Interview with historical novelist Karen Aminadra

My guest today is Karen Aminadra (pronounced Amin-ah-dra) who is the author of Charlotte: Pride and Prejudice continues. She also teaches English language. Karen was born in London and grew up in Hertfordshire, 'the land of Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice’.

Most of us are familiar with Pride and Prejudice and will recall the character Charlotte Lucas who wed Lizzie Bennet’s rejected suitor Mr Collins.  Karen’s novel follows Charlotte’s story and gives us the chance to be reunited with the characters we came to know and love in Jane Austen’s classic novel.

 Charlotte did not love Mr Collins when she married him but had at least secured her future. However, she soon begins to feel trapped and discontent. The easiest thing to do would be to do as she is told. But Charlotte must decide to remain as she is or to begin a chain of events that will change not only her life but also the lives of those around her forever.

Hello Karen, thank you so much for agreeing to appear on my blog. I really enjoyed Charlotte; Pride and Prejudice Continues but rather than hear my opinions I’d like you to tell us all about it. For instance, what inspired you to begin?

I began to write Charlotte ~ Pride & Prejudice Continues after a conversation about her.  I had always wondered about her, and what her life would have been like after she married Mr Collins.

I think it would be far too easy to be cold-hearted towards Charlotte and say, “well she made her bed, let her lie in it.”  I was never happy with that.

 What was it like to take characters that someone else (and one of our greatest authors too) had originally created and bend them to fit your story?

I wished to stay as true to Jane’s work as possible.  I did not want to change Charlotte’s personality at all.  She is witty, intelligent, and strong and I wanted that to come out in the book, but I also wanted her to grow.
She learns a lot about herself, that she can manipulate her husband a little and that she is not as strong as she first thought.  She battles with emotions, due to her loneliness and that leads her to places she should not be.

 What changes have you implemented as Charlotte matures from a girl to a woman?

I also never believed a word of it, when she said she was not romantic, and that she would be fine without affection in her marriage.  There is not a human being alive who can live without affection.  Charlotte had said that to Lizzy before her marriage, when she was surrounded by friends who cared for her and a large family who must have shown their affection some way or another.
I thought that upon arriving in Kent that she must have felt lonely.  She encouraged Mr Collins to be out in the garden, in the parish, at Rosings or in his book room.  How lonely! 
I also wondered about her need for conversation.  Mr Collins was never shown to be the kind of person you could talk to for hours or bare your soul to, and Lady Catherine would likely bite your head off and scold you for some trifling matter, so who did Charlotte have to talk to?

Charlotte is not perhaps everyone’s idea of a heroine, what was it about her that made you choose her?

Charlotte might not be most people’s idea of a heroine but I was always drawn to her and I always remembered Jane Austen’s own words to her sister Cassandra that every girl should marry for love if possible.  I wanted love for Charlotte too.
And what about Mr Collins?  Who could be married to him and not try to change him in some way?  The least a wife would do is point out his errors or flaws, delicately. 

 Yes, I wanted to ask you about Mr Collins. He is a bit of a toad to begin with, isn’t he? How did you manage to understand how his mind worked?

Jane wrote a wonderful character in him.  He is a real parody of the people she had obviously encountered but I wanted to ask, why was he like that? We all change over the years, and due to things that happen in our lives, could the same happen in the Collins household?

 I can see it must have been quite a challenge. Which of the characters did you enjoy writing the most?

Once I had introduced new characters in the shape of Hunsford Villagers, they took on their own personalities and they were quite entertaining to write.  I personally love Mr Abbot.  I think he is a blend of Charlotte’s own father Sir William Lucas and King George III “what, what!” and possibly one of my husband’s many characters!  I found that those characters also wanted to help Charlotte, so together we hatched a plan!

Well I for one loved Charlotte: Pride and Prejudice continues and I’m busily recommending it to all my friends. I wish you every luck with it. Can you tell us a little about your next project just so we have something else to look forward to?

The new one is begins in 1911 and goes into 1912... and is a historical crime/ mystery.
Driven by jealousy, greed and desire, nothing will stop Gregory Rogers from taking that which he believes is his. He'll do anything to gain money, Bancroft Hall and the power that comes with the title of Baronet. Including murder.
....Until his eyes fall upon the beautiful Jane. Can she rescue him from himself? Will she be the one thing that he cannot ruin in order to have?

Sounds excellent. I will wait with baited breath. thanks once again, Karen, for sparing time for us today and I hope you will be back to talk more about your next one very soon.

Charlotte: Pride and Prejudice Continues is available on Amazon Kindle and will be available soon in paperback.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Charlotte-Pride-Prejudice-Continues-ebook/dp/B0080ELL9M/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1

http://www.amazon.com/Charlotte-Pride-Prejudice-Continues-ebook/dp/B0080ELL9M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337080814&sr=8-1

The Song of Heledd - Judith Arnopp

In a matter of months my next novel, The Song of Heledd will be published so it’s time for me to start spreading the word. Those of you who have read Peaceweaver and The Forest Dwellers will know that I write historical fiction, usually from a female perspective.

The Song of Heledd (pronounced Hell eth) is set in seventh century Powys at the hall of King Cynddylan of Pengwern. The princesses, Heledd and Ffreur (Freya) attend a celebratory feast where fifteen-year-old Heledd develops an infatuation for a travelling singer. The illicit liaison triggers a chain of events that will destroy two kingdoms and bring down a dynasty.

Set against the backdrop of the pagan-Christian conflict between kings Penda and Oswiu The Song of Heledd sweeps the reader from the ancient kingdom of Pengwern to the lofty summits of Gwynedd where Heledd battles to control both her own destiny and that of those around her, until, by degrees, she is gradually bereft of everything she holds dear.

This particular novel was inspired by fragments of Welsh poetry known as Canu Heledd and Marwnad Cynddylan which can be found in the Red Book of Hergest. This book dates from the 14-15^th centuries although the poems themselves (set in the 7^th century) are believed to have been composed in the 9^th century. Canu Heledd is part of an older oral tradition, recorded and transcribed in the medieval period.

Heledd is the narrator of the poem, and this is the thing that sets it apart from others in the saga tradition in which very few female dialogues exist. Jenny Rowlands in her book Early Welsh Saga Poetry says, ‘women do not speak or appear, and even allusions to their existence is rare.[1]’

So Heledd’s voice, even if it is a fictional one, provides us with real insight into the society in which she lived and, more importantly, into a woman’s role within that society. Although sole survivors of disaster are not uncommon in this genre, female survivors are and so Heledd’s story may perhaps be a historical event that has passed down through the oral tradition to become legend.

In the poem Heledd is the sole surviving member of the royal house of Pengwern in Powys, which at that time stretched into English midlands. Her dynasty and family have been destroyed and her brother, King Cynddylan’s (Cun- dylan) hall lies in ruins. Her lament for him and the destruction of the royal seat remains powerfully emotive but for me, the most poignant things is Heledd’s sense of culpability. She believes that her own actions have brought about the downfall of the dynasty and she is unable to forgive herself.

The poem itself cannot be relied on historically, it was written for entertainment not to enter the historical record, but the document when combined with the historical record, make enlightening reading.

Historically we know nothing about Heledd herself but her brother, Cynddylan is believed to have united with Cadafael of Gwynedd (Cad a vile of Gwinith) and Penda of Mercia against Northumbrian forces in the battles of Maes Cogwy, Chester, Lichfield and Winwaed, where Penda was slain.

Shortly after the Battle of Winwaed in 655AD Oswiu of Northumbria invaded Mercia and Powys, launching an attack upon the royal llys at Pengwern and practically obliterating the dynasty in one night. The Canu Heledd is set immediately after this event.

It has been suggested that, in order to cement the alliance between Powys and Gwynedd, the princess Heledd was married to Cadafael, the King of Gwynedd. But, for reasons we will never know, on the eve of the battle at Winwaed, Cadafael suddenly withdrew his troops and rode back to Gwynedd, abandoning Powys and Mercia to their fate. This act earned him the ignoble title of Cadafael Cadomedd, (Cad a vile Cad o meth) which translates as ‘battleshirker.’ There is no record or even a hint as to his motivation but the act did his reputation little good and shortly afterward, although the circumstances remain sketchy, the rule of Gwynedd passed back to Cadwaladr.(Cad wal adder)

The historical detail of 7^th century Powys and Gwynedd is very sparse. We can never know what really became of Heledd and her family but there are enough references to know they existed. The Canu Heledd illustrates that the family bond was strong, that Heledd was the sort of woman whose actions impacted upon the world around her.

The poem provides rich descriptions of the llys and the people who lived there, Cynddylan in his purple cloak, the richly carved mead halls, the merging tradition of Celtic and Christian religion. And the mention of Ffreur, a sister she once mourned but mourned no longer. Canu Heledd raises many questions but this one is the most intriguing of all; Heledd no longer mourns her sister, Ffreur? Why?

I spent many months sifting through the smoke-ruined embers of Cynddylan’s royal hall to piece together a story for Heledd and Ffreur, a fiction of what might have been.

Below is an excerpt. I hope you enjoy it.

The eagle of Eli, loud his cry:
He has swallowed fresh drink,
Heart-blood of Cynddylan fair!

I dreamed of the eagles long before they came swooping down from their cloudy crags. They blackened the sky, the wind from their wings lifting my hair as they circled, talons extended, before settling on the field of death to tear at the corpses of my brothers.

Too torn for tears, I waded through slaughtered kin while pain ripped my heart like a dagger and then my step faltered, for I saw Cynddylan’s limp standard, his torso twisted, his neck broke, his mouth gaping, and the world turned dark around me.

I knelt in his blood and tried to close the yawning wound upon his chest but I was too late, he was gone. What had I done? All of my kindred were lost and the Kingdom of Pengwern was shattered. I was left, alone. I threw back my head, unprotected beneath the vast, empty sky and screamed a protest to the vengeful gods.

When I woke in the morning and found myself safe in my furs, I flung back the covers to run outside. My playmates tumbled as usual beneath a kindly summer sky while the women spun yarn in the shade of the alder trees. My brother’s hounds came bounding to meet me, leaping up, trying to lick my face but I pushed them away.

And then I saw him. My brother, Cynddylan, King of Pengwern, striding across the enclosure with an arm about his companion and I ran to tell him of my terrible dream but he was intent on the affairs of men and, waving me away, he would not listen.

I was just nine summers old then and, as I grew to womanhood, the dream faded and I forgot it. It was many years later, when I heard the first clash of battle and the far off cry of the wheeling eagles, that I remembered my dream and knew what was to come.

Part One

Osian’s Song

Cynddylan of Powys purple gallant is he!
The strangers’ refuge, their life’s anchor,

October 644 AD

It all began on the day that my sister Ffreur and I first saw the singer of songs. He came in after supper and filled my brother’s hall with his sweet music. The company were entranced, King and commoner alike, and even the dogs ceased worrying their fleas to listen as his voice flowed smooth, like nectar, drowning us all in his honeyed lies.

He was a golden man, his hair burnished by the leaping torches and a beard, the colour of bees wax, curling thick upon his chin. I was just a girl, my heart as yet untouched by the beauty of men but the words of his song filtered deep into my soul, kindling something warm and dangerous in the depths of my belly.

When his song ceased we were all so lost in his art that it took a little time for the murmur of applause to grow and then my brother, Cynwraith, rose from the bench, clapped him on the back and led him to the high table. The handsome poet sat with my kin, flushed and laughing while they piled his platter with food and filled his mead cup to the brim. The minstrel had found favour with the great King of Pengwern and secured his future.

Beside me Ffreur clasped her hands across her stomach, her eyes as bright as the torches, missing nothing. She nudged me sharply in the ribs and laughed at me but I tossed back my hair and ignored her.

‘Heledd,’ she hissed. ‘Stop it; your mouth is open. You are almost drooling.’

I closed my lips and wriggled in my seat, the heat of the fire suddenly too great. I longed for him to notice me and as I picked up a piece of mutton and glanced at him through my lashes , I wondered what he was called.

When his appetite was sated Cynddylan requested another song and the stranger took his place before the top table again. I sat up straight, with my chin on my hands and prepared to be enchanted. The hall fell silent and even the children ceased their noisy games to listen.

He picked up his harp and ran his fingers across the strings before his voice engulfed us, ebbing and flowing like clear water over pebbles, turning my skin to gooseflesh.

In one year
One that provides
Wine and bounty and mead,
And manliness without enmity,
And a musician excelling,
With a swarm of spears about him.
With ribbands at their heads,
And their fair appearances.
Every one went from his presence,
They came into the conflict,
And his horse under him.

It was The Song of Urien Rheged. I had heard it a thousand times but never before had it sounded so good. The lyrics had never made my blood run so thick that my heart pumped long and slow. It was quite painful to listen to him, almost as if his harp were strung with my heartstrings. I sank my chin in my palm and closed my eyes, blocking the tears as I let his voice caress me and take me where it pleased.

By the time he noticed me I was familiar with every contour of his face, the way his hair curled into his neck, the strength of his jaw, the sensuous curve of his mouth and the softness of his smile. Then, quite astonishingly, his eyes fell upon me and I felt my heart leap a little. For a moment, he stilled, held fast in my gaze before he continued his song. His fine features mesmerised me, so that the crowd in the hall seemed to drift away leaving the minstrel and I alone in the firelight, his words and his music exclusively mine. And when the magic ended, he bowed his head ever so slightly and, as I bent my own head in return, I was sure that I saw him close one eye.

As the eldest princess of Pengwern I had been prepared since birth for a political marriage and I knew that my heart was not my own. But on that night, while the autumn winds howled about the hall, blowing small yellow leaves in beneath the lofty door, I forgot who I was. I dismissed my family and my royal obligation and gave my heart to a singer of songs.

---

[1] Rowlands Jenny, Early Welsh Saga Poetry, p.141

The Chainmakers by Helen Spring - A Review by Judith Arnopp

If you want to be totally absorbed into the past, experience the joys, sorrows and hardships of the late 19th - early 20th century then this is the book for you. I bought the kindle edition on Thursday lunchtime and completely lost the next 24 hours while I read it.
The Chainmakers is an experience rather than just a 'read', you follow Anna on her life journey, from childhood, through the pangs of first love, through marriage and childbirth to late middle age. Her story takes you across the Atlantic from England to New York and shows you the difficulties that ordinary, law abiding people suffered, both in the manufacturing towns of the UK and under prohibition and mob law in the U.S.A.
Ms Spring's competent narrative sweeps the reader effortlessly from the filth of the 19th century factory floor to the elegant drawing rooms of New York. Her characters sing, the settings are masterfully drawn and the plot intriging. I can not imagine why this is not on the best seller list. Very highly recommended.

Unstuck

All that complaining I did last time must have shifted something in my mind because, since then, I have made a great deal of progress on The Forest Dwellers. I am at last done with Alys, who has been a real trial to me, it was so difficult to understand her and make her do the things I needed her to do. Obviously a girl with her own mind. I have moved on to the next narrator, Thurrold, the squire of Sir Walter Tyrell. I was going to let Leo have his say next but Thurrold wouldnt have it and interrupted, so I went along with him.

Thurrold is a bit of a ladies man, has put most of the hearth wenches on their backs at some point during his time at the castle. Then, he meets Alys and Aelf. At first he is captivated with Alys' etheral beauty but, when she tells him she is the concubine of Henry Morante and he learns the secret of AElf's real gender, he switches allegiance to AElf. It is not long before his interest becomes more than sexual. Lots of intrigue, plotting and misunderstandings follow as the story builds up to a visit to the castle by King William Rufus.
A short excerpt, remember that Aelf is a girl living as a boy.

I groaned inwardly, The Song of Roland, a favoured poem of the Normans, was interminably long. Beside me, Ælf rested her chin on her hands and prepared to listen, it was new to her. The torchlight gleamed in her eyes and her cheeks were rosy from the surfeit of food. Opposite I saw a hearth wench smile at her invitingly and Ælf sent her one in return, thinking she had found a friend. The girl leaned over, her bosom spilling from her bodice and placed a foaming cup of ale before her. Ælf took it, nodded her thanks and dipped her face to it. I watched with narrowed eyes as the wench worked her way slowly along the row of seats, every so often casting her eye back to smile.
I nudged Ælf sharply in the ribs.
‘What are you doing?’ I hissed. She slammed down her ale.
‘What?’ Her mouth was half open in surprise; I saw the moistness of her inner lip and longed to suck it. I put my mouth close to her ear.
‘That wench will have you wedged tight between her knees if you smile at her again. Are you really such an innocent?’
The colour drained and I saw her flash a glance up the table to where the girl dimpled at her still. Ælf looked sharply down at her ale cup.
‘For the love of God,’ she growled, ‘is the whole world corrupt. It seems I cannot move for suitors.’
A sigh escaped me. Sometimes she annoyed more than charmed me. I’d like to spank her. I dwelled for a while on that happy thought before pulling myself back to offer an answer.
‘The fault is with you, Ælf. You would make a fine looking woman if only you’d allow it but, as a fellow, you are far prettier than a man has the right to be.’
I saw her flush, her chin on her chest. I shifted in my seat as she took up her cup again.
‘Ælf, you know tis more than lust with me, don’t you? You know you have my heart?’
She choked on her ale, her eyes watering. I thumped her on the back until she held up a hand begging me stop. After a moment, she looked up at me, tears on her cheek from the coughing, I thought.
‘Tis said, among the stable boys, that half the women in the castle have had their share of your love. Now it is my turn don’t expect me to fall at your feet.’
Oh, that stung. I had not looked at another woman in months. I put back my shoulders, offended in the extreme.
‘That is unjust, Ælf, and you know it. You have had my heart since the moment …’
‘…since the moment Alys refused you,’ she finished for me, ‘then your allegiance changed like the wind.’
She got up and stepped over the bench.
‘I’m to the privy,’ she tossed over her shoulder as she stalked across the hall in the direction of the outer door.

I waited for her, just inside the keep, where I knew she must pass by. I heard her gentle footstep and, as she moved into the light of the cresset, grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a niche. She gasped, wrestling until she realised it was me.
‘What are you doing?’
She was annoyed, exasperated at my irritating ways but I was beyond caring, barely knew what I was doing or considering what the result would be.
Gripping her shoulders I dragged her to me and clamped my mouth over hers. She struggled for a bit and then relaxed and let me continue but her lips did not move.
At last I stopped and hugged her to me, my mouth next to her ear.
‘I love you, Ælf. I want us to be wed. Please listen and believe what I say.’
Then I looked at her, hoping to see love-light shining from her eyes, longing for my kiss to have been a revelation, a release from blindness.
A squire returning from the privy looked at us oddly; we must have made a pretty sight, squire and stableboy in a clinch within the shadows. I blinked at the bleak horror in her face and let her go. She ran from me.
‘Ælf’ I called but she ignored me and pattered away into the dark.