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Adventures in Bookland: Northumberland by Gemma Hall

21 September 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Book review

This is the second Bradt Slow Travel guide we’ve used, after their guide to the North York Moors by Mike Bagshaw. In common with the first, it provides a wealth of detail, digging deep down below the guide book surface and, in the process, revealing an author who really does know the area well. As I know Northumberland pretty well myself (four books, many magazine articles and frequent trips), I was looking for something detailed to provide some new perspectives on the county. Hall’s book does do this, particularly with respect to wildlife and walking – her love for both shines through – but, with a three year old whose legs stop working after walking for five minutes, we unfortunately weren’t able to follow the suggested walks on this visit.

I would rate the North York Moors guide as slightly better, but I think that’s largely because the author’s interests mapped more closely onto my own. But for any visitor to Northumberland, this is now the stand-out guide to the area.

Oswiu: What Writers Think – no.1 in a short series

19 September 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Oswiu: King of Kings

We’ve been really fortunate with the generosity of other writers of historical fiction: some extremely able authors agreed to read advance copies of Oswiu: King of Kings and, over the next couple of weeks, I’m going to tell you what they thought of it.

Today, we’ll start with Conn Iggulden. Conn is author of the Wars of the Roses, Emperor and Conqueror series, as well as the Dangerous Book for Boys. He’s one of the most accomplished writers of historical fiction today and it was a great privilege to have him read Oswiu. And here’s what Conn thought of it:

It’s brilliant: hugely enjoyable, a galloping plot with characters I care abut – exactly the sort of thing I love to read. Please pass on my congratulations to Edoardo. This was a joy to read from start to finish.

You hear that sound, that creaking, cracking sound? That’s the sound of my head swelling. Seriously, I’m thrilled to have had Conn read this book and even more that he liked it – in fact, he said, having read Oswiu, he was going to go out and buy Edwin: High King of Britain and Oswald: Return of the King with his own money! That’s a proper writerly accolade.

Adventures in Bookland: Empires of the Sea by Roger Crowley

18 September 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Book review, History

The world was strange five hundred years ago. The unity of medieval Christendom had ruptured, breaking apart a thousand years of cultural understanding (even if that had not translated into any lasting peace between the warring European states). Meanwhile, the old bulwark against the advance of the armies of Islam, the impregnable walls of Constantinople, had finally proved pregnable in 1453. Each new Ottoman Sultan had to prove his legitimacy through war and conquest – hence the inexorable drive towards a century and more of conflict.

The Ottomans were originally a nomadic people. Naval warfare was something new to them. But, in the 16th century, they learned fast. Land conquests had made the Sultan master of the Black Sea. Now, he sought to rule the White Sea too.

Standing in his way were the Venetians, the Genoese and the Spanish, under their Habsburg kings, Charles I and Philip II.

The struggle for the Mediterranean was one conducted through generations, with fathers and then sons and even grandsons engaged in the conflict. And it was a brutal conflict, its brutality exacerbated by the demands of the chief engine of this particular naval war: the galley. In the shallow, generally calm waters of the Mediterranean, these oared sailing ships, with their ability to ram and run fast under the pull of the oars, were the most potent vessels, but their potency was earned through human misery: the men pulling the oars. For most sides in the conflict, the chief source of oarsmen was slaves. Slave-taking expeditions became a constant menace, particularly to the southern European states. All sides took part in the trade, but the Ottoman armed forces were predicated upon slavery for their most feared troops, the Janissaries, were slaves, children taken from their, usually Christian, parents, converted to Islam and then raised as soldiers.

Crowley takes this fearsomely complex war and relates it well, breaking down the long struggle into a number of key battles while not neglecting the longer-term diplomatic and economic factors that also played into the war. But, in the end, it came down to four great battles, three island sieges and a concluding naval battle: the siege of Rhodes (1522), when the Ottomans succeeded in expelling the Knights of St John, the successors to the medieval Hospitallers, from the island; the siege of Malta (1565), when the knights held, just, to their new base; the siege of Famagusta (1571), in which the Ottomans took the last Venetian stronghold on Cyprus and, by their barbaric execution of the defenders, inflamed Venetian passion to such an extent that the Republic forwent trade for war and became one of the chief instigators of the Holy League that faced the Ottomans in the great naval battle of Lepanto (7 October 1571).

Four great battles in one long war. That the Sultan did not rule the White Sea as he did the Black was down to these men, men like Cervantes, who fought at Lepanto and counted it his most glorious deed, Don Juan of Austria, commander of the Holy League, who danced a galliard on the poop deck of his ship before battle began, Jean de Valette of the Knights, who fought at the siege of Rhodes and then commanded the Knights during their defence of Malta, and many others. Remarkable men for a remarkable conflict, and one that deserves to be better known. Hopefully, Crowley’s excellent book will serve to make that happen.

The Presence of the Past – no.2 in an occasional series

15 September 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Edwin, History, Oswald: Return of the King, Oswiu: King of Kings, The Northumbrian Thrones

This summer, we went to Northumberland. The past lies deep over the present there, in this land of far horizons, and over the next few weeks I’ll write a few more entries in this occasional series, the presence of the past.

For today, we’ll look at the well in Bamburgh Castle. The rock on which the presnt-day castle stands has been a stronghold for as long as men have lived in Northumberland. It’s a great lump of Whin Sill, the layer of hard dolerite that extends, mostly underground, through Durham and Northumberland. 295 million years ago, an upflow of magma from the earth’s core was diverted on its path to the surface and, instead of exploding as a volcano, slid sideways, below the surface, spreading out along the fault line between two horizontal layers of rock, rather like the jam in a sandwich. But when the magma cooled, it formed dolerite, a much harder rock than the sandstone that sandwiched it. So, as the softer rock has eroded, the hard protuberances of the Whin Sill have emerged, producing features such as Bamburgh Rock, High Force, and parts of Hadrian’s Wall.

Part of Hadrian's Wall, riding along the Whin Sill — Part of Hadrian’s Wall, riding along the Whin Sill

Bamburgh Rock, rising a couple of hundred feet above the surrounding sea and land, is an obvious watchpoint and stronghold. But it lacked one vital feature of a defensible fortress: water. If the defenders were beseiged, they would rely on stored water and catching rainfall – admittedly, not an infrequent occurrence in this part of the world, but, the world being what it is, no doubt drought would be the inevitable partner to siege.

To overcome this deficiency, the Anglo-Saxons dug a well. Through granite. Through 150 feet of granite. And the well is still there, in the lowest level of Bamburgh Castle, with nothing but a small caption to remark this extraordinary feat of Early Medieval engineering.

Here’s me, standing beside the well.

Standing by the head of the well — Writer, wondering how they did it

How on earth did they do it?

This is what the caption says:

This Anglo-Saxon well was essential for providing the castle with a reliable and clean source of water. The well is 44 metres in depth and 2 metres in diameter. There are no records about how the well was made but one thought is that fires may have been built on top of the hard whinstone. When the rock was extremely hot, cold water would have been poured onto it causing it to contract and split, making the stone easier to work. Beneath the whinstone is sandstone much softer and easier to excavate.

The sides of the well are smooth and close to the bottom there is an arched tunnel approximately 1.75 metres in height which is reached by iron rungs set into the stone work. Running at a south westerly angle it travels to shrubbery outside the castle near the existing pump house and was made in the 20th century to carry services, out of sight, up to the castle.

So, that is, maybe, how they did it. Hot rock, cold water and hard labour. And, well dug, Bamburgh became well-nigh impregnable, the stronghold which became the base for the Idings take over of the kingdom of Bernicia, the land of the high passes.

Cover Reveal – Oswiu: King of Kings

13 September 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Oswiu: King of Kings, The Northumbrian Thrones

And, ta da! Here it is: the final version of the cover for Oswiu: King of Kings. I’m particularly pleased with the bit of writing above the lion. It’s no small accolade to have the book described as brilliant by no less a writer than Conn Iggulden.

What’s more, we’ve got back some other, equally glowing commendations from other writers. I’ll tell you about them over the next few days and weeks. Only five weeks until publication!

First Day of Sorrow

6 September 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Things You Never Knew

First day of school,
First day of sorrow.
190 more days at that old dump
And he’ll be back tomorrow.

After a wonderful summer holiday, we sent son no.1, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school. Son no.2 to follow tomorrow.

(And, yes, I know the original quote doesn’t have the indefinite article before ‘snail’, but an eleven syllable line works much better here as the subject is supposed to be sorrowful. And it reads better too!)

Adventures in Bookland: Postcards from the Front 1914-1919 by Kate J Cole

31 August 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Book review

Postcards were the Snapchat of their day: (almost) instant messages sent with accompanying picture to reassure the receiver of the good health of the sender. For soldiers serving in World War I on the Western Front, they provided quick communication with home; often scribbled on breaks from marching, postcards were the counterpoint to the considered letter. Cole shows the pictures chosen by soldiers serving, as well as reproducing the messages, thus serving to confirm the notion that the British are obsessed with the weather: seemingly every postcard includes a comment on whether it is wet or dry, hot or snowing, while generally eschewing any mention of the actual war. This highlights the stoicism and restraint of the men (and women) of the time: a nurse, serving in a field hospital taking casualties from the Somme, in her first postcard home after the start of the battle, writes about the weather (naturally), asks after her mother’s health and sends thanks for letters received. Not one word of the casualties filling the hospital. Of course, this may in part have been because all postcards were censored, but the overwhelming impression is of brave men and women seeking to protect their loved ones at home from the full reality of war.

The two best chapters follow a pair of nurse friends and two serving brothers through their wars, setting their postcards against the events which they faced. Although I began this review by saying postcards were the Snapchat of that time, it’s hard to believe we would respond with the same understated bravery if ever we were to face such trials.

The book concludes with three useful appendices on researching First World War postcards, including what can be gleaned from the censors’ mark and the army post mark.

(Review first appeared in issue 32 of History of War magazine.)

Adventures in Bookland: The Harrowing by James Aitcheson

31 August 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Book review

James Aitcheson made his name with his Sworn Sword trilogy of novels set in the years after the Conquest, which followed the fortunes of one of William’s knights. In this standalone novel, he puts his previous hero, Tancred, aside to look at the aftermath of defeat from the point of view of the English and, in doing so, makes a huge step up as a writer. As a scholar of the period, there’s never been any doubting the historical accuracy of Aitcheson’s work, but in the taught prose of The Harrowing, he proves himself completely as a writer.

Five refugees from the reiving Normans, who are laying waste the north to snuff out any possibility of future rebellions, come together, fleeing through a brutal winter towards hope of sanctuary. The story follows them through their flight, as well as telling the tale of what formed and made them all: fleeing noblewoman; servant; warrior; priest; and bard. In line with his historical training, there’s always been an anti-heroic theme to Aitcheson’s novels, but this goes further: in its bleak depiction of small-scale battles and large-scale despoiling it presents a far truer picture of the nature of medieval warfare than the action fantasies – the male equivalent of chick lit – that generally get published under the label of historical fiction. In fact, The Harrowing was so good that not even it being written in the present tense – one of this reviewer’s pet literary hates – served to diminish it. Highly recommended.

(Review first published in History of War magazine, issue 32.)

Save Our Street Trees – Give Them A Drink

27 August 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Nature, Things You Never Knew

It’s a desert out there. You might not realise it, after one of the wettest winters on record, but for the trees, growing up through the pavements and tarmac of our cities, it’s a desert. No matter how much it rains, most of the water never gets through to their roots, since it flows off the pavements and tarmac and down the gutters. And the situation has become much, much worse in London over the last ten years with so many front gardens having been tarmaced and turned into car parks.

Now, in this hot, dry weather, our street trees are suffering. Those worst affected are the newly planted trees that haven’t yet had the chance to push their roots down deep, searching for the leaks in water mains that are the main sources of liquid for street trees. So, if you see a tree in your street suffering, wilting and browning in the heat, then water it. Fill up a watering can and give it a drink. Or, on your way home, empty out the rest of your water bottle around its base – do this every day and it’s remarkable what effect you’ll have. We have saved four or five trees on our street this way.

Considering what street trees do for us in the way of providing shade, shelter, filtering pollutants, it’s the least we can do in return.

Adventures in Bookland: The Serpent Sword by Matthew Harffy

7 August 2016

Edoardo

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Categories: Book review, Writers

Like two warriors, we circled each other: wary, watchful, waiting for the other to make the first move. Each of us thought ourselves kings of our realm, alone and unchallenged until, through whisper and word, news came of another claimant to the throne.

The throne was the king of the 7th century and we, writers, working in what we had each thought was a personal playground until we found the other: the interloper, the intruder. The rival.

At least, that’s how it was for me. I’d been writing Edwin: High King of Britain for a month or two, all the while congratulating myself on my wit in staking claim to this most transformative yet unrepresented era in history when I learned that one Matthew Harffy was busy writing his own novel, The Serpent Sword, set in the same period. What was worse, Edwin, my King Edwin, was in his book as well.

My first reaction was, naturally, to hope for his complete and utter failure. That this Matthew chap – what was it with the two ‘f’s, after all? – would prove just another wannabe, telling the world he was a writer before he’d actually written anything of any worth.

But then he went and got himself an agent. Not good. Not good at all – particularly when I didn’t have one. All right, I had a publisher – Lion Fiction – but it was surely only a matter of time before his agent got him a publisher and then he’d be the first to put his words into the 7th century and lay claim on Northumbria. Luckily, I was almost finished with Edwin and, what’s more, we got a commendation from Bernard Cornwell – yes, that Bernard Cornwell – to go on the cover. Round 1 to me, I thought.

But then The Serpent Sword came out. And while it didn’t have Bernard Cornwell extolling it, it had pretty well everyone else. Looked like this Matthew bloke could write. What was worse, he was being nice to me online – he even bought (and read!) Edwin. Now what was I going to do?

Read his book, of course.

But there we hit the hidden fear that gnaws at the heart of every writer. What if we’re really not any good? All the good reviews flow off our backs like water, but every 1-star sticks barbs into our souls and refuses to come out.

What if I read Matthew’s book and thought it was better than mine?

Then my publisher asked me to read another book set in 7th-century Northumbria, The Abbess of Whitby by Jill Dalladay. While there was some overlap with my work, the focus was clearly different: I could try this.

So I read it and, reading, found myself twisted sideways, like looking at a spoon through a glass of water: everything distorted. Reading about these people – people I had written in my own books – imagined differently was intensely, in fact unpleasantly, distorting. Having finished The Abbess of Whitby, I realised I could not go near another vision of 7th-century Northumbria until I had finished my own exploration of the time.

While Matthew and I had become steadily more acquainted online – chiefly through his unfailing generosity and support – I prevaricated and circled around the great big elephant in our room: the fact that he’d read my book and I hadn’t read his. Two more books were written – my Oswald: Return of the King, his The Cross and the Curse – and still I circled away, attempting to repay his generosity with promises to, someday, read Matthew’s work.

Then, the day came. I had finished Oswiu: King of Kings. I was finished in the 7th century. Now there was no more hiding. Now, I had to read his book and answer the question: is he better than me?

The answer: yes.

Yes, he is. He is better at doing what he is doing than I could ever be. But, reading The Serpent Sword, I realised that Matthew isn’t doing what I am doing: we are writing different worlds set in the same place and time, and exploring different aspects of storytelling and world creation.

Matthew writes of men and battles and blood and war better than pretty well anyone else around – his nearest comparison is, in fact, Bernard Cornwell’s Uhtred and a mark of how fine a debut The Serpent Sword is, is the fact that Beobrand doesn’t suffer in comparison with Uhtred.

I don’t know how he did it, but Matthew seems to have escaped every single one of the usual first novel traps: there’s no over exposition, there’s no repeating information to the reader, there’s no failure to trust his words. Everything is lean and taut and finished: like the titular sword, this story cuts.

My only word of warning to prospective readers is that it’s pretty brutal. These were, of course, brutal times, but if you are squeamish about the depiction of violence, this might not be the book for you. But if you enjoy story telling of the highest order, this book is for you.