Janet Wertman's Nothing Proved offers a new look at the future Elizabeth I

Everyone familiar with the Tudors knows that Elizabeth I became queen after the death of her older half-sister, Mary I, giving her name to the era considered England’s Golden Age.

Though it may seem to have been a natural choice, Janet Wertman’s latest novel makes plain that Elizabeth’s succession to the throne was never a sure thing until just before it happened. Nothing Proved explores an extraordinary coming-of-age story, one fraught with uncertainty and minefields galore, as navigated by a sharp yet vulnerable young woman.

Following a prologue featuring Elizabeth, her royal relatives, and other noble children in the schoolroom, chatting about issues that will shape their fates, the plot spans just over a decade: from fourteen-year-old Elizabeth’s unwitting participation in a scandal involving her stepmother’s husband through the shining moment she and her allies sometimes doubted would ever arrive.

In between, she must face up to her supposed illegitimacy while giving no cause for anyone to remember the (again, supposed) shameful behavior that her mother, Anne Boleyn, had engaged in. Elizabeth must hold fast to her determination never to marry even as major political players push her into it, either to make alliances for their benefit or to force her out of the picture.

During Mary I’s troubled reign, Elizabeth also acts as her sister’s most loyal subject and appears to practice Catholicism so convincingly that her devotion could never be doubted… all the while weighing who’s worthy of her trust. She does this so well that by the time she ascends the throne, she knows who her true friends are, which is depicted movingly as a silent moment of triumph. In addition to her loyal women, among them are William Cecil, whose own path of survival unfolds alongside Elizabeth’s, and her good childhood friend Robert Dudley.

The title of the book comes from the time Elizabeth spends as Mary’s prisoner (“Much suspected by me, nothing proved can be,” she wrote), and Wertman illustrates Elizabeth’s strength of will, refusing to admit wrongdoing despite immense pressure to implicate herself. Her story unfolds in a sequential collection of scenes, with the dates signaled up front. While this feels episodic in the beginning, the narrative does hit the key moments in Elizabeth’s younger life.

Her character emerges through her self-reflections and her interactions with others. Particularly notable in this vein are Elizabeth’s deliberately calm, wise responses to Bishop Stephen Gardiner’s attempts to break her, and the witty conversations between her and her sister’s husband, Philip of Spain, as they size up one another during their walks at court.

Her story is well worth reading, even for those who've read earlier novels about Elizabeth I.

Nothing Proved was published in May; my thanks to the author for the eARC.

Conn Iggulden's epic Roman novel Tyrant shows young Emperor Nero asserting his power

At the start of Iggulden’s smartly executed second novel in a trilogy—following Nero (2024)—our main character, Nero, is a willful, occasionally cruel adolescent who gets adopted by his stepfather, Emperor Claudius, to the delight of his beautiful, scheming mother, Agrippina.

The story rotates through multiple perspectives, including that of Agrippina, Nero’s two mentors, and Nero himself as he carouses with friends and learns about administering justice, which he does with his own personal spin.

With various conspiracies afoot, one can admire Agrippina’s quick reactions and guile while deploring her terrible actions. Her son absorbs her lessons all too well, disdaining her control after being proclaimed emperor at just 16.

Iggulden crafts characters and historical atmosphere with finesse. In scenes simultaneously exhibiting the might, extravagance, violence, and utter alienness of first-century Rome, captive Britons are forced to fight mock sea battles in an immense arena for entertainment purposes until one surviving crew member remains. “They liked to see aggression . . . aggression and blood,” thinks one participant, and the novel offers plenty of both in a vivid, exhilarating plot.

Conn Iggulden's Tyrant was published by Pegasus in the US in May; the UK publisher is Michael Joseph, and that cover is very close to the one above (with different endorsements). I reviewed it for Booklist in April. Nero plays a larger role in this novel than he did in the first, where he was a child, but his mother, Agrippina, is a character you can't look away from. I think she's Iggulden's most memorable character yet.

The mock sea battle was called a naumachia, which you can read about online in the Encyclopedia Romana, hosted at the University of Chicago. Spanish painter Ulpiano Checa imagined it onto canvas in a work from 1894. The spectacle in the novel is seen from the viewpoint of Caractacus, a chieftain of the British Catuvellauni people who was captured and brought to Rome for entertainment... and who's forced to fight for his freedom.

Ulpiano Checa, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The case of the spoilery prologue

A few months ago, another historical fiction reader and I were exchanging thoughts via email about prologues. Such as: why do so many books have them? Are they that helpful in hooking readers into a story? A special case is when (gasp) the prologue reveals the ending.

The novel she’d just read was A Poisoner’s Tale by Cathryn Kemp, which is biographical fiction about Giulia Tofana, an herbalist and professional poisoner in 17th-century Rome billed as (per the novel) perhaps “the first female serial killer in history.”

Pub. by Union Square (Feb. 2025). The UK publisher is Penguin.

 
“This novel is an example of what I call to myself a prologue giveaway,” she told me, explaining how she isn't keen on prologues in general, especially when they reveal the ending, but enjoyed the novel as a whole very much. “In the case of A Poisoner’s Tale," she wondered, "why do you think Kemp used a prologue telling the ending of the story?”

In the very first sentence of the book, which opens in Rome in 1659, it’s clear that our heroine’s story won’t end happily.

At first, I thought this would annoy me, knowing in advance how Giulia’s story would conclude; I had heard of her before, but hadn't read much about her life. Then I got to thinking about it more.

After the prologue, we jump back to the year 1632 in Palermo, as Giulia, just thirteen, is introduced to her lethal trade by her mother, who dispenses poisons to women of the city desperate to free themselves from horrible physical abuse and potential death at the hands of men in their lives.

This discussion also called to mind an older novel I’d come across while putting together my first Historical Fiction: A Guide to the Genre twenty years ago. I’d skimmed the book for the purpose of summarizing it and remember glancing through the final pages and author’s note. At the time I was aghast to learn that the heroine died at the end. What a disappointment to spend 300 pages invested in her life only to see her killed off. There was no hint about this beforehand. The novel was loosely based in history/legend, and the main character was fictional. And I never did go back and read it in full, even though the setting had intrigued me.

I won’t mention the title or author so as not to spoil the experience for anyone who picks up the book!

But if I had known in advance that that heroine’s tale would end tragically? I may not have minded the finale so much, since it wouldn’t have come as a shock. Hmmm.

Which brings us back to A Poisoner’s Tale. The author’s decision to add a spoilery prologue, which addresses Giulia’s final fate, provokes a shift in the reader’s focus. Knowing how it ends, the overall story then becomes a deep dive into character development, motive, and unthinkable choices. What spurred Giulia to take the risks she did? What obstacles did she encounter and overcome, and what circumstances led her to that ultimate point?

Even more, the novel serves to grant a much-maligned character (a historical figure) a voice, exploring the complex moral questions she must have faced. I’m partway through reading it, and don’t think the prologue hindered the reading experience in any way.

Giulia Tofana's story is a mix of history and legend.  Other novelists have interpreted it differently, so if you'd prefer an alternate version, there are other choices out there (see this article from Deborah Swift at Aspects of History about the background to her own novels about her). 

In addition, look at all the historical fiction about Anne Boleyn, whose fate is hardly a secret.

While I was conceptualizing this post in recent weeks, a post from Martha Jean Johnson’s Substack dropped into my inbox, and it covered similar ground. I recommend checking it out! Her protagonist is Tudor musician Mark Smeaton, and if you know Anne Boleyn’s history, you’ll recognize his name. One good point Johnson makes among many is that “the outline isn’t the story.”

Having pondered these authorial decisions, would I go back now and read that older novel, now that I know how it ends? Maybe I would.

When Men Abound, Create Women, an essay by Terri Lewis, author of Behold the Bird in Flight

Welcome to Terri Lewis, who's here with an essay exploring the characters of her biographical novel, as well as their motivations. Her Behold the Bird in Flight was published this month.

~

When Men Abound, Create Women

Terri Lewis  

Two sentences in a book bought at Windsor Castle introduced me to Isabelle d’Angoulême, abducted from her fiancé by King John, married, taken to England, and crowned queen. For weeks I pondered her story—what she left behind, what she faced— until it took over my imagination, and I decided to write a biographical novel.

I’m a pantser, meaning I don’t outline. I imagine my main characters, read, establish a timeline, then dive into writing. As Geraldine Brooks has said, “historical fiction is taking the factual record as far as it is known, using that as scaffolding, and then letting imagination build the structure that fills in those things we can never find out for sure.”

In doing research, I encountered some surprising difficulties.

The main characters were obvious—Isabelle, John, and Hugh, her fiancé. Reams of material exist about John and his kingship. About Hugh, perhaps less, but his family included well-known crusaders and a famed castle, so even without specifics there was enough on which to build his character.

For Isabelle, the story’s heart, I found only lineage—her mother was granddaughter to a French king—and the dates of her marriage and her children’s births. The men who wrote the English chronicles provided scant and derisive mention: a harlot who caused wars and kept John in bed until noon. Those assessments I intended to upend, trusting that assiduous research would reveal a real person.

I should explain that I’ve loved medieval history since college and my shelves were heavy with books to help flesh out the story. I began with The Medieval Reader, which included letters, essays, travel journals, ballads, and religious discourse. Period documents explain everyday lives better than the usual text book dates and battles, so I’d search for information about women in 1200, a pivotal year in Isi’s life. (Yes, I’d given her a nickname.)

The book contained chapters about popes, saints, Charlemagne, and various nobles until, a hundred pages in, “Margery Kempe: Autobiography of a victimized woman.” Definitely not what I had in mind. My Isabelle would grow into strength, learn to use what little power she had, and come out a winner, as she’d done in real life. But I’d had a strong foretaste of my research: So. Many. Men.

Finding male secondary characters was easy. John was surrounded by barons and knights, some with multiple biographies, ready to step into the novel. For example, Peter De Roches, bishop of Winchester through John’s grace, or Fitzwalter who led the baron’s revolt. Terric the Teuton, to whom John wrote, urging him to keep Isabelle safe. All three make appearances in my story, but most important was William Marshal. A loyal knight and a great fighter in his youth, but by the time Isabelle arrived on the scene, old and limping. Luckily, I discovered that when he was a child, his father had handed him over as hostage to an enemy. That little anecdote animated him; I made him John’s confidant.

The women were more difficult. Isabelle’s mother merited brief historical mention because of her grandfather and her three marriages, but mothers, even unsung mothers, are important, so I struggled to build her out. Finally, deep in my reading, I discovered that courtesy books— lists of manners (written in Latin!)—were becoming popular. Perfect. I could make Maman strict, insisting that Isabelle follow the rules, learn Latin, and practice wifely skills like turning the vinegar barrels or measuring out the expensive spices.

To set the novel in motion, I created an unexpected death that sent young Isabelle to a neighboring castle for safety. Alone, among strangers, she needed friends. Historians don’t write about women’s friendships; I’d have to conjure them. Every castle teemed with cooks, laundresses, and chambermaids, but they’d be busy and unsuited. Back to my book shelf. Medieval Woman, Illuminated Book of Days depicted dozens of women preparing food, caring for the sick, or surprisingly, painting portraits. Spinning and weaving appeared often, understandable since clothes were made from scratch. I added a spinning room to the castle, filled it with women, old and young, and let Isi find companions there.

Once she had friends, I struggled to make them active. Teenage boys trained for jousts and battle; girls studied embroidery and spices, hardly the stuff of drama. However, Isabelle was almost a teenager—at the age when girls begin to wonder about sex and love—allowing me to create discussions with her best friend about kissing and the marriage bed. The friend’s answers came to shape Isi’s life.

Once Isabelle was queen, she needed a lady’s maid. Maids are historically anonymous. I decided John was jealous, pondering the fiancé left behind, so he chose a woman who would spy, a threat to hang over Isi. Then I realized the low-born maid couldn’t write to John when he traveled. Another problem to solve. I eventually killed off the spy and allowed Isabelle, who’d grown into some power, to confront John, asking for her own French maid. John ignored her.

As I struggled to bring the story to life, I often thought of novels about Tudor women or small-town English girls and their romances. Jane Austen. Philippa Gregory. How had they held my attention? The trick seemed to immerse the reader in the era. I’d read about dances and musical instruments, about church holidays and tapestry and a stray Yule log setting a room on fire. All fascinating; all impersonal.

Finally I realized Isabelle, as queen, needed to acknowledge the political unrest of early 13th century England. She needed a friend with power, to explain the wars and John’s problems with the barons, to guide her. She needed William Marshal. I’d already made him kind to her, in contrast to John. As she grew in understanding, she could work to influence John’s decisions. I was sorry she couldn’t turn to another woman for help, but only men acted in the political arena.

Behold the Bird in Flight was built on deep research for “scaffolding,” and for the fun of filling in the gaps with music, gardens, dances, and yes wars, the Pope’s interdict and the rebellious barons. But always, always creating Isabelle’s story, bringing her to life on the page..

Effigy of Isabelle in the Abbey of Fontevraud. She was buried not with her husband, but with her parents-in-law, Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry II, and her brother-in-law, Richard the Lionhearted.

Chinon Castle, a favorite of the Plantagenet kings and place where Isabelle makes a sacrifice to save someone she loves. The walkway between two sections of the castle plays an important part in the story.

~

Terri Lewis fell in love with medieval history in college. Not the dates or wars, but the mysterious daily lives of the people. Building on this love, she read and traveled widely, marveling at Europe’s preserved towns and castles. Finally, two sentences in a book bought at Windsor Castle led her to write Behold the Bird in Flight. Terri’s writing has been honed through workshops with Jill McCorkle, Laura van den Berg, and Rebecca Makkai, and she has published in literary magazines. She lives with her husband and two lively dogs in Denver, Colorado. She won the 2025 Miami University Press Novella Award.

Contact Terri:
Website: TerriLewis1.com
Facebook: Terri Lewis Author
Instagram: terri.lewis1

Raymond Wemmlinger's The Queen's Rival tells the story of a little-known Tudor heir

Tudormania has come and gone, but the era remains popular, and many individuals’ stories remain obscure. Such is the case with Lady Margaret Clifford, a noblewoman in the line of succession to Henry VIII’s throne; she was his grandniece, and first cousin to the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey.

At the outset of this lively account of her younger years, sixteen-year-old Margaret is aghast at her father’s suggestion that she consider marrying Sir Andrew Dudley, an undistinguished member of a powerful family, at her cousin Edward VI’s behest – even stomping her foot in a show of petulance. Not long after, Sir Andrew himself pays a visit to her home at Brougham Castle in northwestern England, bringing opulent gifts and ambitions she finds too irresistible to refuse.

Her superficiality and capriciousness aren’t perhaps the best introduction to a historical figure, but over the course of this short novel, Wemmlinger succeeds in showing, over time, how Margaret matures and wises up to the dangers she faces as a royal heir.

After Edward VI dies, Margaret’s marriage plans crumble, and as the country’s political and religious winds shift with the ascent of Mary I, Margaret finds herself trapped, far away from home, as one of the queen’s ladies in waiting. Here, she’s forced to remain on Queen Mary’s good side, which she skillfully manages, but she finds court life boring and wonders if she’ll ever be allowed to wed.

The straightforward narration and familiarity with the well-detailed historical background make for a quick, involving read. Particularly moving is Margaret’s growing empathy for her late mother, Eleanor Brandon, who died in her late twenties. While the premise that many young Tudors were poisoned by rival claimants is the author’s invention, it remains true that survival was precarious in these treacherous times.

Wemmlinger's first novel was Booth's Daughter (2007), biographical fiction about Edwina Booth, daughter of Edwin, a noted American actor of his day, and niece of John Wilkes.  It's a book I'm interested in reading, after reading Karen Joy Fowler's Booth recently.  His online bio at his publisher, Sapere Books, notes that he's long been an aficionado of the Tudors, especially royal women who have gone overlooked. This was a personal purchase that I'd reviewed initially for the May issue of Historical Novels Review, and there are currently three more in the series.  I'd gladly read another.  The later life of Margaret Clifford (later Margaret Stanley) arguably reflects the book's title better than this storyline does.

The latest trend in historical fiction: the 1960s

Has everyone come around to the realization that novels written now and set in the '60s are considered historical fiction?  Even more, this tumultuous era is the hottest thing in the genre, with themes zeroing in on civil rights, the counterculture movement, women's empowerment in the workplace and at home, and the Vietnam War.  One of my guest contributors had called this, over a decade ago, and if you haven't read Richard Sharp's engaging essay "The Sixties: The New Frontier for Historical Fiction," I think you'll find it rings just as true today.  "There are many shelves to fill," he wrote (in 2014) about the scarcity of fiction that grappled with the complexity of the era. Now, it seems, an increasing number of authors are beginning to do so, recreating the fabric of the times for readers who didn't live through it (as well as those who did).  The fourteen novels below focus on women's experiences, generally speaking. Needless to say, many social issues from the '60s are still very relevant.

In 1965, a cast of suburban women struggles with complex personal and family issues, with unexpected changes arising after a pregnant teen moves in with a Jewish couple and their family, in order to help out after they learn they're expecting a second child.  Harper, June 2025.

Friendship, jealousy, competition, and betrayal form the backdrop to the complicated relationship between two female writers in the star-studded atmosphere of 1960s Los Angeles.  Berkley, August 2025.

Members of book club for suburban housewives in early '60s Virginia awaken to the empowering possibilities of feminism after reading and sharing thoughts about Betty Friedan's groundbreaking and controversial new book, The Feminine Mystique. Harper Muse, April 2025.

After Ruth Feldman overstays her welcome at her daughter-in-law's home, the two women, both widows grieving their late husbands, struggle to get along but may find a way of moving forward in quietly playing matchmaker for the other.  Gently humorous family-centered fiction set in 1963.  Lake Union, August 2025.

Summer by the water on sun-kissed Martha's Vineyard: what could be more relaxing?  Not so much for a Columbia grad student who returns home at her mother's request and uncovers old family secrets; a split-time novel (1965 and 1978). Gallery, July 2025.

Graham, a bestselling Canadian novelist, sets her latest novel in '67 Toronto and overseas in Vietnam as two women living in the same apartment building deal with personal, political, and social turmoil in the city they call home. Simon & Schuster Canada, April 2025.

In this novel of survival and resilience, set in 1967, an independent young woman who can see ghosts returns to her long-estranged ancestral home in Arkansas, meets up with a Vietnam vet, and finds herself unexpectedly craving interpersonal connections. Kensington, March 2025.

Promoted as "a love letter to uncivilized behavior," Healy's debut novel, set in 1964, features a young woman in sleepy small-town Maine who stumbles upon a series of domestic mysteries that soon escalate into serious trouble. Sounds fun.  Putnam, July 2025.

A young college student in Jim Crow-era Georgia and her daughter, a professional woman in 1992 Chicago, decide what risks to take in the interest of racial justice.  William Morrow, February 2025.

The illustrated cover art for Knight's new historical has a cool vibe. The sexist, male-dominated publishing industry in 1960s New York may have met its match in copyeditor Bernadette Swift, who strives to become a CEO.  Sourcebooks, June 2025.

In this dual-period family drama set in 1968 and the present day, a modern genealogical researcher looking into her mother's family tree uncovers generations-old secrets in a small North Carolina town.  Lake Union, February 2025.

Doris Steele, a Black teenager in 1960s Georgia who's shocked to realize she's expecting a baby, travels to Atlanta with her former teacher for an abortion and has her eyes opened wide to experiences that would be considered scandalous back home.  Random House, June 2025.

There may be a bit of magic in this tale of self-discovery and hope featuring a grieving mother in an abusive marriage in small-town Tennessee whose world opens up after she begins employment as a cook at a local diner.  Set in 1969. Harper Muse, September 2025.

Each of the six teenage girls in Wayward Girls was confined to the Good Shepherd Catholic reform school in 1968 Buffalo, New York, for different reasons, and forced to work in the institution's laundry. Can they band together to pursue justice and set themselves free?  William Morrow, July 2025.

Tragedy and resilience in Vanessa Miller's The Filling Station

In the early 20th century, the Greenwood district of Tulsa, Oklahoma, was home to numerous Black-owned businesses and a thriving African American community. Then came the devastation beginning on the night of May 31, 1921, when white supremacist mobs – including local law enforcement – rampaged and burned the entire neighborhood and killed dozens of residents.

In a novel evoking both the worst and most generous impulses of human nature, Vanessa Miller shines a light on the aftermath of the Tulsa Race Massacre, laying bare the survivors’ long, hard-fought road to regain strength and faith.

Margaret and Evelyn Justice, daughters of a prosperous grocery store owner, are young women with dreams; Margaret plans to start teaching high school history, while Evie, a talented eighteen-year-old seamstress, wants to become a clothing designer. Left homeless after the fires, their beloved father missing, the sisters start walking out of town and land at the Threatt Filling Station (a real place on Route 66), which their Daddy had recognized as a safe haven for Black travelers.

The proprietors, Mr. Allen and Mrs. Alberta Threatt, take in Margaret and Evie. The sisters have always been close, but their lives soon begin diverging. Margaret determines to see Greenwood rise again, wanting to rebuild as soon as possible, while Evie feels too scared to ever return.

The roadblocks they encounter (insurance denials are just the beginning) are infuriating, though Margaret is bolstered by the support of the Threatts and a caring farmer, Elijah, who has great faith in God. Through Miller’s skillful writing, we see the filling station not only as a notable landmark, one deserving of all Americans’ attention, but as a superb metaphor for the people and places that replenish the spirit, if we have the courage to let them in. Definitely recommended.

I reviewed The Filling Station for May's Historical Novels Review; the novel was published by Thomas Nelson in March. This novel and its subject exemplify how the past is still very much with us.  A few days ago, on June 1, 2025, the mayor of Tulsa announced a plan of reparations, in the amount of $105 million, to go toward restoring the Greenwood neighborhood (which was later termed "Black Wall Street") and the devastating impact its destruction had, and continues to have, on residents. 

There are two living survivors of the massacre, aged 110 and 111, both of whom had made statements included within a report undertaken by the Department of Justice's Civil Rights Division and published this past January.  This report, which you can read in full online, concluded that the attack was "systematic and coordinated," contradicting the original, cursory 1921 report that called it uncontrolled mob violence. This report marked the first full accounting of the event by the DOJ, over a century after it happened.  

The Threatt Filling Station, Luther, OK
credit: Melodibit, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

The Threatt Filling Station in Luther, Oklahoma, is on the National Register of Historic Places and was also listed as one of America's 11 Most Endangered Places by the National Trust for Historical Preservation in 2021.  The family runs a foundation and website at https://threattfillingstation.org.