Take a look at this man. Most writers have the sort of face that fits on radio: Justin Hill looks like the sort of fellow you wouldn’t want to see standing opposite you in the enemy shieldwall. Only, judging by the photo, it looks like he’d favour the naked beserker style of fighting! So, you’d listen to what he tells you about good books to read about the Dark Ages. Particularly when he’s written one of the best of them: Shieldwall, about the best evocation of late Anglo-Saxon England I’ve read (the sequel, Viking Fire, has just come out and I’m on it big time). But just to show he’s not all trapezius and deltoid, he also weaves tales around Chinese teashops (The Drink and Dream Teahouse) and memoirs around Eritrean coffeeshops (Ciao Asmara); and, a particular delight to me, writes bolter-blasting stories in the 40th millennium too when there is only war (Storm of Damocles).
‘The death of the king plunges the north into crisis. A crowning achievement: meticulously researched, a long-overdue insight into our Anglo-Saxon past.’
There you go. Reading that, you’d better order Oswiu: King of Kings. You wouldn’t want to upset Justin, would you?
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.
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.
Conn Iggulden
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.
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.
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
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.
The well head in Bamburgh Castle
Here’s me, standing beside the well.
Writer, wondering how they did it
How on earth did they do it?
And wondering how on earth they did 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.
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 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!)
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.)
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.)
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.
