Lilly Sommers' The Dark Dream, an epic of the gold rush in 19th-century Australia

My house is full of older books I’d purchased at least a decade ago, but due to ongoing commitments, I rarely have time to read them. I was starting to feel guilty about this, though, so picked this one up after finishing my latest Booklist assignment.

Published by Arrow/Random House Australia in 1997, Lilly Sommers’ The Dark Dream is an epic historical adventure (of nearly 600 pages) set in the rough-and-tumble world of the Bendigo gold rush in 1852. It’s long out of print, although the style doesn’t feel dated at all, and the author is still actively writing historical novels; I have some of her latest books, written under her own name, Kaye Dobbie. I bought The Dark Dream online years ago after enjoying another novel of hers, The Bond, which I’d found in an American remainder bookstore.

The heroine goes by Ella Seaton, although her real name and identity are a mystery that unfolds throughout the book. She awakens with a painful head injury in the mud alongside Seaton’s Lagoon, not knowing who she is or why she’s there. A man rescues her and brings her to his friend Adam, a tinker on his way to the Bendigo goldfields. Adam calls her Cinderella – Ella for short – after finding a pair of discarded leather shoes nearby and seeing that they fit her.

Ella and Adam assume she was set upon by bushrangers and robbed. One of her fingers bears the mark of a ring, so they know she was married. As Adam cares for her during her recovery, they make their way via horse-drawn cart to the goldfields, tracing the route Ella may have originally followed, hoping someone can identify her. However, Adam has own secrets, dating back to his days as a California forty-niner. The dangers they face derive as much from Adam’s troubled past as Ella’s present situation: her lack of memory leaves her vulnerable to enemies she can’t anticipate.

Storylines involving amnesia can sometimes feel contrived, but to Sommers’ credit, her portrayal of Ella’s condition feels honest. Ella innately senses that she was gently born, and although she’s grateful for Adam’s help, she’s clearly uncomfortable with camping in the bush, the lack of cleanliness, and treating folks like Adam and his acquaintances as social equals. This allows for considerable character growth as the plot moves along. Flashes of Ella’s earlier life come to her in dreams she can’t recall after waking. I particularly liked the scene where she glimpses herself in a mirror for the first time, and fails to recognize herself immediately. My one problem with the storyline was Ella’s naïve assumption that returning to her husband should be her ultimate goal, even given evidence to the contrary.

I recommend the book for its exciting plot, slow-building romance, and depiction of the characters (some brave, some foolish, many disreputable) caught up in the Victorian gold rush. Anyone seeking The Dark Dream can find a cheap copy via Bookfinder. And maybe it will be re-released on Kindle some day.

This is my 2nd entry in the Australian Women Writers Challenge for 2018.

Reviews of obscure books: Silk and Stone, by Dinah Dean

It's been well over a year since my last entry in the Reviews of Obscure Books series, so I figured it was about time for a new one.  This is my copy of Dinah Dean's Silk and Stone, and when you find a book as obscure as this one is, you don't care that one of its past owners slapped an ugly bookplate on the front cover rather than on the flyleaf.  Well, actually that's not true, but I'll deal with it.

Among others, Dean has written six mostly unconnected novels that take place in Waltham Abbey in Essex between the 11th and 19th centuries.  Silk and Stone, the 2nd in this unofficial series, is set during the civil wars between King Stephen and Empress Matilda in the 1140s.  But while the main characters all end up in the East of England, the novel begins on a pilgrimage far to the east and south.

Norman lady Mabilia de Wix, her 17-year-old daughter Elys, and their maid are in Rome, having traveled there in the company of Mabilia's haughty brother, Templar knight Sir Richard de Hastings.  Elys's older brother Matthew has a wound in his foot that refuses to heal, and the women have made pilgrimages to holy places all over England and France in the hopes of curing him.  All have failed, and they don't understand why.  Novelist Diana Norman would have made a slyly irreverent remark about this over-the-top situation, and indeed I expected one, but here, the novel's gentle humor mingles with sadness.  Unless Matthew lives, the family's noble line will die out.

If that's not bad enough, Elys hates the thought of going into a convent.  Mabilia has plans to retire to the cloister, seeing it as the safest place during these traumatic times of constant war, and wants to see Elys settled there too.  Elys's dowry has already been given to the nuns, so she has no hope for a decent marriage.  Elys has other plans, though.  An accomplished needlewoman, she thinks she has what it takes to be a professional broiderer.

The legendary tomb of King Harold II, which resides in Waltham
and is mentioned in the novel

Aylwin of Winchester, a master mason from a noble Saxon bloodline, sympathizes with Elys's predicament, and they become friends as he, his friend Sir Fulk, and her family wander back to England together.  Her quest for independence gains ground in the town of Waltham Abbey; she impresses Father Warmand with her skill, and he hires her to design and sew an elaborate cope, or church vestment.

With her unorthodox choice of career, her refusal to become a nun, her mother's and uncle's disapproval, and Sir Fulk's unwillingness to marry her despite his obvious admiration, Elys has her hands full.  Aylwin has feelings for her, but Elys is still blind to his attentions.  Matthew's days are numbered, too; only a miracle can cure him. Fortunately, one may be at hand.

This isn't a good book on which to test the 50-page rule.  Today's commercial fiction is obliged to grip the reader's attention immediately, but the initial few chapters of this one are slow.  Imagine the pacing of a pilgrimage in the Middle Ages, and you'll get an idea of how slow.  Things pick up as the plot begins to cohere, happily, and as Elys emerges as the novel's central figure.

Her plight is easy to understand — who would want to be forced into a nunnery? — but she belongs to her time rather than ours. Her romance with Aylwin develops realistically, with the shadow of the Norman Conquest, some seventy years earlier, still lingering in the background.  She also doesn't realize how fortunate she is, not until later.  Through the depiction of Elys's older sister Judith, who is now called Sister Helen, readers get to see the bitter result of a woman's regret-filled life.

The nave of Waltham Abbey

Dean presents a wonderfully detailed tapestry of the English medieval world, presenting the day-to-day occupations and concerns of nobility, craftspeople, and churchmen, although the weave isn't always as fine as it could be.  In some scenes, she spoon-feeds information on England's political history; in others, she drops readers into a pile of medieval terminology and lets them sort out what's what.  I liked the latter approach.  The word "mystery" is used in the sense of "miracle," and to her credit, Dean explores her characters' religious mindsets without making them seem holier-than-thou.  Instead, their faith feels like a natural part of their existence, which it was.

In her author's note, placed at the very beginning, Dean writes that many of her characters once lived, and that much of her plot is historically based rather than fictional.  Lady Mabilia, Sir Richard, Matthew, and several of the townspeople are among the real ones, all mentioned in a chronicle written forty years later.

Dinah Dean's Silk and Stone was published by Barrie & Jenkins, London, in hardcover in 1990 (382pp).  The RomanceWiki page has a complete bibliography of her work.  Should you be interested in a copy of this one, there are a couple of reasonably-priced ones on Amazon UK.  For now. 

Reviews of obscure books: Diana Norman, King of the Last Days

I chose this novel for the letter K in the A-Z challenge, figuring there was little point to owning an obscure book if I never got around to reading it. King of the Last Days was a serendipitous pick; I soon discovered its surprising connection to my interview with Tony Hays, covered in my last post, and also to Norman's first novel, Fitzempress' Law (reviewed in ’06).

Readers familiar with Norman’s work, including the Adelia Aguilar series written as Ariana Franklin, know of her affinity for 12th-century settings and her admiration for Henry II's judicial reforms. This novel is no exception. King of the Last Days opens at the end of Henry’s life. In 1189, Glastonbury Abbey is in a sorry state, victim of a fire that destroyed its monastic buildings five years earlier. Pilgrims are passing it by, and the prior has no money to rebuild. When four obedientiaries secretly uncover the remains of a tall man and a blonde woman in the abbey graveyard – bodies rumored to be those of Arthur and Guinevere – they see better days ahead. And they find a centuries-old sword lying alongside.

(History records the discovery taking place in 1190. An explanation is provided for this deliberate shifting; in Norman's take, it has to do with the unreliability of a certain Welsh chronicler...)

A monk at a nearby Benedictine house, Ancel of Athelney, is recruited to present Excalibur to King Henry, who’s off in France fighting his rebellious son Richard and the French king. The Glastonbury monks desperately need good publicity and want to use the sword as a bargaining chip. Ancel, however, has a more altruistic outlook on his mission; he owes his very livelihood to the king. Thanks to the newly instituted jury system, Ancel’s mother was able to prove he was born a freedman, and thus able to enter the monastic life.

As Ancel crosses the Channel and wends his way south to Le Mans, Excalibur concealed inside a wooden cross, he meets two others on the same path. Joan, the tart-tongued prioress of St. Mary’s du Pré in Hertfordshire, wants Henry to annul a pesky lower-class Celt’s legitimate claim to her abbey’s property. And Roger Sans-Avoir, a knight tormented by his experiences on Crusade, seeks to rejoin Henry’s entourage because he has no other options. In serving as protector for Joan and Ancel, Roger hopes to absolve himself of an unspeakable sin.

At this point the themes and characters started to seem oddly familiar. A peasant turned monk, a solitary knight, a woman of religion… hmm. Then it hit me: this book isn’t so much a retreading of the same ground as Fitzempress’ Law as an indirect sequel. After the 20th-century interlopers returned to their time, their medieval counterparts live on.

The three protagonists trudge through the northern French countryside, moving from Caen to Fontevrault to Chinon, encountering many colorful characters and a variety of dangers – crafty brigands, deadly illness, and other distractions from the task at hand. Although they unite in a common cause, they don’t always have each other’s best interests at heart. The sword changes hands many times, as does Prioress Joan’s cranky mare. By the end, after their respective journeys have transformed their attitudes, their goal hasn’t changed, but their motives have.

It’s a pleasure to read Norman’s from-the-ground-up presentation of medieval France: the unfamiliar flora and fauna, the heat rising from the landscape as the trio heads south, the rhythms and rituals of its people’s daily existence. The plot branches off in multiple directions, with perhaps too many viewpoints to keep track of, but even minor characters spark into life during their brief time on the page.

Norman depicts medieval people’s perspective on life in delightful fashion, showing how they balance their love for God and fear of mortal sin with a plainspoken irreverence toward the world’s realities. Consider Prioress Joan’s mumblings to herself when she first encounters Ancel on the road:

“Glastonbury. What was a monk from Glastonbury doing with a sword hidden in a cross? They’d always been odd at Glastonbury, too old, too mystic, too much holy thorn and well. Too much Arthur.”

But despite the many insertions of sly humor, the novel has an underlying solemnity. Though a fiercely intelligent man who accomplished many reforms, Henry never learned to share his power, and that has been his undoing:

"The trouble with Henry II of England is that he eclipsed people. He had eclipsed Philip's father, Louis, and taken Eleanor of Aquitaine away from him, and then eclipsed her and the sons she gave him. He had eclipsed Becket. He refused to delegate power to those of lesser vision, and they never forgave him for it."

At the end of his life, only his illegitimate son Geoffrey stands by him. His personal failings have become England’s as well, and Norman impresses upon readers the tragedy of it all. Nonetheless, Henry Fitzempress has reigned long and competently; his passing will mark the end of an era, just as the death of Arthur spelled the end of Camelot. It’s a brilliant character study of a man and the world he created, as seen through the eyes of those who experienced it.

A splendid evocation of medieval life, with wit and calamity in equal measure.

King of the Last Days was published by Hodder & Stoughton in hardcover in 1981. Non-obligatory FTC disclosure: the publisher did not provide me with a free copy of this book to review. Don’t I wish! This one’s so obscure that it's currently unavailable except via interlibrary loan. Rather, I should thank the Nottingham Libraries for selling their copy (for 30p) some years ago. Perhaps one day we'll be lucky enough to have a publisher bring Norman's backlist into print again. Judging by the number of people who find this blog by googling for her books, there's a real demand for them.

H is for Hill

Having reviewed a novel about Bonnie Prince Charlie not too long ago, I thought it only fitting to feature biographical fiction about the woman who became his consort: Louise of Stolberg.

Supporters of the Jacobite cause have had little good to say about Louise, an obscure German princess who wed the man they considered their rightful king in 1772, when she was 20 and he was 52. Their union, although contented at first, proved disastrous. Louise couldn't give Charles an heir, which was a problem. She also grew disenchanted with her meaningless title of "Queen of Great Britain, Ireland, France, and dominions beyond seas" and her marriage to a much older man who drank too much and mistreated her. Pamela Hill, a prolific Scottish historical novelist, presents Louise's side of the story.

Forget Not Ariadne opens in Louise's fortieth year. Louise, now a widow, is asked to quit her wealthy cousin Caroline's London home because of a social faux pas. Seems she picked the wrong day to be presented to Queen Charlotte: White Rose Day, the anniversary of the birth of her late father-in-law, the Old Pretender. Oops. Needless to say, Louise believes London to be the very center of prudishness and hypocrisy. Thus commences Louise's account of her impoverished childhood, ill-fated marriage, and subsequent yearning for freedom, a goal she finally achieves by leaving her husband. She finds true happiness by cultivating her substantial intellect and through her longtime affair with Italian poet Vittorio Alfieri.

Louise's first-person voice, as related by Hill, is direct, commonsense, and witty. She has a knack for funny pronouncements and clever metaphors; she has also had her fill of Jacobite romanticism. "A Guelph madman on the throne ... it might have been a Stuart drunkard," she muses. Looking back, Louise reminisces about her childhood, spent as a boarder at an abbey in the Austrian Netherlands after her father dies in Empress Maria Theresa's wars against Prussia. Dowerless girls, after all, have no purpose at court.

Ironically, after escaping the loneliness and poverty of Ste Wandru's via Charles Stuart's surprising proposal, her marriage and royal title prove equally empty. It's at this point she begins identifying with Ariadne, a princess of ancient Crete who was abandoned by her lover, Theseus, on the Isle of Naxos after giving him the means to save his life. Louise refuses to let herself be forgotten. She leaves Charles by taking refuge in a convent, sets up household with her lover, and spends her days traveling Europe, eventually winning over her ecclesiastical brother-in-law and founding a salon in Paris that attracts the best and brightest minds.

Forget Not Ariadne, Pamela Hill's lively and fact-based sixth novel, is one of her best. It's written like a memoir or oral history, as Louise details her eventful life in forthright and occasionally imperious fashion (after all she's been through, Louise has earned the right to say as she thinks). As a fictional account of a historical woman who refused to let society dictate how she lived her life, it fits in well with current themes in the genre. Published by A.S. Barnes of South Brunswick and New York in 1965, it is long out of print but available on the secondhand market.

This is my latest entry for Historical Tapestry's A-Z challenge. A shout-out to my fellow members of Historical Fiction Online, who'll know why I couldn't resist writing about this book!

E is for Eleanor

No, not that Eleanor - you'll be hearing much more about the Duchess of Aquitaine soon enough, with a handful of new biographical novels set to come out this summer. Rather, this post focuses on my favorite among the novels of Eleanor Fairburn, an Irish historical novelist who wrote about strong-willed women from the Middle Ages and Renaissance. Her other subjects include Lady Lucia de Thweng (The Green Popinjays), Anne of Brittany (Crowned Ermine), Cecily, Duchess of York (the Wars of the Roses quartet The Rose in Spring; White Rose, Dark Summer; The Rose at Harvest End; and Winter's Rose), and Grace O'Malley (The White Seahorse). She also wrote mysteries as Catherine Carfax.

The story of Nesta of Deheubarth takes place against a backdrop of war between Norman England and the kingdoms of South Wales. Born the daughter of Rhys ap Tewdwr, King of Deheubarth, Nesta is brought to England after her royal father is killed in battle against William Rufus in 1093. She is made a royal ward and raised at Romsey Abbey alongside the orphaned Scottish princesses, Mary and Maud, who through their mother, Margaret, are the last links to England's old Saxon bloodline. While there, Nesta falls in love with the king's younger brother, Henry of Coutances, though William Rufus has other plans for her: he unites her in marriage to Gerald of Windsor, who is made castellan of the important Norman fortress at Pembroke as a way of cementing England's ties to South Wales.

Nesta and Henry still have unfinished business, though their liaison doesn't take place until after she has borne Gerald several children. In a particularly poignant moment, she agrees to testify that Princess Maud, a silent and religious-minded young woman, never took vows at Romsey. This permits Maud's marriage to Henry, who has recently become King Henry I. And that's just the beginning of Nesta's vibrant, event-filled life. Over the years, she has relationships -- some willing, others not -- with several other men, though her life always circles back to Henry's. Despite their connection to one another, she comes to see him as a hard, uncompromising man who puts his ambition above all else.

This novel qualifies for the royal mistress challenge, although unlike most women in this position, Nesta has royal blood herself. She commands the loyalty and affection of the people of her native land, even though it's her husband who's technically their governor. Fairburn presents her as almost larger than life, though she's too intelligent to be a Mary Sue. (Don't hate her because she's beautiful!) Her life story is an example of truth being stranger than fiction. For instance, her cousin Owain was supposedly so taken with her beauty that he kidnapped her from her husband's castle, beginning a minor civil war.

Fairburn's portrait of Nesta is romanticized and wistful in parts, as if she is recounting an ancient legend. (Nesta's initial meeting with Henry is of the "love at first sight" type, too much so for realism's sake.) At the same time, the tone feels appropriate for the time and place, and for a woman who led such a dramatic, out-of-the-ordinary life. In her introduction, Fairburn writes: "This book is a weaving together of fact, probability, possibility, and fiction," which feels about right. A while back, I reviewed an even more obscure book about her, Anne Bell's Daughter of the Dragon. The Golden Hive is the better novel.

After picking this book for the letter E in the Alphabet Challenge, I realized it could have fit equally well with F and G, as well as D. Copies used to be more plentiful than they are now. Unless you want to pay upwards of $30, interlibrary loan may be your best bet.

The Golden Hive was published in 1966 by Heinemann & Co, London (long out of print).

"None such in the land"

Susan's recent post on The White Queen got me to thinking about Nonsuch, the royal palace built by Henry VIII, and a novel I once read about its history. In the 1530s, the king chose a site on the Surrey plain for the location of a magnificent hunting lodge. The lands were already owned by the Cuddington family, and had been for hundreds of years, but no matter -- King Henry annexed the entire village, along with a manor house, church, and priory, and had all the structures torn down to construct a Renaissance palace "as there would be none such in the land." The Cuddingtons were properly compensated for their troubles and given lands in Sussex in exchange. No doubt they were less than thrilled by this demonstration of the king's munificence!

Nonsuch Palace, which never merited more than a few visits by Henry VIII, proved more popular with his daughter, Elizabeth I. It remained standing until 1682. By this time it had fallen into the hands of Barbara Villiers, Duchess of Cleveland, the notorious mistress of Charles II. Her gambling habits left her short of cash, so she had it demolished, the building materials sold to pay her debts.

Mary M. Luke's The Nonsuch Lure focuses not on the Tudors themselves, but on the Cuddingtons, the family dispossessed by the king's decision. It's a time-slip novel about star-crossed lovers, a beautiful 16th-century woman thought to be tainted by witchcraft, a curse that lasts over generations, and a mysterious lost treasure known only as the Lure. An irresistible combination for an escapist historical read.

The novel begins in the 1970s, as Andrew Moffatt, a wealthy American architect who spends his time jet-setting around the globe, comes across an old journal in a Virginia bookstore. Andrew gets caught up in reading the diary entries of Julian Cushing, a young teacher from colonial Williamsburg, who became so enraptured by a painting that it drew him across the Atlantic and to the ruins of Nonsuch Palace. Curious, Andrew travels to England to visit the Nonsuch excavation site, and finds that his life and Julian's are running in parallel. He begins seeing ghosts from the Tudor era, and there's an evil presence at Nonsuch that seems to have lingered...

I first read The Nonsuch Palace about twenty years ago, and after a quick reread, I found the storyline just as captivating now as it was to me then. Parts are dated, like the 1970s-era slang, and then there's Andrew's occasional cigarette-smoking (in a historic building, too, for shame!). But it's still a wonderful book, and you won't soon forget the history of Nonsuch Palace after reading it. My copy's a 1977 paperback, and it's long out of print, but you can find copies on ABE and Bookfinder.com, among others (kind of pricey, though), as well as at many public libraries.

Reviews of obscure books: Jean Clark's Untie the Winds

Clark, Jean. Untie the Winds. NY: Kensington, 1978. 498pp. Prev. published in hardcover, 1976. Out of print, copies readily available via PaperbackSwap and cheaply via ABE.

After reading the comments on Christine Blevins's guest post, most of which dealt with American history, I've been thinking of historical fiction about my own home state -- and how very few examples there are. One of my favorite settings is colonial New England, but how many historical novels set in early Connecticut can you name?

Aside from the children's novel The Witch of Blackbird Pond, that is... this is the edition I read in elementary school.

Anya Seton's The Winthrop Woman, about a historical woman who was once an early resident of New Haven Colony, is another. But I wasn't able to think of many more. With this in mind, I picked up the 1976 paperback edition of Jean Clark's Untie the Winds with interest, despite the bodice-buster artwork and back cover blurb which promised a story about: "The ravishing rebel. The tender teacher. Passion and principle." Ugh.

What can I say, it was the 1970s, but this mainstream historical novel is horribly served by its packaging. The red square is not a weird variation of the scarlet "A," I should add, but a price sticker I didn't remove for fear it would damage the book!

The title, also, seemed to be one of those abstract romancey statements, something that sounds good on paper but has no real meaning. How wrong I was. The line was originally spoken by Macbeth to the three witches in Shakespeare's play: "Though you untie the winds and let them fight against the churches..."

Fittingly, Untie the Winds tells the story of one woman, Ann Eaton, and her fight against the Puritan church and the local justice system in New Haven Colony in the 1630s and 1640s. Ann Lloyd Yale Eaton was a real person, an Englishwoman who became the wife of the colony's first magistrate and governor, Theophilus Eaton. Through her son from her first marriage, Ann became the grandmother of Elihu Yale, the philanthropist after whom Yale College (now University) was named. It's nowhere near a historical romance, and in fact there's barely a single love scene in the book, despite what the back cover would have you think about her sensuous nature and her illicit romance with lusty schoolteacher Ezekial Cheever.

While focusing on Ann and the problems her philosophical rebellion caused within her marriage, Clark establishes the political and historical context by alternating between the viewpoints of five different characters. These are Ann herself; her husband Theophilus; Rev. John Davenport, spiritual leader of the colony; Ezekial Cheever, a teacher who expresses public support for Ann's unorthodox views; and Lurinda Collings, the Eatons' indentured servant (a fictional character).

Ann is a strong, principled woman who loves her husband but refuses to tolerate injustice, such as the Colony's execution of a Quinnipiac Indian for a crime committed out of its jurisdiction and without benefit of a trial by jury. She walks out of the meetinghouse during Rev. Davenport's service as a protest against infant baptisms, as babies are too young to decide for themselves about Church membership. Her refusal to confess her sins and repent of her actions leads to her excommunication in 1644, something her husband does nothing to prevent.

Already middle-aged with grown children when the novel begins in 1638, upon her ship's arrival in the land of the Quinnipiacs, she's not a typical historical novel heroine, but her story is a compelling one. Through her eyes and others, we see early New Haven take shape from a settlement in the wilderness along the Connecticut shoreline to a lively colony, based in Biblical principles, that steadily grew as it annexed nearby towns (called "plantations") and formed a united confederation with other British colonies in New England.

From what I've been able to discern, Ann's story as presented here is grounded in historical fact, with the probable exception of her unconsummated love affair with Cheever (a very minor part of the book). Even the appearance of a phantom ship off the coast in 1646, an event made famous by Longfellow's poem, is recorded as part of New Haven history and legend. Ann's life doesn't always follow a dramatic arc (most people's lives don't), which detracts from the narrative tension at times. After her excommunication, the focus moves from her to Lurinda's romantic escapades, which are completely fictional and not nearly as interesting to read about.

Overall, Untie the Winds is well worth picking up if you like this period of history. Despite being from Connecticut, I knew next to nothing about the New Haven colony beforehand but have been happily googling for information about it since I turned the final page. A clearly written, fascinating novel about the founding of one of the lesser-known English colonies in America, one woman's brave dissent against Puritan theocracy, and the price she paid for it.

Reviews of obscure books: Eilís Dillon's Wild Geese

Dillon, Eilís. Wild Geese. NY: Simon & Schuster, 1980. 352pp. Also London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1981.

Wild Geese… the romantic name given to Irish Catholics who fled their homeland for France and elsewhere in the wake of continued persecution in the 17th and 18th centuries. Noted Irish writer Eilís Dillon's novel expresses the adventurous spirit and plaintive longing found in those words. Memories of Ireland haunt her novel's characters. Its soil remains in their blood, even though they seek a new start elsewhere, even though their old lives brought them little happiness. Wherever they go, they continue to love and yearn for a land that didn't always welcome them.

Louise and Robert Brien, sister and brother, come from a long-established family of Catholic gentry, one whose rights to their ancestral lands are tolerated only because of their connections to powerful English relations. In 1779, their weak-willed father, Maurice, acquiesces to his second wife's wishes by sending them abroad to live with their French cousins. Louise's mission is to obtain her rightful inheritance from her grandmother's cousin, Charlotte. Once in France, however, the siblings prove to be no match for their selfish, snappish relations and the decadent artificiality of the Parisian aristocracy. The hypocrisy of her cousins' social circle is made plain to Louise: "Everyone was talking philosophy and the rights of man, but she had noticed that as soon as one applied these ideas to real people, one met with a blank stare, as if some gross vulgarity had been committed."

Robert, devoted yet extremely naïve, falls into the seductive web of Charlotte's treacherous daughter, while Louise discovers an unexpected ally in Count André de Lacy, another French-Irish cousin she had briefly met back in Ireland. An outrageous scandal then separates brother from sister, sending Robert and André across the Atlantic with the French army to fight for American independence. After escaping to the household of other distant cousins, the Countess de Rothe and her daughter, Madame Dillon, Louise soon finds herself languishing in Angers, the "city of bells," trapped into wedlock with an elderly nobleman.

Eilís Dillon devotes much time to Irishmen's experience fighting with Rochambeau in France in America's war, though her prose comes alive mainly when depicting more domestic scenes -- such as André's visit to the Lally farm in Hartford, Connecticut. One can't help but feel for Pauline Lally, a bitter woman whose five American-born children failed to thrive, and who longs to return to France despite André's warning that its people are growing restless under monarchical rule. At some point, Dillon may have realized that André made for better romantic hero material than Robert, for André's viewpoint takes over the story partway through. There are some humorous moments, for Louise's Irish maid, Biddy, has a delightfully sarcastic side, but overall the novel's tone is understated and restrained. While it suits the subject, it has the effect of keeping readers at a distance. The romantic feelings between Louise and André, which develop fully only after their separation, are not quite as palpable as they could be.

Robert's and Louise's stories take unexpected, ironic turns throughout the novel. Often their actions (or lack thereof) result in the exact opposite of what they and their families hoped for them, but both triumph in their own ways over society's restrictions. Not all of the novel's many characters find happiness, and if they do, it's an achievement hard won. Clearly written and tinged with melancholy, Wild Geese will interest readers looking for a unique perspective on the American Revolution, the lead-up to the French Revolution, and the Irish experience abroad.

Unlike some other novels in my Obscure Books series, Wild Geese is easy to find (and cheaply, too) from out-of-print book dealers. I got my copy for $1 at the Carbondale Public Library's book sale last year. Eilís Dillon (1920-1994), a popular writer in Ireland, was the niece of Joseph Mary Plunkett, a poet and leader of the 1916 Easter Rising. Wild Geese garnered rave reviews upon its publication in Ireland and England, though her bestselling epic about Irish independence, Across the Bitter Sea, was more widely celebrated. You can find more details on her novels (many of which are historical) at the Eilís Dillon Irish Writing Pages.

Reviews of obscure books:Lion Feuchtwanger's Raquel: The Jewess of Toledo

Feuchtwanger, Lion. Raquel: The Jewess of Toledo. New York: Messner, 1956. 433pp. Translated from the German by Ernst Kaiser and Eithne Wilkins.

The first hint I got that this novel held any great significance was several years ago. I received an email from a gentleman who was searching through LibraryThing and saw that I owned a copy. He said he’d been trying to find it for years, and would I like to sell it? I did not, and thought it nervy of him to ask! Then, in the comments on one of my blog posts from December 2006, Elena Maria Vidal mentioned she’d read Raquel: The Jewess of Toledo in college. She called it “a great love story between Alfonso King of Castile, who was married to Eleanor of Aquitaine’s daughter, and his Jewish mistress. It was a fascinating look at the Jews in Spain... a tremendous book."

Given the author’s stature and popularity during his lifetime, it’s perhaps surprising that his novels, at least in English, have fallen into obscurity today. Lion Feuchtwanger (1884-1958) was a German Jew whose religion, Jewish literary themes, and outspoken anti-Nazi sentiments led to his persecution at home. Through the efforts of the Emergency Rescue Committee (an activist group dedicated to providing exit visas to high-profile political refugees in occupied France), Feuchtwanger was rescued from a French concentration camp, disguised in women’s clothing, and brought to the United States with his wife. They settled in southern California, where he continued his literary career. Raquel is one of his later works. While his historical novels have been out of print and hard to find in the United States and Great Britain for decades, they’re still in print in Germany. See the German cover of Raquel at right.

Raquel: The Jewess of Toledo opens in the year 1187 or thereabouts. Alfonso VIII, the very Christian king of Castile, has just failed in his attempt to conquer Seville, in the Muslim-controlled southern half of Spain. His coffers are near bankrupt, and he needs to restore prosperity to his suffering realm. To this end he selects a wealthy merchant, Ibrahim of Seville, as his new Minister of Finance. Although Ibrahim was forced to convert to Islam as a young man and has many connections among high-ranking Muslims in Andalús, he was born a Jew and has never forgotten his origins. When he relocates to Toledo, he reverts to his birth name of Yehuda Ibn Esra and re-establishes himself in his family’s hereditary castillo. He makes it his mission not only to collect taxes for King Alfonso and manage his finances but also to serve as a protector of his fellow Jews in the likely case of another Holy War. With Don Yehuda comes his family friend Musa Ibn Da’ud, a Muslim physician who’s part of his household; his fourteen-year-old son, Alazar; and his seventeen-year-old daughter, Rechya, who adopts the Castilian name of Raquel.

Although Alfonso lives in relative contentment with his wife Doña Leonor, daughter of Henry II of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine, beautiful Raquel quickly attracts his attention. She intrigues him when she forthrightly states she prefers the comfort and Andalusian-influenced décor of her father’s castillo to Alfonso’s cold stone fortress at Burgos. Raquel is presented an intelligent and clever young woman, literate in Arabic and Hebrew yet unused to proclaiming her Jewish faith so openly. When Alfonso asks Yehuda if Raquel will become his mistress, Yehuda faces a tough decision. He knows he must leave Castile for good if he doesn’t agree. Despite the disgrace to her family’s name, Raquel consents. Thus begins a seven-year affair in which King Alfonso, enraptured by Raquel’s charms, neglects his wife and the greater workings of his kingdom, leaving Yehuda to gain influence at court – as well as many enemies.

Despite being the title character, Raquel can’t really be called the protagonist, as we rarely see anything through her eyes. The novel is no feminist re-imaging of historical events. Raquel comes to view Alfonso as her chivalrous knight in shining armor and endeavors to see the best in him, despite his restless nature and occasional anti-Jewish prejudices. Throughout the novel, the point of view shifts between Yehuda, Alfonso, and some of the secondary characters, such as Don Rodrigue, secretary to Toledo’s archbishop and one of Alfonso's privy councillors; Doña Leonor; and Don Ephraim Bar Abba, head of the Aljama, Toledo’s Jewish community. For readers who can’t get enough of Eleanor of Aquitaine, you’ll be pleased to see she makes her appearance three-quarters of the way through. Eleanor steals every scene she’s in, though the advice she gives her jealous daughter feels petty and beneath her.

For the greater part of the novel, as Alfonso grows ever more tempted by the possibility of dissolving Castile’s neutrality -- which would let its men participate in the Pope’s new Crusade -- Yehuda continues urging him towards peace. Unsurprisingly, given the author's background, religious tolerance and mutual understanding is the novel’s strongest theme, best personified by Yehuda, Musa Ibn Da’ud, and Don Rodrigue, who become close friends. In this sense, the novel can be read as a morality tale.

Despite the 50+ years since it was published, the translation still reads smoothly, aside from the occasional distractions of having multiple exchanges of dialog within the same paragraph. This is a novel that demands concentration, especially if you’re unfamiliar with 12th-century Spain. Feuchtwanger throws a lot of historical detail into the first chapter, and there are many characters to track. On the plus side, it rewards readers’ efforts. It’s a worthwhile introduction to the politics and religions of the period, particularly if you appreciate medieval characters whose faith shapes their worldview.

From what I’ve been able to determine, the truth behind Raquel: The Jewess of Toledo fits somewhere in the intersection between history and legend. (Note: clicking on the following link reveals major spoilers!) The Jewish Encyclopedia reports that Alfonso X, in his writings, related his grandfather’s love for a Jewess known as “la Fermosa” (the beautiful) as fact. Another article in Medieval Iberia: An Encyclopedia relegates the tale to legend and traces occurrences of it over the centuries. I wasn’t able to find any historical data on Yehuda Ibn Esra, which leads me to believe he may be fictional. This isn’t my area of expertise, but I did find what might be a historical error relating to Alfonso and Leonor’s daughter, Berengaria (Berenguela), and who she ends up marrying.

If you'd like to get hold of a copy (and don't read German), you might try interlibrary loan, as the prices for used copies in English can be ridiculous. (I bought my copy at a used book sale at least a decade ago.) Raquel: The Jewess of Toledo is well worth reading, and on a timely subject to boot. Maybe if we’re lucky it will be reprinted one day.

Reviews of obscure books:Brigid Knight's The Cloister and the Citadel

Knight, Brigid. The Cloister and the Citadel. London: Hutchinson, 1958. 236pp. Hardbound.

Charlotte de Bourbon’s short, dramatic life seems ideally suited to fiction. A French princess pledged to the convent from childhood, she became a reluctant abbess at age twelve, converted to Calvinism, fled to Germany, married a man who became a national hero, bore him six daughters in seven years, and died of exhaustion after nursing him back to health after a failed assassination attempt. So why has hardly anyone heard of her?

I picked up this book because I’ve enjoyed some of the author’s previous novels about Dutch history, and because it was on a subject I knew next to nothing about. Brigid Knight is or was, I believe, a British novelist, the pseudonym of Kathleen Henrietta Eve Sinclair. During the mid-20th century, she wrote a collection of novels set at various points in the history of the Netherlands, from the time of the Reformation through the later years of its South African colony. The Cloister and the Citadel centers on a little-known Renaissance princess, Charlotte de Bourbon-Montpensier (abt. 1546-1582), and her marriage to William “the Silent,” Prince of Orange and Count of Nassau. Known today as the founding father of the modern Netherlands, William had the dubious distinction of being the first head of state to be assassinated by a handgun, an event recounted in Lisa Jardine’s The Awful End of Prince William the Silent (2006). Through their eldest daughter, Louise Juliana of Nassau, Charlotte and William became the great-grandparents of Sophia, Electress of Hanover, mother of George I of England and ancestress of the British royal family.

Charlotte was the daughter of Louis de Bourbon, Duc de Montpensier, and Jacqueline de Longvic (Longwy). I’ve been trying to determine Charlotte’s exact relationship to the French monarchs of her era, though haven’t yet found a family tree that shows the complete Bourbon genealogy. Knight’s version of her life story begins in 1559, when twelve-year-old Charlotte, raised in the convent since infancy, is forced by her parents to become Abbess of Jouarre after the death of its previous abbess, her aunt Louise. Denied a dowry and seeing no other choice, Charlotte accepts the formal ring of office, despite her insistence that she has no vocation. Still, she holds back from taking formal vows. Thus begins the most fascinating part of the novel. Charlotte successfully governs her flock, despite her reluctance to play the role of abbess. Many times she attempts to obtain a dispensation to release her from the convent, though they all fail. Over time, she comes to accept Calvinist doctrine as the one true religion, which leads to her boldest act. At age eighteen, after considerable planning to ensure her safety and that of her flock, she flees Jouarre for Heidelberg, where she takes sanctuary with Frederick, Elector Palatine, and his wife. It’s in Germany where she meets William of Orange and becomes his third wife. This creates an enormous scandal not only because of Charlotte’s status as a “runaway nun,” but because of William’s own marital woes. His second wife, Anna of Saxony, is a mentally unstable woman who had an extramarital liaison and illegitimate child with Jan Rubens, her lawyer. (After his release from prison, Rubens returned to his faithful wife, which resulted in the birth of Peter Paul Rubens.) William’s marriage to Anna is soon annulled, a fact that Anna’s relatives refuse to accept.

The novel proceeds in measured fashion, recounting Charlotte and William’s brief courtship, their long separations while he leads the Dutch uprising against the Spanish, his negotiations with France in support of his goal, and the births of their six daughters. Although we never see any military action firsthand, Knight goes into considerable detail on the historical backdrop, such as the growing Huguenot influence in France, the Sea Beggars’ raids against Spanish squadrons along the Dutch coast, and William’s dogged pursuit of a united Netherlands. Many Renaissance-era notables play significant roles, from Jeanne of Navarre, a confidante and mother figure for Charlotte in matters of religion, to Catherine de Medici, Queen Mother of France, whose respect Charlotte earns after she stands up to her parents. Knight is particularly good at explaining the complex relationships between France, the Netherlands, and their respective leaders. She drifts back and forth from fiction to nonfiction and back again, sometimes relating typical scenes with characters and dialogue, other times recounting the history straightforwardly. She shifts from close third person to omniscient viewpoint with increasing regularity as the novel continues, though occasionally swoops back in to recount emotional scenes more intimately. Some of the characters' actual letters, in English translation, are reproduced verbatim, in a way that enhances their fictional personalities. Per the author's notes, the archives at l’Abbaye de Jouarre proved a gold mine in terms of primary research sources.

Despite the odd stylistic changes, the strangest thing about it is how readable the novel is anyway, and I credit the history itself for that. Although Charlotte and William’s relationship is highly romanticized, and their personalities grow steadily more idealized, I can’t say I was ever bored. Their personal and political stories are gripping in themselves. To readers today, its style may seem old-fashioned, but I came away from it enlightened about a historical period underutilized in fiction, and in nonfiction for that matter.

For more reviews in the "obscure books" series, click on the tag below.

Reviews of Obscure Books: Maureen Peters, A Song for Marguerite

Peters, Maureen. A Song for Marguerite. London: Hale, 1984. 172pp.

Maureen Peters is an extremely prolific Welsh novelist. Under her real name, she writes mostly about royalty, though lately she's been writing Victorian gothic romances. As Catherine Darby (her best known pseudonym), she's written many gothic novels, mostly historical, from a variety of eras. I own nearly all her books though am missing a significant few. Peters is a strong storyteller, concentrating on the interpersonal relationships of royals and nobles. She can create a regal atmosphere using prose and dialogue alone, so much that you nearly forget that apart from descriptions of clothing (which I can't judge the accuracy of), there's almost no real historical detail. Her accuracy, with regard to people, locales, and events, is OK in places but far off in others, and in A Song for Marguerite, there are some genealogical mistakes - but more on that later.

When I stopped by my Robert Hale bookcase yesterday, this title popped out at me - and I couldn't resist reviewing it because I know Edward II has his online fans. It's also short; you can read it in an hour or two. Unfortunately for poor Marguerite, but fortunately for you ladies, A Song for Marguerite deals far more with the Edward II-Piers Gaveston relationship than it does with this little-known queen.

We first glimpse Marguerite as a ten-year-old princess living at the court of her brother, Philip IV of France. She knows she's plain and can never compete in the beauty department with her older sister, Blanche. When the English king's brother Edmund, called the "English duke" (what is he duke of? I believe he's the Earl of Lancaster), pays a visit to France to discuss a possible treaty, he tries to arrange Edward I's marriage to one of the royal daughters, probably Blanche, on condition that Gascony be part of her dower. Nothing happens in this regard for about five years (dates are very vague), at which point the Queen Mother decides that the bride will be Marguerite, not Blanche, who's already been promised to Austria. And a good thing for Marguerite, for she prefers an older, more stable man for a husband, even if he's over sixty, and is simply glad to marry at all. She also longs to live in England.

The basic historical story follows: Edward I and Marguerite are happy together, though he treats her more like a cosseted child than a wife. As Edward grows older, he becomes more condescending, waxing on about his adored first wife, Eleanor of Castile, and making it clear to Marguerite that she doesn't measure up in the brains department. Marguerite, though sweet and kind, remains remarkably naive throughout. To her credit, she goes out of her way to befriend her stepson, Ned, as well as his constant companion, Piers Gaveston, and defends their friendship almost to the point of absurdity; she refuses to believe anything improper about them.

Piers Gaveston is easily the most compelling character. He's very charismatic, and people are naturally drawn to him, even Edward I, who reluctantly makes him leave court when it becomes obvious he's a bad influence. Marguerite, too respectful of her much older husband to show her true self with him, can relax around Piers and open up to him about political matters and the royal court. One scene at Woodstock, where Marguerite and her children rest before she's summoned north to join the king in Scotland, is particularly revelatory. Much of an age, the two speak frankly about her marriage and laugh about Henry II and Rosamund Clifford, whose ghost was said to haunt the estate. To Marguerite, Piers jokingly reveals his cynicism about true love, using the earlier royal pair as an example: "'If Henry the Second were to haunt every chamber where he laid a woman,' says Piers, 'he'd have precious little time to spend in Heaven.'" Piers makes humorous asides such as this throughout the novel.

Ned appears as a blond, muscular youth who, to his father's dismay, prefers to spend his time on pursuits suitable for peasants - rowing, swimming, and, yes, thatching. And young Isabella, Marguerite's niece, is described as a beautiful, charming child who turns into a gorgeous young woman. She grows up in truth once she realizes Ned's true feelings toward Gaveston. The scene where she tries to explain the reasons behind her unhappy marriage to her very naive yet older aunt is both touching and sad.

Now to the genealogical mistakes. When puzzling out relationships between characters, Peters occasionally mixes up Marguerite's sister-in-law, Jeanne of Navarre, Queen of France (called by the English equivalent Jane for some odd reason), and her mother, Marie of Brabant, the queen dowager. For example, it's not Marie's mother who married Edmund of Lancaster as his second wife, but Jeanne's mother. Peters repeats this incorrect fact several times. Gaveston also never consummates his marriage or has children; wrong. And the historical background - well, it's lightly sketched, to put it mildly. Edward I does go on campaign to Scotland, and all sorts of nasty things get done to William Wallace (off-screen), but Marguerite doesn't like politics, so we don't see much else.

This is undoubtedly more screen-time than this brief novel deserves, but as the saying goes, if I'd had more time, I'd have made it shorter. It's a smooth, easy read that gives insight into some members of Edward II's circle, and completists will probably want to read it, though be on the alert for historical errors. There are more that I haven't mentioned, and probably others still that I didn't pick up on.

Reviews of Obscure Books: Diana Norman, Fitzempress' Law

Norman, Diana. Fitzempress' Law. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1980. 284pp. Also Hodder & Stoughton, 1980, 284pp.

Novels pass into obscurity for a variety of reasons - poor writing, low reader interest, small print runs, old age. But the reason, I suspect, that Fitzempress' Law is so hard to find has more to do with the author's excellent reputation as a medieval novelist. Aside from library editions, most copies reside in the hands of readers who won't give them up. This novel, Norman's first, has three major themes in common with her latest (Mistress of the Art of Death, 2007, written as Ariana Franklin), published 27 years later. Namely: rural life in 12th century England, as seen from the inside out; the plight of the Jews of Cambridge; and the judicial reforms of Henry II and their relevance to the modern world. I had no idea of the similarity of setting and subject when I decided to read the novels one after the other, but they make for a nicely matched pair. Their plotlines, however, are quite different.

In the present day, three 18-year-old hoodlums get thrown back in time after committing a crime against an eccentric old woman. She invokes a curse on the trio that the only way to save their souls will be through law. Now, in Henry II's England, each must find a way of using early medieval law to solve a major personal crisis. Len awakes in the body of Aluric of Tatchwerte, a village in the Hundred of Broadwater in Hertfordshire. Aluric is a swineherd who had been mute for many years, ever since the mysterious stabbing death of his older sister. He's charged with proving he was born a free man, which will allow him to fulfill his mother's dream of becoming a monk. Pete, who in his previous existence was a shy, unassertive type, enjoys his newfound status as Sir Roger of Mardleybury, a knight in service with Henry II's forces in France. Unfairly disseised of his hereditary lands, Pete must find a way of proving his right to his late father's manor. And Sal finds herself occupying the body of Hawise, a young gentlewoman whose betrothal was unfairly broken and who was forced into a nunnery against her will.

This isn't a typical time-travel novel, in that the characters spend remarkably little time exploring the differences between "then" and "now"; they're fully absorbed into the 12th century almost immediately. In fact, they find that their new circumstances, difficult and uncomfortable as they are, offer them much that their previous existence did not. Len, formerly an orphan, now has a mother and a home of his own, though Edeva practices "tough love" on her son, and their residence is a peasant's hut. As a leader of men, Pete develops self-confidence and a new sense of authority, and Sal, to her great surprise, finds serenity in the contemplative life of the cloister. If not for the fact that she must use the law to validate her betrothal, in order to break the curse, Sal as Hawise might well have taken her religious vows.

Norman's descriptions of medieval English life are breathtaking; there are so many distinctive, memorable scenes that bring the 12th century to vivid, sparkling life. One gets to experience the back-breaking but necessary task of farming the land, day in and day out, despite uncooperative soil and tired oxen. Besieging a French castle by gradually starving its residents into surrender. Surviving the harsh winters of rural Hertfordshire with only a meager fire and minimal food and shelter. Protecting the Jews of Cambridge in an era when Jewish moneylenders are despised for their wealth and their supposed uncleanness. And overshadowing everything is Fitzempress's fatal quarrel with Becket, an act for which the English can never forgive him - despite his numerous judicial reforms (which resulted in the modern jury system), his keen intelligence, and his wise counselors' general belief that Becket got what he had coming to him.

Norman presents the religious zeitgeist among the populace with delicious irony. Christianity exists side-by-side with an earthy paganism that refuses to die out completely. When another young girl is found stabbed in the forest, Tatchwerte's peasants blame the Wild Hunt, despite their knowledge that not naming a human murderer will result in their village being fined. The local cleric, Father Herve, is fortunately more forward-thinking:

Len said, "It's nonsense, this Wild Hunt business. A real person killed her. I've seen that knife before, I know I have. Where the hell was it?"
The priest just watched him.
"You don't believe it was the Wild Hunt, do you?"
"No," said Father Herve, "that's just heathenish superstition."
"Who do you think it was then?"
"The devil." (p.120)

Fitzempress' Law is full of these exchanges, conversations between characters that reveal who they are, what they believe, what they stand for. The initial time-travel plot device really isn't the point. Instead, I spent much of the time hoping that the trio would decide not to return to the 20th century, so much did I enjoy their experiences in their new lives - as much as I believe they themselves did. This is one of the best examples of medieval fiction I've come across. It deserves to be more widely available, but even if that won't happen, it deserves to be more widely read.

For other reviews in the Obscure Books series, see here and here.

Reviews of Obscure Books:Anne Bell, Daughter of the Dragon

Bell, Anne. Daughter of the Dragon. London: Robert Hale, 1978. 176pp, hardbound. 1-7091-6679-6.

This older novel about Nest of Deheubarth, called "the Helen of Wales" for her beauty and her amorous exploits, is fortunately easier to find than Eve Trevaskis's Lord of Misrule, reviewed previously. Although no date is given, the novel begins in the late 11th century, with Nest as a young girl, and concludes in her middle age, as she watches proudly over her numerous children. In between, Bell takes us through Nest's tumultuous life. Born the daughter of Rhys ap Tewdwr, Prince of Deheubarth, young Nest makes an immediate impression on Prince Henry of England during his family's royal visit to her father's court. After Rhys is killed in an attack led by his cousin (which occurred in AD 1093), Nest is brought to England, where she becomes Henry's mistress. Refreshingly, Bell depicts Nest's relationship with Henry as one based on gratitude rather than love or infatuation. While Nest is certainly willing, she accedes to Henry's request because she feels she can do no better. After the birth of Nest's two sons, Henry marries her off to Gerald of Windsor, one of his strongest supporters. She grows to love Gerald and bears him five children. But after years of seeming stability in her life, Nest feels restless; when she makes the impulsive decision to abandon her family by absconding with Owain ap Cadwgan, Prince of Powys (and brother to her late father's enemies), she is following her heart for the first time in her life. Bell portrays Nest's midnight abduction from Pembroke Castle by Owain as a grand romantic escapade, one that ends only with Owain's death. When Nest makes contact again with her grown children many years later, they are surprisingly understanding - one aspect of the novel that didn't ring true. However, Gerald is less forgiving, and refuses ever to see her again. But a happy ending for Nest still awaits in the arms of widowed Stephen Cedricson, the handsome Norman who had brought her to England many years before.

I enjoyed this smoothly written novel, and despite its brevity, I felt that Bell managed to create a realistic personality for Nest. Despite her notoriety, she's no ultra-feminist. All the same, while she pays the price for her impulsive actions, she doesn't ever regret them. Bell has a gift for describing scenery; the Welsh hills in particular come alive. Although Welsh politics of the time remain mostly in the background, they are explained well. For the most part, Nest's story as depicted here is true. She did have many lovers (including King Henry, though their affair may have continued during her marriage) and bore children to each of them, including her husband, and she continues to be known as Helen of Wales because her abduction by Owain led to a minor civil war. Nest also left quite a legacy. Her grandson (by daughter Angharad) was Gerald of Wales, aka Welsh chronicler Giraldus Cambrensis, and her later descendants by Gerald were known as the FitzGeralds, or Geraldines, rulers of southern Ireland through Tudor times. For more information, see Nest: The Helen of Wales.

Daughter of the Dragon includes some interesting historical conjecture. Gwenn Meredith (see note below) states that Nest likely went to England in 1081 as a political hostage, while Rhys died in 1093; therefore, she wouldn't have been in Wales at the time of her father's death. Bell indicates that Robert of Gloucester, Empress Matilda's loyal half-brother, was Nest's son, and there's a scene where he brings his wife Mabel Fitzhamon home to visit her. I was suspicious about this initially, but since then, I've been doing background reading, and opinion on whether Nest was Robert's mother seems to be mixed. There are some historians that don't dismiss it outright, in any case. After Owain's death, Bell comments that things may have been different if Owain's child by Nest had survived. However, it appears that they did have two children, Llywellyn and Einion, and at least the latter survived to have descendants. The novel concludes with Nest's marriage to Stephen, constable of Cardigan Castle (though the jury's still out on whether they ever officially wed). My favorite novel about Nest remains Eleanor Fairburn's The Golden Hive, which is considerably longer (and more romanticized, I'll admit), but this is a nicely told version of her life as well.

In sum: A brief but very readable novel about a famous Welsh princess, a retelling possibly more accurate than I originally thought.

For further reading: Gwenn Meredith, "Henry I's Concubines," Essays in Medieval Studies 19 (2002): 14-28. If your library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read the article here. I'm no expert, so if anyone reading this knows more about the historical background, please comment.

Reviews of Obscure Books:Eve Trevaskis, The Lord of Misrule

Trevaskis, Eve. The Lord of Misrule. London: Robert Hale, 1972. 223pp, hardbound. 0-7091-2444-9.

Welcome to what may become an irregular feature of this blog. Why bother reviewing historical novels that are out of print and hard to find? Purely for discussion and entertainment purposes, and so you don't have to shell out $795 of your hard-earned cash for the privilege, of course. [Disclaimer: I did not pay anywhere near that amount for my foxed, dog-eared, ex-library copy]

The novel begins in the year 1300, as Piers Gaveston, known as Perot, manages to catch the notice of the King of England's heir, Prince Edward, while on campaign to fight those rebellious Scots. One day, Edward requests that Perot meet him in his tent much later that evening... hmm, an assignation, perhaps? But Edward wants only to talk, as he's heard that Perot has an amusing and witty way about him, and Edward is bored by pompous court behavior. The pair develop a close friendship, and since Edward needs someone he can trust in all situations, they become blood-brothers, swearing an oath "that neither the Pope nor the devil can annul" (p.24). Over the next decade and more, through thick and thin, both hold to this oath, though it earns Perot the barons' enmity, and Edward his kingdom's scorn. It all comes to a head (no pun intended) with Perot's execution by the Earl of Warwick and his allies outside of Warwick Castle in 1312.

Lord of Misrule was both more and less than I expected. Trevaskis packs quite a story into her 220-odd pages, and given my experience with older Hale novels, this one took me longer to finish than others (a couple evenings). She is best when describing physical settings:

"Outside the tents, the English camp lay like a ghost city, lit by ruddy fires and the faint luminosity of the Scottish summer night sky. There were familiar sounds all about him: the enquiring whinny of a horse, the voice of a watchman challenging, some footsteps, some murmuring voices in one of the numerous tents and, far off among the baggage wagons, a dog barking." (p.15)

She also surprised me by positing that the Gaveston-Edward II relationship was not a homosexual one, though she hints that Edward II may have had unspoken feelings in that direction. There is a very funny scene in which a young Roger Mortimer, of all people, reveals to a shocked Gaveston that Edward may very well have more than close friendship on his mind... and as such, Mortimer provides a reason why England's nobles might despise Perot for his inappropriate influence over the king. But while Gaveston is cocky and frequently rude to the barons, especially Thomas Earl of Lancaster, his motives remain pure; while he accepts the king's generous gifts to him and his family back in Gascony, he feels he merely honors a friendship that the two of them swore to uphold long ago. Furthermore, his heart belongs to his wife, red-haired Margaret de Clare, the king's niece, who grows from a shy, giggly teenager to a loving partner as the novel progresses.

On the negative side, the author's characterizations are shaky at best, especially where Edward II is concerned. Sometimes he's a coward running from the Scots, other times he joins the peasants for some nice hard work in the fields, and yet other times he comes close to being a raving lunatic:

"[The King] was snarling at [Perot] now, possessed by the Angevin devil which had driven Becket to his martyrdom. Cruel, savage, merciless rage faced [Perot] there beneath the burning nimbus of golden hair." (p.21)

That Angevin devil! Pure melodrama, in other words. Yet the King's knife attack on Perot, and his injury, leads to the pair swearing their brotherhood of blood, so I guess the scene accomplished its purpose. Isabella of France doesn't feature much in the book, other than to do stereotypical womanly things. She does figure in one bizarre scene at a "Maying" that the author says she completely made up: briefly alone, Isabella and Perot seem to feel a mutual attraction, but Perot insults her pride by not acting upon it. She hints that maybe Isabella planned this deliberately, to prove to herself that Perot's affections were already taken (by her husband). In either case, Trevaskis portrays Isabella as a spoiled child, throwing tantrums when she doesn't get her way.

The other oddity is the almost complete lack of political context, or other scenes to explain why the characters act the way they do. Edward I is off fighting the Scots at the beginning, but we see no battle scenes. Gaveston's voyage to govern Ireland for a year at Edward II's request passes by within half a sentence. England's nobles say they're angry with Gaveston, but apart from some minor insults (which are quite funny, and apparently based in historical fact) he throws their way, we don't see why, and they don't act on it until almost the very end. There are many scenes of interaction between people, yet it's all seen from Gaveston's viewpoint, and even though most readers will know the story, they may not see the bigger picture completely.

Five pages of notes at the beginning provide details on the author's sources, and they explain why she interpreted Perot's relationship with Edward the way she did. I was also impressed by her genealogical knowledge, and I had to refer to another source (no genealogy is included in the book) to see why Thomas of Lancaster called Queen Isabella his niece.

In short: a straightforwardly told, though very quirky, biographical novel of Piers Gaveston, portrayed here as a man possessed of greater loyalty than common sense.

[If you want to read it for yourself, interlibrary loan may work; there are three libraries in the US, one in Canada, and at least four (and likely very many more) in the UK that own it, according to WorldCat.]