The New Forest - before it was New.

Judith Arnopp

Home of The Forest Dwellers

photographs property of  JudithArnopp and CherryWathall

As a child I spent many holidays in the New Forest. In those days we were permitted to camp where we chose; there were no camp sites, no shower blocks, very few other tents and certainly no caravans. I drew on those days when I wrote my novel The Forest Dwellers in 2009.

It was autumn, the forest canopy a blaze of gold with a milky mist curling about the heath. The new day smelt fresh; a hint of thyme and the tang of coming winter tickling our noses. A fox ran across our path and disappeared into the wood and, farther off, we heard the bark of rutting deer, the cry of a curlew.

I recalled playing beneath the wide green canopy of beech, wading in the amber coloured streams and breathing in the stiff Solent breeze. Even though I now live far away in Wales, the soft wildness of the New Forest stayed with me and the scent and sounds of the wood echo through the centuries to provide a back drop for Ælf and Alys, and Leo.

There is something about the forest in the late afternoon. The aromas are richer, the sounds more musical, the shadows deeper and the broken light more dazzling. I am not a man given to fancy but, as we rode through that silent glade, it was as if the wood were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Recently, I had the opportunity to revisit Hampshire and rediscover that lost perfect place of my childhood. It took some looking but, a short walk away from the caravans and campers, I found it. It was concealed in the quieter, lonelier spots and as I ventured deeper into the forest I swear I could hear the song of Ælf's bowstring and the gentle laughter of the people who lived and died there so long ago.

I visited Boldre church. Not the structure where Alys and Ælf worship in my story but a newer 12^th century building. The woodland around it has been cleared now but the peace remains and the birdsong is just as loud. I half-closed my eyes and imagined it as it might once have been.

A light drizzle began to fall soon after we left the camp and by the time the wooden shingles of the church roof came into sight, we were all mired to the knees. Boldre church was an ancient structure built by the first Christians ever to venture as far as Ytene. The wooden walls were full of rot and the flagstone aisle had subsided so far into the boggy soil that it drove the congregation toward the altar whether they wanted to reach it or not.

It was colder than death. I looked around at the pinched noses of my fellows and acknowledged to myself that at least hell would be warmer. Beside me, Alys clutched a warming stone beneath her cloak. Its heat must have dwindled by now but she refused to give up on the tiny remnant of comfort that lingered. Sensing me looking at her, she smiled cheerfully, a glimmer of snot at her nostril. At her side, Leo shifted from foot to foot, bored and frustrated; he wanted to leave as badly as me. I guessed he was wishing he had not been swayed by Alys’ wiles and had stayed at camp with the other men, and it wasn’t long before I felt that way too.

By the time the droning priest had reached the end of his sermon, people were stamping their feet and clapping their arms to warm their blood. But, at last, the service was at an end and we tumbled from the church door to find gentle snow had begun to fall.

 We trudged home through the darkening wood. The snow provided a muffler that made Alys’ song about a lonely seaman ring out clear across the wood. I tried to join in but my voice creaked and jarred beside her crystal notes, so I stopped and just listened instead.

The scent of snow was heavy in the air, although not much penetrated the canopy of the wood. The wind had risen and above us, the naked branches clashed together, sounding like two giant fellows fighting with staves. We wrapped our cloaks tight about our bodies, put our heads down and trod a fresh route home. None of us ever used the same way twice if we could help it, for that would lead to tracks and we needed to remain invisible.

The Forest Dwellers tells the story of the ordinary people and how they suffered when William the Conqueror and his successor, William Rufus, enforested the land for their own use. The Domesday Book tells us that in 1065, before the invasion, the villages cleared for the main part of the forest consisted of an estimated five hundred families, possibly two thousand men, women and children. This estimate does not allow for slaves, personal retainers or men working under villeins, it only represents the landowners or occupiers. Not a huge number when compared with the devastation caused elsewhere by the conquering Normans but enough, I think, to generate a considerable local resentment. Yet the atrocities that went on there are largely unremarked. F. Baring sums up the situation in his essay The Making of the New Forest:

“Apparently the evictions were not, in the opinion of the analysts, so large, compared with the devastation caused by the Conquest in other parts, as to call for mention in summing William’s reign and character; but there was more than enough for men to say that his son’s death in the forest was a judgment from a heaven …”

In other words, the local population resented the Norman rule enough to see the death of the Norman king’s sons in the forest as divine justice.

The tree whipped away from us, whistled through the air and smashed into the rider, sending him crashing from his mount. A great squawking of birds flew into the air and then everything settled again and the forest was quiet. The riderless horse galloped off into the trees.

The Norman, his fine cloak spoiled, lay broken on the woodland floor. Alys and I leaned over him. He was young, his face and chest lacerated, but he was breathing faintly, a trickle of blood at his mouth. I cursed that he was not dead.

As I delved further into the period, I became absorbed into the age-old mystery of “who killed William Rufus.” Much ink has been wasted on speculation, but it is undeniable that the truth died with the king in August 1100.

For many years, it was believed that Walter Tyrell was responsible, and that belief has become legend. Historians have reconstructed the hunting scene, investigated the main protagonists and pieced together a patchwork of evidence so faded with age as to be indecipherable.

All was still, the golden canopy quiet, the rusty waters of the river rushing over its pebbled bed. Some distance away, a stand of undergrowth seemed to tremble in the stillness. I sensed that a creature hid there but what it was, I did not know. And neither did Flān.

Today, most historians agree that the king’s brother, shortly to become King Henry I, and the man to benefit most from the king’s death, was the probable person behind the deed and I tend to agree. It is more than probable that whoever shot the arrow was just a paid assassin. That is not to say I believe it was Tyrell, for not only did he not benefit personally from the killing, but the denial that he upheld until his death was supported by Abbot Suger, who reported in his Life of Louis VI that he “had often heard Tirel, at a time when he had nothing to hope or fear, affirm on the solemnest oath that on the fateful day he neither went into that part of the wood where the king was nor even caught sight of him in the wood.” 

The Anglo Saxon chronicle states that “The King was shot by one of his men.” Geoffrey Gaimer stated, “We do not know who shot the king.” And Gerald of Wales wrote, “The King was shot by Ranulf of Aquis.”

 Clearly, it was as much a mystery at the time as it is now, possibly a mystery encouraged by the new monarch, and it will unfortunately have to remain so. However, to quote L. M. Montgomery, a mystery does provide splendid ‘scope for the imagination’.

The trigger for my story was the obvious fact that it could have been anyone; the list of grievances against Rufus was long and there were many of people in the forest that day who may have borne a grudge. We will never know the real truth of who shot the fatal arrow, but I can speculate along with the rest and have immense fun in the process. The characters, both fictional and historical merge and play out their tale against a beautiful backdrop. A sharp contrast to the attrocities that take place within it.

There is a word in the Welsh language, ‘Hireath’ which describes an intense longing for home, or the feeling that home provides. It is a sharp ache for an unattainable time or people who have gone or have changed. Each character longs for what was destroyed by the invading Normans; they know they can never reach it, or experience it again but they persist in hoping.

We forded the river and I saw again the rusty rambling stream, smelled the brackish bog where emerald grass sent up tender, springtime shoots. Further along the river, stunted oaks and aspen leaned over the bank, their twisted roots dabbling in the water. I was taken back to happier days and I’d not have been surprised had Ælf suddenly appeared with a brace of hare slung over her shoulder and a basket of fish in her hand.

 I stress again that The Forest Dwellers is a work of fiction, based on a great deal of research in an attempt to paint the lost world of the pre-conquest foresters. you can read it on Kindle, paperback or free on Kindle Unlimited. To purchase please click on the link: mybook.to/theforestdwellers

Twelve years after the Norman invasion a girl is molested in the forest by three Norman soldiers. Leo the huntsman stops the attack the only way he can ... violently. His actions trigger a chain of events that will end only with the death of a king.

The Forest Dwellers is a tale of oppression, sexual manipulation and vengeance.

 Available in paperback and kindle.

mybook.to/theforestdwellers

Sisters of Arden - New Release

I am very happy to announce the publication of Sisters of Arden. There were times during this particularly trying year that I thought I'd never have it finished in time for Christmas but I have, and here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

Back cover blurb

Arden Priory has remained unchanged for almost four hundred years. When a nameless child is abandoned at the gatehouse door, the nuns take her in and raise her as one of their own.

As Henry VIII’s second queen dies on the scaffold, the embittered King strikes out, and unprecedented change sweeps across the country. The bells of the great abbeys fall silent, the church and the very foundation of the realm begins to crack.

Determined to preserve their way of life, novitiate nuns Margery and Grace join a pilgrimage thirty thousand strong to lead the heretic king back to grace.

Sisters of Arden is a story of valour, virtue and veritas.

An excerpt.

1537 - Yorkshire

We run, heads down through the darkness, away from the cries of our dying friends and the sickening thud of their falling bodies.

Ducking through a garden gate, I cast about for a hay store or a tangle of bushes that might conceal us. Grabbing her wrist, I pull Frances into a briar patch, the thorns snagging and tearing at our robes and limbs. As we crouch in the dark, she trembles and wipes her wet cheeks on my sleeve. I can just distinguish her bone-white face and the stark terror in her eyes, and I am sickened with guilt that I have led her to this. Her life is now forfeit to my mistaken conviction that simple folk can make a difference.

I grope for God in the faithless void of my mind, begging that the king’s men grow tired of the hunt and ride away, back to their warm hearths, their laden tables, and their fragrant, sinful wives. Frances’ teeth begin to rattle, her breath faltering as her courage dwindles. I give her a gentle shake and put a warning finger against her lips, beseeching her to be silent, to be brave for just a little longer.

As the stealthy hooves draw closer to our hiding place, we hold our breath, sinking deeper into the undergrowth when he halts just a little way above our heads. The dank aroma of rotting vegetation rises; the tang of frost tickles my nose and pinches my toes. Frances trembles so violently it is indistinguishable from the juddering of my own body. I fumble for prayer, nausea washing over me as I fail to recall a single one.

 A creak of harness as the rider shifts in his saddle. I cannot see him but when the horse snorts, in my mind’s eye his breath mists the darkness, rising wraith-like in the night. I can feel the rake of the man’s gaze as he searches, seeking out our hiding place. My lungs strain fit to burst, my chest is aching, and I am ready to relinquish my freedom for just one blessed breath. The horse stirs, turns and moves away, and we fill our lungs with fresh damp air. We clutch hands as the vague hope of escape returns.

Then noise erupts with a harsh yelp. A hound is loosed and, with a furious growl, it crashes through the hedge. As I fall backward, I glimpse a lolling tongue, and yellow eyes stare briefly into mine; cold, murderous eyes. Frances’ scream shatters the night as the jaws clamp down upon her wrist.

“Let go! Let go!” I strike out with my bare feet, feeling the crack of bony ribs beneath a silken coat. The hound yelps but holds on fast, screaming aloud as I kick out again, hammering his head with my heels. The air fills with a confusion of hooves, screaming women, and triumphant male laughter as they lay hands upon us. As they drag me to my feet, Frances gives a loud unintelligible sound that breaks my heart.

“Please,” I beg, as my hands are wrenched behind me and roughly held. “We are nuns from Arden. My sister has done nothing. Take me, but … let Sister Frances go – she ... she doesn’t understand.”

A white dagger of agony flashes through my skull as my captor clouts me around the ear. My head rings and my vision blurs. Through a fog of pain, I realise they are hauling Frances from the ground, dragging us both rudely forward.

“Hold them,” the man on the horse orders, and their grip tightens as he slides from his saddle, hawks and spits on the ragged skirts of my habit before slowly unfurling a rope from his belt.

 The knots are tight about my wrists; my hands are numb. I cry out as the horse jolts forward and, tethered to the saddle, all we can do is follow him. Agonisingly, we retrace our route back the way we have come, through the hamlets and homesteads that earlier offered us shelter.

Our cause is lost. Our peaceful mission to bring England back to the true church has failed; doomed by the promises of a false king. In the lightening dawn, the slack-limbed, sightless bodies of those who aided us sway as we pass. The voiceless, lifeless men, women and children who dared to share our questioning of the king’s wisdom gape blindly at our passing.

 We will join them soon; our useless lives cut short, our fruitless existence ended in ignominy.

My throat grows tight. How have we come to this?

Sisters of Arden is available for pre-order now and the paperback will follow soon. Click the link for more info: mybook.to/sistersofarden

All novels available in Paperback and Kindle.

The Beaufort Chronicle, A Song of Sixpence and The Kiss of the Concubine are available as audio books.

author.to/juditharnoppbooks

Trisha Hughes talks to us about her new release

Today I welcome historical author, Trisha Hughes to the blog. Take it away, Trisha.

In history, to be an English king and to be murdered was no more than a hazard of the job and there have been a vast number of kings where this has actually been the case. The story of the kings and queens of England is a wonderful drama, far more surprising than you might think.

Times were brutal and they felt the need to take certain measures into their own hands, and trust me, there have been many extraordinary and various ways that royal family members have sought to delete relatives who were obstacles in the path of their determined progress to the throne. Many were not averse to the odd assassination or two by poisoning, starving, burning, imprisonment and an old favourite, beheading. It was hard enough to snatch the throne but it was even harder keeping it.

Many historians pass hazily over the precise methods employed to delete family members. Some choose to leave it as an insinuation of ‘died under suspicious circumstances’, because the entire truth will never be fully known. Some historians are not so coy. Neither am I.

When we speak of Britain’s monarchs, most of us would agree that early periods of time are clearly muddled. Many of the early British kings are hidden in the mists of time while some, the ones who lost crucial battles, have almost completely disappeared when the victors erased their rivals from all surviving records. There are kings who ruled for only a few months and there are some who ruled for over fifty years. There are also some who should never have ruled at all. They include, among their number, the vain, the greedy and the downright corrupt as well as adulterers, swindlers and cowards. Yet this group also shares one thing in common. In their lifetimes, they were the most powerful individuals in the land. My story, ‘Vikings to Virgin – The Hazard of being King’, spans 1500 years and is full of lust, betrayal, heroism, murder, cruelty and mysteries.

Buy your copy here

If you know anything about the British, you’ll know that among the good and the well-meaning monarchs, some of them were ruthless, not to mention greedy, murderous and totally corrupt. Their story is better than a thriller about a serial killer on the loose because this story is absolutely true. Don’t imagine a fairy story with handsome kings whisking off princesses on their white horses to the sound of trumpets and the cheers of their people. Imagine powerful individuals who were brutal and would stop at nothing to get what they wanted and who were more than happy to get rid of the odd family member or two who were standing in the way of their progress to the throne.  

My story is based on facts, but it's told as a rambling narrative and is written in a way that I hope is easy to read. It’s a story of kings who struggled to hold on to their throne, of horrendous bloody battles, of tiny boys becoming rulers, of ruthless usurpers and of queens who proved to be more powerful than anyone could have ever imagined. It’s a story of invading armies, of rival family members, of spies and conspiracies. But what these people all had in common was during their lifetimes, they were the most powerful people in the land.

‘Vikings to Virgin – The Hazards of being King’ starts when Britain was just a race of people struggling to survive. It travels in time until the Britons first glimpsed a square sail and a dragon-headed prow on the horizon, churned by oars through the waves as blue water foamed around the hull of a mighty ship. The Vikings arrived in their long boats on a cold miserable January morning while the English people were enjoying their tranquility. No one heard the muffled sounds over the water. They were still rubbing sleep out of their eyes after a savage night of arctic air had cut its way through cracks in walls.

This book is a journey through time from the Romans, the Saxons and the Vikings and moves on to the brazen usurpation by the Normans followed by the arrival of the Plantagenets.  These early years were full of savagery and cruelty but by the end of the Plantagenet dynasty, they had transformed England into a sophisticated revered kingdom. But it was a long hard struggle during which the War of the Roses emerged.

The War of the Roses was basically a terrible family squabble that ended up a bloodbath between

royal cousins where each house was eager to snatch the crown and the throne of England for themselves away from other family members. Like most families, differences and intrigue slowly emerged and it wasn’t until 1455 with the first Battle of St Albans that anyone even knew there were two sides. But as with most rebellions, it left both sides vulnerable since it usually meant that battles were fought ‘to the bitter end’, leaving fewer contenders alive after every battle.

These two royal house, the symbolic red rose of the Lancasters and the equally symbolic white rose of the Yorks, were both making a claim for the throne and it ended up being a long and bloody battle with sporadic periods of extreme violence and bloodshed and an unprecedented number of attempts to usurp the throne. It was a dangerous period full of unfathomable brutality, shifting alliances, murders, betrayals, plots and the savage elimination of other direct descendants of the Plantagenets.

It ended when Henry Tudor usurped the throne from Richard III and a different sort of battle began as he continued on the bloodbath with gusto.

Book I of my trilogy ends with a comet blazing across the London skies, half the size of the moon, streaking fire behind it as it lit up the skies in glorious shads of red, white and gold. Tudor colours. In a suspicious England, it was a sign they had been waiting for. A sign of better times to come. And heaven knows, they needed it after the reign of Bloody Mary. With Mary, they’d suffered persecution worse than any other previous generation and they welcomed Elizabeth, an intelligent 25-year-old who dazzled everyone with her clever wit as she stepped up to take the throne, promising a better world, after her half-sister Mary Tudor’s death.

The story of the kings and queens of England is a wonderful drama and far more surprising than you might think. And I’ve loved every minute of it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Trisha Hughes started her writing career with her autobiography ‘Daughters of Nazareth’ eighteen years ago. The debut novel was first published by Pan Macmillan Australia and became a bestseller in 1997 beating the current Stephen King book to the top 10 bestsellers at the time.  Since then she has discovered a thirst for writing.  She’s written crime novels but her latest book, the first in her ‘V 2 V’ trilogy, ‘Vikings to Virgin – The Hazards of being King’ is her passion and due for release on 28^th February 2017. She is currently working on the second in the series ‘Virgin to Victoria – The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.’

You can buy your copy of Vikings to Virgins here

You can connect with Trisha through:

Trisha’s Website: www.trishahughesauthor.com

                           Or: www.vikingstovirgin.com

Facebook:             Trisha Hughes Author

Twitter:                  trishahughes_

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The Quest for Anne Boleyn

Judith Arnopp

Anne Boleyn

The true personality of Anne Boleyn was lost the moment the sword struck off her head.  After her death only the bravest, or most fool hardy spoke out in her defence. She was the subject of poems, histories, scandals, and it wasn’t until her daughter Elizabeth’s reign, twenty-two years after her execution, that it was safe to speak well of her again.

Recorded feelings among her contemporaries are mixed, John Hussey, a former supporter of Anne wrote, “...that which hath been done and committed by Anne the Queen...which is so abominable and detestable that I am ashamed that any good woman should give ear thereto.”

Sander, a Catholic priest and not an admirer of Anne, writing long after her death, published a scathing attack, describing her with witch-like features, and the child she lost in 1536 to be a “shapeless mass.”

At the time of her arrest Archbishop Cranmer wrote to the king of his shock and horror. As a friend

Thomas Cranmer

and supporter of the queen, he was clearly on edge and aware that should she fall, her supporters could be suspect too. It is interesting that he qualifies his condemnation of her with the little word, “if.”

“If the reports of the Queen be true, they are only to her dishonor, not yours. I am clean amazed, for I had never better opinion of woman; but I think your Highness would not have gone so far if she had not been culpable. I was most bound to her of all creatures living, and therefore beg that I may, with your Grace’s favor, wish and pray that she may declare herself innocent. Yet if she be found guilty, I repute him not a faithful subject who would not wish her punished without mercy. And as I loved her not a little for the love which I judged her to bear towards God and His Gospel, so if she be proved culpable there is not one that loveth God and His Gospel that ever will favor her, but must hate her above all other”

Thomas Wyatt

A few were more outspoken in their support. Her long-time friend, and (some say) one-time sweetheart, Thomas Wyatt, made his feelings quite plain. “These bloody days have broken my heart.”

And even her enemy, the Spanish ambassador Eustace Chapuys, raised some doubt as to her guilt in his remark, "there are some who murmur at the mode of procedure against her and the others..."

During Elizabeth’s reign, the poet John Foxe included Anne in his Book of Martyrs, declaring that Elizabeth’s long reign was God’s way of testifying to her mother’s innocence.

Later historians and, more recently, novelists have taken Anne’s name and molded her into something unrecognisable, in some cases bordering on the inhuman. By the late nineteenth century her guilt was a bone of contention. In 1884 Friedmann’s,  Anne Boleyn: A Chapter of English History 1527-1536 the author places the blame squarely with Cromwell, seeing her downfall as a political coup. And Agnes Strickland, with supreme elegance, states quite plainly that Anne, “never incurred the crimes for which she was brought to the block.” Strickland denounces Henry as a “despot” in pursuit of an heir.

Similarly, the twentieth century did not find a resolution to the question of Anne’s character and, like Strickland, the leading Tudor historian A. F. Pollard regards Anne as a victim of Henry’s quest for an heir, although, instead of Cromwell, he cites Chapuys as being behind the initial rumours against her. 

Henry VIII

In the 1970’s Anne becomes the heroine of feminists and Anne Chapman, while agreeing that her failure to produce a son was the main reason for her fall, puts the blame squarely on Cromwell’s shoulders. In Chapman’s hands Anne is not so much a maligned innocent as a heroine, a tragic martyr flying the flag for the cause of feminism.

“In these conditions of capricious hatred and undeviating ruthlessness, Anne Boleyn lived, triumphed – and perished.”

As we approach the 1990’s Anne character changes once again in a study by Retha M. Warnicke, The Rise and Fall of Anne Boleyn: Family Politics at the Court of Henry VIII, in which she states Anne’s fall was due to her having given birth to a monster, a fetus so deformed as to suggest witchcraft. Warnicke argues that during the period in question doctors believed birth defects to be the result of sexual misconduct. This may well be true but charges of sexual misconduct, incest in particular, had long been used against women who stepped far enough from their prescribed role s to become a nuisance to their male contemporaries.

Thomas Cromwell

In her book published in 1995, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived, Karen Lindsey returns to the idea of Anne as a feminist icon, reconfirming that Anne’s failure to provide an heir caused her fall, but this time citing Cromwell as the main instigator of her arrest.

Today, the leading historian in Anne Boleyn studies is the late, great Eric Ives whose concise and in-depth research has, in my opinion, yet to be bettered. The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn provides a balanced opinion, citing not just Anne’s failure in childbirth  as the catalyst for her fall but extending her crimes to include meddling in politics and fervour for reform.

 Initially, the shared desire for reform brought Cromwell and Anne together but, where Cromwell wanted to bring down the church and enrich Henry’s coffers, Anne desired to restructure the existing church, iron out the rough edges, remove the wheat and throw away the chaff.

Ives also cites the Anglo-Imperial alliance, during which negotiations Henry and Chapuys fell out over Charles V's refusal to acknowledge Anne as queen. When Henry, quite typically, refused to back down Cromwell was unwilling to jeopardise his dealings with the Spanish ambassador and Ives says, “…Anne Boleyn had become a major threat to Thomas Cromwell…A hostile Anne threatened both his standing with the king and his key financial achievements…Despite the risk, despite all his past debts, Cromwell’s very survival no longer coincided with the survival of the queen. She must go.”

There are still those who persist in seeing Anne as she was originally personified and G. W. Bernard in his book Anne Boleyn: Fatal Attractions asserts that the accusations against Anne were all true and that, according to Tudor law, her death was deserved. Although he accepts that the accusations made against her, (mostly by clergy) could be the product of gossip, Bernard maintains that “Gossip is not necessarily false.”  The unfortunate death of Princess Diana in 1997 gave rise to all sorts of conspiracy theories, none of which have any real basis in fact. Royals will always be the focus for gossip and rumour, and since Anne's prominence in church reform made her some powerful enemies, it seems only fair to regard the charges laid against her with some suspicion.

When it comes to fiction, Anne’s reputation has suffered even more, and she appears either as a too-good-to-be-true heroine of all the virtues, or a depraved, incestuous, power-hungry mother of monsters. I think I have shown that opinion has been divided since the moment of her arrest and, considering the historical material available to novelists (as discussed above) there is little surprise that historical ‘truth’ (whatever that is) has been lost along the way. Readers of novels should always be aware of the distinction between historical fact, and historical fiction.

In my  novel, The Kiss of the Concubine, I have tried to keep my feet more firmly on the ground and find a middle way. Of course, there is no hope of ever knowing the ‘real’ Anne Boleyn, or categorically defining the reasons behind her fall, but it seems we never tire of trying.

In writing The Kiss of the Concubine, I have juggled with all these sources, wrestled with the conflicting opinions and applied some commonsense but, in the end, Anne tells her own story. I haven’t tried to purify or excuse her, and neither is she demonised. The voice that speaks from the pages of my novel comes from the inner ‘Anne;’ the hidden ‘self’ that nobody can ever really know. As human beings we always rationalise our own actions and justify even our cruelest moments, and maybe her proud, power-seeking ways were like a suit of armour, covering perceived inadequacies and protecting a vulnerable, ordinary woman, who just happened to attract the attentions of a king. 

If you read my novel, please remember it is fiction.

The Kiss of the Concubine kindle version is currently on an Amazon countdown special available here.

Watch a trailer of The Kiss of the Concubine here.

Illustrations from Wikimedia Commons.

Further Reading and works consulted: 

A.F.Pollard, Henry VIII, (London: Longmans,1905)

Agnes Strickland, Lives of the Queens of England, from the Norman Conquest, vol. 2 (London: George Bell & Sons,1882)

Alison Weir, The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn (Reading: Random House, 2009)

G.W. Bernard, Anne Boleyn: Fatal Attractions (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010)

Greg Walker, “Rethinking the Fall of Anne Boleyn,” The Historical Journal 45, no.1 (March 2002)

Joanna Denny, Anne Boleyn (Chatham: Piatkus Books, 2007)

Karen Lindsey, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived: A Feminist Reinterpretation of the Wives of Henry VIII (Reading,MA: Addison‐Wesley,1995)

Paul Friedmann, Anne Boleyn: A Chapter of English History,1527‐1536, vol.1 (London: MacMillan,1884)

Retha M. Warnicke, The Rise and Fall of Anne Boleyn: Family Politics at the Court of Henry VIII (New York: Cambridge UP, 1989)

Hester Chapman, The Challenge of Anne Boleyn (New York: Coward, McCann & Geoghegan, 1974)

Eric Ives, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn: The Most Happy (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004)