Feeding the Imagination

Once upon a time there were no books. Stories were told by storytellers, mystic masters of words. Picture the scene – cold dark winter, firelight dancing on cave walls, families huddled together listening to tales of what might, or might not, have been. We are drawn to stories as moths are drawn to light because imagining better times, better outcomes, forges the steel of our spiritual armour.   

Being able to imagine is a precious gift, yet we live in an age where every fact must be tested, every system of knowledge grounded in scientific proof. No matter how much time and effort is exerted seeking for reason and proof, without the ability to imagine we cannot step beyond what we know. Einstein believed imagining was fundamental to his success – ‘the true sign of intelligence is not learning but imagination, logic will get you from A to B, imagination will take you everywhere’.

Thus, feeding the imagination is rather vital. Besides sparking creativity – essential for any art but particularly for the teller of stories – delving into things past is utterly addictive. Reading is fundamental to exploring any subject but, as Napoleon once said, ‘history is a set of lies agreed upon’, so I prefer eyewitness accounts then I can judge what happened for myself, rather than trust to the careless (and often biased) opinion of others.

While documents and books offer a provocative glimpse of what took place in the past (the why, when and where), they can only give a faded view, as if looking through a dim and dirty window. To view the past with some degree of authenticity I need to abandon book learning and explore the places where history took place.  To truly know how it feels to live in a castle, surely it’s best to visit a castle? Like a pilgrim visiting a shrine, being there feeds my spirit and fires my imagination. Surely tourism relies on the same fundamental need to ‘touch the stones’ and ‘feel the landscape’.

During a recent trip to Scotland, I took the opportunity to visit several extraordinary places. While each provided a unique insight into the past, only one was intrinsic to life in the sixteenth century (my latest book is set in 1560) and therefore intrinsic to my imaginings – Falkland Palace. I’m not about to give you a tour, but rather whet your appetite.

The reason Falkland Palace is on every Continental coach tour of Scotland, is entirely due to tennis. In the palace grounds are the ‘oldest tennis courts in the world‘. Built by King James V of Scotland they are still in use, almost daily, by addicts of the ‘real’ game. The palace itself is compact, if not homely (for a royal residence), and utterly iconic. Equally enigmatic is the town of Falkland – ancient and proud, and equally timeless.  

For further info check out the website: www.nts.org.uk/falklandpalace

Dunkeld Cathedral is set beside the river Tay. The ancient church was founded by Celtic monks who came from Iona to convert the Picts. It remains a place of sanctuary. One of the oldest continual sites of Christian worship in the British Isles, it’s surely the most untouched. The view across the river from it’s grounds is unspoiled as it is beautiful.

Visit https://www.historicenvironment.scot/visit-a-place/places/dunkeld-cathedral/

I was so intent on reaching Aberfeldy I almost missed Castle Menzies. It rises like a giant tombstone from the low, lush fields lining the upper valley of the Tay. Unassuming and raw, it’s walls exude history. One of many castles founded by the Menzies clan, it played host to Bonnie Prince Charles on the eve of the Battle of Culloden, and a few days later ‘Butcher’ Cumberland demanded bed and board (served, no doubt, by quaking servants).

The castle was abandoned in the 1930’s, but used during the Second World War by the Polish free army. After the war ended it came into the care of the local council and was in danger of becoming a ruin until Clan Menzies Society raised funds to renovate the fabric of the building. Besides holding their clan museum, there are artefacts from various periods of its history, but the real treasure is the wealth of original features, such as double-barred iron entry gates and tiny winding stairs carved within its walls.  

Visit – https://www.castlemenzies.org/

My final visit was to the Highland Folk museum. Promoted as the place ‘where outdoor history comes alive’ it first opened in 1935, in a place called Am Fasgadh (the shelter) on the Isle of Iona. The museum set out to preserve ‘crofter’s’ cottages but soon outgrew its location so, in 1943, the buildings were carefully dismantled and removed to Pitmain Lodge, Kingussie,, where they remain. The huddle of peat-suffused cottages brought back memories of my great aunt Mary, who lived her whole life in a crofter’s cottage on Alnwick Moor. The reconstituted highland village was recently used as a set for Outlander.  A core of dedicated volunteers (in costume) continues to preserve the traditions as well as the everyday lives of Highland folk. Buildings are constantly acquired, the most recent being a village post office and railway signal station, both born in the nineteenth century.

Visit – https://www.highlandfolk.com

Storytelling is simply the craft of weaving myths with life.

Invasion

I’ve always loved local history, or more specifically Border history. For hundreds of years, Carlisle guarded a wild and lawless borderland, and being I’m descended from several notorious ‘reiving clans’, exploring this tempestuous (and sometimes forbidden) era has become something of a passion.

During the Covid pandemic a friend acquired the contents of an old aircraft hangar packed with second-hand books and knowing my passion for history, let me rummage through the first crates as they arrived at his warehouse – ‘no charge lass, just tak’ whatever catches your eye’. Wading through dust, dirt and mould, the first book to ‘catch my eye’ was embossed with a gold lion crest – recognisably the ancient royal arms of Scotland. Its pages were thick as blotting paper and yellow with age so I was smitten even before I’d read the author’s introduction.

Published in 1928, David Johnstone Beattie spent over forty years researching his book, ‘Prince Charlie and the Borderland’. Beattie follows in the Jacobites footsteps, not merely visiting the houses and places they occupied, but recording tales held in memory of those who witnessed the invasion.

Plaque, now in Tullie House Museum

In 1745, Carlisle was still a walled city. Though refortified by King Henry VIII, its defences had fallen into disrepair since the Wars of the Three Kingdoms ended in 1653. The castle was commanded by a non-resident governor (Colonel Durand) who had at his disposal a force of eighty veterans (traditionally known as Invalids). Although keen to defend the city against invasion, facing eight thousand fully-armed and battle-hardened warriors who’d already seized Edinburgh and defeated the royal army at the Battle of Prestonpans, was patently suicide.

By early November, the streets were rife with rumour. Six weeks had passed since Prestonpans, yet when Lord Lonsdale, Lord-Lieutenant of Cumberland, wrote to the Duke of Newcastle, then Principal Secretary of State, begging for reinforcements, he was told Carlisle was not of consequence enough to put the Government to the expense of sending reinforcements! In effect the key to England was sacrificed to save an expenditure of £50 – times never seem to change!

Before the week was out, Dr Waugh (Chancellor of the Diocese of Carlisle), received this urgent missive from the Provost of Dumfries.

Dumfries, 5th November, 1745, 8 at Night:

This moment I have advice, by an express from Moffat, that a Quarter-master belonging to the Highlanders came there about one of the clock this day to secure quarters for 4,000 Foot and 600 horse, and the messr. says he saw them within half a mile of the town before he came away. We expect them or a part of them this way tomorrow. I beg you will dispatch expresses to Penrith, Kendall, Lancaster, and Whitehaven; and am most respectfully your most obedient servant.

Eden Bridge remains the only means of entering Carlisle from the north.

The Jacobite army reached the outskirts of Carlisle (Stanwix Bank) on the 9th of November 1745. To enter the city they needed to cross the river Eden which at this time was spanned by two bridges with a small island in between. Known locally as The Sands, it held the weekly cattle market, which happened to be in full sway that fatal afternoon. The ‘rebels’ lined up in full sight of the castle but the garrison daren’t fire a shot for fear of injuring the locals. It isn’t hard to imagine the panic which ensued.

Carlisle viewed from Stanwix Bank in late eighteenth century

Carlisle Castle, main gate, today.

In Beattie’s words – ‘Carlisle had been grossly and unpardonably neglected… so that a small city with a population of 4,000 men, women and children all told, surrounded by ruinous walls, and having its castle garrisoned by eighty ‘invalids’ (veteran soldiers, indeed, but long past their prime) and four gunners, was expected to stem the advance of a trained army of 8,000 to 10,000 men.’

The following letter, was published in the London Gazette:

Whitehall, November 15.

A Letter dated the 12 Instant, from Mr. Thomas Pattinson, Mayor of Carlisle, brings Advice, that on Saturday Night, the 9th Instant, that City was surrounded by about 9,000 Highlanders; that at Three O’clock that Afternoon, he the Mayor had received a message from them, to provide Billets for 13,000 Men, and to be ready that Night; which he refused. That the next Day, at Three in the afternoon, he received a Message in Writing from the person styling himself Prince Charles, and subscribed Charles P.R. in the following words:

Being come to recover the King our Father’s just Rights, for which we are arrived with all his Authority, we are sorry to find that you should prepare to obstruct our Passage: We therefore, to avoid the Effusion of English Blood, hereby require you to open your Gates, and let us enter, as we desire, in a peaceable Manner; which if you do, we shall take Care to preserve you from any Insult, and set an Example to all England of the Exactness with which we intend to fulfil the King our Father’s Declarations and our own: But if you shall refuse us Entrance, we are fully resolved to force it by such Means as Providence has put into our Hands, and then it will not perhaps be in our Power to prevent the dreadful Consequences which usually attend a Town’s being taken by Assault. Consider seriously of this, and let me have your answer within the Space of two Hours, for we we shall take further Delay as a peremptory Refusal and take our Measures accordingly.

November the 10th, 1745. Two in the Afternoon. For the Mayor of Carlisle.

According to Dr Waugh, the townspeople gathered in the Town Hall, to consider the prince’s demands. Towards evening, amongst much confusion, the Mayor together with Aldermen Graham and Davinson and Dr Douglas (a physician), came to demand the keys of the town in order to hand them over to Prince Charles as soon as terms of surrender could be arranged.

On the 15th November, the Duke of Perth entered the city and took possession. The terms of the capitulation were honourably fulfilled; there was no plunder, violence or licence taken by the Highlanders. Rather remarkably, by the close of the siege, only one man lost his life while attempting to spike a gun – thus his death was entirely accidental.

On the 16th November, a crowd gathered in Carlisle’s Market Square to witness an historic ceremony. Standing on the steps of the Cross the Duke of Perth proclaimed King James III, and the health of Prince Charles Edward Stuart was liberally drunk.

Carlisle Market Square – little changed since 1745.

Nowadays, other than a few faded plaques, there’s nothing to mark this chapter of the city’s history. So it was rather exciting to meet a band of Jacobites – members of Crann Tara – who’d come to commemorate the fallen on the very day I set out to take photographs.

Their passion is utterly inspiring, particularly since I’d begun to think I was alone in wanting to keep the events of 1745/6 from fading into obscurity. Crann Tara began their pilgrimage at the so-called Rebel Tree in the village of Clifton (the site of a battle/skirmish which I’m currently researching). There they laid a wreath of white roses under the boughs of an ancient oak tree. A jaded brass plaque records the history: Here lie buried the men of the army of Prince Charles who fell at Clifton Moor, 18th December 1745.

Along with other Jacobite associations, Crann Tara fought a planning application to build houses on the site – a battle which they lost – but the tree remains, albeit hidden within a modern housing estate. Three posts were erected to placate concerns that the site would be forgotten. Weathered and vandalised they are in sore need of restoration.

The men of Crann Tara were heading next to Gallows Hill, to commemorate Jacobite soldiers executed in Carlisle following their arrest (and subsequent trial) in 1746. I’d been told the Hilltop Hotel marked the former site of public execution but the remaining section of gallows field can only be reached via Tyne Street and even then, there’s a high fence denying access. Crann Tara however had permission from the landowner to gather in the field and pay homage to their fallen brothers. As their spokesman read out the names of every Jacobite who was executed, I swear I heard the dead whispering.

They’re hoping to erect a monument to commemorate the names of every Jacobite who was hung, drawn and quartered on Gallows Hill, except the site is apparently earmarked for construction. I trust, before work can begin, the council will request an archaeological survey, if only to settle the matter of where the dead are buried.

I’ve barely scratched the surface of these extraordinary events, but being the month of November marks the anniversary of the 1745 Jacobite invasion, it seems apt to reflect on the brave men who died in the cause of a naïve, and ultimately hopeless, dreamer.

Some suggestions for Further Reading

Memoirs of the Rebellion of 1745, by Chevalier Johnstone (an aide de camp in the Jacobite army)

Cumberland Heritage, by Molly Lefebure

James Maxwell and Prince Charles Expedition 1745-46, edited by Frances Wilkins

War Paths, Walking in the Shadow of the Clans, by Alistair Moffat

An Authentic Account of the Occupation of Carlisle in 1745, being the correspondence of Dr. John Waugh, edited by George Gill Mounsey in 1846

PAINTING THE SHADOWS

PART TWO

My passion for history is spurred by curiosity, the need to know why, what, when, where, but most particularly who. Sadly Miss Paine, head of history at my senior school, taught the past as a list of ‘critical’ dates – a catalogue of cause and effect devoid of colour or soul. So when it came to choosing topics for GCE’s I dropped history in favour of dressmaking (the school being exclusively for girls our choices were rather limited).

Writing has always been as vital as breathing but I never dreamed of becoming a professional writer despite winning a national competition for writing a short story. My ‘prize’ was presented by Sir Patrick Moore, a national icon at the time. Rainham school library was rewarded with a book token for £200 and a gilt-edged certificate (to display on the wall) while I got the chance to read my story on Radio 4 – which I did, scared witless. Winning the competition stirred ambitions of going to university to study English literature, but such thoughts were crushed when my parents refused to let me stay on for sixth form. ‘Best to learn a trade’ – the practical career choice for most girls at that time.    

So, aged sixteen, I left school to study ‘industrial design’ at Rochester College of Art. My skills as a ‘published’ writer led me to work on the college rag (it helped that I could touch-type). During one assignment I almost got arrested (a secret I’ve never told). I enjoyed reporting on student events, the bonus being I got free tickets to every in-house concert (acts included an upcoming band called Status Quo).

The art college originated in a building once owned by Charles Dickens but during the early seventies the campus moved to an ugly concrete pile which the local press nicknamed the ‘typewriter’. In 1974 the city council decided to convert the former building into a museum and asked our head of department for willing volunteers to catalogue the contents. Initially I was nominated not because Mr Aitken rated my abilities but rather because I was small. Someone was needed to crawl inside the attics which had laid untouched since Mr Dicken’s day. Clambouring through cavelike corridors was dusty work but fun. I already loved history but digging in boxes crammed with the great author’s clothes (and boots and hats and gloves) was totally addictive.    

Dicken’s loved brightly-coloured waistcoats

Unfortunately, the industrial design course was a failure, by the end of our first semester only five students remained out of twenty-five. However, Mr. Aitken’s guiding principle came to define my future career – our primary environment is ruled by our clothes. If you ever try running in a crinoline (or a chainmail vest) you’ll understand the connotations. What we do, who we are, how we are perceived, stems from what we wear. Recognising my passion for history, Mr Aitken found me a job at Berman’s and Nathan’s. Founded in the 1830’s, they were then the largest costumiers in the world, in fact when I arrived they were kitting out hundreds of soldiers for the battle of Waterloo, which was being filmed in Technicolor.

I was based in the women’s department under the thumb (and needle) of Maisie, who’d worked at Berman’s since ‘before the war’. We had a tiny workshop, with a large tabby cat who spent all day sleeping on a bespoke silk cushion, and two Spanish ‘convent’ girls who did all the hand sewing (employed through a rather dubious arrangement whereby they worked for board and lodgings provided they learned English). It was an astonishing place to work, but my wages didn’t cover the cost of travelling from Kent to Camden, so I couldn’t stay. However, I learned an important lesson – wearing a costume transforms the wearer, often in unexpected ways. In fact being a costumier is very like being a fairy-godmother. Turning a simple maid into a glittering princess might require magic, but Mr. Dickens understood the necessity of presenting the right image – he was one of Berman and Nathan’s best patrons.  

During the last two months I’ve been working on a new film which is being made in Carlisle. It’s almost twenty years since I last worked on a production, and it’s lovely to work with the dedicated team at Where Poppies Grow, not least because they want to establish a state-of-the- art film studios in the region so that local kids have the opportunity to learn about in the industry by taking part. Pendragon is set during the Great War, and is based on a true story. Obviously I’m helping with wardrobe but my grandson Reuben got his first taste of the industry – as a runner and an actor.

Reuben, in uniform, with Ronnie Papaleo (director) and Iain Monaghan (armourer)

PAINTING THE SHADOWS

PART ONE

The past is a ghost, an elusive, shifting vision of what might or might not have been. When I write I aim to paint the shadows, honing details which are lost and imagining what really happened.

History is crammed with mysteries. Much of what is known can’t actually be proved, only ‘assembled’ from examining what remains, rather like a detective collecting clues. Studying first-hand records helps piece together the facts with some semblance of truth, texts being the most readily accessible form of evidence – books, letters, diaries – contemporary to the time. They may provide a window to the past, but are rarely free of bias.

Sir William Paget ‘Knight of the most noble Order of the Garter, Comptroller of the King’s Majesty’s Household, one of His Highness’s Privy Council, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster; and his most benign factor and patron: William Patten most heartily wisheth felicity (?) kept a diary of his experiences during the English invasion of Scotland in 1547 – the Rough Wooing – providing an unusually honest account of his thoughts.    

Tuesday the 6^th of September.

All this while, at Thornton, our assault and their defence was stoutly continued: but well perceiving how on the one side they were battered, mined at the other, kept in with hackbutters round about, and some of our men within also occupying all the house under them, for they had likewise shopped up themselves in the highest of their house, and so to do nothing, inward or outward, neither by shooting of base (small cannon), whereof they had but one or two tumbling stones, the things of their chief annoyance, whereby they might be able any while to resist our power or save themselves; they plucked out a banner that afore they had set out in defiance, and put out over the walls, a white linen clout tied on a stick’s end, crying all, with one tune, for ‘Mercy!’ but having answer by the whole voice of their assailors, ‘They were traitors! It was too late!’ they plucked in their sticks, and sticked up the banner of defiance again, shot off, hurled stones, and did what else they could, with great courage on their side, and little hurt of ours.

Next Paget describes their surrender, and explains the reason the English jeered these stalwart defenders as traitors stemmed from the fact they were wearing RED doublets – blatantly English garb. After surrendering, they humbled themselves to the Provost Marshal and were basically dismissed with a warning. The following paragraph gives a unique insight into Paget’s thoughts.  

It is somewhat here to consider, I know not whether the destiny or hap of man’s life. The more worthy men, the less offenders, and more in the Judge’s grace, were slain; and the beggars, the obstinate rebels that deserved nought, but cruelty, were saved.

Black Bastle, Northumberland – ghost of border warfare.

To say on now. The house was soon after so blown with powder, that more than one half fell straight down to rubbish and dust, the rest stood, all to be shaken with rifts and chinks. Anderwick was burned, and all the houses of office (servants’ rooms), and stacks of corn about them both.

Seeing this event through Paget’s eyes, provides a window into his world. No witness is one hundred percent reliable, and it would be careless to ignore the fact they sometimes (rather too often) lie, but I find such sources utterly addictive. During research for my current book (The Game of Fools) I discovered a document betraying a secret deal between Calvinist rebels in France and leading English Protestants. This became the catalyst for my protagonist – Aalia – to abandon her plan to return home to India in favour of interfering in English subterfuge. French Huguenot records provide evidence their rebellion in March 1560 was secretly financed by England. The coup was a disaster, not least because the French king and his advisors had been forewarned of the attack. England washed it’s hands of any involvement, though Sir William Cecil had handed five thousand gold crowns to the Prince of Condé, the aristocrat who forged the rebellion.  It’s hardly a coincidence that the very same month these funds changed hands France was about to send reinforcements to Scotland (thus threatening England’s northern boundary) so whether the Calvinist’s coup succeeded or not, the threat of civil unrest prevented France from sending troops abroad.

However, Scottish Protestants had come begging England’s help to help rid them of the Auld Alliance. John Knox’s sermons had fired widespread support for reform, and the self-named ‘Lords of the Congregation’ sent an embassy to London to discuss a mutually advantageous treaty with their Protestant neighbour within months of Elizabeth’s ascension. Obviously having Scotland as an ally was in England’s best interest, except Elizabeth had been obliged to sign a peace treaty with France and Spain which specifically forbade war. If England was seen to break the treaty, the two most powerful nations in Europe had permit to intervene, therefore it was critical to make France appear the aggressor. Marching an English army across the northern border, even if invited, would spur outright war.

Armed for battle, Spanish style.

What was worse, England lacked the means to equip an army, because Elizabeth’s predecessor, Queen Mary, had allowed her husband, Philip of Spain, to strip every English armoury of its arsenal. When Sir William Cecil was appointed to office, one of his very first task’s was to take account of what remained and he was appalled to discover we lacked even the most basic equipment, such as helmets, powder and guns. So, in order to protect his faith, his queen and his country he turned to espionage. England survived by brokering underhand deals, buying time by financing rebellion.

From his first year in power, Cecil began to create a network of spies throughout Europe. His first intent was to delay the onset of war because England didn’t have a standing army. Since time immemorial, the country raised militia when and if the need arose. Spain and France mocked our ‘army of pitch-forks’ but the Wars of the Roses had left the Tudor dynasty wary of training (and paying) an army of ‘professional’ soldiers. Worse, Spain had placed an embargo forbidding every country under it’s thumb of supplying England with arms, particularly black powder, without which guns of any calibre are totally useless! Twenty years later, faced with the Spanish Armada, Cecil had repaired the flaw by ensuring his country possessed the necessary expertise to manufacture state of the art weapons and gun-powder, but as 1560 dawned, England was virtually unprotected if not incapable of defending its borders.

Cecil managed to deflect war with France by using ‘artful intelligence’, evidenced by the secret reports in the state archives. In the closing months of 1559 a cunning Englishman named Sir Thomas Gresham used his extensive network of merchant associates to spy on French and Spanish troop movements. With amazing audacity, he managed to retrieve the bulk of the armaments which King Philip had appropriated, under the noses of Spanish guards. In my latest book I’ve tried to give credit where credit is due – if not for Tom Gresham we’d likely be speaking French. 

Old books – just a few from my shelves.

Coaching Days

Ever wondered what is was like to travel by stage coach?

Here’s an extract from ‘Coaching Days and Coaching Ways’ by Herbert Railton, illustrated by Hugh Thomson. I bought the antique pocket-book from a stall at a boot fair last month, after being drawn to its gilded lettering. Its an absolute gem for any writer of historic fiction, because it gives wonderfully detailed accounts of the trials and tribulations of taking to the road before railways relieved the stresses and strains.

INSIDE – Crammed full of passengers – three fat fusty ugly old men – a young mother and sick child – a cross old maid – a poll parrot – a bag of red herrings – double barrelled gun (which you are afraid is loaded) – and a snarling lap dog in addition to yourself. Awake out of a sound nap with the cramp in one leg and the other in a lady’s bandbox – pay the damage (four shillings) for gallantry’s sake – getting out in the dark at the half-way house, in the hurry stepping into the return coach and finding yourself next morning in the very same spot you had started from the evening before – not a breath of air – asthmatic old woman and child with the measles – window closed in consequence – unpleasant smell – shoes filled with warm water – look up and find it’s the child –obliged to bear it – no appeal – shut your eyes and scold the dog – pretend sleep and pinch the child – mistake- pinch the dog and get bit. Execrate the child in return – black looks – no gentleman – pay the Coachman and drop a piece of gold in the straw – not to be found – fell through a crevice – Coachman says ‘He’ll find it.’ – Can’t – get out yourself – gone – picked up by the Ostler – no time for blowing up – Coach off for next stage – lose your money – get in – lose your seat – stuck in the middle – get laughed at – lose your temper – turn sulky – and turned over in a horse-pond.

OUTSIDE – Your eye out by the lash of a clumsy Coachman’s whip – hat blown off into a pond by a sudden gust of wind – seated between two apprehended murderers and a noted sheep-stealer in irons – who are being conveyed to goal – a drunken fellow half asleep falls off the coach and in attempting to save himself drags you along with him into the mud – musical guard, and driver horn mad – turned over. One leg under a bale of cotton – the other under the coach – hands in breeches pockets – head in a hamper of wine – lots of broken bottles versus broken heads. Cut and run – send for surgeon – wounds dressed – lotion and line four dollars – take post-chaise – get home – lay down – and laid up.

I wonder he ever chose to travel again!

The book begins with the first advertisement for a new means of travel – dubbed the ‘Flying Machine‘. The following announcement was made in London in 1670 – All those desirous to pass from London to Bath, or any other Place on their Road, let them repair to the Bell Savage on Ludgate Hill in London and the White Lion at Bath, at both which places they may be received in a Stage Coach every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which performs the whole journey in Three Days (if God permit) and sets forth at five in the morning.

‘Passengers to pay One Pound five Shillings each, who are allowed to carry fourteen Pounds Weight – for all above to pay three halfpence per Pound‘

How interesting to find luggage limits were strictly applied in the seventeenth century. Also the critical part played by inns. There are detailed illustrations of principle stopping places along the way, most of them hostelries or inns.

The book is divided into seven chapters, each covering a particular road – Bath, Exeter, Portsmouth, Brighton, Dover, York and Holyhead. I presume the writer saw no reason to venture further afield, in fact he seems loath to leave London.

Almost as soon as the Flying Machine began its regular run it was held up by a highwayman while crossing the wilds of Hounslow Heath. Claude Duval was the French page of the Duke of Richmond but decided to extend his fortunes using stealth and a blunderbuss. Caught, after selling his ‘takings’ to a Mr Swiveller at ‘The Hole in the Wall’ he was committed to Newgate, and executed at Tyburn on Friday, January 21st, in the 27th year of his age. ‘A sad instance of the irresistible influence of the stars and the fatality of climatical years: for Venus and Mars were in conjunction at the hero’s birth.‘

Duval was buried in the middle aisle of Covent Garden Church. It seems the fair sex formed the larger part of the crowd which attended. This is his epitaph:

Here lies Du Vall: Reader, if Male thou art,

Look to thy purse: if Female, to thy heart.

Much havoc has he made of both; for all

Men he made stand and Women he made fall.

The second Conqu’ror of the Norman Race

Knights to his arms did yield and Ladies to his Face.

Old Tyburn’s glory, England’s illustrious Thief,

Du Vall the Ladies Joy: Du Vall the Ladies Grief.

What a magnificent tribute for a man of dubious talents? Though I’d never heard of poor Duvall I feel he deserves further attention. Is he still remembered in Covent Garden?

While I’m not familiar with the road to Bath, my grandparents lived in Brighton, so I was particularly drawn to that chapter. Apparently, ‘before the Pavilion was, Brighton was about as easy to get to as Cranmere Pool in the middle of Dartmoor, the moon, the North Pole, the special exits in case of fire at our principal theatres, or anything else on earth totally inaccessable’.

In 1749, Horace Walpole cursed the curiosity which had tempted him to tour in a country in which he found ‘neither road, conveniences, inns, postillions, nor horses!‘ He found the inhabitants of Sussex impossibly savage – being of Saxon blood. After being chased off a field of turnips he had to resort to riding ‘a harlequin’s Calash’.

What is a harlequin’s Calesh? According to Railton it’s an occasional chaise or a baker’s cart.

The most direct route to Brighton was by way of Croydon, Merstham, Reigate, Crawley and Cuckfield – a distance of fifty-three miles exactly. The traveller is advised to book the regular service, which leaves the Angel, St. Clement’s, in the Strand at 9.30. Alternatively the True Blue (a safety coach) leaves the Blossoms Inn in Cheapside at 9.00 and does the journey in six hours, as does the Night Coach.

Whatever the journey the dangers remained – poorly matched horses, inept drivers and unmade roads.

Saddling the Imagination

• 

Exploring ruins – fuel for my imaginings.

I’ve always been compelled by history. Imagining the past helps me escape from everyday burdens. It’s always been that way, ever since I can remember. My safe haven is finding a book and curling up in another time and place. Always was. Always will be. But while books feed my love of history the addiction was nurtured by the landscape of my childhood.

Rather like Merlin I was gifted with a means of travelling backwards through time. Though I grew up amongst the bustle and throng of south-east England my mother is a native of Northumberland and like swallows we’d fly north every summer to the wild lands ‘north of the wall’, to a place firmly locked in the past.

Northumberland was my stepping stone into another world. Staying with nanna was like snuggling into a warm cosy blanket and the fact she didn’t have hot-running water or an indoor toilet made the adventure seem even greater. There was never any sense she was poor, nevermind deprived, she just lived in a different world, untouched by the twentieth century.  

• 

Mum and me, outside my great grandparent’s cottage.

Nanna was a miner’s wife and the village where she lived had sprung up around the pit. It was a tight-knit community where everyone knew your name, so much so it always felt like we were coming home rather than just visiting. We fitted in, unlike the south, where we were always strangers. I don’t remember grandda’ but his presence filled every room, as though he might return at any moment. Nanna never forgave him for leaving her alone. I realize now what I didn’t know before, that she clung to his memory because she loved him more than life.

• 

Our flat near Clapham Common is now an upmarket district of London.

Living in a first-floor flat in London meant we couldn’t have a pet but nanna had a dog. Prince was half Alsatian and half wolf, or so we were always told. Though he never harmed a human he liked to pick a fight with every dog in the village. The only time I ever heard nanna raise her voice was to yell at Prince as she dragged him home by his collar. Then she’d bathe his wounds. She had big hands, like a man’s, but her touch was gentle as an angel’s.

• 

Prince, enjoying the beach.

I think I was ten when the mine-workings were dismantled. The pit-wheel disappeared but the scars of industry remained, framed by gentle hills and an endless stretch of beach which we thought of as our private playground. Back then we were often the only visitors enjoying the rolling sand-dunes of Hadstone. We’d walk from the village along an abandoned rail track and spend the day climbing amongst the rock-pools, digging for crabs and lobsters and winkles. We didn’t know the rocks were actually a petrified forest or the beach a ‘site of outstanding natural beauty’. Since the bay came into the hands of the National Trust it has been renamed. They’ve built a visitor centre and a car park and charge a fee to enter and our once empty beach is like Margate on a summer’s day.  

• 

Druridge Bay, 1963, when the only visitors were me and my family.

Also within a hand’s throw of nanna’s cottage was a ruined water-mill. There, in the sand-bottomed mill-pool, my sister and I learned to swim. Sliding down the moss-lined dam gave us better thrills than any mechanized theme-park. The mill had once belonged to the monks of Lindisfarne and I felt the holy men ‘tutting’ as we skinny-dipped down the falls.

• 

The weir at Morwick Mill remains unchanged.

A huge ochre-stone castle stands barely a mile up-river. Warkworth’s vacant tower crowned our farthest horizon. When he was home ‘on-leave’ from the navy, mum’s baby brother uncle John, would tease us with tales of the Percy’s who once ruled this county like gods. If you look carefully, he promised, you might see the ghost of Harry Hotspur riding home from battle. He also told us that Coquet Island, which can be clearly seen from the castle ramparts, was infested with ruthless pirates. What better lair for a band of privateers? We never questioned why they’d think to raid coal-boats going to and from Amble.

• 

Pirates on the eastern bow.

Uncle John also told us that our ancestors once smuggled whisky from Scotland to England. Like most of his tales it bears an element of truth. Nanna’s father came from the village of Ford, a tiny hamlet which lies very close to the Scottish border. During the eighteenth century the government raised the tax on alcohol so many illicit stills across the border increased production (which is why Robbie Burns found good employment as an officer of the revenue). But however much I discover of the truth, history will always be a cocktail of myth and reality. Where living in London meant being cooped up indoors Northumberland represented freedom and the stones of its landscape formed the foundations of my imaginings and writing is the counterbalance of my sanity, as necessary as breathing. 

The Great Pestilence

We are programmed to fear disease. We shall endure this crisis but it will, of necessity, forge change. The dread of living through a pandemic is written in our genes. We are told, as children, about the terrors of the Great Plague, but it was the Black Death which desolated our country and caused the most radical changes to our culture.

It was always believed the ‘Great Pestilence’ of 1347 started in China. By 1346 it had migrated from beyond Tashkent in central Asia to the Black Sea, where it broke out amongst the Tatars fighting Italian merchants in the Crimea. A chronicler tells how the Christians took refuge in the citadel at Kaffa, where they were besieged. Plague forced the Tatars to raise the siege but before withdrawing they invented biological warfare by catapulting corpses of plague victims over the citadel walls. This caused the disease to spread among the Christians and as they fled home the disease travelled with them, breaking out in Messina and Genoa before raging through the rest of Europe.

In the first days of October 1347, twelve Genoese galleys fleeing before the wrath of our Lord over their wicked deeds, entered the port of Messina. The sailors brought in their bones a disease so violent that whoever spoke a word to them was infected and could in no way save himself from death… Those to whom the disease was transmitted by infection of the breath were stricken with pains all over the body and felt terrible lassitude. There then appeared, on a thigh or an arm, a pustule like a lentil. From this the infection penetrated the body and violent bloody vomiting began. It lasted a period of three days and there was no way of preventing its ending in death. Fra Michele di Piazze.

Vanity and Salvation by Hans Memling

Within a couple of years, plague had killed around a quarter of Europe’s population – the largest number of fatalities caused by a single epidemic in the history of the world. It provoked an economic crisis as thousands of villages were abandoned, depriving landlords of peasant workers. Starvation followed. As the world descended into a crucible of pestilence a whole new genre emerged – Gothic symbols of skulls and crossbones, the danse macabre, the grim reaper and the horsemen of the Apocalypse have become synonymous with medieval art but they first emerged during the great pestilence.

In the Decameron Boccaccio (1315-75) gave a graphic account of the plague, related through tales of young men and women who were fleeing the city of Florence to escape – ‘flee early, flee far, return late’.

The Garden of Earthly Delights, attributed to Hieronymus Bosch

It was always perceived that the disease was virulent, that ‘just as a fire catches anything dry or oily near it’ the sick communicated it to the healthy. As society descended into chaos one survivor wrote:

Father abandoned child, wife husband, one brother another… none could be found to bury the dead for money or friendship… I, Agnolo di Tura, buried my five children with my own hands.

While the disease was almost certainly transmitted by rats to humans via fleas many medieval chroniclers suggested it was more often spread by close human contact. But contemporary Asian accounts don’t match this European experience, which seems to indicate bubonic plague had evolved to be spread by droplet infection, thus escalating its efficiency.

Certainly there was no cure. Though medics sought to protect themselves with long leather gowns, gauntlets and masks with snouts stuffed with aromatic herbs, they relied on the assumption that plague involved ‘atmospheric putrefaction’. In 1401 a Florentine doctor called Lapo Mazzei suggested, ‘it would help to drink a full half-glass of good red wine, neither too dry nor too sweet.’ That certainly works for me.

A Man holding a Glass by David Teniers the Younger,
The National Gallery, London

The most widely accepted cause was that God has sent a plague to punish mankind for its sins. Flagellant bands of ‘sinners’ trudged through town and country, whipping each other and physically beating anyone whose beliefs didn’t correspond with their own. It didn’t take long before this form of mob judgment fell onto the Jews. Throughout Europe they were accused of poisoning wells and wholesale massacres ensued.

Neither had physicians any power to affect common-sense. Health boards consisted of nobles and created officials who were driven by self-interest rather than public needs. In larger cities committees appointed to co-ordinate public health measures gradually established systems of exclusion, banning persons or goods from entering the city. In 1377 Ragusa (Dubrovnik) instituted a regular 30-day isolation period on a nearby island for all arriving from plague-ridden areas. In 1397 this was increased to 40, thus we gain the word quarantenaria – meaning forty days of isolation.

As the countryside lay in waste due to the dearth of ‘peasant‘ labourers, an independent class of merchant adventurers emerged. England rose from the ashes as a nation of sharp-fisted traders with the capacity to roam. But that’s another story.

Plague

We are confined by ancient boundaries

As a nation we are bonded by nature, climate, language and culture. Our common heritage is forged by means of commerce, art, religion and politics but history pervades our identity, and if there’s one sure lesson we take from the past its an absolute fear of plague. Pandemics have shaped our nation just as surely as wars.   

Whitehall, London

On June 7^th, 1665, Samuel Pepys noted in his diary that a number of houses in Drury Lane had been marked with red crosses and the words ‘Lord have mercy upon us’. ‘It put me in an ill conception of myself,’ he wrote, ‘so that I was forced to buy some tobacco to smell and chew – which took away the apprehension.’

The plague had come to London and Pepys hastened to buy tobacco in the belief it offered an effective protection against the dreaded disease. By the time the Great Plague had run its course at least 70,000 people had perished in London alone. The epidemic spread swiftly and soon carried from London to other cities. In September 1665 Edward Cooper, a tailor in the Derbyshire village of Eyam, took delivery of a box of old clothes and patterns. Within two days the servant who unpacked the box was taken ill; four days later he was dead. Cooper died a fortnight later. Before the end of the month there had been 26 deaths in the village. By the time the ordeal ended, in October 1666, only 83 of Eyam’s 350 residents were alive. The rest had fallen victim to the plague.

Boundary Stone, Eyam

This appalling death-toll was due to an extraordinary proposal by Eyam’s vicar, William Pompesson. He managed to persuade his fellow villagers to take a heroic decision. He knew that if the people of Eyam fled they would carry the infection to others so he urged them to act as true Christians and remain in quarantine inside the village.

A boundary line of stakes was marked around the village. Within its limits the villagers settled to meet their fate, surviving on food left at the boundary by folks from neighbouring villages. By mid-summer only one man was strong enough to dig graves for the victims and as reward he was able to claim the possessions of those he buried. Yet only one person attempted to escape the rule of isolation.

Knowledge of disease was very primitive in seventeenth century England but by confining the outbreak of infection Pompesson prevented the plague from devastating neighbouring communities. In an age when human health was explained by the four ‘humours’ –sanguine, phlegmatic, choleric and melancholic – Eyam defined a new means of tackling disease. In Derbyshire the village became synonymous with self-sacrifice and its inhabitants hailed as heroes.

For further information go to https://www.eyam-museum.org.uk

Detecting the Past

Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

I’ve always loved history. To me the past is like a giant jigsaw crazed with missing pieces which I feel compelled to find. However, despite trawling through countless records and digging in archives, it’s often a case of having to admit that the piece has been lost to time. Except I’m addicted to solving mysteries, that’s what draws me to the past.

At this point I should make it absolutely clear I’m not an historian. Although I love history I lack the focus and discipline to be an academic. When there’s a hole in my knowledge I rely on instinct to fill in the details. Which is the reason I write stories. The need to find answers, even when the truth is clothed in myths and lies. Or rather, because it’s cloaked in myths and lies. History blazing with colour, not boring black and white.

It’s only recently, through liaising with crime-writing friends, I discovered historians are very like detectives. Both have to consider every piece of evidence in order to reconstruct what actually took place. Using this analogy during my research proved a revelation.  First-hand sources are just like eye-witness accounts, both are written after the event and flawed with discrepancies. Historians base their research on ‘primary’ materials which are habitually contradictory but treating the past as a crime-scene gave me a fresh perspective.

Just as a detective always goes to the scene of the crime so must a writer of historic fiction. Obviously in my case any evidence has long since disappeared but visiting a particular location gives a unique experience of place, even if the site has been damaged by time and tide. For years I believed Mary Queen of Scots watched the Battle of Langside from a nearby hill – but when I visited that hill it proved too far away, and too low, to allow her such a view, even when seated on a horse.

• 

Cathcart Castle, traditionally the place where Mary watched the Battle of Langside

But the most enlightening aspect of treating the past as a crime-scene came when I turned to seeking motives. The past is always out of reach but motives haven’t changed – greed, lust, envy, pride and vanity. Considering who gained what and why proved a revelation.  

For example, on the very same day Mary Queen of Scots escaped from forced banishment on the fortress isle of Lochleven, her half-brother James, Earl of Moray, was delivering her precious jewels to the highest bidder – who just happened to be Queen Elizabeth I. The Medici pearls were priceless and now they belonged to a woman who coveted them so much they feature in every subsequent portrait. Not merely did this leave Mary penniless it gave her half-brother and Elizabeth very strong motives for keeping her out of Scotland.

Queen Elizabeth adorned in Medici pearls

Also, on 8^th December 1567, while Mary was cooped up in Lochleven Castle, she celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday. Another critical motive. A long royal minority was traditionally used by the Scots aristocracy as a time for self-aggrandizement. When Mary reached twenty-five years of age she had the right, under Scottish law, to demand the return of any wardships and property which had been commandeered during her minority. Mary couldn’t be permitted to win back her throne or half the Scots nobility would be made penniless. Much better to retain a ‘bairn’ as the kingdom’s legitimate monarch and take advantage of another twenty-five years of minority rule. So it seems the poor girl was doomed from the day she returned to her homeland.

Fixed price for cash and no returns

To many the name Tiffany is synonymous with the showiest means of displaying wealth – Diamonds. Founded in 1837 Tiffany, Young and Ellis went from strength to strength by catering to the tastes of New York nobility. The new captains of industry (and their wives and daughters) wanted to flaunt their success.

By the time Truman Capote wrote his novella ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ the company’s reputation was beyond question. The business had been founded on the promise – Fixed Price & No Returns. Capote wrote the part of Holly Golightly for Marilyn Monroe – whose sultry rendition of ‘Diamonds are a girl’s best friend’ seemed to epitomise his muse. But Miss Monroe refused the role in the 1961 screen-play and, against the author’s wishes, Audrey Hepburn was cast. But I wonder if the author realised how much Tiffany’s road to riches reflected the rise of Miss Golightly?

Roll back the clock to mid 1800s France. Think Les Miserables. Of a country torn by turmoil following the fall of Louis Philippe. Even those canny citizens who’d survived the First Revolution were suddenly made destitute. Into this chaos came John Young and Thomas Banks with a remit to purchase fancy goods for Tiffany and Co. They were hoping to make a deal for exclusive rights to ‘French-paste’ (a form of crystal glass cut to imitate diamonds), an essential requisite for their company’s range of fashionable and affordable jewellery. While the metalwork could be manufactured in their New York workshops ‘imitation’ diamonds could only be sourced in Paris.

Young and Banks were determined. In pursuing their business they were arrested on a number of occasions but still managed to collaborate with Royalist supporters desperate to sell their jewels – as long as they were paid in cash. When the two men returned to New York they’d managed to purchase a generous slice of the French Crown Jewels. Although details of the acquisition have always remained uncertain it was known that a number of important jewels were missing after the mob surged through the Tuilleries Palace.

Whatever the truth Tiffany’s learned a lesson. When the Second Empire collapsed in 1870 the royal collection had been restored to its former glory. But Empress Eugenie was determined it wasn’t left behind when she fled the country. Sensing trouble she had most of her jewels crated and dispatched to the port of Brest, ready to ship to London, but a number of crates had to be left behind and these were eventually claimed by the new French government and returned to Paris. After long and careful deliberation they decided to sell the bulk of the collection in 1887, in a sale held in the Hall of State, in Paris. Tiffany’s practically swept the board, buying all the most important pieces.

The 1880’s and 1890’s were the heyday of American society and the new millionaires of industry and commerce displayed their wealth with the kind of opulence which had formally been reserved for royalty. Tiffany’s reputation soared by catering to the new elite and diamonds ransacked from the royal treasury soon adorned the wives of New World millionaires. Although the purchase was dubious the American Press loved the story and the resulting publicity secured Tiffany’s position as America’s foremost jewellery store.

When the new Metropolitan Opera House opened in New York in 1883 the first tier was quickly dubbed the ‘diamond horseshoe’ because the diamond jewellery worn by its patrons outshone the house lights. Buying the French Crown Jewels gave Charles Tiffany the opportunity to transform his Lower Manhattan store into a ‘palace of  jewels’ (according to The New York Times).