Work in Progress

The first lot of copy edits are back for A Place Beyond Courage, my novel about John Marshal. This means it's my last chance to read through and make any larger adjustments. I'll only be able to tweak the odd word at final proof stage. I'm also writing the new material about Roger Bigod, and at some point soom I'm going to have my earlier novel, Shields of Pride, arriving for revision. Which is the long way round of saying I am squeezed for time more than usual at the moment. So, not having much space for blogging, I am cheating and putting up part of chapter one from the current work in progress. Working title for myself is Ida's Choice, although Ida herself, Roger Bigod's wife, doesn't appear until chapter 3. I'll probably take this down in a couple of weeks, but for now, here's my rough draft, warts and all of the opening pages. It's always fun and a bit nerve-wracking too, setting down those early foundations and wondering what will grow in the telling!

Framlingham Castle, Suffolk, October, 1173

Roger woke with a gasp and shot upright. His heart was pounding and although the morning light showed him parted bed curtains and a sun-splashed chamber beyond, his inner vision blazed with vivid images of men locked in combat and he could still hear the sounds of desperate battle. The metallic whine of blade upon blade, the dull thud of a club striking a shield. He could feel the bite of his sword entering flesh and see blood, streaming in scarlet silk ribbons.

‘Ah God,’ he said with a shudder. After a moment to gather himself, he threw off the bed clothes with his left hand, rose and went to the window. His right hand was bandaged. Although superficial, the wound was going to leave a scar across the base of three fingers. The soldier who had given it to him was dead, but he took no pleasure in the knowledge. It had been kill or be killed. Too many of his own men had gone to their graves yesterday. His father said he was useless, but such declarations had been cast at Roger so often that he no longer felt them beyond a dull bruise. What did bother him were the unnecessary deaths of several good soldiers. The opposition had been too great and he had not had the resources sufficient to the task. He clenched his right fist, feeling the cut stretch and sting beneath the bandage. There would be a lake of blood before his father’s ambition was done.

To judge from the strength of the daylight he had probably missed mass. His stepmother would take pleasure in berating him for malingering in bed and then comment to his father that his heir wasn’t fit to inherit a dungheap, never mind the Earldom of Norfolk when the time came. And then, Roger knew from bitter experience, she would look pointedly at her own son, the obnoxious Hugh, as if he was the answer to everyone’s prayers rather than the petulant, unprepossessing brat he actually was.

Framlingham’s bailey was packed with the tents and shelters of the army of mercenaries belonging to Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester - assorted chaff and sweepings plucked from field and town, ditch, gutter, weaving shed and dockside on his way from Flanders to England. Not many of them were attending mass either to judge from the numbers in the bailey. Locusts, Roger thought with a grimace of revulsion. By joining the rebellion against King Henry and giving lodging and support to the Earl of Leicester, his father had encouraged a plague to descend on them, in more ways than one.

Turning from the window Roger attended to the needs of his bladder, sluiced his face one-handed in the ewer at the bedside, and without bothering to summon a servant, managed to dress himself, since the tips of his fingers and his thumb were still free on his bandaged hand. When he opened the coffer that held his cloaks, he noticed immediately that his best one with the silver embroidery was missing, and his lips tightened because he could guess where it was. Taking his indoor mantle of green wool, he started to put it on, then stared at the weapon chest standing against the wall. Last night his scabbarded sword and belt had been propped against it, now they were gone. Roger’s lips compressed further as annoyance became outright anger. His sword was a symbol of his knighthood, of his coming of age, and not even his father could deny him that – especially when the weapon itself had been a gift from his uncle, who was Earl of Oxford.

Head down, fists clenched, wound smarting, Roger strode purposefully towards the castle chapel adjoining the hall. The mass had just finished and people were filing out to go about their duties. Concealing himself behind a painted pillar, Roger heard his father holding forth to Robert Earl of Leicester about the battle campaign to overthrow King Henry and put Henry’s eighteen year old son on the throne – a vain, malleable boy. Since coming to the throne, King Henry had clamped down hard on the Earl of Norfolk, doing his best to limit his ability to aggrandise himself and make trouble. Now that Henry faced a challenge from his heir and namesake, Roger’s father had declared for the young man as had several other disgruntled factions including the earl of Leicester.

Roger’s stepmother Gundreda, and Petronilla, Countess of Leicester walked past, side by side, nodding graciously to each other and smiling with their lips but not their eyes. And then Roger’s gaze lit on a fine blue cloak and a flash of silver braid, as its wearer swaggered out of the chapel, one narrow adolescent hand clasped upon the pommel of a fine sword bound with a grip of red buckskin.

Roger reached, seized in a tensile grip and swung his half-brother around, slamming him back against the pillar. ‘Have you nothing of your own that you must resort to thievery of everything that is mine?’ he snarled. ‘Time and again I have told you to stay out of my chamber and leave my things alone.’ He took a choke hold on the young man’s throat with his good hand, and with the other unhitched the sword belt with a rapid jerk of latch and buckle. ‘What will it take before you pay heed?’

The youth’s upper lip curled with contempt, although his eyes were fearful. Roger noted both emotions and increased the pressure. ‘I suppose you wanted to parade before my lord of Leicester, and show off a sword you’re too young to wear.’

‘I couldn’t wear it any worse than you!’ Hugh wheezed with bravado. ‘You’re a failure. Our father says so.’

Roger released his grip, but only to hook his foot behind Hugh’s ankles and bring him down. Straddling him, he dragged off the purloined cloak. ‘If there’s a next time, you’ll wear this on your bier,’ he panted, ‘and my sword will be through your heart!’

‘Hugh, where are y…’ Gundreda countess of Norfolk who had turned back to find her lagging son, stared at the scene before her eyes in growing consternation and fury. ‘What do you think you’re doing! Get off him, leave him alone!’ she struck Roger a forceful blow on the arm.

Hugh clutched his throat, choking and retching. ‘He tried to kill me…and in God’s own house…’

Roger surged to his feet. ‘There is no ‘try’ about it,’ he said icily. ‘If I intended to kill you, I would have done so.’ With a burning glare for Gundreda, he strode from the chapel, cloak over his arm, scabbard in hand. Her invective followed him but he paid no heed to it for he had become inured to that particular bludgeon.

‘I didn’t have enough men,’ Roger said to his father. His sword hung at his hip now, the weight both a burden and a support. A man shouldn’t have to wear a weapon to bolster his confidence; he should be at ease within his own skin, but he was always raw in the presence of his father. The latter had called a council of war in his chamber and the Earl of Leicester and all the senior knights were present.

Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, glowered at his eldest son. ‘There is always an excuse, isn’t there? I could give you an entire army and it still wouldn’t be enough. I daren’t put weight on you because you’re not strong enough to bear it.’

Roger clenched his fist and made a throwing gesture. ‘You don’t give me the tools to do what you ask of me. You don’t trust me, you don’t give me credit for what’s due, you don’t….’

‘Credit!’ Norfolk barked. ‘I’ll give you credit boy. For losing two fine men and letting good ransom money slip through your inept fingers.’ You’ve probably cost us at least a hundred marks which is more than your hide’s worth. How much more credit do you want?’

Roger swallowed, feeling sick to the stomach. He sometimes thought that his own death would be the only coin to satisfy his father. Whatever he did, it would never be right. Yesterday they had burned the castle of Haughley to the ground – taken pledges of ransom from the knights and turned over the captured garrison to Leicester’s Flemings. Roger had been sent round to the postern, but his father had not given him sufficient men for the task and some of the defenders had managed to break free, killing two of his knights in the process.

Robert of Leicester had been watching the exchange between father and son with sharp speculation. ‘The young men of today aren’t as hard a breed as we had to be, Hugh,’ he said. ‘Let it rest. At least he didn’t run. I am sure we can still find a position for him that will be useful to us.’

‘Aye, following the dung cart,’ Hugh sneered. He pointed to a bench. ‘Hold your tongue, boy, sit and listen and see if you can keep more than fleece between your ears.’

At five and twenty, Roger had left boyhood behind long ago - on a warm summer afternoon as a stunned, bewildered child, watching from a window as his mother departed her annulled marriage to his father for a new match. Within the week Gundreda had replaced her at Framlingham. His father had never once called him ‘boy’ in affection; it was always an insult or a put-down. As a child he hadn’t understood, but adulthood had brought knowledge. It was about power; keeping the young stag down, and it was about punishment. His mother had escaped, but he hadn’t; he was her proxy. Everyone said he was like her – not in looks, but in her way of seeing the world, and in his father’s lexicon, such a trait was unforgivable.

Stepping over the bench, Roger sat down and folded his arms. Leicester said, ‘Haughley is razed and no longer an obstacle, but the keep at Walton still stands and so does Eye.’

Hugh grunted. ‘Eye’s damaged and the garrison won’t venture beyond it. The same for Walton. We should secure Leicester while Henry is fighting his son in Normandy and the justiciar is occupied in the north chasing the Scots. Once Leicester’s yours, we can strike up north-west and join Chester.’

Roger bit his cheek at the not so subtle hint in his father’s words that Leicester should shift his army to his own territory. When Leicester had landed his army of Flemings, his father had rushed to join him, filled with belligerent anticipation that this was going to be like old times when he had profiteered hand over fist from playing one side against the other. But it hadn’t turned out like that. Leicester’s Flemings were denuding Norfolk’s supplies at a terrifying rate and had already started to strip the hinterland with their foraging parties.

Leicester studied his hands. ‘Quite so,’ he said, and a hard smile curved his lips. ‘I wouldn’t want to outstay my welcome, but I’ll need provisions.’

Roger saw his father’s eyes narrow. ‘I don’t have any more to give,’ he said. ‘My barns are nigh on empty. I’ll have to buy in more for the winter at God knows what price.’

‘Then let our enemies provide it. The abbey at Edmundsbury is well stocked, so I hear and the abbot is no friend.’

Hugh rubbed his jaw, considering. His gaze slid to Roger. ‘Pig sticking,’ he said with a humourless baring of teeth. ‘Let’s see if you can at least manage that.’

Roger returned his father’s stare. ‘You want me to run off pigs and burn villages?’

‘For a start,’ Hugh said. ‘If you prove capable, I might think about promoting you, but foraging is all you are worth at the moment. You have my leave to go.’

Roger rose to his feet, his belly churning with anger. How easy it would be to draw his sword and use it. To rage like a wild bull. Easy and pointless. ‘Edmundsbury,’ he repeated.

His father lounged on one hip. ‘Not superstitious about the Church are you?’

Given that the last king’s son and heir had died after raiding the lands of the Abbey at Edmundsbury, Roger could have answered that he was, but he knew his father was awaiting just such a response. ‘No, sire,’ he said, ‘but we owe the abbot three knights’ fees and I have always honoured the Church.’

‘And do you not honour your father also?’ Hugh demanded, clenching his thick fists, causing the seal ring of Norfolk to gleam on his knuckles. ‘I will have your obedience – boy.’

Roger compressed his lips and strode from the room, his control as brittle as thin ice. It was too much, he thought as he reached the safety of his chamber, and sitting on his clothing coffer, put his head in his hands. He wasn’t just at the edge of a precipice, he was over it and scrabbling at the edge by his fingertips. And above stood was his father, preparing to stamp on them and send him into the void. After a while he rose to wipe his face and rinse his mouth. Then, drawing his sword, he looked at the. There were nicks in it that needed honing out, and the edge required sharpening. Down the fuller, the faint, gold gleam of latten, picked out the letters INOMINEDNI. In The Name of God…

‘Sire, there is news.’ Anketil, one of the serjeants, stopped in the doorway. He and Roger had grown up together and although not of knightly birth, being the son of a forester, Roger counted Anketil a friend and ally. The latter’s Nordic-blue eyes fixed on the sword in Roger’s hand.

Good or bad?’ Roger asked, returning the weapon to its scabbard.

‘That depends,’ Anketil said. ‘Richard de Luci has made a truce with the Scots. He’ll be turning south towards us now. Messenger’s just gone in to your father and the Earl of Leicester.’

Roger nodded. He didn’t suppose it would change his own orders except to make them more urgent. Leicester would have to make a move sooner rather than later if he was going to secure his castle.

Anketil gestured towards the scabbard. ‘Saw your brother wearing it this morning in chapel,’ he said.

‘He won’t have the opportunity again.’ Suddenly Roger’s mind was clear and the decision so easy it was like throwing away a piece of used, scratched parchment and drawing forward a fresh, clean sheet, unmarked even by the pricking tool. ‘Get the men together,’ he said. ‘Tell them to sharpen their swords and polish up their equipment. Make sure the horses are well shod and that everyone has arms and provisions sufficient to his needs.’ As he spoke, he felt as if something that had been crushed and packed down into a tight corner was expanding, rising, filling with light and air.

The serjeant eyed him keenly. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘The Abbey at Edmundsbury,’ Roger said with a gleam in his eyes.

Furred grey gloves and hot air

This post is partly in response to Kemberlee's request for more whimsies from the twelfth century world, and partly because I've been meaning to do it anyway. Continuing to research and still currently digesting a thesis by Susan Atkin 'The Bigod Family: an investigation into their lands and activities 1066-1306, I have been fascinated by the list of petty serjeantries held by the family. A serjeantry was land held in return for performing a particular service or giving a particular gift to the king. Some of these services and gifts are a tad curious to say the least. Take a look.
Banningham in Norfolk was the one that Roger Bigod II (my hero) purchased from one Avice Tussard and aforementioned Hubert Corn de Boeuf and was held for the provision of one crossbowman and one man with a lance, valued at £3.3s and 3 1/2 d

Berwick in Wiltshire was inherited by the Bigods from the Bassets (mid 13thC) and was held for one sparrowhawk.

Cratfield in Suffolk was held by the Bigods from 1242 for one clove gilleyflower.

Haddiscoe in Norfolk had been held by the Bigods from 1086 for the provision of one man with a lance.

Kersey in Suffolk, another Basset inheritance was held for one pair of gilt spurs, valued at 6d.

Langham in Norfolk was held by Roland le Pettur who held it for a leap, whistle and fart. (!!!) (In English, 'le Pettur' means 'the farter.' I don't know how much research has been done into the subject of musical farting as entertainment, but I seem to recall that it does exist as an art form. Presumably Roland must have eaten plenty of onions and beans in preparation for his performance. I wonder if the office was one of court jester.

Swainsthorpe in Norfolk had been held by the Bigods from 1086 for the provision of one crossbowman and one lancer for thirty days in time of war to guard Norwich castle.

Tasburgh was held for the service of one horseman in time of war in England.

Woking in Surrey was another Basset inheritance and the service due was one pair of furred grey gloves.

So there you have it. Mundane practicality, little touches of luxury and the slapstick absurd. I love Medieval society!

A Bit Corny Really

Just a quick note.
I love odd or descriptive medieval names - not that they'd seem odd to their owners at the time. A few years ago a friend turned up a Matilda Wimplewasher in the course of her studies. I came across a Richard Midnyte in the records of Medieval Coventry - great name for a hero! Then there's a Geoffrey Gildenballocks who appears in another record and a lady with a surname unprintable here, but referring to the size of her reproductive equipment.
You just never know what the research is going to turn up. I've just started reading a thesis on the activities of the Bigod family between 1066 and 1306 as background for the work in progress. It's interesting to me because it's informing me about my characters, but to be honest it'd be fairly dry stuff otherwise. However, I've just laughed aloud at a reference to my hero (Roger II earl of Norfolk) being sold a serjeantry by one Hubert Corn de Boeuf. It's not a typo. It's a genuine name. I am now on the lookout for a Sire de Spam!

Packages and parcels

I am behind with my blogging due to preparing my submission package for my next contracted novel before decamping to the spare room while my study gets a makeover.
However, I'm dropping by on the run to say I haven't quite disappeared off the planet - although into another century perhaps!
The book on the left arrived this morning - the Russian version of The Greatest Knight. I rather like it, and it suits the market I think. I also heard that The Scarlet Lion has sold to Italy, so it's been something of an international day in the office.

So what does a submission package consist of?
In my case, it's a blurb (a selling document of between 200 and 300 words giving a taste of what the novel is about), a set of character studies for the protagonists and main secondary players, a very detailed synopsis (13 single spaced pages), a family tree, maps and castle diagrams, and finally, the first three chapters of the embryonic novel, which in this case happens to cover roughly 12,000 words. If I didn't have a publisher, I would severely prune the synopsis, but I have an agent who likes, where possible, a strongly sketched overview of what she's going to get in a year's time. Other than that, I'd keep the submission as it is.
Now all I have to do is go away and write the rest - and think of a title. But in the meanwhile, here's the blurb. I suspect in some shape or form it will turn up on Amazon UK sometime before the year is out.

BLURB

In 1173, Roger Bigod is heir to the vast and powerful earldom of Norfolk. When his treacherous father, Hugh, loses the family lands and castles in a rebellion against King Henry II, Roger finds himself in reduced circumstances and dogged by a bitter family dispute with his half brother over the remaining crumbs. Whilst trying to resolve the matter of his inheritance at court, he encounters Ida de Tosney, the King’s young mistress.

Having been forced into the relationship with Henry, Ida is drawn to Roger in whom she sees a chance of lasting security beyond the fickle dazzle of life at court. But she has to navigate a careful path between her dearest wishes and the King’s reluctance to part with her, and every fulfilled wish has its price. Hers is losing her beloved little boy, the child she has borne to Henry.

When King Richard comes to the throne, Roger’s fortunes change, his lands are restored and he becomes one of the richest men in England. He builds a great castle at Framlingham for himself and for Ida, but he knows from bitter experience that such fortresses can be razed and everything taken away. When Richard’s brother John in his turn becomes King, Roger is caught between loyalty and conscience, and knows his choice may cost him all that he has regained. Ida watches her family struggle within a tightening noose as all of her sons are drawn into the conflict, brother against brother. As a wife, as a mother, as a Countess, she knows there are debts from the past still to be settled if she and her family are to survive.

Scarlet Lions rampant!

I received this fabulous cross stitch the other day from Jenny in Canberra. We met on a reading list several years ago and our mutual interests have led to a solidifying of that friendship. Jenny is brilliant at cross stitch (but a bit modest and shy about it). Inspired by a reading of The Greatest Knight last year, she set out to design and stitch the Marshal blazon and here is the result! It now graces the wall in my second (tidier!) study along with my re-enactment equipment and other items of special interest to my writing. I'd like to say a warm public thank you to Jenny. It must have taken her ages!

Still on the Scarlet Lion front, I have just heard that the novel has been longlisted for the Romantic Novelists Association Award for the best Romantic novel of 2007. Details here: http://www.rna-uk.org/index.php?page=article&id=64
I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but since there are 22 novels on the longlist all told and some stiff competition, I'm not getting myself keyed up. If it happens it happens, if it doesn't it doesn't.
I have had the shortlist tee-shirt four times before and the longlist one twice now, so I suppose it becomes almost a little like business as usual. I don't meant that in a big-headed way or a world-weary way. There's still that spark of adrenaline, but having been there once and more than once, it's a bit more controlled and steady. It's nice though that the longlist is chosen by ordinary readers. We shall see what we shall see and in the meantime I'll just quietly get on with the day job!

Change of Plan!

So, there I am, reading away at the Chronica Majora and biographies of Simon de Montfort, Eleanor of Provence and the Bigot Earls of Norfolk, and I find my eyes glazing over. I begin to realise that writing a novel about the goings on in Henry III's reign isn't for me at the moment. The research is turning out a plot line that is a bit like 'A day at the office with swords'. The hero's wife is coming over as a female version of Tony Blair and the hero himself, being a sensible chappy most of the time, manages to keep himself hidden in the sticks for long periods of time - except for the moment when he has a hissy fit in parliament at Henry III and the 8 years he spends trying to divorce his wife. Bottom line - it seemed like a good idea at the time, but the warning lights had started to blink and I realised I really did not want to do this.
So, heaving a sigh, I moved to plan B, which really should have been plan A to begin with. This time, a big 'Yessssss' sang from my inner writing barometer. The preliminary research has been going very well indeed, the psychic Akashic Record material is fabulous and I can't wait to get started. And who are the stars of the new project? Well, still Roger of Norfolk, but the second earl who was a contemporary of William Marshal and the man responsible for building Framlingham Castle. He married Ida de Tosney, one of Henry II's concubines and the mother of William Longespee, earl of Salisbury. Like William Marshal, Roger had to fight his way from lower down the food chain. In his case he was fighting his way back, rather than up. His father, Hugh Bigod had taken the side of the Young King in the rebellion of 1173 and in consequence, when he died, Henry used a family inheritance dispute to take away the main Bigod strongholds of Framlingham and Bungay and withhold the title of earl. He never did give it to Roger, who had to wait for Richard to come to the throne before he could regain his lands and his title. Behind the scenes there is one hell of a lot of juicy family conflict that would put any modern soap opera to shame - and it echoes down the generations. An additional bonus will be guest appearances from William Marshal and his family. What's not to like on the author's side?
As some blog readers will know, I use the Akashic Records, sometimes known as Remote Viewing, to augment my research. I did a session with my friend yesterday and here, as a small gift, is her description of Roger of Norfolk's physical features:
'He's got ordinary coloured hair - mousey-gold-brown, with a fringe and wavy bits at the side. It's quite fine and floaty but there's lots of it. High cheekbones, straight, very nice eyebrows, tapering at the ends. His nose has a slight bump in the middle. It isn't thin, quite broad at the base. His eyes are intelligent and sensitive and the colour is grey-blue, but more on the grey side. His lips are wide and fine at the ends like his brows, and they're well proportioned. He has a square chin. I feel those features have become finer and sharper since I saw him when he was younger.'
I think I'm going to enjoy working with him - and with Ida. I was going to say 'but that's another story' but it isn't. It's the same one!

The sketch of Framlingham Castle as it might have appeared in the 13thC is from the book Reconstructing The Past by Alan Sorrell

i

A GRAVE SITUATION FOR WILLIAM MARSHAL

Embarking on research for the untitled not quite work in progress I found myself obliged to print out all 1,500 pages of the translation of Matthew Paris' Chronica Majora. It's an interesting account of life in the 13thC during the reign of Henry III. Paris needs to be read with caution as he's not always accurate and certainly not impartial. He also tends to go off at sudden tangents. One minute the reader is involved in what the King wore or the state of the weather, the next there's a six page discourse on the prophet Mahommed. Sometimes his writing seems a bit like the old advertising logo for Windows. 'Where do you want to go today?' Thus the reader never quite knows what's coming from page to page.
Even so it's a fascinating read. While waiting for the pages to print I came across this piece.

'When the aforesaid brave and warlike William, surnamed the " Mareschal" (as though " Seneschal of Mars"), was indulging in slaughter and pillage in Ireland, and was acquiring a large territory, he presumptuously and by force took away from a certain holy bishop two manors which belonged to his church, and held possession of them as if they were his own by a just claim,
because they were acquired in war. The bishop in consequence, after frequent warnings, to which the earl replied
with insolence, still retaining possession of the said manors, and contumaciously persisting in his sin, fulminated sentence
of excommunication against him, and with good cause ; but this the earl despised, and, pleading as an excuse that it was in the time of war, he heaped injury on injury. It was owing to these proceedings of his, that one Master Gervase de
Melkeley, composing verses on him, and speaking as if in the person of the earl, said,—
Sum quern Saturnum sibi sensit Hybernia ; Solem Anglia; Mercurium Normannia; Gallia Martem. [In Ireland I am Saturn ; in England the Sun's rays surround me :In Normandy I'm Mercury, but France for ever Mars has found me.]
The said earl, then, held these manors under his jurisdiction all his life. After some years he died, and was buried
at the New Temple, in London, which circumstance coming to the knowledge of the aforesaid bishop (it was the bishop
of Femes, who had been a monk of the Cistercian order, an Irishman by birth, and a man of remarkable sanctity), he,
though not without much personal labour, went to the king, who was at the time staying at London, and, making a heavy
complaint of the above mentioned injury done to him, declared that he had excommunicated the said earl for the
same, not without good cause : he then begged of the king, by his royal authority and warrant, for the release of the
soul of the said Earl William, to restore his manors to him, that the deceased might obtain the benefit of absolution.
The king, touched with sorrow at hearing this, asked the bishop to go to the earl's tomb and absolve him, promising that
he would himself see that satisfaction was given him. The bishop therefore went to the tomb, and, in the presence of
the king and many other persons, as if a live person was addressing a living one in the tomb, said, " William, you who
are entombed here, bound with the bonds of excommunication, if the possessions which you wrongfully deprived my
church of be restored, with adequate satisfaction, by the agency of the king, or by your heir, or any one of your
relations, I absolve you ; if otherwise, I confirm the said sentence, that, being involved in your sins, you may remain
in hell a condemned man for ever." The king, on hearing this, became angry, and reproved the immoderate severity of
the bishop. To this the latter replied, " Do not be astonished, my lord, if I am excited ; for he despoiled my church
of its greatest advantage." The king then, privately, spoke to William, the earl's eldest son, and heir of all his property,
who was now invested with the earldom and also to some of his brothers, and begged of them, by restoring the aforesaid manors which had been unjustly taken away, to release the soul of their father.
To this William replied 'I do not believe, neither ought it to be believed that my father took them away wrongfully, for what is taken in time of war becomes a just possession. If that old and foolish bishop has pronounced the sentence unjustly, may it be hurled back on his own head; I do not choose to diminish the inheritance with which I am invested.  My father died seised of these manors, and I, with good right, entered into possession of what I found.'

In this decision all the brothers agreed, and the king, being at the time a young man, and under a guardian would not on any account give offence to such a powerful noble. When this afterwards became known to the bishop, he grieved more at the contumacy of the sons, than at the injury done him in the first place by the father.  He then went before the King and said: 'What I have said I have said, and what I have written I have written indelibly. The sentence is confirmed; a punishment has been inflicted on malefactors by the Lord and the malediction which is described in the psalm is imposed in a heavy degree on Earl William of whom I complain - 'In one generation his name shall be destroyed'  and his sons shall be without share in the benediction of the Lord, 'Increase and multiply!'  Some of them will die by a lamentable death and their inheritance will be scattered; and all this my lord king, you will see in your lifetime, ay in the prime of your life.'

After delivering this speech in the bitterness of his heart, as if inspired by a prophetic spirit, the bishop went away in sorrow. Thus was the noble Earl William Marshal who had placed his confidence in an arm of flesh, left entangled in the bonds of  the anathema.  As an evident proof of this circumstance, some years afterwards, after the death of all his sons, when the church of the New Temple was dedicated, in the year 1200, (obviously wrong date here!)  the body of the said Earl which had been sewn up in a bull's hide, was found entire, but rotten and loathsome to the sight. The last of the brothers but one, Earl Walter Marshal, followed in his steps, for although he had most faithfully promised a revenue of  sixty shillings to the House of St. Mary belonging to the monks of Hertford, and had given a written promise thereof, because his brother Earl Gilbert died there, and his bowels still remained buried there,  he forgot the pledge and promise which he had made for the redemption of his brother, and after causing much useless vexation to the prior of the said house, he proved himself a manifest deceiver and transgressor.

Lincoln Cathedral grotesque

Moral of the story:  Never get on the wrong side of the church when it comes to land and money!

Getting to grips with the Medieval mindset is one of the things I enjoy about writing historical fiction. I think it a tad suspicious re the bishop's curse and I suspect it was inserted after the demise of William's sons. But did the bishop come to England to remonstrate with William's sons about his lost manors and attempt to trade them in exchange for lifting the excommunication? Is that part true? One can imagine the theatre of threatening the entombed corpse of one of the greatest scions of chivalry before the King and court - or one can try to imagine. I think William II showed remarkable restraint!

It'll be interesting to see what other nuggets turn up during my read of the Chronica....