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

Lifting the Victorian Tablecloth

The mid nineteenth century is within touching distances of all of us; just a couple of generations divide us and, until relatively recently, the popular notion of Victorian society has been as a morally upright, God fearing, a sexually sanitised world. Upper class women were something to be revered. Their chastity paramount, they remained largely uninformed both about human reproduction or the workings of their own bodies. Gentlemen, entertained by these ladies, perched upon spindly chairs, sipping tea from porcelain in pretty parlours, discussing topics only fitting for a lady’s ears. It was a perfect world, set apart from squalor and peopled by the genteel.

This projected image was a false one. The Victorian desire to be seen as incorruptible was a smoke screen, concealing something very different. Just as they pushed their women into corsets that entirely distorted the feminine shape, swathed their tables in thick chenille cloths and stuffed their parlours with nick-nacks to confuse and confound the eye, so did they obscure the truth of what it really meant to be a Victorian.

In their attempt to sanitise their world the Victorians introduced, among other reforms, The Obscene Publications Act of 1864. Previous to this date no distinction made between suitable and unsuitable material and pornography was available alongside other literary works. Not much pre-Victorian pornography survives today, probably because it was then, as it is now, a throwaway item very much like a cheap novel you might discard on the train.

In trying to eradicate pornography they created the very thing they were attempting to destroy. The Obscene Publications Act drove the trade underground and, in their attempt to stamp out what they regarded as inappropriate literature, the Victorians not only invented the genre of pornography itself but preserved it for posterity.

The criminal court records of the day provide fascinating reading, opening a window onto the darker side of the Victorian garden. The records and other surviving erotica, when utilised as historical evidence, throw some deeply disturbing truths onto Victoria’s proud England that include sodomy, flogging and sexual child abuse. The preservation of the chastity of upper class women came at the expense of her less fortunate, working class sisters.

This material is not for the faint hearted. Even to a modern day reader, they are strong, no-holds barred accounts and, in a world familiar with squeaky-clean images of pure Victorian childhood innocence, it is deeply disturbing. The erotica of the day makes it clear that there were prostitutes on every street corner, their average age disturbingly young. At nightfall the London parks were reputedly alive with fornicating couples, in some areas one in seven houses was a brothel or a house where rooms for sex could be hired. The estimated number of prostitutes in London varies from around 6,000 to 80,000 but most agree it equated to around one prostitute for every seven men.

So, who were the men so bent on purchasing all this illicit sex? It wasn’t, as you might think, low life villains or law breakers, it was the middle and upper classes. In venting their sexual appetites on prostitutes they were able to preserve the chastity of their own women and, those same gentlemen that earlier in the afternoon had taken tea in a lady’s parlour, after dark sought the more basic services of the working girls.

There are many surviving records, court records as I mentioned before, pamphlets etc but perhaps the most useful book is Walter, My Secret Life. This takes the form of a personal diary penned by the pseudonymous Walter, a gentleman of independent means. There is some question as to the truth behind the claim that the text was discovered among the papers of a deceased gentleman and published posthumously. The tale of a secret diary kept hidden for years and then rediscovered after his death not only provides a suitable disguise for the author but also adds a fillip to the already stimulated curiosity of the prospective reader.

My Secret Life chronicles the sexual experiences of one man and amounts to an impressive eleven volumes, although only a fragment of this is in publication today. The author was determined to experience every sexual deviance imaginable and catalogue them for posterity. We learn a lot from Walter. His frustration when women’s drawers were invented, hindering his exploration up the skirts of almost any available female borders on comical.

Read alone, the book can be mistaken for fantasy, some of the events are not only improbable but make for squeamish reading. But pornography illustrates in graphic detail what the mainstream authors of the day were forced to omit. When read alongside Dickens or Wilde, My Secret Life helps us begin to understand just what life was really like for the prostitute, Nancy from Oliver Twist and it makes clear the nature of the exploits that caused Dorian’s Grey’s portrait to be so horribly corrupted. Most authors like to illustrate the world around them but the respectable authors of Victorian England could only hint at what lay beneath the projected polished veneer their society. But, for Walter, writing for himself, there were no boundaries.

So, who were these prostitutes? The majority were lower class women; glove makers trying to feed their children, factory workers lured from the back breaking world of the factory floor by the comparative good wages and less soul destroying hours of prostitution.

STDs were rife and the widespread belief in the myth that sleeping with a virgin could cure syphilis saw an increase in the demand for young girls. As a consequence some were sold as children into the sex trade and the resulting spread of disease is horrible to contemplate. Illicit literature of the mid nineteenth century reveals a world where virginity could be purchased for few pennies or a prostitute could be subjected to acts that could not possibly be inflicted on a respectable lady. Many young women, as countless novels assure us, were taken down and ruined by some careless upper class male, outcast from society and unable to find another way. Prostitutes were ordinary women; daughters, wives, mothers; the lucky ones managed to find other work or marry and return to an honest life, others didn’t. There are records of suicides, death from STD’s, and as we are all aware, from personal assault or murdered at the hands of men like Jack the Ripper.

Although toward the end of the period strenuous efforts of reform were undertaken, most ‘respectable’ Victorians turned away from it, preferring to pretend that such atrocities were not happening under their noses. It was not part of the Victorian’s ‘official’ consciousness.

Illustrations: copyright BBC. From the series The Crimson Petal and the White

and Victorian London curtesy of Paul Getty Images

Sold out! The new collection from The Cwrtnewydd Scribblers

I should have blogged about this weeks ago but have been too under the weather to think straight.

A week or so ago The Cwrtnewydd Scribblers 2011 collection of short stories, poems and memoirs was published. A Way With Words is our third anthology and this time we are excited to say it contains the top three winning entries in our Summer sun, Summer fun short story competition. This was such a success and such fun to do that we are holding another competition in 2012. Details on how to enter can be found inside A Way With Words and will also be published on the website very soon. Remember that 50 pence from every copy sold will be donated to Wales Air Ambulance, an invaluable service to people who live in rural areas, as we do.

The Cwrtnewydd Scribblers are a group of women from the tiny rural hamlet Cwrtnewydd in West Wales. Every part of the publishing process (bar the actual printing) is undertaken by us, from writing to designing the cover. We launched this third collection, A Way With Words, at Lampeter University's Christmas fair last Saturday and were all delighted when the first print run SOLD OUT by the end of the day. A second print run will be available soon.

For more information on how to get your copy of A Way With Words or for further information about authors, Brenda Old, Iris Lee, Rachael Thomas, Judith Arnopp, Mary Middleton, Sue Moules and Margaret Williams please visit our webpage: www.cwrtnewyddscribblers.webs.com

Review of The Bones of Avalon - Phil Rickman

I had never heard of Phil Rickman before I stumbled, quite accidentally, upon this book. As a writer and historian myself, I am a harsh critic and have grown weary of predictable, run of the mill historical novels. Most are unconvincing both in characterisation and plot and when I picked up The Bones of Avalon I did not expect it to be any different. But I was wrong; Phil had me at the first line.

The Bones of Avalon is set in the 1560’s; a time of religious uncertainty, Popish plot and counterplot. The people walk in fear, trusting no-one in an England still reeling from the heretical burnings and hangings of Mary Tudor’s Catholic reign. Now, she is dead and another Tudor takes the throne. Another queen, the bastard daughter of Anne Boleyn – Elizabeth.

Haunted by her mother’s death, uncertain if she will succeed or fail, the young Elizabeth allows herself to trust few men. Two of whom are Robert Dudley – mistrusted by the council, a wild card adventurer and rumoured to be the queen’s lover; and her consultant and astrologer, Dr Dee, a mild mannered scholar and dreamer.

They are sent to Glastonbury to discover the missing bones of King Arthur, lost during the dissolution in Henry VIII’s reign, so that Elizabeth might fulfil a prophecy. Without its abbey Glastonbury is desolate, the town decaying and as soon as Dudley and Dr Dee set foot there, mystery and superstition unfolds.

By the time I reached the end of the first chapter I knew I was in good hands. Mr Rickman’s first person narrative is authentic enough to make me forget I was actually reading. His characters are well-drawn properly thought out. The fumbling investigative powers of Dr Dee endears him to the reader and the primitive, wary people of Glastonbury instil the plot with ambiguity. It was delightfully refreshing to find Robert Dudley illustrated, not as a broad shouldered, devil-may-care, wife killing braggart, but as an ordinary man, torn, confused, afflicted with sickness and, throughout it all, a stalwart friend to Dr Dee and loyal to his queen.

The author’s knowledge of the period is indisputable, his understanding of 16^th century uncertainty is flawless but, for me, the best thing about this book has to be the atmosphere.

I am not a believer in the supernatural but Mr Rickman had me doubting my own sound good sense. He gave me goose bumps such as I have not experienced since childhood. An undercurrent of human evil runs through this book, illustrating mankind’s capacity to destroy that which they don’t understand as an evil far stronger than the supernatural. Although the author never infers that supernatural power truly exists, The Bones of Avalon is unsettling; it has you looking over your shoulder. It is a book to read with the doors and windows locked.

Phil Rickman has written an intelligent book. Some may find the length off putting, it certainly isn’t for lightweight readers but, if you have the ability to let go of disbelief and embrace the mindset of the late 16^th century, then you will love it as much as I. A whopping five stars – brilliant.

The Forest Dwellers - Book Giveaway

Hello Everyone,

Thank you for visiting my blog. I am very happy to say that I finally have my author copies of The Forest Dwellers: ISBN:978-10908603-63-0 and it will be available at Amazon and other leading booksellers very soon. It has been a long and painful journey to get this book into print, writing it was the easy bit. As most of you know there has been set back after set back. To celebrate I thought I would hold a little competition with a free signed copy for the lucky winner.

To Enter just leave a comment (you may have to join to comment) on which side you would have fought on at Hastings and why. A friend and I will decide which comment is the most original and announce the winner both here and on Facebook on the 15th November 2011.

The Forest Dwellers is the story of a family who, several years after the conquest, are evicted from their home to make way for King William's hunting ground. Life is hard. The Norman interlopers are hated. When Leo sees a trio of Norman's molesting a forest girl, he stops the attack in teh only he can ...violently. His action triggers a chain of events that will end only with the death of a king.

The Forest Dwellers is a story of oppression, sexual manipulation and vengeance. Here is a little something from the first few pages:

Prologue

We sank into the undergrowth. Leofric raised his hand and beckoned me forward. Fear scuttled up my neck as the scream ripped the silence again. We waited, listening, the pounding loud beneath my ribs.

Beneath the canopy of the trees I could see nothing. Leo cocked his head to one side, mentally blocking out the sound of the surging river. He ignored the natural noises of the wood and set his sights upon larger prey. The cry came again, echoing and terrible, sending a shrim of fear through my body. This time I recognised the sound as human, and female.

Leofric fitted an arrow into his bow. We trod stealthily forward. A twig snapped beneath my feet. Cursing my clumsiness, we moved on. The path took us downhill, Leo had scented his quarry. I knew we were close.

He drew aside a tangle of undergrowth and we peered into the clearing. We saw three men, strangers. One solidly built, the others his bondsmen. A girl cowered before them. It was her cries that had penetrated the quiet.

They grabbed her and, like an animal in a snare, she writhed in her attackers grip, her limbs pale against the woodland floor. One of them struggled to hold her legs but she broke free. She kicked him, hard, on the mouth. Spitting out a tooth, he put up a hand, bringing it away bloody. His accomplice pinioned her arms above her head. Their leader took the hem of her tunic. We heard it rip and saw it tossed aside. The other man caught and held her again. His superior, dropping his breeches about his knees, prepared to take his pleasure. It was the first time I had seen a naked woman.

The girl thrashed and screamed. I glimpsed a gaping mouth and white-blonde hair. Leo had them marked. A thin sound, swift and true, hushed through the clearing. The un-breeched man clutched his chest and fell to the ground, spouting blood.

They let her loose, backing off, hands raised as she scrambled away. Spreading their arms they asked silently for mercy. Leo drew his bow. One man took his chance and turned to flee. His accomplice fell with Leofric’s arrow through his throat.

Leo stood up, nocked another and moved into the clearing. He released it. It ripped into the back of the fleeing man. I glimpsed the girl crouched in the bushes. Heard her breath rasping. Leo kicked her tunic toward me. ‘Give her the clothes.’

I thrust the garment to her. A hand emerged from the bush. I saw fair hair strewn across a thin, naked shoulder.

A few moments later she stood before us, pulling down her torn garments. She was ready to flee, not trusting us. Her eyes darted from Leo to myself as I absorbed every extraordinary inch of her.

Unlike other forest dwellers, her hair was as white as a gull’s back. And her eyes, that seemed to burn in her narrow face, were as bright as the sky. She was filthy and about fifteen summers, a couple of years older than me, although she seemed more. The shadow of a bruise marred her forehead. Leofric put down his bow. ‘Come, we will lead you home.’

We trailed after Leo, unspeaking. I noticed her placing her grimy feet in the prints left by my brother’s and I did likewise. Half hour or so later we reached the lonely glade where her father lived. Smoke sulked from three cone shaped piles of turf and a few scrawny hens scratched in the dirt before a tumble down shack. Purkiss and his forebears had lived here for generations burning charcoal in the forest. It was an ancient craft and the life a lonely one. They kept to the deep woods, not mixing with the other forest dwellers. Leo jerked his head.

‘Send Purkiss out.’ She ran toward the hovel without saying goodbye. I hoped she would come out again. Leo and I waited until, at last, the door creaked open and a small, twisted man emerged. He nodded, blinking in the sun and grimacing in a horrible approximation of a smile. Leofric spat onto the ground.

‘Tisn’t safe for a girl to be out alone, Purkiss. The wood is full of vermin. In future, keep her close.’

Purkiss nodded and pulled his forelock.

‘Aye, Master Leo, aye, that I will and thank ye sir, thank ye for bringin’ her safe back.’

Without further words, Leo and I trod the forest path homeward.

Ælf’s Story

Ytene – 1078

Home’ was a ramshackle holding. In winter the rain seeped through the thatch and quick, brown mice feasted among the floor rushes. In my father’s day we had been prosperous. Not rich but comfortable. He sat on the council and fought for the king. Not the bastard that rules over us now, but King Harold that led us well until he was slain at Senlache Ridge.

My family call me Ælf and at the time my tale began I lived in Ytene with my brothers. My mother had perished giving life to me and I do not remember her. As the last born, I was at the mercy of my brothers’ goodwill. They treated me fairly, teaching me how to hunt and move soundlessly through the wood. They praised me when I excelled and thrashed me when I failed. It was a good system for I learned fast. I could shoot as well as Edric and he was two years my senior. My legs were sturdy and I could run like a hound and creep like mist through the forest.

In the year that I was born our father marched off to fight for King Harold. My brothers say he was a brave fighting man until he returned with the side of his head cleaved open like a turnip. On the day he finally awoke he was not even half a man and for three years they spooned gruel between his lips and cleaned his soiled linen. On the morning they found him stiff in his bed, with his favourite hound asleep across his chest, it was a burden lifted.

Nowadays, life for us is all hardship and even my brothers can barely recall the merriment of the days when my mother was alive. At least they have those golden memories. I only remember harshness, the hunger in my belly and chilblains gnawing my toes.

Life altered for us after the conqueror came, he coveted our forest for himself. He didn’t care that our families had dwelt there since before the Saxons took the land from the Celts. He saw only a place to chase deer and hunt the wild boar. And so, our fences were torn down, leaving our crops unprotected. Our mastiff’s claws and fangs were drawn so that they would not harm the king’s stags. Where once our family had eaten well on small game, hunted in our own copse, we were afterward reduced to poaching on our own land while the king and his countrymen feasted high on the hog in their sumptuous castles.

Even the berries and acorns belonged to the king now and we were forbidden them. Instead we watched them moulder on the bush. We could no longer cut turf or collect wood for our fires. The king cared only for the protection of the venison and vert. Everyone that dwelt within the forest, and without for that matter, hated the Norman invaders. The forest dwellers were miserable…and they were cold. We spat on the name of King William.

After the shooting in the wood we kept our heads low and, when we heard that the Norman’s were questioning the people of Broceste, we took no action. We had to worry for ourselves. The hardship of our neighbours was their own affair. Deep in the forest, we stayed close to our dwelling. Leofric and Guthlac poached our supper while, out on the heath, Edric and Oswulf dug peat for our sulky hearth. We kept the fire small so that the smoke would not betray our crime. I got on with my chores at the holding as if nothing had happened but the thud of Leo’s arrow in Norman flesh remained with me. I prayed that God would understand.

To enter please tell me which side you would have joined at Hastings and why. The most original, well thought out answer will be chosen. You can also join The Forest Dwellers Face Book Page.

https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/The-Forest-Dwellers-by-Judith-Arnopp/124828370880823

Book Review of The Girl in the Box by Sheila Dalton

When psychoanalyst Jerry Simpson rescues a young girl from an abusive existence and takes her home with him to Canada it soon becomes apparent that the girl is suffering from more than trauma. She is mute, locked in an autistic world that Jerry and his colleagues find impossible to infiltrate. They quickly stop seeing her as a fascinating case study and fall beneath the spell of her child like innocence. But when Inez is found leaning over Jerry Simpson’s dead body and is accused of his murder, Jerry’s partner, Caitlin, is motivated to discover not who killed him but why he was killed. Caitlin is forced to confront and overcome uncomfortable suspicion, damaged trust and inner emotional conflict to penetrate Inez’ psyche to discover why her lover died.

When I began to read this book I had no idea what to expect. It is not my genre of choice and I am unfamiliar with both the setting and the psychological problems that Inez suffers. As a consequence it was a real adventure for me; a journey into a world that I soon found totally absorbing and it was immediately apparent that I was in very capable hands.

The Girl in the Box is an intelligent read. I don’t usually enjoy flashbacks but here they serve to illustrate the perplexed state of Caitlin’s mind. Sheila Dalton’s characters are fascinatingly complex and interact so naturally that you forget you are reading a book at all. The narrative is beautiful, her descriptions delicately evocative yet she never shies away from the truth of any situation. The violence is harsh, the love making sensuous and at times the narrative is uncompromising but what makes it wonderful for me is the way Sheila reveals Caitlin and Inez’s inner trauma. Their pain is understated, the scenes lightly but powerfully written providing total credibility and heightening the stunning impact of the final chapters.

I highly recommend this book whether you enjoy psychological drama or not. The characters linger long after the turn of the final page. Like people that you have met once and may never meet again, you worry about them and wonder how they are. This is not a book that you will want to give away, put it on your book shelf and read it again and again.

The Norman Invasion and the release of The Forest Dwellers

Today, the 14^th October, is the anniversary of The Battle of Hastings, one of the most pivotal moments in British history. Like the Battle of Bosworth in 1485, it was the end of an era, a battle that forced Britain along a new path and forged new allegiances. If the events of those two battles could be altered, England and those living in it would be very different today.

Prior to the Battle of Hastings the country’s political influence was Scandinavia. Harold himself was half Danish and, although the Normans stemmed from the same Scandinavian branch, their outlook and ideas were very different.

With the Normans came new methods of kingship and rule, new traditions and social conduct. Most of the Saxons that survived the battle were either forced into hiding or to assume subservient roles. Despite recent historical revisionist theories the impact of the invasion must have been severe. The Saxons maintained a lengthy resistance against Norman rule, burning towns, sacking cathedrals and conducting a guerilla style campaign against William and his ilk. The Norman’s name for these people was ‘silvatici’ or forest dwellers.

Within the next few weeks my second novel, The Forest Dwellers will be published. It is set in the land of Ytene, which today is better known as The New Forest. It is so named because when William the Conqueror saw its potential he immediately claimed it for the crown, expanding Cnut’s existing hunting grounds and dispossessing thousands of people who had previously made their living beneath the rich canopy of woodland and expanse of heath. It is the imagined resentment of these people that inspired my novel.

Indeed, resentment for the invaders was widely recorded and although I could not find any
contemporary poetry from the Hampshire area I did find some from St David’s in
South Wales.  
The Poet, Rhigyfarch (d. 1099), was the son of Bishop Sulien of St. David's.
The poem is rich with sorrow and a fierce resentment at the enforced changes the Normans
brought to the British way of life. I imagine feelings would have been similar in the Royal Forest.
Sorry it is a little long but poets of the day were notoriously long winded; please feel free to skip it.

From "The Welsh-Latin Poetry of Sulien's Family" _Studia Celtica_8,

1973, trans. by Michael Lapidge, pp. 89-93.

"Alas!  that the present time led us into this state of things,

where a cruel power threatens to drive away by its authority

those who are duly reading this poem.

Why have the blind fates not let us die?

Why does the earth not consume us, nor the sea swallow us?

Now an unheard-of rumour comes to our ears:

it says that free necks are subjected to the yoke.

Nothing is of any use to me now, but the power of giving:

neither the law, nor learning, nor great fame,

nor the deep-resounding glory of nobility,

not honour formerly held, not riches, not wise teaching, not deeds nor

arts,

not reverence for God, not old age;

none of these things retains its station, nor any power.

Now the labours of earlier days lie despised by the word,

heart and work of the Normans.

For they increase our taxes and burn our properties.

One vile Norman intimidates one hundred natives with his command,

and terrifies them with his look.

Alas the fall of the former state, alas the profound grief:

The people become debased, naked of limb;

each man ploughs the earth,

for with curved foot the nobleman as well as the poor man

turns over the soil.

Now the pomp of the mighty falls from the heights;

and each company is sad, the court is sad:

there are continual sorrows and fears.

Families do not now take delight in offspring;

the heir does not hope for paternal estates;

the rich man does not aspire to accumulate flocks.

No youth takes delight in pleasantries,

there is no pleasure in hearing the poems of poets.

But instead the broken spirit falls,

weighed down by lethargy, and immersed in shadows,

does not know that it is day.

Why shall I enumerate more, or rehearse this further?

Our limbs are cut off, we are lacerated,

our necks condemned to death, and chains are put on our arms.

The honest man's hand is branded by burning metals.

A woman now lacks her nose, a man his genitals.

More dire losses of our faculties follow,

And prison shuts us in for many years.

Sefdom is brought to the neck with a meathook,

and learns that nothing can be had at will.

Alas the heap of crimes of this evil race,

alas the diseased hearts of this sinful race!

Alas the full weight of these crimes which have prevented

the raising of arms against this enemy by its very weight!

Are you, British people, at enmity with God?

You, Wales, do not carry the quiver of arrows

on your shoulder, nor stretch the bow with tight bow-string,

nor gird your loins with broadsword,

nor raise the shield on your left shoulder.

Nor does the lance vibrate in the open fist.

Devoid of armament you waste away exhausted.

O unhappy and lamentable fate:

slothful in seeking peace, slothful in taking up arms.

O Wales, you are afflicted and dying,

you are quivering with fear, you collapse, alas,

miserable with your sad armament.

Nothing is joyful now, nothing pleasant.

Your beard droops, your eye is sad.

An alien crowd speaks of you as hateful.

See how ignominy fills the open face with disgrace.

Alas, the evil plague:  for the diseased mind depicts its condition in

the flesh,

just as the healthy mind shows its joys to the field.

O deserted by God, O transient glory!  What is now left for you,

Why do you rehearse these things?

It would be appropriate to weep excessively,

to weep throughout the countryside:

let every field lament, let it weep, I say.

Why would you cease watering the fields with your tears?

Why would you cease filling the stars with your lament?

Patriotism and the hope of self-rule flee;

liberty and self-will perish.

Seek now your everlasting home,

whose never-fading flowers, the lilies,

burgeon perpetually in golden fields.

Now, now, you reluctant ones, look upon heaven's heights,

which first you hated, inspired by Hades.

These things I, Rhigyfarch, sadly lament;

and, weeping over the losses of a miserable people,

I have carefully tried to depict the penalties for sins.

But, Omnipotent Father, have mercy on me who weeps over such things,

confined among them:  the asperities of life

shall not shatter me, and the sweetness

of this fragile existence shall not elevate my spirit--

let it not be either the left or the right way,

but a royal way between these two,

whereby I might ascend to the heavenly kingdom.

The local population resented the Norman rule enough to believe that the death of his sons, Richard and William Rufus, in the forest was divine justice.

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.

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 fired the arrow was merely 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[1]’.

The Anglo Saxon chronicle state 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, a mystery does provide splendid scope for the imagination.

The Forest Dwellers is the story of Alys and Aelf, forest dwellers who's lives are blown apart by the arrival of the Normans. Armed with very different weapons the narrative follows their bitter fight for survival from the early days of conquest to the death in the forest of William Rufus. I stress that The Forest Dwellers is a work of fiction and hope my readers will enjoy discovering the world of the forest dwellers as much as I enjoyed creating it. I will update details of the publication date as soon as I have them.

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

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[1] Abbot Suger, Vie de Louis VI le Gros, edited and translated by H. Waquet, (Paris, 1929,1964), p.12