She Doesn't Write Historical Fiction, But...

If you read a single book this year, read one by Alice McDermott. I read Charming Billy, which won the National Book Award, several years ago, and loved it; I just now finished After This, which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. It might sound corny, but I am sitting here in total awe of Ms. McDermott's command of language and insight into life. She is one of those writers whose books might seem simple on first glance but resonate with amazing depths of meaning the more you think about them -- and think about them you must, because she doesn't spell things out for you. She reveals the sacredness of everyday life through echo and juxtaposition and innuendo. Her depictions of the complex relationships that link members of families -- in particular Irish Catholic ones -- are spot on in their nuances and evolutions. Her spare and elegant style shows a deep respect for and love of language. As she says in an engaging online interview for Powell's Books,

"I wouldn't want to spend the energy just telling a story. I've got to hear the rhythm of the sentences; I want the music of the prose. I want to see ordinary things transformed not by the circumstances in which I see them but by the language with which they're described. That's what I love when I read. It's too much work just to tell a story; there's not enough reward in it. The reward is when you know you've labored to make the best use of language you possibly can."

McDermott fully deserves the rewards she has earned. Read one of her books and you'll know what I'm talking about. As a writer, a mother and a Catholic who's not ashamed of her faith, she's my hero.

HistoricalFictionOnline

I want to help spread the word of a "new" website, HistoricalFictionOnline. The old forum at HistoricalFiction.org, died unexpectedly; several of the members went to great effort to get a new site up and running in a matter of days.

HistoricalFictionOnline is a great group of people, both readers and writers, who love historical fiction. Discussion topics range from what we are currently reading to our favorite historical villains to the ethics of historical fiction. The voracious readers who frequent the site post frequent reviews of historical fiction titles; each month, readers participate in a virtual book club discussion on a pre-designated novel. There are separate categories in the forum for different historical eras, so participants can find just what they're interested in. It's a wonderful place to relax, chat with people who share common interests, and learn about historical novels you haven't yet had a chance to read.

Be sure to visit HistoricalFictionOnline.com. See you there!

More on François's Funeral

In the comment trail to the previous post, a reader asked for some further clarifications on François I's death and the use of the effigy. I'm posting these excellent questions and their answers here so everyone is sure to see them.

Dawn Firelight asked:

a) When you say: "François was not buried until May 22, as his successor, Henri II, wanted to combine his father's funeral with those of the king's two sons who had predeceased him and whose bodies had to be transported to Paris." Sorry, I'm a bit confused. Whose sons were those? Henri's or Francois'? What did they die of?

The two sons in question were François's, the dauphin François (1518-36) and Charles d'Orléeans (1522-45). Henri (1519-59), who succeeded François I as king in 1547, was the second of François's three sons. The dauphin (crown prince) François, named after his father and groomed to be king, died suddenly and under rather suspicious circumstances on August 10, 1536 at the age of eighteen. After playing several rounds of jeu de paume, he asked for a drink of water. His secretary, an Italian named Sebastiano de Montecuculli, brought it to him; after drinking it, the dauphin fell ill and died several days later. Montecuculli, accused of being a spy for Emperor Charles V, was convicted of poisoning the dauphin and executed in Lyon. It is now thought that the dauphin died of natural causes, probably tuberculosis; he was buried in the city where he died, Tournon, 500 kilometers from Paris. François I's third son, Charles, died of a mysterious illness in 1545, just before he was to marry the Emperor's niece as part of a peace treaty between France and the Empire. His body had to be moved from Beauvais for the triple funeral.

b) You mentioned that Francois' body was taken to Saint-Cloud. The effigy, you say, was laid out in the great hall. Where was the body laid?

The king's heart and entrails were removed, placed in two caskets and buried at the priory of Haute-Bruyère, a few miles from Rambouillet, where he had died. The embalmed body, placed in a casket, was transported to Saint-Cloud, to the palace of the archbishop of Paris. A contemporary book describing François's funeral, which can be read in the original French here at the British Museum website, tells us that the body was "placed on a bed of scarlet satin covered with rich embroidery in a richly tapestried chamber of the said palace and continously accompanied by his said servants and officials and by 48 religious of four orders...who said incessant masses, vigils, rosaries and other prayers. It stayed in this state until the hall next to the chamber was prepared and honorably decorated to receive it." That hall is the one I described in my last post, where the effigy was displayed and meals held in great ceremony for eleven days. Interestingly, the book emphasizes that the king's body remained in the adjoining room the entire time the meals were held, reminding the reader that the effigy was an extension of the king's royal person and presence. When the eleven days were up, the effigy was removed, the hall redecorated in black, and the casket and biere moved from the chamber into the hall for aspersion with holy water by visitors. The effigy of the king, joined by effigies of his two sons, was carried in solemn procession on a litter through Paris to Notre Dame. The next day the litters were taken to Saint Denis, where the effigies were removed and the coffins placed in a vault.

c) What was the effigy made of? Was it common practice to make effigies of the dead?

It was common practice to make effigies of royalty, I believe. As soon as François died, the court artist, François Clouet, was called to his bedside to make a cast of the king's face and hands. The casts were made of plaster and painted; the body of the effigy was stuffed with straw and richly clothed. The festival book assures us that the face was "faict apres le vif & naturel," made from life; it goes into great detail describing the clothing that adorned it: a scarlet satin undershirt, a tunic of azure satin embroidered with fleur de lys, a great royal coat of purple satin line with ermine, the collar of the Order of Saint Michael, and a red bonnet topped with a jeweled imperial crown. Clouet made two sets of hands for the effigy. The first set, clasped in prayer, were used on the effigy that lay in state in the hall at Saint-Cloud; these hands were removed and replaced with a hand holding the scepter and one holding the main de justice, a scepter topped with a hand opened in benediction, when the effigy was paraded through Paris.

If you read French, be sure to visit the British museum webite to read the source text in all its fascinating detail. If you don't, Robert Knecht incorporates many of the details in his description of the funeral ceremony (The French Renaissance Court, pages 120-23).

Many thanks to Dawn Firelight for her questions and another reader for reminding me of the festival book website.

Dining with the Dead

François I died of illness on March 31, 1547, but that didn't prevent his courtiers from dining with him ever again. His meals were served to his effigy, as if he were still alive, for eleven days as part of an elaborate funeral ceremony rife with symbolic meaning.

François was not buried until May 22, as his successor, Henri II, wanted to combine his father's funeral with those of the king's two sons who had predeceased him and whose bodies had to be transported to Paris. This gap allowed for an elaborate ceremony to unfold.

Immediately after François's death, court painter François Clouet arrived to cast the king's death mask and to take measurements for his effigy. During the two weeks it took to fashion the effigy, the king's heart and entrails were removed and buried at the priory of Haut-Bruyère, a few miles from Rambouillet. His body was embalmed and taken to the palace of the cardinal-bishop of Paris at Saint-Cloud to await the arrival of the bodies of his sons.

The king's effigy was laid on a bed of state in the great hall at Saint-Cloud, which was hung with blue velvet and cloth of gold. Robert Knecht, in his excellent book The French Renaissance Court (Yale UP 2008), describes the scene thus:

[The effigy] wore the state robes, the collar of the Order of St. Michael, and the closed, imperial crown. On either side, on pillows, lay the sceptre and hand of justice. There was a canopy over the bed and, at its foot, a crucifix and holy-water stoop. Two heralds kept watch day and night, and offered the aspergillum to anyone wishing to sprinkle the effigy with holy water. Four candles provided the only illumination. Along the walls were benches for nobles and clerics, who attended the religious services and meals served to the effigy. These were the strangest parts of the ceremonial. For eleven days the king's meals were served as if he were still alive. His table was laid and the courses brought in and tasted. The napkin, used to wipe his hands, was presented by the steward to the most eminent person in attendance, and wine was served twice during each meal. At the end, grace was said by a cardinal. (p. 121; emphasis mine)

What was the purpose of these strange meals? Knecht's explanation is an interesting one. He links the meals to the French adage "le roi ne meurt jamais" ("the king never dies"), and explains that the monarch's dignitas, or authority, outlived his bodily presence. A king succeeded to the throne upon the death of his predecessor; he could exercise his authority from that moment, but he could not be seen to act as king until his predecessor had been buried. The effigy, along with the feigned meals, created the illusion that François was still alive pending his burial; the new king, Henri, effaced himself during that time so as not to destroy the illusion. As soon as the last meal was served on May 4, the effigy was removed and the salle d'honneur became a salle funèbre; black drapes replaced the blue and gold and the king's coffin was placed in the center of the hall. Henri appeared in public for the first time to sprinkle his father's body with holy water.

I can't help but wonder about the thoughts of the nobles and clerics who attended these pantomimed meals. Did they question the show, or were they respectful of its symbolism? Did they truly believe François still present? The entire ceremony (you can read Knecht's fascinating description of its various stages on pages 120-123) is a prime example of the extent to which the sixteenth-century mentality differed from modern sensibilities.

"Meet Me at the (Renaissance) Fair!"

Have you ever been to a Renaissance fair?

Believe it or not, I've only been to one. We live in Northern California, so several years ago we attended the Renaissance Pleasure Faire held in Novato (this fair, one of the country's oldest, has since relocated to Hollister). It was a wonderful afternoon. The setting was lovely and the weather not too warm. Eleven and eight years old at the time, the kids really got into some of the activities, trying their hands at archery, munching roasted turkey drumsticks, and waving to the Queen and her courtiers as they paraded through the site. The highlight of the day was the tournament, where riders in armor jousted with pine lances. I still remember the thud of hooves as horses pounded down the list and the clash of lance colliding with shield. It truly gave me a glimpse of how exciting a real sixteenth-century joust must have been.

I'll have to admit, though, it took me a little while to get into the spirit of the fair and to stop reminding myself that these were modern people running around in costumes and pretending to be something they weren't. The bawdiness of some of the acts and behavior at these fairs of can reach questionable levels; with kids in tow, one really has to be careful what one stops to watch. I was a little put off, too, by the commercial nature of event; there were many vendors selling things that were only remotely tied to Renaissance culture. On the whole, the fair seemed more show than substance, more an excuse to dress up and have a good time than to learn about life in a different era. From what I gather, this controversy over the nature and purpose of Renaissance fairs permeates the field. The detailed Wikipedia article on Renaissance fairs claims that whereas European fairs tend to resemble living history museums where the re-enactors strive to explain historical life to modern visitors, American fairs tend to cater to their patrons' greater interest in eating, drinking, shopping and watching farce than learning about the past.

Knowing better what to expect now, I think it's time to try the Northern California Renaissance Faire again. It will be held weekends, September 6-October 12, at the Casa de Fruta in Hollister. I'd love to hear about your experience with such fairs, in the US or abroad. And if any of you plan on attending the Hollister fair, let me know and maybe we can coordinate our visits.

Motivations for Writing Historical Fiction

Ever wonder why an author of historical fiction chooses to write about a particular era?

I suppose there are a lot of reasons. Some might be commercial--an author casts about for a topic or event in a time period that is enjoying a current craze, or picks a historical character that bookstore browsers will instantly recognize and want to read more about. Faced with several possible subjects, the author picks the one that she is most certain will sell.

Other reasons are personal. Perhaps an author knows something of his family history and wants to explore the time or setting or events that affected his ancestor's life. Perhaps he traveled to a place and became fascinated by certain aspects of its history. Perhaps she learned a lot about the history of an era or place for a different reason (an academic degree, perhaps? :) ) and decides to explore what she knows in a completely different way, by writing fiction. Perhaps the reason remains elusive, other than a writer feels a certain affinity for a time or place and desires to recreate it for others. Some might ascribe this to past lives or simply intellectual curiosity. In any case, to write historical fiction that fully engages the reader, that makes her feel as though she has escaped her own time for a spell, the author must feel a passion for what he is writing about.

I often wonder why I am so absorbed by the sixteenth century, France in particular. I think I explained in an earlier post how I fell in love with France on the day of my very first French class in eighth grade, at the age of twelve or thirteen. I devored Jean Plaidy novels and spent hours outside of class studying French. The highlight of a whirlwind high school tour of Europe for me was the Loire valley and its châteaux. I still remember standing in a window in the gallery at Chenonceaux, staring out over the river rushing beneath me and wishing I had lived then. I thought the love story of Henri II and his mistress Diane de Poitiers, represented by the intertwined H & D's that one sees everywhere at Chenonceaux, was the ultimate in romance. (Now that I'm a middle-aged matron myself, I feel much more sympathy for Henri's wife, Catherine de Medici.)

Not able to get enough of French, I decided to major in it in college and then went on to earn my doctorate. In graduate school, one is required to specialize in a particular century. For me, it was a struggle to choose between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (with a bit of competition from the nineteenth century--I love those long novels by Stendahl and Flaubert). I remember one professor asking why I wanted to specialize in the sixteenth century and not medieval (of course, he was the medieval specialist trying to convince me to join his field). He pointed out how the medieval era is so much more feminine--the whole play of chivalry and fin amors, the importance of the Blessed Mother--than the sixteenth, with the rise of the state, the revival of classical literature, voyages of exploration and imperial wars. It's true, at first glance I would seem to be more drawn to the medieval era. But something about the sixteenth tugged at me. I think it's the amount of questioning that went on, the upsetting of long-held world views and the dawn of a new age, arrived at, ironically, by studying the past. I've always been fascinated by the religious conflicts of the time, especially the fact that people were willing to disrupt their families or actually die for their beliefs. I know these things happened elsewhere and at other times, but the combination of these issues with the amazing architecture and exquisite art of the era was just too strong for me. I felt too comfortable with the medieval mindset; I needed examine my own religious and philosophical beliefs alongside the curious and courageous men and women of the sixteenth century.

The literary critic in me can't help but wonder what underlying issues prompt a writer of historical fiction to choose certain topics, and on a broader level, what needs in society fuel the waves of popularity. Why, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, does the Tudor era hold such fascination for people? Is it the religious thing, a yearning in an age when many people write religion off entirely, to read about people who had to make life-threatening decisions about it? Is it the divorce issue, people looking for parallels or justifications for today's easy divorce? Is it the astounding wealth and rampant materialism that speaks to us? If I had to choose dissertation topic again, I think I would look at different eras in history and see what historical subjects were popular with readers of the time and why.

Anyway, I love to hear the stories of how authors fell upon, or chose, their topics. If you write historical fiction, tell us why you're working on the topic you are. If you're a reader, what do you most enjoy reading about and why? If you're a lurker, please come out of hiding. I'd love to meet some of the people who frequent the blog but haven't commented. I promise I won't bite. Pull up a chair and share, newbies and regular commenters alike. There is much here for discussion.

Ready, Set, GO!

I did it! Tonight I began writing my second novel. I've been mired in research for months, but hadn't yet written a word. I finally decided to take the plunge, and now I'm happy to say the first 324 words--more than a page!--of the novel whose working title is Fontainebleau (FB for short) actually exist. Can you tell I'm excited? Now if I could only figure out how to install one of those nifty progress bars...anyone have a suggestion where to find one?

"Renaissance Faces" at the National Gallery

This 1523 painting by Lorenzo Lotto, "Marsilio Cassotti and his Wife Faustina," is one of the works that will be featured in an exciting exhibition of Renaissance portraiture to be held at the National Gallery in London from October 15, 2008 to January 18, 2009. "Renaissance Faces: Van Eyck to Titian" will gather 70 paintings, along with statues and drawings, from all over Europe. Highlights include works from Ghirlandaio, Van Eyck, Titian, Raphael, Botticelli, Holbein, Dürer, Pontormo and Bellini. The National Gallery website has a description of the exhibition, along with a pictorial sampling of the works; the New York Sun ran a short interview with the new director responsible for organizing the show. There must be a Clouet or two in the mix, but even if there isn't, the show promises to be a marvelous one. Unfortunately, I don't think trip to London in the next few months is in the cards for me. If anyone does get a chance to view the exhibition, please come back and tell us about it!

If I believed in portents, I'd latch on to the title of the portrait above: Marsilio, the husband, shares the name of the antagonist in The Measure of Silence; Faustina is the name of one of the female characters in the Fontainebleau novel I'm working on now. Might a two-book deal be in the stars? If only....

Local Boy's New World Adventure

The ghost of Giovanni da Verrazzano is haunting me. This evening, while skimming Jean Etèvenaux's Les Grandes Heures de Lyon (20o5), I fell upon another mention of the new-to-me story of Verrazzano christening New York "La Nouvelle-Angoulême" (see my previous post). I gleaned an additional bit of information from Etèvenaux's brief version. It appears Giovanni was from a Florentine family that had established itself in Lyon, of all places; it was from Lyon that the explorer had sought François I's patronage in 1522. Who would have guessed?

I did a little Googling and found more details on Verrazzano's page at The Mariners' Museum. It claims that circumstantial evidence (the lack of any mention of Giovanni's birth in the records of the Florentine Verrazzanos and the marriage of a certain Giovanna to Allessandro di Bartolommeo da Verrazzano in 1480 at Lyon) points to Lyon as Giovanni's probable birthplace. More interesting still, with regard to the 1524 voyage, the article claims: 

With the accumulated knowledge and information gathered by Cabot and other explorers who went before him, Verrazzano made his plans and preparations for his own expedition. In 1523, letters were written concerning the efforts of a group of Florentine bankers and merchants, living in Lyons, to organize financial support for a voyage led by Verrazzano. Interested in finding a source for silk for the textile factories of Lyon, these backers were among the wealthiest and most influential families in France, and are among those linked by marriage to Verrazzano. The support of the king, Francois I, was also necessary for the venture, but there are no written records of a royal commission. It must have been given in some form however, because on returning from the first voyage, Verrazzano made his report directly to the king.

To think that this important voyage to the New World, which produced the first written descriptions of the landscape and the native peoples, was financed by the silk merchants of Lyon! (I think there's a story here, just waiting to be told...Book 3, perhaps?)

To honor its local adventurer, the city of Lyon named a square in the northern part of the city Place Giovanni da Verrazzano. The explorer is also one of the twenty-five famous Lyonnais featured on the seven-storey wall mural at the corner of the rue de la Martinère and quai de la Pècherie (more on Lyon's murals in a later post).

(Be sure to read the entire Verrazzano entry at The Mariners' Museum and explore the museum's fascinating website.)

Interview with author C.W. Gortner

A warm welcome to C.W. Gortner, author of the fabulous new historical novel The Last Queen (Ballantine, 2008). C.W. graciously agreed to be interviewed for this blog; it was great fun corresponding with someone who loves the Renaissance as much as I do. Here is what he had to say about the writing of The Last Queen and historical fiction in general. 

1. What was it about Juana of Castile that inspired you to write about her?

I’ve been fascinated by Juana since childhood. I’m half-Spanish by birth and was raised in Spain; as a child, I visited her tomb in Granada and I remember staring at her effigy, her anguished face turned away from that of her dead husband, and thinking: Was she really mad? What happened to her? Her story intrigued me even then, for she is legendary in Spain. Much later on, when I began seriously contemplating writing a novel about her, I took into account the fact that history is rarely kind to women, particularly women in power. And history has by and large relegated Juana to a side-note. Though she’s the sister of Catherine of Aragon and mother of the Emperor Charles V, as well as her mother Queen Isabella’s legal heir and the last queen of her medieval Spanish bloodline to inherit the throne, she barely excites notice. Yet, she shaped Europe through her children, and her own life was full of drama and passion—she seemed to me a remarkable woman and very contemporary in her struggle to balance life and duty, love and betrayal. I thought, why has no one questioned the official accounts? The implicit silence around the usurpation of her rights, the agreement among historians that she was unbalanced and would never have been able to rule, seemed to hide something. There had to be more to her story than we’d been told; she couldn’t be this stereotype I kept reading about. The compulsion to unravel her mystery inspired me to undertake what turned into years of research and writing.

2. Did you ever consider writing Juana's story from the third person? What made you choose first, and what challenges did this choice pose?

I actually wrote the first draft in third person. It was my agent who told me that while she loved the story and felt I had captured Juana’s world, something in her character was missing. I’d actually felt the same while writing her. I was frustrated but unsure as to how to fix it. Juana wasn’t an easy character to capture; and I’d been so focused on not making judgments about her, in third person my caution had translated into making her seem remote. My agent patiently suggested some changes I could do to make her more accessible; changing to first person never came up, simply because that kind of overhaul is monumental and more often than not can collapse a carefully constructed novel. It was only while I was working on the changes, and by chance reading a historical novel in first person that captivated me, that the idea surfaced. As a reader I’d always preferred third-person narratives, but I saw how deep a first person narrative could delve and I thought, maybe I’ll try it. Just a few chapters. The moment I slipped into first person, it was as if Juana was with me. It’s hard to describe, but there’s this transformation that occurs during writing and a writer can “feel” when a character finally breathes on her own. Allowing Juana to tell her own story released her from the constraints I’d imposed on her as a character. As a result, the novel changed in many ways; the beginning was totally re-written and all the characters had to be reinterpreted. The main challenge was to retain the scope of the original version as seen through Juana’s eyes yet the actual work itself was very instinctual. It ended up being a year of re-writing but she stayed with me the entire time.

3. Juana is a woman of intense passion and often exaggerated action, yet you avoid any trace of melodrama in your narrative. How did you achieve this?

Lots of re-writing?! Actually, I was keenly aware that Juana’s story is so intense at times it lends itself perfectly to the type of lurid melodrama I adore in old films and so I deliberately stopped myself from indulging. There’s a film about her that was made the 1940s in Spain and won lots of awards: it’s deliciously over the top, and while as a child I’d stared mesmerized at the spectral actress playing Juana in her billowing black veil, as a writer I was very cognizant to not let my childhood fascination overcome me. Past depictions of Juana are almost all melodramatic, but her story is a serious one, with terrifying consequences, and melodrama by definition degrades. I wanted to avoid this at all costs.

4. The opening scene of the defeat of the Moorish prince Boabdil in many ways prefigures Juana's fate at the end of the book. Was the Boabdil scene always the opening scene in your mind, or did you arrive at it during a later draft of the story?

It came later. It was one of the scenes I wrote after I switched to first person. In third person, I had a similar scene involving the fall of Granada but Juana’s is a peripheral viewpoint. When I started my massive re-write, the scene developed organically and ended up replacing the first four chapters in the original draft. I’ve had other readers tell me, that scene echoes Juana’s fate. It must be something I constructed on purpose on some level, but it was very subconscious. It wasn’t something I set out to achieve deliberately; though I’m delighted it worked out that way. That’s the fun part of writing: things happen that you never envisioned.

5. [Possible spoiler, but I had to ask] About three-quarters of the way into the book, Juana commits a horrendous act that you admit in your afterword was pure speculation on your part. Narrative considerations aside, did you have any qualms about attributing this grave deed to the dead queen?

Ah, yes. Well, I must admit, I did. I was actually horrified when it first arose and I came to a complete stall in my writing. As I’ve said, sometimes things happen on a subconscious or organic level during writing, particularly when it’s a novel, which can take years to complete, and this was another of those moments when the character took over. It sounds like a split-personality excuse, but I have to say in all honesty, the Juana I created wanted to go there. I tried several other devices and everything fell flat. When I finally just allowed myself to write the scene I’d been avoiding, it flowed out in one burst and has remained virtually untouched by both my agent and my editor—which is saying something! My theory, if it can be called that, isn’t completely without basis: there were rumors at the time and for years afterwards that the event had occurred; only someone else was blamed for it. But yes, strictly speaking, it is speculative on my part (though I like to think she would have been perfectly justifiable, had she done it) and I do hope it doesn’t cause great offense.

6. I was particularly drawn to the character of Soraya, Juana's Moorish handmaiden. Was she an actual person? How did you learn about her?

She’s a fictional composite of two actual persons. Accounts of Juana’s household when she first left Spain for Flanders include ‘two Moorish handmaids’, a euphemism for slaves who had agreed to convert. Most likely, these were young girls caught up in the expulsion of the Moors ordered by Queen Isabella, who were either orphaned or abandoned to fend for themselves. They’re unnamed, but they must have stayed with Juana for years because when she later returned to Spain to fight for her throne, the handmaidens are mentioned again in a dispatch from one of Philip’s henchmen—this time, saying they’d been banished from the queen’s service, to her outrage. Philip used her fury over the loss of these servants he barely considered human as another reason to promulgate her unworthiness. Thus, was Soraya born. Spain has this unique and beautiful combination of the Islamic, Celtic and Christian cultures: Juana embodies these contrasts in her uniquely Iberian character. It might be of interest to you to also know that Soraya didn’t exist as a character in the third-person draft of the book. She came to me through Juana’s first person voice, another of those surprises I mentioned.

7. How do you think Spanish, and indeed European, history would have been different had Juana been allowed to rule?

First and foremost, Spain would not have suffered the degradation it did under the Hapsburg rule of Charles V. As queen, Juana would have sought to maintain the realm’s independence and unity, to uphold the statutes that her parents worked so tirelessly to achieve. She would also in time have inherited her father’s kingdom of Aragón and no doubt have called for her children to join her in Spain, if not year-round, at least for extended periods of time. They would have had a mother present and Juana would probably have been a good one, because she knew first-hand the importance of family. Charles V was raised as a prince but he never knew familial affection as a child and this had profound effects on him. He showed his indifference in the way he raised his own son, Philip II, who also suffered from distance from his family and a severe lack of affection. Charles V had his father Philip the Fair’s education, reared to be a Hapsburg first, and he treated Spain as a vassal state. As a result, he endured violent revolts by the Spanish, one of which had direct implications for Juana. This might not have happened had Juana ruled. Spain would have had a sovereign queen and it truly is fascinating to conjecture if the terrible hostilities between Spain and England, once historically allied countries, would have arose; if the Armada would have sailed; if Juana would have authorized the horrors of the Inquisition that took place under Philip II. I think much would have been different, and Spain might not have reached its brief apex under Philip II only to collapse into bankruptcy at his death. Queens, historically, are less prone to sacrificing their realms to unrealistic ideals.  

8. Which scene in the book was the most difficult to write? Which scene did you enjoy the most?

Hard questions! It’s all difficult and it’s all enjoyable at the same time, for different reasons, but if I had to pick the most difficult scene, I’d say it’s the one where Philip assaults Juana. There’s a terrible finality to that moment: she realizes she is trapped in a disintegrating marriage she can’t escape and that everything she has believed in is a lie. It was quite painful to experience that with her. As for my favorite scene, it’s the one where she makes peace with her mother. I love the tenderness of that scene, the realization that they’ve been at odds for years because they are so alike. It is a defining moment for Juana as well: she emerges from that room as the woman she will be for the rest of her life.

9. I would think American readers, on the whole, are less knowledgeable about Spanish history than British, or even French. How did this affect your presentation of history in the novel?

Quite a bit. I had to be meticulous in giving the reader the information they would need to understand and navigate the past, without making it pedantic or overwhelming. I also had to link the more familiar aspects of history for American readers (i.e., the Tudors) to Spain. Fortunately, Juana was a well-traveled princess for her day and her own life facilitated this.

10. If you could have included one hundred more pages in your novel, what would you have added or expanded?

Oddly enough, not much more than I have now. The book captures everything I wanted to convey about Juana. If I had to add something, I might have started the story earlier, when she’s younger. But then, I’d have lost the impact of that first chapter. I know many writers bemoan the enforced reduction of pages we often endure, and I’m going through some challenges now with my next novel, in terms of length, but with THE LAST QUEEN it just wasn’t an issue.

11. Why do you write historical fiction? What principles guide you as you write?

I’m often asked this question, and while I have the usual answers (I loved reading it as a child; I want to immerse myself in the past to make sense of the present; etc), all of which are valid, the more I think about my reasons for writing historical fiction the less clear they become. Put simply, history compels me. It’s almost as though I seek to return to a place I once knew and re-experience it on a sensory level. I once had a psychic reading (it was the 80s!) and the woman told me I was an old soul who’d taken on earthly form only a few times. She didn’t know anything about me but she mentioned seeing a past life in ancient Egypt and two different lives in the Renaissance. Eerie, because these are by far the eras I’m most attracted to. Of course, she might have been assessing my decidedly gothic way of dressing at the time and drawn reasonable conclusions. A man who wears a cape in broad daylight would probably like the Renaissance, right? Still, it does feel as though I’ve been there before and my obsession with historical fiction is an emotional coping mechanism, since I don’t own a time machine. I’m rarely as content as I am when I’m writing. The book itself may present a thousand challenges and drive me nuts but the scents, the tastes, the textures and hues of history . . . they’re manna from heaven to me.

As for my principles, I strive for historical accuracy. I research to the best of my abilities; I make it a point of actually traveling to the places I’m going to write about (a picture on the web just cannot replace the feel of those stones under your hands); and I take great pains to draw up psychological and emotional profiles for my characters that are true to the recorded circumstances of their lives. That said, I look for secret stories, the ones that hide within official accounts, and I am a novelist first and foremost, whose primary principle is to take the reader on an emotional journey into the past. While I do my utmost to present as realistic a depiction of that past as I can, it is still a fictional interpretation, as we can never know completely what it actually felt like to live in that world. Being twenty-first people defines us just as being 16th century people defined them; all we can manage are close approximations. Perhaps we write historical fiction and read it to kindle a connection that would otherwise be lost forever.

12. What advice do you have for unpublished writers of historical fiction?

Be persistent; be true; be brave. Writing is a tough pursuit: while we experience the euphoria of creation, the act of publication can be anything but. Historical fiction presents unique challenges in that it ebbs and flows according to consumer demand—today it’s hot, tomorrow it’s not – and it suffers to some degree from literary snobbery, in that it’s viewed by some as a “genre” and thus devoid of true lasting merit. This perception is changing (and it’s blatantly wrong, as historical fiction is one of writing’s oldest traditions) but the change is fueled by commercial success and it’s still difficult for the average debut historical writer to get noticed in today’s fiercely competitive marketplace unless he or she hits that coveted bestseller list. Also, the success of one author can dictate to some extent the way others’ books are perceived. You must stay true to your voice, because if you try to imitate the most recent historical bestseller chances are you’ll betray yourself and fail at it. While editors may declare, “We want more books like so-and-so’s”, the truth is what they want is that more books will appeal to so-and-so’s target audience and sell as well. Publishing, like any other business, is driven by profit. The trick is to appeal to the current audience for historical fiction without sacrificing that unique story you want to present.

Thank you so much for taking this time with me. I wish everyone the best of success with their endeavors and hope you enjoy reading THE LAST QUEEN as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please visit me at http://www.cwgortner.com to learn more about my work, Juana and her world, and special offers and contests for readers.

***

And thank you, C.W., for this fascinating look at the genesis of The Last Queen. I wish you all the best, and can't wait to read your next novel, about a figure near and dear to my heart--Catherine de Medici.

Readers, if you have any questions for C.W., post them in the comments. I'm sure C.W. will be happy to stop by to answer them.

Review of The Last Queen by C.W. Gornter

Tuesday, July 29 is the official publication day for C.W. Gortner's new novel, The Last Queen. Having read an advance copy of the novel, I can claim without exaggeration that it is one of the best historical novels I have read. The Last Queen is the story of Juana of Castile, the last queen of Spanish blood to inherit the kingdom; known to history as "Juana la Loca"--Juana the Mad--for the unbridled love for her husband that supposedly robbed her of her senses after his death, her story is an amazing tale of determination and courage in the face of repeated betrayal.

Juana is the third daughter of Queen Isabella of Castile and King Fernando of Aragon, monarchs who have fought long and hard to unite their country and free it from Moorish occupation. Eager to forge alliances with the powers of Europe, they send Juana, who embodies the bold ferocity and indomitable pride of her beloved country, to Flanders to wed the archduke Philip, heir to the Hapsburg empire. The unexpected love and passion Juana shares with her young husband assuages her discomfort with the lavish luxury and loose morals of the Hapsburg court and distracts her from her homesickness.

 

Juana and Philip's idyllic existence comes to an abrupt end when her older siblings and their heirs die one after the other and Juana stands to inherit the Spanish throne upon her mother's passing. As she grieves the successive tragedies that strike her family, Juana finds herself fighting for the future of her country as well as the freedom of her person. Unsatisfied with his role as Juana's consort, Philip is determined to have himself named king and rule Spain in her stead; the Spanish nobles, who must approve the investiture of the monarch, side with him, eager to trade their loyalty for money and favors. The once-devoted spouses find themselves estranged, separated by Philip's brutal lust for power and Juana's determination to keep him from the throne. Using Juana's temper and flamboyant gestures against her, Philip declares her unstable. Steeling her heart against this man she loved so deeply, Juana does what is necessary to protect her realm, only to face a new betrayal by the one man she thought she could trust, a man who covets the throne of Castile even more than Philip did.  

The Last Queen is a riveting tale, from first page to last. Writing in the first person under the guise of an imprisoned Juana penning her memoir, Gortner captures the passion, anguish, and wily intelligence of the queen. His voice, never faltering, brings her to life without seeming too modern in outlook or idiom. His secondary characters are well-developed; Queen Isabella, King Fernando and Philip are more than equal to the task of opposing the fiery Juana. The relationships between the characters are highly charged and constantly shifting; Juana reacts to what she sees (or what she wants to see), which isn't always the truth of the way things are. The nuances of the relationships and Juana's misreading of them contribute to the suspense regarding how it will all play out and keep the theme of "queen determined not to lose her throne" from becoming a static trope. Juana is never solely a victim; consciously or not, she has a hand in her fate as much as her betrayers do.

I applaud Gortner for his deft handling of the complicated politics of sixteenth-century Europe and of Spain in particular. Though I knew next to nothing about Spanish history before reading this novel, I found this to be no hindrance to my understanding of the story. The author weaves explanations of the unification of Castile and Aragon, the conflicting inheritance laws of the two realms, and the dependence of the Spanish monarch on the nobility into the narrative without resorting to information dumps or lectures thinly veiled as dialogue. The characters' actions clearly elucidate the rivalries and sensibilities of Spain, England, France and Flanders. I came away from the book with a better appreciation of the role of Spain on the European stage and a fuller understanding of how the Hapsburgs gained control of such a large portion of the continent. Yet the historical issues that inform the book never take the focus away from Juana and her plight. This book is a novel first, history lesson second--in other words, historical fiction at its best.

There are a few places where I wished certain relationships had been more deeply developed: for example, although we learn that Archbishop Besançon acts as a substitute for Philip's distant father, I never saw any true affection exhibited between him and the prince until the archbishop's death; I also wondered whether Juana, separated so many times for such long periods from her children, wouldn't have missed them more. But these quibbles are minor in light of the author's masterful exploration of the emotional intricacies of Juana's deteriorating marriage and her complicated relationship with her parents. Like Juana herself, the novel maintains a high level of emotional intensity; caught under its--her--spell, the reader turns page after page, ever wondering if Juana is just a bit as crazy as history has made her out to be.

The Last Queen is an engaging, entertaining, and exciting read that I recommend whole-heartedly to lovers of historical fiction. (Fans of Tudor fiction will find the interwoven story of Juana's younger sister Catalina, sent to England to marry the Tudor heir, an extra treat.) I thank C.W. for sending me an advanced reading copy and allowing me to contribute in a small way to the launch of his book. I'm sure The Last Queen will top many "Best Historical Novels" lists for 2008 and beyond.

Be sure to return tomorrow to read my interview with C.W. himself--after you run out and buy your own copy of The Last Queen, that is!

Renaissance Wordle

Here is a Wordle I made of words from this blog:

Wordle is a java applet that makes "word clouds" of any text you feed it. I put in the bodies of some of the posts, chose the colors and orientation, massaged it a bit, and this is what I ended up with! I love the associations that arise from the juxtapositions of some of the words. It's a great inspirational tool! Make your own Wordles here. (Thanks to Susan Adrian for telling me about it.)

Sixteenth Century Facebook

In our highly visual age, where identity is verified by photograph and pictures of singers, actors, and politicians adorn everything from magazine covers to cereal boxes, it is easy to forget that for centuries the linking of names and faces was not automatic. Celebrities (other than monarchs, of whom effigies, statues, and medallions were often fashioned) were faceless individuals known by their deeds and reputations, not their looks. That began to change in France during the sixteenth century, when portraiture (in oils or chalk) came into vogue at court and facilitated the linking of names and faces.

Jean Clouet (c. 1485-1541), a Flemish artist who emigrated to France around 1515, is the artist who turned the portrait into a specifically French art form during the sixteenth century. Clouet appeared on the royal accounts as a well-pensioned artist in 1516 and remained there until his death, when his position and pension passed to his artist son François (c. 1515-1572), who continued in his father's footsteps of providing portraits for the court's nobles. Both Jean and François sketched drawings, in red and black chalk, of their subjects in preparation for oil paintings. The drawings were usually a three-quarters view of the subject's shoulders and head and were kept "on file" in the studio long after the painted portrait was completed. The artists' output was prodigious: there are 363 drawings preserved in the museum of Chantilly, dating from 1510-1550 (primarily Jean's work) and 569 at the Cabinet des Estampes, dating from 1550-1600 (primarily by François's hand, although by the second half of the century minor artists were producing portraits of their own, careful to copy the technique and style popularized by the Clouets).

Art historians debate whether these drawings were used solely in preparation for the painting of oil portraits (the fact that many of the originals have notes about color, for example "Sleeves green," "Nose red," written on them supports this thesis) or were fashioned as works in their own right. What is certain it that copies of these drawings, traced by the artists' assistants, soon became hot items. Collections of them were bound together in books called albums, of which twenty or so survive. These albums were often sent as gifts to heads of state and other notables. Catherine de Medici was an avid collector of chalk portraits; drawings exist with the sitter's identity penned in her own hand in the margin. I can imagine Catherine, ever the skilled diplomat, pouring over these portraits in the privacy of her cabinet, memorizing names and faces so as to be able to identify the countless courtiers who flocked around her and her sons. On a less utilitarian note, the portraits became part of a courtly game: groups of courtiers would sit in a circle, cover the name and motto of the sitter written on a portrait, and try to identify the man or woman by looks alone.

Thus, portraiture and celebrity fed off each other: the noteworthy person (famous by virtue of his station, family, fortune or accomplishments) would strive to have his portrait drawn; the very fact that a person managed to obtain a portrait endowed him with a certain measure of notoriety. As E. Jollet points out in his excellent book Jean et François Clouet (1998), there were definite social stakes in gaining access to portraiture; having one's portrait done valorized the sitter, especially in the context of the court.

What strikes me about the Clouet portraits is the amazing detail and lifelikeness of the depictions. Think how amazing, in an era that did not yet know the wonders of photography, the skill of the portraitist to draw close likenesses must have seemed. I myself am grateful to the Clouets and their imitators for the documentary value of the surviving portraits. It is so much fun to view their work and discover what the individuals I read about in literature texts and history books actually looked like. If you go here, you can view over 200 of Jean Clouet's works, with the sitters identified when possible. It's an amazing pictorial "Who's Who" of François I's court.

Forthcoming Book Review and Interview

I'll be posting my review of C.W. Gortner's The Last Queen on Monday, July 28 and my interview with the author on Tuesday, July 29, to coincide with the book's official publication date. If Spain, early sixteenth-century Europe, strong women characters or beautifully executed historical fiction interests you, be sure to check back here then.

I Heart New Angoulême?

Next time you visit Angoulême, be sure to ride to the top of the Empire State Building, windowshop along Fifth Avenue, take in a show on Broadway, and saunter through Central Park. And don't forget to pay your respects at the site of the World Trade Center.

No, that wasn't a typo. Angoulême. And I'm not talking about the city in France.

Angoulême, the family name of François I, was the original European name the Italian explorer Giovanni da Verrazzano gave to the island of Manhattan when he discovered it in 1524. Eager to please the king, who had funded his voyage, Verrazzano called New York Bay Santa Margarita, in honor of Marguerite de Navarre.

I'd never heard this fascinating bit of history until last week. I was visiting my parents, native New Yorkers, who recently moved to South Carolina. One afternoon I picked up a book off their coffee table, Picturing New York: The City from its Beginnings to the Present, by Gloria Deák (Columbia UP: 2000). Opening it at random, I fell upon a full-page reproduction of a 19th century drawing of François and Marguerite--hardly something I expected in a book about New York City! Intrigued, I began to read and was amazed at what I found.

François, hoping for a piece of the Oriental trade to finance his armies, commissioned Florentine navigator Giovanni da Verrazzano to find a passage to the Indies. On January 17, 1524, Verrazzano set sail in his carrack La Dauphine. Fifty days later, he sighted the North American continent sitting squarely in his way. Verrazzano made seven landfalls along the eastern coast, from the Carolinas north to Newfoundland. On April 17, 1524, he dropped anchor in New York Bay, making him the first documented European to touch the shores of what is now known as Manhattan. The local natives greeted the Europeans warmly; you can read the account of the encounter and Verrazzano's description of the island in his report to François, translated here.

Verrazzano paid tribute to his patron by dubbing the beautiful island Angoulême. He called the bay formed by this land Santa Margarita "after the name of your sister, who surpasses all other matrons in modesty and intellect." The French names of these territories were quickly incorporated into the engraved maps of the sixteenth century. However, Verrazzano's discovery--and the territories' French names--were eventually overshadowed by efforts of Henry Hudson, who managed to sail up the river which unfavorable winds had prevented Verrazzano from entering. In 1609 the name Manhattan appears in Hudson's logbook as Manna-hatta, native for "island of the hills." The elaborate Velasco map of the New World, printed in 1611 and presented to the King of Spain, used Hudson's names rather than Verrazzano's, effacing the city's French birth forever after.

François was captured at the battle of Pavia in 1525 and held prisoner by Emperor Charles V in Spain, so I suspect this is why he never followed up on France's claim to New York. I'll do some more digging to find out. In the meantime, read the report of the voyage. I almost cried when I read about the little Native American boy torn from his family and taken back to France. I wonder what ever happened to him?

[Factual content for this post taken from Deák's book, pages 1-8.]