's trilogy "The Heaven Tree".  I know from Sharon Kay Penman's exhaustive fact checking and accuracy that the character in Pargeter's novel is heavily embroidered, was not the tragically romantic figure the latter paints, but nevertheless what happens to him had me mourning literally for more than two weeks.  I was almost afraid to read Penman's recounting of what really happened, but am pleased to say I was able to accept Pargeter's de Braose as a great character if not accurate.

It saddens me that I have not found a female character that has stirred me that way.  Maybe it is because I have so little in common with the women I know.  The characters they write have values and experiences I simply cannot relate to.  I even had a dickens of a time with the female characters in "An Involuntary King".  I much preferred the men.  That is why I decided to write the novel I am calling "Beloved Pilgrim", whose protagonist is a woman who wants to live as a man in her time, the Crusade of 1101.  I found writing her that I could not write anything but a lesbian, however, since I could not find a relationship with a man would not throw Elisabeth's character askew.  Maybe in another era, but not in 1101.  Perhaps someday I will be able to find or write a female character under 50 I can relate to.

Q How many books have you reviewed?

A If you just count my blog, That's All She Read, somewhere around 150.  It sure feels like more.

Q And finally, tell us about your next book...

A Working title "Beloved Pilgrim" is, as I mentioned above, about a woman who chooses to go on crusade as a man.  She disguises herself as her late twin brother in order to get away from a brutal impending marriage and to complete her brother's vow to go to Jerusalem and to find their missing father.  The Crusade of 1101 was a farce and revealed the worst in its leaders, like Raymond of Toulouse (a cartoon I did has Byzantine Emperor Alexius II  saying, "Raymond, Toulouse is your name, not your mission."). I am presently completing the second draft.  I hope to have it to an agent this fall.  I know the lesbian relationship may ruin my chances of getting the book published, but as other novelists know, characters simply do not let you choose who they are.  And there was no way Elisabeth was going to be heterosexual.  I admire her for sticking to her, um, guns.

Thank you Nan, for your amazing insight!

Nan Hawthorne has several blogs worth visiting, listed and linked below, but she is also a songwriter and runs an online Celtic music station, Radio De Danann.

Nan Hawthorne's Booking History (Facts and more)
That's All She Read (Reviews)
Today in Medieval History (Calendar)
Random Biographies (Short bios of the somewhat less celebrated)
Historical Blogs: Fiction and Fact (A bloglist of dozens of of historical and historical fiction blogs)

And for a review example, of which this blog's author is particularly proud, click here.

Read More... BLIND AMBITION: INTERVIEW WITH NAN HAWTHORNE

INTERVIEW WITH DOUGLAS JACKSON

His first, Caligula, introduced the Emperor's elephant to much acclaim and the zoology continued with Claudius. But Douglas Jackson doesn't plod like his creation, he races on from one great story to the next: now we have Hero of Rome and a sequel in the making. Welcome, Doug, to QHistorical!

Your third book is out and you’ve been a full time writer for a year. How does it feel?

Hero of Rome seems to be selling really well, it has given both Caligula and Claudius a boost and I’ve just had a great review by Allan Massie in The Scotsman so I’m pleased with the way things are going. I’ve had a fantastic year. It’s been great being able to devote more time to writing and developing ideas and I’ve seen more of my family in twelve months than in the previous five years. The only downside is that I took my decision to go it alone at the start of the worst recession since the Depression and the fear of what might happen if things don’t work out is always with you.

What was it that made you decide on Imperial Rome as the setting for your novels?

I was driving home from work one night after a friend had jokingly suggested I should write a book. Where do you start? They say write what you know, but the world I inhabited and my interests were very bland, so I was a bit lost. Luckily I was listening to a history programme and I gradually realised that history was something I loved more than anything else. Rome and the Romans have always fascinated me. When the guy on the radio talked about the Emperor Claudius riding on an elephant at Colchester, I knew instantly that was the story I wanted to tell.

How important are grammar and punctuation to you as a writer and a reader?

As a journalist and someone who spent ten years as a sub-editor crafting words on a national newspaper there’s only one answer to that. ‘Eats, shoots and leaves’ says it all. How can you achieve nuance and accuracy if you don’t know where to put a full stop or a comma? Since I started writing books I’ve come to love the colon (don’t laugh) and the semi-colon because they give more flexibility than a full stop. That may make me a sad figure of fun, but it also makes me a better writer.

When you are writing do you have an audience in mind? Is it a person, real or imagined, or a group?

I don’t think I write for anybody but myself, and I sometimes worry that it could restrict my output or narrow it so much that it loses its appeal. Hopefully I’ll develop as a writer and a person, or at least a personality.

  

What is the best piece of writing advice you’ve been given?

My agent Stan gave me a tip that I’ve found very helpful. Once you’ve got your idea for the book, lay it out a chapter at a time in single paragraphs. It gives you a perspective on the whole book and saves a lot of time writing yourself out of blind alleys, which was where I spent a lot of my life during the first book. A more fundamental piece of advice is one I keep giving myself. Just keep writing. It’s never wasted.

How does writing a novel differ from journalism? Do you think your career experience made the process easier or harder?

A novel is an entirely different beast from a news story, or even a two or three thousand word news feature. Sometimes a novel is so huge that it threatens to engulf you in its sheer complexity. It’s like wrestling an octopus with one arm tied behind your back. Luckily my career experience has helped me become an expert octopus wrestler. Dealing with words all the time means writing comes relatively easily and being in charge of something every day that keeps changing shape and requires enormous accuracy is good training.

Were you conscious when you were writing your books of other writers who have set books in the same milieu recently (Conn Iggulden and Robert Harris to name a couple)?

I was conscious that I didn’t want to be subconsciously influenced by them. I’d read Conn’s Emperor series and Robert Harris’s Pompeii and thought they were wonderful books based on great ideas. Caligula was then just a twinkle in my eye called The Emperor’s Elephant (I didn’t even dare call it a book – it was my project) but I wanted it to be as unique as I could possibly make it. I went back to the usual primary sources, Tacitus, Suetonius and Dio, and created my own Rome and Romans. I think I got it just about right, but I now realise that doesn’t make me particularly unique because everybody who writes good Roman fiction works from those same sources and naturally some of us will come to the same conclusions.

How did you go about researching your books?

I was a raw first-time novelist, actually not even a novelist, just a writer trying to tell a story. I didn’t have any understanding of the balance between research, historical accuracy and creating a readable work of fiction. But as a reader and a writer I knew the difference between right and wrong. I did a lot of research early on (that’s part of writing I love, that finding out new things that might interest other people) but I soon found that research was getting in the way of writing. Eventually I decided to write until I reached a point where I needed to know something and then find it out. That way it’s the story that comes first. I’ve since heard the term ‘info dump’ and I think it’s probably the historical novelist’s greatest enemy.

Some historians argue that Caligula was quite cruelly treated by history? How did you feel about that aspect of the character?

I’m not sure about cruelly treated. He was almost certainly, at least in his later years as Emperor, a vicious, sadistic, merciless young man who revelled in his power to inflict pain. Whether he was a psychopath, suffering the symptoms of some disease or the victim of drugs is another matter. I think being a journalist allowed me to read between the lines of the histories and I had a certain sympathy for the boy trying to live up to the memory of his father – Germanicus, probably the greatest Roman of his age if you believe the stories – and brought up in a gilded cage that gave him no relation to reality. That didn’t stop me using the juiciest bits of the histories to get to the heart of a fascinating fictional character.

What’s next after Hero of Rome?

My next book will be the continuing story of Gaius Valerius Verrens in Defender of Rome. It’s 64 AD and a damaged Valerius is back in the city of his birth and making a living as a lawyer when the Emperor Nero gives him a thankless mission that puts he and his whole family in danger. Two well known early Christians, plus the philosopher Seneca and naturalist Pliny the elder all have parts to play in a story of which is full of intrigue and political backstabbing and winds up with a barnstorming finale.

Thanks, Doug, we look forward to Defender. Respect!

Visit Douglas Jackson's Amazon page here (UK purchases) and see Doug's book blog here. 

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COMING SOON

Coming soon - author interview with Douglas Jackson (Caligula, Claudius and Hero of Rome) and new excerpts from superb historical fiction. Watch out for these week beginning August 9. Happy and fulfilling reading to all who visit here.
Alistair, aka Lord Teaspoon

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WHERE AM I?

Here's this Blog's first trip over to the Crusades! This period offers a fruitful hunting ground for well-researched historical fiction, made all the more acute by modern east-west tensions. To mark the July 2010 launch of The Swords of Faith by Richard Warren Field (Strider Nolan Media), here’s an extract from the opening scenes. Saladin's near annihilation of the Christian army led to the capture of Jerusalem later in the year, subsequently tempting Richard the Lionheart from Western Europe to try to take Jerusalem back.

“Lord God, this battle is over,” Count Raymond of Tripoli lamented. Pierre watched Raymond’s horse carry him toward Pierre through the middle of the slow-moving column. Pierre again recalled how dark Count Raymond was for a European. Raymond’s family, though originally from Europe, had lived and ruled in Outremer for three generations. Pierre, also third generation Outremer, felt an affinity with his leader. But the usually confident fifty year old noble, with a distinguished nose shaped like a hawk beak, like a Roman emperor, or a Greek hero, radiated dejection. “We’ve been betrayed. We’re all dead. The Kingdom of Jerusalem…” Raymond took a huge breath. “…is finished.”

“My Lord Count. We-” The defeat in Raymond’s voice staggered Pierre. Pierre sensed that bringing Raymond out of this mood could be crucial to his survival. “A charge, my lord. A charge to the lake. We may be trapped, but a charge to water can save us.”

Raymond stopped next to Pierre. He removed his helmet. “Pierre. My worthy young knight.” Raymond paused. “We just met with King Guy. I begged him to order a charge. But the Templars in the rear have fended off attack after attack. They’re tired. They have the king’s ear. I don’t. They have convinced the king…”—Raymond drew in a deep breath— “…to order a halt.”

“Halt!” Pierre’s eyes widened. “He orders us out of Sephorie and has us pass the Tu’ran Springs without filling water carts, and now he won’t order a break-out to the lake?”

“King Guy… will not listen to me.”

Pierre tilted his head in disbelief. How could the king ignore the advice of Raymond of Tripoli?

Where and when are these men having this conversation?

A) The Horns of Hattin on July 3, 1187

B) The Springs of Goliath on September 2, 1260

C) The Plains of Acre on September 21, 1291

Click 'comment' below to have a crack at this...

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WHO AM I?

Douglas Jackson’s third novel, Hero of Rome, (Bantam) was published at the beginning of July 2010. Jackson made his mark with Caligula and Claudius, and now the Scottish author will please his growing army of readers with this latest offering. In it, Gaius Valerius Verrens, Commander of the veteran legions at Colonia, leads his men in a last stand against the unstoppable horde of Britons. Step by step, the bloodied survivors are forced back into the Temple of Claudius where Valerius will win lifelong fame and the accolade Hero of Rome.

Here's the question: Who is the speaker in this excerpt:

‘No man among the Iceni has suffered greater wrong than I. I will take the fight to the Romans with sword and spear. I will destroy them with fire and with iron. I will have my vengeance! Go now and call the war bands. Every man, be he warrior, youth or elder must play his part. I will wipe the Romans and any who stand with them from this land or I will die in the attempt.’

Volisios stared at her, overwhelmed by her presence and her anger. He snatched a startled glance at Gwlym. Now he understood. The wrath of Andraste.

Click on comment below to leave your answer, and any further observations/opinions. Fire away!

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Carla Nayland's Paths of Exile is special. Her novel has attracted high praise from none other than popular historical fiction authors Elizabeth Chadwick and Michelle Moran, and we're delighted to feature this extract to show you just how right Chadwick and Moran are.

The speaker is Eadwine, the central character in Paths of Exile. He is trying to comfort his young nephew, Hereric, whose beloved father has just been killed in battle, by describing the glorious afterlife awaiting a fallen warrior. At the end is a pathetically easy question (go on, leave a comment) but we just wanted you to read Carla's rich prose!

"Now the door swings wide. The flames flicker and out of the swirling smoke strides your father. His mail coat glitters. The grey blade of the spear in his hand glints. The red eyes of the boar upon his helmet glow as if alive, defying anyone to harm the man under its protection. On his shield the fire-drakes writhe, blue and red and green. The hilt of his sword, gold and jewelled, flashes in the firelight so that it hurts the eye to look upon it. At his shoulder the brooch on his cloak sparkles. Beside him the slave girl, though a strapping lass, can barely stagger under the weight of gold and silver plate in her arms.


"The skald ceases in his song. All along the mead-benches the warriors stop their talk, fall silent and turn to gaze. Woden's handmaids pause in their serving and stare, nudge one another and whisper. There are great names among the drinkers in that hall, men who were kings here on earth, yet none came there more richly provisioned, nor more noble in his bearing. All eyes follow him as he strides through the hall. Who is he, this tall and handsome man, bearing gifts of such splendour? Surely a king, king of the greatest kingdom on earth.


"He approaches the top table where the gods sit at meat, the three sons of Tiw Allfather who rule the world of the gods. Woden in the centre, an awesome figure more than man-high, his face shrouded, his one eye burning like a coal. Lord Frey on the left, the foster-son, his golden hair bright as the sun. Thunor on the right, his shoulders three times broader than a big man, his red beard flowing over his mighty chest. On the table before him lies his hammer, that forged the earth and has shattered many a giant's skull, and in his hand he holds the whetstone that makes the lightning flash in the skies. You and I, Hereric, would fall in fear before them, but your father has passed the dread gates of death and they hold no terror for him. He stands before Woden as a thane before his king, respectful, admiring, but not servile, a free man among his equals. At his gesture, the slave girl spreads her burden on the table before the gods. They are pleased with the gifts, for though they have many rare and beautiful things, they have nothing finer.


"Woden rises, cloaked in shadow. He is tall, taller than the tallest man, and his head brushes the rafters of that lofty hall. His voice is like the roar of flame in a forest, like the thunder of waves upon a shore. Woden speaks."

Is the setting:

(a) early Anglo-Saxon England

(b) Carolingian France

(c) Iron Age Gaul

Click 'comment' and tell us what you think...

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WHERE AM I?

Blue Bells of Scotland is both historical fiction and a tale of 'time-leap' redemption. The American author Laura Vosika has enjoyed well deserved success with this, the first in a trilogy - expect Book Two in September 2010. Here's an excerpt set the night before a certain battle and featuring a certain fabulous lyric - Scots among you will be able to hear the defiant music as you read! 

Just hum the tune, name the battle, and leave any nationalistic comments that you wish (within reason!).

"Beautiful," said Robert. "A finer tribute to my brave men I've never heard. Give us another."

Shawn nodded, smiled to himself at the irony, and started his father's favorite, a tribute and lament to Bruce himself. His father had changed the words to reflect a battle won. It was unthinkable to sing any others, now. These men would fight bravely, and if he couldn't change history, at least they would die with hope roaring like forest fires in their hearts.

O Flower of Scotland,

When will we see your like again

That fought and died for your wee bit of hill and glen,

And stood against him, proud Edward's army

And sent him homeward, tae think again.

Men nodded, grunting their agreement.

Those days are past now,

And in the past they must remain

But we can still rise now and be the nation again.

As he returned to the chorus, men joined, a solid wall of confidence. Chills shot up Shawn's arms. Was he feeding them lies, or giving them the morale that would change their futures? It didn't matter. He sang with the rest, louder and stronger, and heard the words taken up at the next campfire, rich with tenors and basses.

That stood against him, Proud Edward's army,

And sent him homeward tae think again.

And louder still, from more campfires, the treble voices of boys who should be in school, the creaky voices of men who should be fishing at their cabins, and the forceful voices of Hugh and dozens of powerful men who would ride their garrons or carry mighty lances in tight schiltrons tomorrow, against charging warhorses:

That stood against him Proud Edward's army,

And sent him homeward tae think again.

The song ended. Voices stilled, till only the chitter of insects remained, humming in the night. It was like the moment when Conrad stood frozen, arms suspended in midair; the moment when the orchestra finished, but the last notes reverberated invisibly, and no one was yet willing to break the magic. Hope crackled all around them.

The Bruce raised his head. "A man who sees the future, as I thought."

 Click on 'comment' and go for it!

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WHO AM I?

Who said:

"The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad."

1. Julius Caesar
2. Adolf Hitler
3. Salvador Dali

Click the comment button to answer A, B or C with a witticism or even a serious comment!

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Historical Novels Review calls The Fairest Portion of the Globe by Frances Hunter (Blind Rabbit Press, 2010) "a well-researched, fast-paced, and incredibly lively novel of frontier war and intrigue in 1793 Louisiana." Whoever controls the vast domain along the Mississippi River will decide the fate of North America. It's winner take all...and the losers might include two reckless young soldiers whose dreams of adventure in the West will end in death or glory.

So where is this...?

For a while he forgot himself completely. The ground was bubbling with salty springs that ran warm over his fingers. Mastodons, mammoths, and other ancient animals had come here to drink, and their fossilized remains were everywhere. He picked up several giant teeth and stuffed them in his knapsack; he spent a glorious hour trying to find the tibia and fibula to match a giant thighbone he found standing on end at the edge of a bubbling spring. Tusks, ribs, and skulls lay on the ground, their cavernous eyes gaping at him as he rambled amidst the salt flats, the only living creature in a vast tableau of lovely, ruined solitude. He wished with all his heart that he could box up all the fossils and cart the lot of them home for Mr. Jefferson.

Picking his way around the lick, he thrilled to the tremor of the bog’s skin beneath his feet. Across a stretch of sodden earth, he saw a sight that took his breath away: the skeleton of an ancient horse resting on a sandy ledge, scattered upon the ground as if the animal had simply laid down to sleep a million years ago. His heart almost burst with longing. He had to see it—to touch it—to count the bones—

Beneath him the ground quaked, little more than a saturated sponge of smelly, half-rotted vegetation. But what the hell! Who ever gained anything without risk? Carefully shifting his pack to balance the load, he had held onto a tree branch and stepped out gingerly onto the bog. It held.

A wild surge of rapture overtook him. For a crazy moment, he started to bounce. His movement caused ripples to undulate out in all directions as the bog rocked and quaked. Grinning like a madman, he watched the trees that clung to the tangled mats of moss rise and fall along with him.

Strong enough to hold a man’s weight. Here goes—

Click comment to tell us who is this excited young man, and whether he and his partner in discovery examined the fossils at:

a) The Rancho La Brea Tar Pits in California

b) Big Bone Lick in Kentucky

c) Olduvai Gorge in eastern Africa

All opinions and thoughts welcome!

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WHO AM I?

Know your Roman Republic history? This one is relatively easy. Who is speaking? Answers via comment button as usual.

From Imperium by Robert Harris (Hutchinson), (UK link click here), a superbly-told recreation of the last decades of the Republic as seen through the eyes of Cicero's secretary, Tiro:

He took up a pointer and rapped it on the painted board. ‘I propose we divide the Mediterranean into fifteen zones, from the Pillars of Hercules here in the west to the waters of Egypt and Syria here in the east, each zone to have its own legate, whose task will be to scour his area clean of pirates and then to make treaties with the local rulers to ensure the brigands’ vessels never return to their waters. All captured pirates are to be handed over to Roman jurisdiction. Any ruler who refuses to cooperate will be regarded as Rome’s enemy. Those who are not with us are against us. These fifteen legates will all report to one supreme commander, who will have absolute authority over all the mainland for a distance of fifty miles from the sea. I shall be that commander.’

Click comment to give your answer, and while you're there, if you've read Harris, tell us what you think...

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WHO AM I?

This answer is among the toughest yet, unless you really know your kings and queens, although there is a multiple choice to help you along. It's from Michael Dean's brilliant 'Hirschfeld's Friends'. The novel tells the enthralling and little known story of the Amsterdam ghetto and the only civilian strike against Nazi occupation. It also features the moral dilemma of the Secretary of State for Economic Affairs during the Nazi occupation of Holland, Hans-Max Hirschfeld. He was a Jew and the Nazis knew that. (Read more about Hirschfeld's Friends and The Crooked Cross.)

The question is, who is the queen in this passage?

Robert was sitting with Queen [X], at a tea-table on the lawn, in the shade of a chestnut tree. He sat with his back to the Dutch royal residence, a mews house in Chester Square, just behind Buckingham Palace. The house, number 77, had recently been hit by a bomb. The damage had been repaired, but the Queen would not let it be repainted, because repainting would not be possible for ordinary citizens back home. She also refused to eat any food not available to her suffering people.

‘Are you still dead set on going back, Robert?’ the Queen asked him.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Who is the queen? Click comment below and give your answer, opinions and reminiscences welcome.

a) Juliana of the Netherlands

b) Queen Elizabeth

c) Wilhelmina of the Netherlands

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By 1066 Harald Hardraada had earned the nickname Landwaster through through ferocity and ruthlessness. He also had a secret weapon of huge value. 'The most dangerous little bugger alive,' is how the terrible Landwaster complacently describes his chief of staff, the Scraeling. That gives you an idea of Michael Burr’s riveting take on the momentous events of a somewhat crucial year in English history! This excerpt is from Landwaster by Michael Burr, an exciting debut author published by Quaestor2000.       

However the English, too, were heartened at their success in that most unlikely of sectors, and when Tostig’s line began to bend a third time fierce eyes on top of the hill marked it.

        

Hardraada’s trumpets screamed and the Landwaster banner swooped down the hill as the ravens of Odin stooped and the leder’s personal praetorians crashed into the English fyrd to send them staggering and reeling back into the embraces of the marsh.  Once the deed was done, though, the trumpets pealed again and the banner retreated to the hilltop where it paused only long enough to see Skuli’s division launched like a dart along the firmer banks of the River Ouse at the English right before it thundered again down the hill to bury itself, a huge steel arrowhead, in Morcar’s centre.

                 

Suddenly – and from where I watched it was like the snapping of a rope – the English line collapsed and Skuli simply rolled it up as I had been wont to roll up my cloth after an afternoon’s amber-trading in Miklagaard.  Resistance before him ceased and the ravens gorged and gorged as axes and blades rose and fell and the battle dissolved into knots of figures struggling to surrender to those too drunk with slaughter and blood-lust to take any heed.

        

Perhaps fifteen minutes had passed between Hardraada’s thunderbolt charge to Tostig’s aid and the English rout, and as I watched the final stages, sickened, a growing stream of figures ran, staggered and stumbled along the road back to where the walls of the city were just visible in the distance.  Dark figures leaped in pursuit with the energy and vigour that comes from triumph, but Hardraada’s trumpets wailed for the last time that day and, reluctantly, the dark figures broke off and turned back.

        

Oh I knew why – and it had nothing to do with mercy.  Nothing urges surrender quite so dramatically as the visible presence of a bleeding defender, and the remnants of a shattered army would tell their own story.  The Rus again, I thought – leave a few to tell the tale.

        

And across the field in a day that was not yet ten hours old, came striding Hardraada, dread lord of the North, acknowledging the “Vess-heil!” salutes of his warriors who were despatching the dying, and looting them ere they stopped twitching.   But neither he nor they knew that the Landwaster, the most famed soldier of our time, had won his last fight.

Click ‘comment’ and name the battle!

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