Above painting: Louis Jean Francois - Mars and Venus an Allegory of Peace

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Showing posts with label Sarah Bower. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sarah Bower. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Guest Author Sarah Bower (Giveaway!)


Welcome to History Undressed, Sarah Bower, author of Needle in the Blood--which I have sitting on my TBR pile, cannot wait to read it!  Today she is giving us a bit of history behind the book. Leave a comment for your chance to win a copy.


Thank you for inviting me on to your blog to talk about my new novel, THE NEEDLE IN THE BLOOD. I’d like to set the book in its historical context by telling you something about the Bayeux Tapestry.

Given how we like to celebrate our failures in this country (Dunkirk, the Charge of the Light Brigade), it isn’t surprising that the one historical date every school child knows is 1066, the year in which these islands were conquered by William, Duke of Normandy, francophone descendant of the legendary Roland/Odo/Orlando (depending on who is writing about him) who had moved from Scandinavia to settle in northern France about a hundred years earlier.

Although the Normans were, without doubt, brutal, ruthless and destructive in the way they went about their conquest, they also planned shrewdly for the long term. Despite incidents of staggering violence such as the Harrying of York in 1069 to 70, when farm animals as well as people were slaughtered wholesale, William’s main weapon was to pension off former Anglo Saxon leaders, buying their loyalty with gifts of land, and to encourage the Norman governors with whom he replaced them to marry native women and facilitate a blending of cultures. This is why, although we still speak of ourselves as an Anglo Saxon people, and use this concept to explain ourselves to ourselves in all kinds of ways, from our drinking habits to our economic structures, much of our most famous heritage – our castles and cathedrals, our hereditary monarchy – is attributable to the Norman Conquest. So we remember 1066, not just as a glorious failure but also as a foundational date in the modern history of Britain.

William may have been a tough soldier, a merciless disciplinarian whose wife and children all fell out with him, but he also abolished slavery and the death penalty in England and Wales, and he had an affection for hares, whose killing was forbidden under his hunting statutes. The contradictions of the history inhere in the character of the Conqueror himself.

The Bayeux Tapestry is the best known record of the Conquest, and the events leading up to it which William believed justified his claim to the English throne after the death of Edward the Confessor without heirs. Its central narrative is a shameless piece of Norman propaganda, presenting William as the rightful heir, wronged and cheated by a duplicitous Harold Godwinson. Even its most familiar image, of King Harold being killed by a shot in the eye, is more symbolism than truth. The putting out of an eye was a Norman punishment for theft. Harold probably met a much grizzlier end, but the truth of that did not matter to the Tapestry’s Norman patron so much as the symbolic message sent out by showing him losing an eye.


Once I began studying the Tapestry while researching THE NEEDLE IN THE BLOOD, however, I quickly discovered that, like the story of the Conquest itself, nothing is as straightforward and clear cut as it seems. Even this scene is ambiguous, because the caption, ‘hic haroldus interfectus est’ could refer to another Anglo Saxon soldier, shown felled by an axe, a little to the right of the famous image of the man shot in the eye. Perhaps somebody has attempted to bear witness to the truth while still paying lip service to the propaganda.

The Bayeux Tapestry is both utterly familiar and completely mysterious. Although most scholars believe Bishop Odo of Bayeux, William’s half brother, to have been its patron, there is only circumstantial evidence for this, arising from the way he is portrayed in the narrative and the fact that the Tapestry had its first showing at the dedication of Bayeux Cathedral in 1077. Although it is likely the Tapestry was made in England, because England was the go-to place for embroidery in the mid-eleventh century, again, we do not know for sure. Looking at the images themselves, while the main narrative is fairly – but not entirely – straightforward, the top and bottom margins are very strange indeed. They contain images of heraldic beasts, illustrations from Aesop’s Fables, violence far more graphic than anything found in the main narrative and several overtly sexual scenes. Nothing in the margins seems to bear a direct relation to the main narrative; clearly there is a conversation going on here, perhaps between the Norman patron and his English embroiderers. Or perhaps there is no conversation at all, but the ‘official’ Tapestry on one level and coded messages of resistance on another.

I was attracted by the idea of the Tapestry as an expression of tension between the patron and the conquered embroiderers, between the celibate bishop and a workshop full of women, and also by another mysterious, and much discussed, image, that of Aelfgyva and the priest.

Again, nobody has been able to identify these two figures for certain, and you can see immediately that the priest’s apparent act of violence towards Aelfgyva may not be all it seems. Look at the way in which the naked figure in the lower margin mirrors his action. Could it be that these two are lovers rather than enemies?

This image, and its ambiguity, are central to THE NEEDLE IN THE BLOOD, which is both a love story and a story about how the trauma of conquest affects conquerors as well as conquered. I hope my readers love Odo and Gytha as much as I do, but I also hope the novel sheds some light on how England became England and how, as we so enjoy doing, we managed to make a triumph out of what remains our biggest disaster to date.

If you would like to know more, please visit THE NEEDLE IN THE BLOOD Facebook page where you will find a bibliography of the texts I used in my research, links to other blogs – oh, and evidence of the role Batman played in the Norman Conquest!

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Sarah Bower is a novelist and short story writer. Her first novel, The Needle in the Blood, was Susan Hill’s Book of the Year 2007. Her short stories have appeared in magazines including QWF, Buzzwords and The Yellow Room. She completed an MA in Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia in 2002. She teaches creative writing at UEA and for the Open University. She also works as a mentor and manuscript reader for leading literary consultancies.  Visit her at http://www.sarahbower.co.uk/

Monday, March 7, 2011

Guest Author, Sarah Bower on the History Behind SINS OF THE HOUSE OF BORGIA

Today I would like to welcome guest author Sarah Bower to History Undressed. I am in the midst of reading Ms. Bower's book, SINS OF THE HOUSE OF BORGIA right now and thoroughly enjoying it. I've asked Ms. Bower if she'd give us a bit of history on her research for the book, and any unique or intriguing findings.  I hope you enjoy her post as much as I did! Thank you Ms. Bower for your wonderful post!

*****

Let me begin by thanking you for inviting me to guest on History Undressed, and for all the great comments your readers made in the competition to win a copy of SINS OF THE HOUSE OF BORGIA. Really hope the winner – and everyone else – enjoys the book.


Lucrezia
I’ve been researching the Borgias since I was fourteen and developed a major crush on Cesare after reading Jean Plaidy’s Madonna of the Seven Hills and Light on Lucrezia. Handsome, clever, wealthy, successful and just a frisson of danger thrown in for good measure. What’s not to like? The next book I read was Machiavelli’s The Prince, and you could say I’ve been researching the Borgias ever since, though, over the years, my interest in Lucrezia has grown. Both brother and sister are fascinating, contradictory characters, but coded letters of Lucrezia’s revealed by Sarah Bradford in her book Lucrezia Borgia: Life, Love and Death in Renaissance Italy show that the traditional view of her as a pawn in her father and brother’s games is short of the mark. I’ve tried, in SINS OF THE HOUSE OF BORGIA to show her acting independently and demonstrating just as much political skill and acumen as the Borgia men.

This is one reason why I chose to set the novel mainly in Ferrara, where Lucrezia went on her third and final marriage to Alfonso d’Este, the Duke of Ferrara. A visit to that beautiful town on the River Po quickly reveals how differently their famous duchess is regarded there to the image of helpless girl or the scheming adulteress beloved of Donizetti and Victor Hugo. To the Ferrarese, she is a great patron of the arts, the dedicatee of Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, and a heroine of the city’s resistance to an invasion by Papal forces in 1509. Most fiction about Cesare and Lucrezia focuses on their early years in Rome, when they were beset by scandal and sensation, but I found myself more interested in finding out about the people they became after they grew up, their capacity for survival and endurance, what – I suppose – has made them stay in history’s consciousness when so many of their equally brilliant contemporaries have faded.

The key that unlocked all this, however, was discovering Violante. Among the entourage which accompanied Lucrezia to Ferrara was a converted Jewess called Violante. This is recorded, as is her betrothal to an unknown man around 1503, but the rest is a blank for the novelist to fill in, and suddenly, a plot began to fall into place. In 1492, the year Lucrezia’s father became Pope Alexander VI, the Jews were expelled from Spain by Ferdinand and Isabella. In that diaspora I found my starting point, the event that would, eventually, cause Lucrezia’s and Violante’s paths to converge.

It’s important to me to have a strong sense of place for the settings of my novels, which meant spending some time in Ferrara, just twenty minutes by train from Venice and, perhaps because of that, unjustifiably overlooked. Little of the city Violante would have known is left after an earthquake in 1570, but the castle in which she would have lived is largely intact.

Cesare
What really brought her world to life for me was not the grand public rooms, most of which have been rather poorly restored, but a tiny dungeon in the castle’s basement, the door so low I had to bend almost double to enter a room no more than a couple of feet wide and about eight feet long and without any natural light. It lies below the level of the moat and, even on a warm March afternoon, was freezing cold and damp. This is where one of Alfonso d’Este’s brothers was imprisoned after unsuccessfully plotting against him. Standing there in the dark, thinking about his fate, I was forcefully struck by the darkness which underlies the glories of the Italian Renaissance.

Let’s take a peek at a letter written by Isabella Gonzaga, Lucrezia’s sister-in-law, to her husband, Francesco, who was obliged to stay away from the wedding by a recurrence of syphilis. ‘Yesterday,’ she complains, ‘we all had to remain in our rooms until the twenty-third hour[approximately six in the evening] because Donna Lucretia [sic] takes so long to rise and dress herself...’ Elsewhere Isabella jealously itemises pieces of the Este family jewels worn by Lucrezia at the wedding celebrations – a diamond and ruby necklace, a headdress loaded with spinels, diamonds, sapphires and other precious stones and some ‘very large’ pearls. It’s almost as if she knew the elegant Roman girl, with her glamorous style and decadent manners, was destined to become the love of Francesco’s life.

Underneath all this glitz and glamour lies a dark region of violence, superstition and disease. Murdered enemies were displayed in ritual ways worthy of the grisliest crime fiction – hung in cages from battlements, laid out on the executioner’s block with the axe still embedded in their necks, tied back to back and garrotted. Virulent malarial plagues swept Ferrara every summer. Of the four children of Pope Alexander VI and Vannozza Catanei, only Lucrezia survived her mother. One son was murdered, another died in battle, the third of a fever. Lucrezia herself endured nine pregnancies and gave birth to five living children, two of whom died in infancy. She died in childbirth in 1519, the last of the House of Borgia.


Leave a comment for your chance to win a copy of SINS OF THE HOUSE OF BORGIA. (US/Canada only)

A Notorious Duke
An Infamous Duchess
An Innocent Girl

Violante isn’t supposed to be here, in one of the grandest courts of Renaissance Italy. She isn’t supposed to be a lady-in-waiting to the beautiful Lucrezia Borgia. But the same secretive politics that pushed Lucrezia’s father to the Vatican have landed Violante deep in a lavish landscape of passion and ambition.

Violante discovers a Lucrezia unknown to those who see only a scheming harlot, and all the whispers about her brother, Cesare Borgia, never revealed the soul of the man who dances close with Violante.

But those who enter the House of Borgia are never quite the same when they leave—if they leave at all. Violante’s place in history will test her heart and leave her the guardian of dangerous secrets she must carry to the grave.