- Remembered as Bonfire Night – known as Guy Fawkes Night until late 20th century – but originally known as Gunpowder Treason Day
- Guy Fawkes led the plot – well no, the plot was led by Robert Catesby. Guy (or Guido) was a relatively minor conspirator, a soldier who had been in Europe for the previous decade.
- Why the bonfires? This was not a new idea. Bonfires were lit as beacons and in celebration (remember the Spanish Armada?) for centuries before. But this one stuck. They were lit on this occasion to celebrate the foiling of the plot.
- You won’t find Parliament commemorating the events of 5 November any more – actually they do. Presumably due to some nervousness that the same thing might be tried again, guards began searching the cellars the night before the State Opening of Parliament. In 1682 Sir Christopher Wren was ordered “forthwith to cleer and cause to be cleered the Sellars & vaultes under and neer adjoyning the house of Peers, Painted Chamber & Court of Requests of all Timber, firewood, coales & other materialls of what kind soever and that passages be made throughout… & hightes be opened where they may that Gardes may passe throughout the day or night”. and the tradition continues – an official search of the Palace of Westminster’s cellars takes place every year before the State Opening.
- And the significance of the date 5th November? None. Due to calendar changes the 5 November would be later. And the only reason for the state opening of Parliament being on 5 November in 1605 was that it had been postponed twice, from February, to July and finally to November – due to plague. Sadly, that sounds familiar.
BY AJ LYNDON
Jude Deveraux is the author of forty-three New York Times bestsellers, including Sweet Liar, the Nantucket series, and A Knight in Shining Armor. While she was first known for historical and contemporary romance novels, she also writes murder mysteries, time travel and paranormal.
When her agent suggested the multi-award-winning author might like to write a trilogy, he said that he would get her a co-writer if she came up with an outline. The stumbling block was his suggestion that it should feature vampires and she declined. “He said, ‘Zombies?’ Nope. I don’t like them either. I said, ‘I could do angels.’”
Within hours Deveraux had come up with the basic idea that a person had done something bad but for a good reason, so angels let him/her have a second chance. She could already see where the story was set. “Plotting has always been easy for me,” Deveraux says. Her mind was working so fast that she didn’t sleep that night. At 3 a.m. she started typing the outline of the series. Thus began the story of the Providence Falls trilogy, featuring a romance set in two different centuries, two different countries – and angels.
Keeping to his half of the bargain, her agent gave her a shortlist of three different authors to work with. Deveraux chose Tara Sheets, whose debut novel, Don’t Call Me Cupcake (Zebra Shout 2018) received the 2016 Golden Heart® sponsored by Romance Writers of America. Its plot also featured the paranormal.
Sheets, who has always been fascinated with “fables and fairy tales” says working together on the trilogy is “a fascinating collaborative journey. Jude has a wonderfully vivid imagination, and she’s the one who came up with the idea of Liam and Cora’s star-crossed love story as well as the setting in 1844 Ireland”. Deveraux laughs when she says that she believed her “outline was perfect. Tara had the wisdom to see that it had several plot holes. The list of questions and suggestions she sent me made so much sense that I did a major overhaul of the plot. Also, she came up with names for people and places — something that I struggle with.”
An Impossible Promise (MIRA 2021) is the second book featuring Irish rogue Liam. Transplanted from 19th century Ireland to 21st century North Carolina, he has one purpose in this life—to push Cora (the woman he loved in their previous life) into the arms of another man, Finn. The angels have warned him this is the last chance to save his soul. Cora doesn’t remember Liam or their past lives, nor is she impressed with his attempts to guide her in any way. In An Impossible Promise, Liam and Cora, now police officers, are partners on a murder investigation, drawing them closer together —exactly what Liam is supposed to avoid. There will be a final book, tying up the series and filling in the past of Finn, himself an intriguing character.
Sheets had not written a novel set in 19th century Ireland before, but she “jumped at the chance to help bring Liam O’Connor’s character to life” when Deveraux told her the premise. The small town of Kinsley, Ireland immediately began taking shape, and “the rest was, well, history”. Deveraux provided Sheets with “photos of houses and clothes, things that I love”. Sheets did most of the research, scouring historical records, news articles, and artists’ renderings from that time period.
Given their shared interest in the supernatural, it is no surprise to discover that both Deveraux and Sheets have been influenced by strange things happening in real life. Sheets describes her family living in a house in Cairo. “Lights turning on and off by themselves. Footsteps in empty bedrooms and hallways. The scent of old-fashioned rose perfume wafting through the library when no one was there. That experience definitely helped shape my interest in supernatural elements later when I began writing.”
Deveraux has also lived in Cairo, but in her case it was a 1709 house in England where she experienced “a ghost that made us all crazy for 3 days at April Fools. Tom thought it was hilarious to play annoying tricks on us. We got used to him, but he scared the daylights out of workmen. Telling them, ‘Tom will turn off the lights at 4,’ made them roll their eyes. Gravel flew as they sped out at 4:05.”
This romance/thriller/fantasy trilogy has perhaps created a new subgenre of historical novel. Sheets calls spinning so many elements together “an interesting challenge” but says that she would be happy if there were more books that straddled the line the way this trilogy does.
“I love mixing fantasy in my stories,” Deveraux adds. “Spirits from the past and angels helping people suits me completely!”
About the contributor: AJ Lyndon is based in Melbourne. She writes historical novels and short stories, mainly set in 17th century England during the English Civil Wars. She has recently completed writing her second novel, The Tawny Sash. You can follow updates on her blog.
This feature article first appeared on the Historical Novel Society website https://historicalnovelsociety.org/i-could-do-angels-an-impossible-promise-by-jude-deveraux-and-tara-sheets/
We’ve all heard of darkest dungeons and may have visited a few. At Warwick Castle, one of the tourist “experiences” is the dungeon complex featuring a spiral stair case and live witch trials etc. All calculated to give you delicious goose bumps. But reality? To my great disappointment I was told they had been the castle store rooms. The real dungeon was a hole in the ground – short on visuals. Its sole memorable feature was a carving of a cross done by some unfortunate long-dead prisoner. An aid to prayer? Presumably it gave him some comfort. I preferred the dramatic possibilities of the store rooms so ended up using them (as store rooms/emergency dungeons) in The Welsh Linnet.
Clutching hopelessly at thin air, Harry fell headlong down a flight of spiral stairs. Shaken and hurt, he lay trying to catch his breath at the bottom while the guards laughed. They pulled him roughly to his feet, placed the torch in a metal sconce and unlocked a door. By the flickering light of the torch, Harry saw a small room, empty but for a few discarded sacks. The air was dank and musty. (The Welsh Linnet)
At Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire, the 15th century Dungeon Tower has three dungeons on top of each other. A skeleton was discovered there in the 19th century. Could it be some forgotten prisoner from the civil wars? Sudeley was “slighted” ie partially demolished in 1649 at the orders of Parliament to ensure that its royalist owner could not use it again as a fortress, so perhaps?
The discovery of forgotten skeletons tends to get everyone from archaeologists to historical novelists very excited. I have stored the Sudeley one away for possible future use. However Daphne du Maurier may have monopolised this particular gem of an idea, using the 19th century discovery of a skeleton in a secret room at her Cornish house Menabilly in her civil war novel The King’s General.
And so to the wooden horse. Not the Trojan one, needless to say, but slightly sinister and definitely painful. It was a popular punishment device in the army. The ‘horse’ was a sawhorse with a sharpened apex. ‘Riding’ it entailed being tied onto it, sometimes with muskets or other heavy weights strapped to the legs. The weights stopped the soldier falling off, but the main purpose was to increase the pressure and the pain.
Charles’s chubby face became earnest, his brow puckering. “Alexander, your father will flay your hide if you take a dispatch he is meant to carry.”
“He would never do so, Charles,” Alexander argued. “Not a flogging. An hour riding the wooden horse, perhaps. It is worth the risk.” Charles groaned. If his friend was happy to contemplate an hour astride the sharpened apex of the army’s punishment device known as the wooden horse, heavy muskets tied to his legs, there was clearly no point in remonstrating further. (The Tawny Sash).
The wooden horse was also known as the Spanish donkey among other names and was still in use during the American Civil War.
Another oddity, which gradually went out of fashion during the following century was “tying neck and heels” for a specified period of time such as a quarter hour. This involved being bent over a board backwards. One court martial proceeding from June 1644 prescribed this punishment – presumably for somewhat longer as the prisoner was to “be fed with no other food than bread and water” until the army marched.
Eighty years later, regimental courts martial were still prescribing a wide variety of punishments. Some sound fairly innocuous but (Running) the gauntlet could apparently result in serious injury and death. All of which may have persuaded some reluctant combatants that the battlefield was preferable to life in the army camp…
Sources: Gilbert, A. N. (1976). The Regimental Courts Martial in the Eighteenth Century British Army. Albion: A Quarterly Journal Concerned with British Studies, 8(1), 50–66. https://doi.org/10.2307/4048155
The Court Martial Papers of Sir William Waller’s Army, 1644
Nothing to do with praying although, back in lockdown for the sixth time in Melbourne, we could all do with a little prayer. But this is, of course, about writing. And, specifically, about recreating the past. Most churches, especially in Europe, have been there a very long time, 5,6, 7 hundred years and more. There are quite a few old pubs too but, unlike the pubs, churches usually retain their original names.
Cue repeated moans about the Globe Inn, Lostwithiel in Cornwall. Definitely old, 16th century without dispute. Was there when the roundhead army of Robert Devereux, 3rd Earl of Essex, arrived in 1644 in the middle of the civil war. Next to the bridge over the Fowey. Appearing in my second book as itself. But had to be “the inn by the river”, because the owner told me it had only been The Globe for a couple of hundred years. Then there is The Reindeer in Banbury, dating from 1570. In the absence of evidence of a name change I have assumed The Reindeer is the original name. But I have my doubts, and feel a little anxious whenever I reread the scene in my first book, The Welsh Linnet.
Even churches can be problematic. I have found quite a few that were rebuilt at some point. Usually the tower which may now be square and previously had a spire, that sort of thing. Fonts and pulpits may look ancient- but are they the originals? If only all churches had been left untouched with the original bullet holes, like St Lawrence in Alton.
As for the changing shape of old houses- probably one of the most famous is Hampton Court which has a Tudor front and a William and Mary back. Two totally different styles. Many owners of stately homes decided to improve and modernise, losing all trace of the original features in the process. In the late 17th century (Charles II era) a wave of Restoration optimism (or the damage of the civil war) caused the knocking about of many gentlemen’s houses. The better off remodelled and expanded (Boconnoc House for example) while many others such as Loseley House demolished a wing, either through dilapidation or to cut costs.
Basing House, pulled down on Cromwell’s orders after its capture in 1645, was ironically, falling down at the time. Its owner the Marquess of Winchester had been living elsewhere and only moved back into the immense Basing House when the civil war made him seek a more secure and defensible residence.
Using Boconnoc House as a setting for part of the plot would have been impossible if it hadn’t been for the kindness of the present owner and a recently written book on the history of the house. Writing a novel set in 1644 entailed reconstructing a house which faced west rather than east and was s-shaped with towers instead of square with no towers. But it is still surrounded by the deer park which was clearly visible on a contemporary map.
The mass of the house, a tower at each end, loomed as a dark and silent presence in the night…Gabriel and the remaining men crept in single file up the southern slope from the deer park (The Tawny Sash)
Sometimes I strike gold. The staff at Loseley House showed me a painting of the house with the west wing intact. The details of the layout are quite clear so that I was able to write things like
First removing their shoes so they would not make a clatter on the wooden floors, the brothers crept through the door from the west wing into the stables. They were crowded with tenants’ horses and wagons. (The Tawny Sash)
At Cardiff Castle a helpful guide was a bit surprised when I showed very little interest in the beautiful rebuilding and decoration from the 19th century but insisted in climbing to the top of the spartan but intact Norman keep and taking photos of it from all directions.
Terrain can be just as frustrating. Google maps is wonderful (especially satellite view) and where possible I tramp or drive around a location. But even visiting a location doesn’t always help. Trees for example are a perennial problem. The view from Edgehill in 2016
Apparently in 1642 there was a good clear view from the top. Sometimes a river has silted up (Fowey in Cornwall) or a canal has been driven through an area (Basingstoke Canal at Basing House in 1794). After all the mucking around in the Basingstoke area over the last 200+ years, the River Loddon is little more than a stream. But in 1644, wider, deeper and dammed to stop the enemy crossing, it would have been different. How different? After all the research, in the end I must fall back on my imagination.
This was no great stretch of water like the Severn. In summer it ran clear, and children picked the wild watercress, but not since damming the river had muddied its crystal waters, not since the war began. (The Tawny Sash)
For a writer, no experience is worthless, however bad. No more immune from tragedy than the rest of us, writers can at least share that experience with readers, hoping that by doing so they may dull their pain, or that of others. Shakespeare lost his only son and in her enthralling novel Hamnet, Maggie O’Farrell suggests it inspired him to write his greatest play, Hamlet.
Not long before Covid hit, I was reading another historical novel set during London’s Great Plague outbreak in 1665. Growing up in the UK I had learnt in primary school of the bare facts, the date, the Great Fire which followed in 1666, but it had no particular emotional significance for me. And reading that novel in the heady days of 2019, the worst outbreak of bubonic plague since 1348 was no more than an interesting backdrop to a murder mystery. I shuddered at gruesome and heart rending facts, thrown in as historical colour- the mass burials, the nailing up of doors of infected houses, condemning the healthy to die with the sick. But it had happened so long ago in another world. Nothing lingers in British folk lore other than (perhaps) a grim glimmer of memory filtering down the centuries through the prism of the nursery rhyme “Ring a ring of roses”.
And now, in the stark light of this 2021 day? I picked up my first novel The Welsh Linnet recently and reread the sections on “camp fever” (probably typhus) in 1643 Oxford.
“Stanley’s small and gloomy room stank of sickness… I would not have recognised Matthew … His eyes were immense in his face with the fever. There were tell- tale purple spots on his chest and arms. He felt very hot to the touch... As it began to grow dark, … the sick man spoke his first coherent words. “Nicholas, don’t die. Hold on, I’m here.”The Welsh Linnet by AJ Lyndon
The deadly sickness brought by armies to Oxford during the civil war was a convenient tool I used for development of the characters’ personal relationships, but if I were writing the book now, I believe those nursing the sick would be more fearful; and would spend time brooding on the random nature of the pestilence and praying for its end.
Perhaps it is natural that the reality of outbreaks of dangerous contagion, common throughout the world until discovery of vaccines, should have been forgotten by most people, even those born before the last polio epidemic in the 1950s.
Somehow I doubt that when this war against the 21st century plague is over, those of us who lived through it and survived will spend time reminiscing about the “good old days” of Covid. But for those of us who write fiction, whether we choose to omit any reference to these events from our fictional worlds or include them as a backdrop to thriller or romance, I do not think our stories will mirror those we might have penned in that parallel universe where Covid-19 did not exist.
It’s not only memories of diseases which disappear from collective memory. I have often wondered why the English Civil Wars of the 1640s, the usual subject of this blog, have been forgotten more completely than Plague or Fire, almost as if airbrushed from history. They killed a greater percentage of the British population than the First World War.
Was it fear that dredging up any talk of the recent conflict might reignite the smouldering embers of discontent and revolution? Might bring back the days of daily fears – that today would be the day that brought death or starvation to their town or village in the shape of marching troops from either side. Or was it relief that with the Restoration of Charles II it was all over and best forgotten? An “enemy” had been defeated, but it was an enemy within and a brief flirtation with republicanism – the short-lived English Revolution which preceded those in America and France by a hundred years, had failed.
A literary critic, writing during the Franco era, dismissed George Orwell’s passionate account of the Spanish Civil War Homage to Catalonia with the comment that “the Spanish are a fine people” and it did not do to dwell on the past. That patronising comment made me cringe. Yet I think I am a little more able to understand than I was 18 months ago, why those in England, Wales and Scotland who lived through the horrors of brother killing brother and friend friend, wanted only to resume whatever remained for them of “normal” life. Why they kept their memories to themselves and did not pass them down the generations.
I came upon this pungent epithet in a book by Ruth Goodman on renaissance Britain. Roughly translates as “eat shit”! Many people know that popular swear words like “struth” originated in the more religious times of pre Reformation England when “shock factor” in swearing came from using sacred words to add colour and emphasis to speech. (“God’s truth”). That one evolved (or lingered?) in Australia. Anyone heard this being used elsewhere in the English-speaking world?
Parts of the body on the other hand – those parts which now are regularly used as insults were once used quite matter of factly, and were not considered “rude”, resulting in common place names like “Gropecunt Lane” in Cheapside, London. There was a wide variety of puns in use for body parts as well. Arse was the usual term for backside, which everyone knows today, but perhaps not “postern” as in postern gate (an entrance), stern (as in the back of a ship) or (my favourite for being totally obscure) caudel, which was a popular hot drink for pregnant women and invalids, because “cauda” is Latin for tail.
Sex acts naturally spawned (sorry) a wide range of jokey terms and euphemisms. “Riding St George” was an imaginative term for sex with the woman on top, while “milking” was sex-for-one.
I was surprised to learn that the term “bobtail” meant not only a horse with its tail docked but a loose woman. Gave a somewhat different meaning to the bedraggled and defeated army in Tawny Sash arriving at Basing House.
“The drums, silent for much of the night, started up again so that the tag, rag and bobtail crowd might march through Garrison Gate like soldiers.“
What the heck – I decided to leave it in. And “ladybird” apparently means the same as “bobtail”. Which the nurse calls Juliet… but of course everyone knows the nurse is not sweet and innocent. Makes me wonder though why a dear friend gave me a teacup covered in ladybirds.
He took a last mouthful of potage, wiped the worst of the mess off his spoon and replaced it in his purse.The Tawny Sash
I may have mentioned before the common misconception (born of Hollywood) that table manners were non existent during the times of the Tudors and the Stuarts. Wrong! Sitting down to eat with unwashed hands was an absolute no-no.
But it was only when I started researching the civilian aspects of 17th century life that I discovered cutlery was pretty much BYO. Only in the houses of the wealthy were you likely to find cutlery for your personal use (possibly silver) beside your trencher.
If you were incredibly lucky, you might have encountered knives with musical notes on the blade, known as notation knives. This would enable grace to be sung before and after the meal. The one in the possession of the Victoria and Albert museum was the inspiration for this scene from The Tawny Sash.
“Did you ever see the singing knives from Italy?”
“Nor will you, for they are gone. The first Marquess bought them. Fine silver knives, the blades engraved with musical parts, with Latin prayers. They are a part of the birth right of the present fifth Marquess. They have disappeared and who would take them but one of the Protestants in the garrison, for their private gain?”
You were unlikely to encounter forks except in the grand houses belonging to a handful of “early adoptors” – gentry who had seen them in France. Forks, for those who used them, were for pinning down your food while cutting it with your knife. Nobody at that time thought you should put the fork, if you had one, in your mouth!
The use of forks was similarly frowned on in the American colonies in the 1630s, but the gradual increase in their use, combined with the change in the shape of knife blades, led to different fork etiquette evolving on each side of the Atlantic during the 17th and 18th centuries. Americans cut food up and then switch the fork to their right hand, while Europeans “hang on to their knives” as an American character in a novel complained.
Knives and spoons, on the other hand were in universal use, but that did not mean they were necessarily provided by your host. Carrying your knife and spoon was like carrying your mobile phone today. Soldiers carried them on campaign. Civil war armies supplied their soldiers with snapsacks (a kind of kitbag) but no cutlery.
Roundhead soldiers screamed abuse at other men rifling through their handful of belongings, while their comrades tried to drag them away. Horn spoons, eating knives, odds and ends of match and ribbon, a cup, a wooden fife, a small soldiers’ bible and a tattered blanket, all strewn in the mud.
(The Tawny Sash)
In the Great Hall of a manor or castle, everyone ate together in the sense of under a single roof. What we now call share plates were the order of the day. People ate in “messes”, usually of four. The word “mess” has survived in this context for the military.
Everybody ate from their own plate, but if a bowl of soup or stew was brought to the table it was shared between the four people, who all ate from the same dish with their spoons. At the end of that course, hygiene consisted of wiping your spoon on a napkin before reusing it for the next course.
As to the idea that floors were covered in dirty rushes and dogs chewing bones, contemporary books of etiquette prohibit throwing bones on the floor (or spitting). Left overs from each person’s plate were placed in a “voider” which was removed, and the table cloth brushed, at the end of each course. Diners were to wipe their messy hands and mouth on their shoulder napkins, not on the tablecloth!
And after dinner and supper “the place to be swept and kept clean and sweet, with perfumes, flowers, herbs, and boughs in their season,” instructed the young Viscount Montague in his “book of orders and rules“, a last ditch attempt to make his sloppy household staff behave properly.
The Victorians have a lot to answer for. I love this famous 19th century painting by Yeames, with all its colourful, misleading detail. The bad guys are dressed in black with tall hats. The good guys (who are mainly damsels in distress) wear lace, velvet, satin. Unfortunately for the story, it is somewhat spoiled by the fact that King Charles I, the doomed commander of The Other Side also sometimes dressed in black.
Yes, Puritans wore clothes in dark, subdued colours, but so did many people, and the wealthy wore black as a sign of wealth. Black dyed cloth was very expensive. Hats with tall crowns were popular, whatever your political leanings.
But we shouldn’t let the truth get in the way of a good story. The Victorians were romantics and so the image of the ‘romantic’ cavalier, heroes dressed always in silks and satin, was born. Sadly this contrasted with the reality which on closer investigation was often plundering troops, drunken officers who turned a blind eye.
The king’s nephew, the handsome, brilliant cavalry commander Prince Rupert, paid so little attention to the niceties of how to treat civilians that he was nicknamed “Prince Robber”. Disorganised royalist supply chains partly explained the plundering; and a haphazard approach to medical care which often left the sick and wounded royalist soldier at the mercy of the goodness of the local populace. Parliament on the other hand set up some proper hospitals for their own forces.
He pushed past her to see two malignant soldiers… setting down a make shift stretcher on the floor of his parlour. On it lay an unconscious man, presumably an officer, ashen faced. His white shirt and pale blue breeches were soaked in blood. A young officer was bending over the stretcher … Seeing the minister he gave a stiff nod.
“Sir, I require you to allow our Captain to be tended here. He is gravely wounded. … I understand you are the minister for this village and I have judged your house the most proper place …”
(From The Welsh Linnet)
And returning to the vexed question of military attire – this is how cavalry on both sides dressed on the battlefield. And yes, it got very confusing at times.
A mass of Horse ahead, men fighting, dimly seen through smoke-drenched air. The din like a thousand tinkers mending pots that was the clash of swords, the steady beat of drums, screams from man and horse alike… an officer riding right at him, an enemy officer. But no, that could not be, for Will had seen the white paper in the man’s helmet, the token that declared him a king’s man. “Hold!” That had been his own voice. Flinging up his left hand and dropping the reins. “God with us” he had shouted, but the man struck with his sword.
(From The Tawny Sash)
And not a plumed hat in sight!
Erika Robuck’s sixth novel The Invisible Woman (PenguinRandomHouse 2021), is something of a departure from her previous works. Robuck is best known for “wife-of-famous-male-writer” plots, as the author herself describes it. Ernest Hemingway’s wife Pauline in Hemingway’s Girl (Berkley 2012) and Zelda Fitzgerald in Call me Zelda (Penguin Group USA 2013) are typical examples. In 2014, Robuck was named Annapolis’ Author of the Year.
In her latest novel, Robuck once more chooses a real-life story featuring an American woman of the 20th century, but this time the woman, Virginia Hall, World War II spy in occupied France, is the centre of the story. The man in her life, who she later married, is only introduced towards the end of the book. “Paul came late to the war and their story began after most of her work was complete,” Robuck says. “It felt like a breath of fresh air that she would meet him when she did.”
Robuck is constantly seeking “extraordinary people from the past who come from places familiar to me, or to whom I feel a personal connection”. Virginia hit the mark on both counts, growing up in Robuck’s home state of Maryland and being such an extraordinary woman that Robuck suggests she could launch a subgenre of “husband-of-famous-woman” books. Virginia was an unlikely choice for an undercover spy in a foreign country. Although, as her niece described her to Robuck she was “intimidating and scary-smart” she came with two great disadvantages – one was that despite being fluent in French she spoke it with a strong American accent. The second was that she had lost a leg below the knee following a hunting accident in her twenties. Her wooden prosthetic leg (nicknamed Cuthbert) gave her a pronounced limp. Once the Gestapo discovered her existence, they called her “The Limping Lady”.
Robuck overcame a number of challenges writing the book. First was the difficulty of writing it in the Covid year of 2020 which ruled out her travelling to the site of the events of the novel. Virginia Hall’s work covered in the story took place in France, while Robuck lives in the USA. For settings, she relied on Youtube, firsthand accounts, and her video treadmill that allowed her to “walk” and “hike” the paths Virginia traveled.
Fortunately, a great deal of material exists about this woman who was not only a much-decorated war heroine, but an early member of the CIA. Robuck researched her subject using periodicals, biographies, buried mentions in war memoirs, even Virginia’s declassified personal files at the National Archives to get the details of her missions. Some of the source material was written in French. She was thrilled at being granted access as a researcher to the museum at CIA Headquarters in McLean, Virginia. Among the exhibits are Virginia’s Distinguished Service Cross, one of her passports, and a wireless transceiver, tricks of the trade (including rat “letterboxes”), and a painting of Virginia Hall with one of her maquisards—“Les marguerites fleuriront ce soir” (the daisies will bloom at night).
Perhaps more important to Robuck’s research was Virginia’s niece Lorna in Baltimore who Robuck met with many times. Lorna coloured in the details behind the “black and white sketch” Robuck had built up, “with her photographs, artifacts, and remembrances of her ‘Aunt Dindy’.”
Next came the task of making this brilliant and forceful character, the ultimate strong woman, into a heroine that readers of a novel could sympathize with and wish to succeed. Robuck confesses that this was difficult. Multiple readers gave feedback that she needed to make Virginia more likeable. Even Virginia’s landing partner on her third mission did not think highly of her because of how she cut him off from the network. Several leaders of French resistance fighters had contentious relationships with her. The dangerous rivalries between groups reminiscent of Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia and the insubordination from male resistance leaders resentful of having a female commander imposed upon them, all contributed to Virginia as an unapproachable figure. It was Robuck’s editor, Amanda Bergeron, who suggested a solution to the problem might be giving the reader a look at young Virginia in a prologue. Robuck took her up on the idea, showing Virginia before the war and all its losses—not only before the amputation—and the early days of Virginia’s love affair with Paris.
The last major challenge was deciding on which parts of Virginia’s life to focus on. After training by the British she spent 13 months in France in 1941-42, working for the United Kingdom’s clandestine Special Operations Executive (SOE). She organized spy networks, ran safehouses, and delivered important intelligence to the British government – all while staying one step ahead of the Gestapo. After narrowly escaping from France, she returned in 1944 shortly before the D Day landings, this time working for the Americans.
It took two and a half years and four iterations of the novel, to find the story that needed to be told told, Robuck says. She began writing the book as a dual period novel including a female Iraq War veteran. The second version was a dual protagonist novel with another SOE agent, but Virginia “insisted this was all about her”. Robuck started the novel again, set during Hall’s first WWII mission to France, but decided that was all backstory. Finally, she wrote the novel as it is, set during Hall’s second WWII mission to France, overcoming the guilt and trauma of having survived the destruction by the Nazis of her first network, conquering her demons as she builds, arms and trains a new network. It was a painful exercise to chop all those pages, Robuck says, but the sacrifice has clearly been worthwhile.
About the contributor: AJ Lyndon is based in Melbourne. She writes fiction set in 17th century England during the English Civil War. Book 2 The Tawny Sash will be released in 2021. You can follow updates on her blog.
This feature by AJ Lyndon first appeared on the website of the
“Would Byron’s men haunt the Down in years to come, a restless and wild eyed horde charging into the guns of Waller’s army for evermore?”
(From The Welsh Linnet)
Visiting battle fields is a melancholy, but addictive, pursuit. At some places the air remains thick with the ghosts of the dead. I visited Culloden at the age of 11 with my parents and I still recall the shivers which ran down my spine as we inspected one weather-beaten clan memorial after another. In the days before the existence of a visitors’ centre, we were the only visitors on a summer’s day among a host of highland warrior war dead.
Since then (but sadly not in 2020) I have visited other battlefields, particularly those of the English Civil War. Thanks to Zoom (and a certain amount of very early rising due to the time difference between the UK and Australia) I am currently able to participate in Battlefields Trust and National Army Museum talks on everything from Boudica to my personal consuming passion, Basing House. The other Zoomees clutch glasses of wine, while I hold a mug of coffee and wear a sweatshirt hastily tugged on over my PJs. It is an unexpected, beneficial side effect of the Plague Year.
But writing historical fiction about battlefields is so much easier when you have climbed the hill to appreciate a particular vantage point. Despite being partly obscured by trees, the view from Edgehill’s 700 ft high ridge of where the fighting took place below gives wonderful perspective.
“From his position high on Edgehill, Rafe … could see empty fields stretching before him, far down below…
So distant they could have been pieces on a chessboard, Rafe saw the forces of the enemy streaming onto the fields below the ridge. As he watched, the antlike columns assumed the shapes of men and horses. Regiments were taking their places, the patterns changing as they moved from marching order into battle formation.”
In other places both view and landscape have remained the same. I was so haunted by the carpet of poppies on Roundway Down above Devizes, with its associations of the Great War overlaying those of the 1643 cavalry battle between the forces of King and Parliament, that the photo became my screensaver for many months.
“He shuddered at the thought his corpse might be left upon the Down to rot…until nothing remained of him but bones bleaching among the poppies.”
(From The Welsh Linnet)
As I discovered when I began writing historical fiction, and searching for “what really happened”, the location of a battle is not always clear. Those present at the battle were not generally concerned with pinpointing the location for future generations. “Facts” in their reports were obscured by clouds of gun smoke, their inability to see the entire battlefield from where they were fighting, and the desire to portray their own performance in the best possible light.
They would refer to “a little hill”, a wood, or rising ground. Sometimes archaeologists come to the rescue when a dig uncovers civil war ammunition. This may pinpoint where the action took place, and what types of soldiers were fighting. Musket balls mean infantry or dragoons, while pistol suggests cavalry. A complete lack of any pistol (or musket) balls suggests the battle took place in a different location. If they are lying thickly in the ground it is evidence of heavy fighting (but beware, it might also mean the baggage train, with its stores of ammunition, was waylaid at that point).
For a writer of fiction, a dispute is not necessarily a bad thing – it gives us more wiggle room. But it can be fantastic to get an indisputable feel and proof of how an event went horribly wrong. Walking the site of the battle of Cheriton (March 1644), I became lost in the maze of narrow lanes the Royalist cavalry had charged down. So narrow I could touch them with both hands, no wonder the cavalry were beaten for the first time in open battle.
“Bramdean Lane was so narrow that it scarcely permitted the passage of two horses side by side. The enemy would pick his men off as they filed into the open two by two like the animals into Noah’s ark…
Behind him, the riders were forming up in two files, their movements hampered by the confinement of the lane and the musketeers crouching in the hedges.
… Ahead were confused sounds of fighting from the unseen battlefield, the clash of sword play, gunfire, screams of man and beast mingling with the urgent beat of drums.”
(From forthcoming novel The Tawny Sash)
The best illustration for me was when visiting Chester in 2018. King Charles I was said to have “watched the battle” of Rowton Moor, which lay outside the city, from a tower on the city walls now known as “The King’s Tower”. My guide took me inside the tower where I inspected the view from the window. Then she drove me out to the site of the battle which, even today, remains well outside Chester’s suburbs. I tramped across the rising ground (now farmland) and agreed with her that even with a telescope (which did exist in 1644), It would have been totally impossible for the king to watch the battle. That particular battle is yet to feature in my writing, but watch this space…