Rule 3 of Writing Historical Novels -- DO Sweat the Small Stuff

Your historical fiction depends upon your ability to use historical detail. This is a different world for your reader. You have to supply the images and they have to be the right ones for this world.

What is the street like? Does it smell of horse shit? Of smog from the factories and chimneys? What kind of wagons or other conveyances are there? What is the noise? Street vendors crying their wares? Horses? The clatter of armor or harness? Plate armor? Maille? What did the clothes look like? What was the lighting?

Don't recycle information from old, and often totally inaccurate, movies and novels.

If you are going to write about people living in 1200 England, you need to know how people lived there. How is that woman in the home you're writing about making yarn for clothes? She did make her own. Don't assume she used a spinning wheel. They weren't used yet. So how did she do it?

What kind of horses did people ride? Knights didn't ride a destrier down the street, by the way. That would be very much like driving a Sherman tank to the grocery store for a gallon of milk. What was a palfrey? A courser? When were the different horses used? How were they different? You're writing about a sailor in the early twentieth century. What was life like on a British merchant ship? What did they eat? What were the uniforms? Could a sailor work his way up to become a ship's officer? If so, how?

It's easier to track down someone who knows about a distaff and spindle or medieval horses or how one worked their way up from below the deck than it is to track the answer to every question on the internet, especially since the internet is often inaccurate.

Google for non-fiction books on topics you want to learn about. Wikipedia is often a good source of lists of non-fiction books used as sources--a much more useful way to use it than assuming its articles are accurate. Compare comments about different authors to see which seem to be widely considered accurate. Often an email or a call to these authors will yield a world of information. Of course, calls to museums can also be a possibility, but often finding someone there who is an expert on what you need information about is not that easy.

For one novel, I needed to know how long it would take to spin enough yarn to weave cloth to actually make clothing in a 12th century household. This took some tracking down. A forum for hobbyists yielded a list of books. A call to an author eventually gave me the information I needed.

It is the small stuff that gives your novel the feel of authenticity. You have to know a hundred times more about the world you write about than goes in the novel. Believe me, if you don't, the reader can tell.

Rule 2 of Historical Fiction: Don't Pass Judgment on Your Characters

We live in a different age than most of our characters. Judging or condemning someone because of their gender, their sexual orientation, their religion, or their color is wrong in our time.

Our characters lived in a different time. Don't judge them for that and do not force them to think the way we do.

13th Century women or even most 19th century women were not feminists. They were not allowed to do what we do; they did not expect to be able to; they did not have to power to do so. Young women did not defy their parents to chose their own spouse. That doesn't mean they weren't strong people. They were as often strong as modern women, and they often did brave things--within the context of their own time. Agnes of Dunbar held her husband's castle of Dunbar against a huge English army--but she did not inherit her father's estate or title and did not expect to.

We have to allow these women to live within the standards of their own time, and if we force them to act like modern women we lose what they were.

Medieval Europeans with very, very few exceptions were Catholic. If you're not, that's fine. But your characters were if you write about that time, and you have to respect that. When one of my characters witnessed horrific acts, it was suggested that I have him question the existence of God. But this is how a modern person might react, not a medieval one.

They were not accepting of people who were Jewish or Islamic. (The people who were Islamic weren't accepting of Christians either, to avoid demonizing one side or the other) Why pretend it was otherwise? Showing the age as it was does not mean we share those beliefs. You have to be able to see the story from your character's perspective, even if you sometimes don't like that perspective.

They didn't always show mercy in war. Sometimes prisoners were executed. If you try to gloss over this, it doesn't add to the story. It takes away from it.

We should be brave enough to write them as they were rather than as they would be today. It spoils the verisimilitude of our novels and makes them anachronistic. In fact, it may date your book. Novels that did that in the 19th century now look dated. They wouldn't if the author had presented the characters and the period as they really were.

My own novel, Freedom's Sword, is based on the life of a true character, Scotland's Andrew de Moray. You can find the it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.

The Quest for Welsh Independence

Today, I'm happy to have a guest post by Sarah Woodbury, author of historical fiction and fantasy novels. She's posting on the quest for Welsh independence.

Welcome, Sarah:

When the Romans conquered Britain, the people they defeated were the Britons, the ancestors of the Welsh, a Celtic people who themselves had come to the island hundreds of years before. After the Romans marched away in 410 AD, the Saxon invaders overwhelmed the British in successive waves, pushing them west and resulting in a Saxon England and British Wales. When the next conquerors—the Normans—came in 1066 AD, they conquered England but they didn’t manage to conquer Wales. Not yet.

For the next two hundred years, power in Wales ebbed and flowed, split among Welsh kings and princes, Marcher barons (Norman lords who carved out mini-kingdoms for themselves on the border between England and Wales), and the English kings.

Through it all, the Welsh maintained their right to independence—to be governed by their own laws and their own kings.

The ending came on December 11th, 1282, when Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the last Prince of Wales, was killed on a snowy hillside, the end of a thirty year conflict with Edward I, King of England. Less than a year later, his brother, Dafydd ap Gruffydd, was hung, drawn, and quartered and dragged through he streets of Shrewsbury, the first man of standing to die that particular death—practice for the murder of Scot patriot William Wallace in similar fashion twenty years later (along with hundreds of other Scots, including three brothers of Robert the Bruce).

In further retribution, Edward took all the signs of the Welsh principality—the true cross, the scepter, the crown—for himself. And he made sure that his son, Edward II, was born at Caernarfon Castle (in 1284), so that Edward could name him the Prince of Wales. The heir to throne of England has been called the Prince of Wales ever since.

It has been 728 years since 1282. Is that too long a time to remember? A 2007 BBC poll reported that 20% of the people of Wales backed independence, while 70% did not; this is in comparison to Scotland, where 32% of the population supported independence from England.

This brutal history prompted me to write, Footsteps in Time and its sequel, Prince of Time, which follow the adventures of two teenagers who travel back in time to the thirteenth century and save Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s life. In my books, the Welsh people maintain their independence and never succumb to Edward I, nor fall under the heel of the English boot.

For more information, please go to My web page and blog on Dark Age and Medieval Wales
To find My novels at Amazon ...at Barnes and Noble ...and Smashwords. The novels are also available at Sony, Apple, and Diesel.

Sez J. R.: Thanks, Sarah.

Let me mention that a few days ago the Welsh did vote for greater powers for their devolved government which is separate from that of Westminster. Just as in Scotland, there is a constant and growing demand for independence in Wales.

An Epigram and The Corries

For this new novel (you might want to see the first chapter in my previous post) I want to include as an epigram the first few lines of a song that many Scots consider their national anthem, Flower of Scotland. Naturally, I contacted the copyright holder, The Corries, in order to ask permission. The author, the great Roy Williamson, died tragically early of cancer. I have exchanged emails with Ronny Browne's son. Mr. Browne is the other member of this Scottish folk music duo.

For some reason someone has been hijacking emails between the US and Scotland. (That's a joke. They've just been going mysteriously astray) so I haven't quite managed to receive an answer on this topic. I hope Mr. Browne gives his permission, but only time will tell.

I might mention that I am a very long-time fan of The Corries so I thought I'd post a link to one of their songs on Youtube and hope Ronny Browne doesn't mind. I will also post a link to the website for The Corries where you can purchase most of their music. It is some of the best folk-style music ever done, in my opinion.

Here are The Corries singing Robbie Burn's Ae Fond Kiss. This happens to be my favorite version of this classic Burns piece. You can find information on The Corries and their music HERE.

There are always complications in finishing a novel. This is one of them.

All right. One more because I can't resist sharing. The Corries singing Leezie Lindsay.

Hope you enjoy and go buy some of their music.

Sample Sunday -- Chapter One of Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER ONE

April 1296

"Just beyond the peak, my lord." The outrider's voice was dulled by weariness. Under a clear afternoon sky, the man pointed up a beech-covered knoll.

Andrew de Moray could already make out the rumble of a moving army. He reined in his charger and jumped from the saddle. When he took off his helm to tuck under his arm, sweat dripped from his blond hair. He tossed his head to flick it out of his eyes. His father motioned for the knights in their party, a score in all, to wait as he dismounted. A faint spring wind blew. Over their heads flapped the de Moray banner, six-pointed stars on a field of blue.

With his father, he climbed the knoll and from within the dappled shade of a beech at the crest, he frowned down on the English host. A dark river of mounted men flowed through the middle of the glen below. On and on they flowed, too far for detail, but moving inexorably, columns of heavy horse, light flashing from steel like ripples of waves. There were brief breaks in the procession but only between divisions, and yet another followed.

His father's master-at-arms, newly hired from the war in France, had been instructing him on how best to count the numbers of a foe. "Twenty divisions, my lord," Andrew said. A chill went through him. It was excitement. Of course. A thrill for his first battle. He braced his shaking hand against a rough tree trunk. "Two hundred to a division, I think, so four thousand, all mounted." He looked at his father whose blond hair, streaked with gray, blew around his face in the sweet breeze.

His lord father squinted into the distance. "More than that. Not all have cleared the bend." He pointed towards a black-and-gold checkered banner. "That looks to me like John de Warrenne is leading them. All mounted, as you say, lances with swords and battleaxes for close work."

"Where do you think the English king is then?" Fighting that dreadful old man who had slaughtered all the people in the city of Berwick would be a proud thing for any Scot, surely, and nothing to fear.

"Who knows? But he isn't here and for that we'd best be grateful." The lord of Avoch shook his head. "I make it to be five thousand." Wagons straggled into sight behind the army.

"We can defeat them though. We have four thousand--almost as many." Though a few of the Scots were chivalry on barded destriers, most were men-at-arms on light, unarmored mounts, a fact that he chewed on as he watched the tide of English might flow through the glen before him.

"I've seen enough." His father turned, cloak whirling over his blue tabard with a triangle of stars across the chest, to hurry down the slope. "We'll need to find a position to block them from reaching Castle Dunbar. I'm thinking Spottsmuir..."

A wet wind smelling of pine and fir and moss saw Andrew and his father's tail of knights back to their camp and the awaiting king. Pale mist twisted around the trees as they rode towards the welcoming fires strewn in a wide swath across a long valley. The thousands of fires made a second wavering haze within the entwining fog. Andrew's father had kept a morose silence all the way back and ignored his questioning looks. A stone knocked loose by the hoof of Andrew's horse rattled its way down the slope, and his father started in his saddle as though coming back from far thoughts.

They descended, their silence broken by the clop of horses' hooves and the clank of their armor. Outlined by the westering sun, a peregrine falcon swooped down upon a fleeing lark.

The Scottish camp sprawled for miles. They rode past hundreds of tents and cook fires where dusk turned the banners an anonymous gray. Midges swarmed around them and he scratched a stinging bite on his neck. The scent of meat roasting mixed with the smell of smoke, so tempting his mouth watered.

They passed a pavilion where John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan, had set up his camp. From there, voices rose in a bawdy song and loud laughter. Andrew was willing to wager none of the laughter was from the Comyn. The king seemed not to move or speak without the Comyn's solemn say-so.

Next to the king's white pavilion, the great gold-and-crimson lion banner of the king of the Scots waved overhead from a towering staff. The Comyn, a tall man with brown hair and beard heavily salted with white and a long, elegant face, paced under it. His had been an angry voice in that fierce dispute over who was the new king after King Alexander of Scotland died with no son. Andrew's father still cursed the day they'd thought to ask Edward of England to judge between the contenders for the throne of Scotland.

"The outriders spoke true," his father said. Andrew pushed the flap of the pavilion aside for the two men and followed them in. The king's servants had softened the ground with rushes mixed with rosemary to sweeten the dusty air.

King John de Baliol, tall and broad shouldered with brown hair that curled to his shoulders, sat with a greyhound at his feet. His red tunic and hose went ill against his sun-darkened skin. The king nodded to each of the two lords as they entered and smiled at Andrew.

Andrew's father gave a deep bow, but John Comyn's was brusque. "They found the English," he said.

The king raised a silver cup to his lips and drank before he spoke. "How many?"

His father's face was bland. "Five thousand chivalry under Warrenne's banner. They're a two day's march from Dunbar at best."

"God be praised." The king smiled his mild smile. "That gives our army time to move into position."

"I saw no sign of English outriders, but surely de Warrenne must know we'll try to cut them off."

John Comyn frowned even more deeply. "Whether they do or no, Castle Dunbar is the key to Scotland. They must have it and we must stop them."

Andrew's father cleared his throat. "We can cut them off at the water of the Spottsmuir. The burn will force them to that route."

"True enough," Comyn said. "I yet have time to lead our army into position. And I will do so."

Andrew's mouth popped open and he shut it with a snap.

His father stared at the earl. "You, my Lord? What of the king?"

King John raised a hand. "I discussed this matter earlier with Lord Buchan. We agreed. He will lead the main part of the army whilst I ride hard with a smaller force for Stirling Castle."

Deep brackets formed around his father's mouth. "My liege, the army will be disheartened..."

"Nonsense." Comyn's thin nostrils flared. "I will lead the battle and my men will follow me gladly. It had best be the same with yours."

His father's face flushed and the muscles of his jaw worked. "My men will obey, my Lord, as will I. But..."

"I had no doubt, Lord Avoch," the king said. "I expected no less, and you shall be in command after my lord Earls of Buchan and Atholl. To do you honor as such, at first light before I leave, I shall knight your son." He turned his smile upon Andrew. "You'll be a fine knight and serve us well."

Andrew gulped in a breath as his spirit took flight. "Sire..." His heart pounded. "My sword is yours, always."

The king looked to Andrew's father. "The men will see my confidence in all of my commanders, including your good self, and know it's my confidence in you that allows me to leave."

His lord father bowed his obedience, but his hands were tensed into fists as he shoved his way out of the king's pavilion. Andrew was conscious of Lord Buchan's eyes on his back as he followed his father's angry stride towards their own camp.

Night had settled, turning all the banners to black. Sparks flew from campfires like wandering stars. Lord Avoch's master-at-arms, Sir Waltir mac Donchie, awaited them before his father's tent. His scarred face creased into a frown when he heard the king would leave. He was a sturdy man of forty years, muscled and hard. Arms crossed over his chest, he surveyed their men. "We should speak to them, my lord, so his leaving is no surprise."

As they went to make rounds, Andrew sat on a tree stump at the crackling campfire and tossed in a chunk of wood. The flames leaped. He propped his elbows on his knees and took a deep breath. He'd make no vigil before an altar as most knights did. The tournament to celebrate his dubbing would be battle.

Battle... He was not afraid. They would surely win.

The camp buzzed with the murmur of men's voices and the scrape of whetstones sharpening steel. Horses at distant picket lines nickered in the murk of evening. Andrew warmed his hands over the heat of the flames and told himself the chill was from the air. A clap on his shoulder made him jump.

Brian punched his shoulder harder. "Want company?" He straddled a log and sat down.

Thin as a whip with lanky brown hair, Robbie Boyd ambled towards them from where a hundred men gathered around Sir Waltir. As Robbie walked past, he gave Brian a shove.

Brian returned the punch and Robbie dodged. "Andrew here won't be the bairn of the castle after tomorrow," Brian said.

"He's grown into being a man, right enough." Robbie looked down with a twitching mouth. "Too bad you'll never grow into those flapping bat wings you have for ears."

"My ears may flap but at least my tongue doesn't."

"Get you gone." With a blow from his shoulder, Robbie tumbled Brian onto the ground and took his place on the log. "Bring over the wineskin."

A snort of amusement came bursting out from Andrew's nose, as Brian jumped up and ran, whooping, to return with wineskin. When Robbie grabbed at it, Brian gave it a squeeze. A thin stream of red squirted Andrew in the face.

Robbie jumped up. "Hoi! Don't waste good wine."

Brian danced away, laughing, but Andrew lunged and grabbed the wineskin. He tilted his head and squeezed a stream into his mouth. God be good, it was sweet. Brian and Robbie would be with him in the battle, and that would be sweet as well.

Battle was what knights were meant for, what he'd spent his life training for. Brian grabbed back the wine. They shared a grin. When the two stumbled away, holding each other up, to wrap themselves in their cloaks, Andrew sat alone until long fingers of dawn lightened the sky and the camp turned morning silver. He realized with a start that around him everyone was in an uproar to be off. Knights shouted for squires. Horses were being saddled and led into lines, as tents were broken. The valley was a fury of noise and motion.

When his father put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, Andrew looked up.

"It's time, lad."

Andrew took a shaky breath and stood. Today he would become a knight. Trying to look serious, biting his lip to hide his grin, he followed his father through the field, squelching through trampled mud and steaming horseshit. They wended through serried lines of mounted men-at-arms that stretched across the valley, horses shaking their mane and stamping to be off. He recognized Brian's voice, "Moray!"

At the front sat a long line of knights, mounted on massive destriers clad in gleaming armor. Andrew wondered if they could hear the thump of his heart, it seemed so loud, beating so hard it might escape his chest.

King John de Baliol stood alone before the tall staff that held his banner, as golden as the sunrise. He was dressed for riding in black silk hose and tunic. A gold and ruby brooch in the shape of a rampant lion held his cloak.

"I have brought you my son, Your Grace." His father held out the hilt of a sword with one hand and its belt in the other.

Beneath his fine brows, the king studied Andrew with eyes like a summer sky. His mouth curved in a smile impossible not to return. Just two days before, Andrew had watched the king bring down two stags with his own bow. He found himself remembering what his father had whispered: He would make a fine huntsman. But the man has no steel in him. He bends before the storm. His father must surely be wrong. This was the king.

Andrew swallowed the stone lodged in his throat and ran a sweaty hand down the blue tabard covering his mail. He dropped to both knees at the king's feet.

King John lifted the sword and gave Andrew a firm tap on first one shoulder and then the other. "I dub you knight. Be you good and faithful and never traffic with traitors until your life's end."

The knights behind him made a din, hammering on their shields. Brian and Robbie whooped, "Moray! Moray!" The rest of their men joined in until the glen rang with it.

Andrew rose, head swimming. He couldn't feel the ground under his feet. Another cheer went up as the king fastened the sword belt around his waist. Hilt over his forearm, the king proffered the sword; Andrew's hand shook as he took it. His father pounded his back, and then dropped to a knee to fasten on his golden spurs. Even John Comyn of Buchan slapped his arm with a laugh. His head was as dizzy as if he were drunk on red wine.

The king looked around at the cheering men and smiled. When the noise died, he nodded.

Andrew knelt and reached up to place his hands between those of his king. His throat was tight; he had to force his breath, but he made the words of the oath strong.

"I, Andrew de Moray, become your man in life and in death, faithful and loyal to you against all men who live, move or die. I declare you to be my king and liege lord--so may God help me and all the Saints."

To Pseudonym or Not to Pseudonym

I write in more than one genre.

My historical novels are the ones my agent had been pitching until I parted ways with him recently. I intend to write several more, although they have been postponed while I polish the fantasies we have completed. I have always thought that it would be best to publish the historical novels under a pseudonym or at least under my birth name which is identifiably Scottish. *chuckle* Who would have guessed that?

All of my other novels are fantasies. There is a very real concern when authors switch genres about readers picking up a different genre than they expect and being disappointed. Obviously, this is a bad thing. On the other hand, while the number of people who recognize my name and look for my work is small, it is growing and who wants to give that up?

It is something that I debate a lot. My historical novels are still under consideration at one market. If they don't sell there, I will probably decide to indie publish them. I am still debating whether it will be under this name or another. Having to do promotion under a totally different name is -- daunting.

However, my co-author and I are working on another fantasy. The working title is The Kazak Guardians but I'm not very taken with that title. It has a female protagonist which we frequently do, and this one is an Urban Fantasy. Of course, our last, Wings of Evil, is an epic fantasy. It's probably within the young adult genre because the protagonist is young, but it is a lot grittier than our last.

I hope the new novel will be ready to go online in March, but it has a lot of work yet to be done on it. It's still in rough draft form with no cover designed. There is a lot of work involved in getting from rough draft to something I would let people read!

Historical accuracy in novels?

How much does it matter to you as a reader? How much as a writer?

I have to admit it matters immensely to me, but I'm never quite sure where to bend when writing my own historical works.

Examples of what annoyed me: a spinning wheel in 14th century England. They didn't have them. They used spindles to spin at that time. Spinning wheels came much later.

Men riding destriers as though they were every day horses makes me cringe. It would be about the equivalent of driving a tank down the road to work. In fact, even for warhorses constantly referring to them as destriers annoys me. Destriers were the heaviest of warhorses and not necessarily the most desirable. A rouncey or habelar was often used for their greater speed and agility and chargers were by far the most common warhorses.

Kilts in 14th century Scotland. NO!

I had someone do a first read on a novel I'm writing and he was baffled that I referred to a Scottish nobleman as a baron. But they're lairds, he protested. No. He was a baron. And I suppose I could refer to the Scottish earls as Mormaers but I suspect that would only confuse things further.

Oh, I won't even go into the introduction of feminism into medieval thought. I'm a feminist--a pretty avid one, and there were strong, capable women in the middle ages. They were not feminists, and few women got choices, such as who they would marry. Widows sometimes did, but the fact that when Edward I's daughter married a man of her own choice it caused the new husband to be thrown into a dungeon kind of shows how uncommon this was. Pretending women usually had these choices annoys me, but maybe not some readers. I can't bring myself to do it.

I think we can all agree that you should be accurate on the big details such as who was king when or who controlled which country. But what about those smaller details? They probably take some painstaking research and may conflict with people's expectation, such as the kilt thing that so annoys me. *grin*

I suppose where I falter is what are the important factors and what are not. It jerks me out of a story to read anything that is an anachronism, but I am SO likely to spot them. Would it bother most readers to read about that spinning wheel Catherine Coulter put in her 14th century novel? It sure did me. She got the politics wrong, too. Her medieval novels still did very well.

Even referring to rooms can be confusing. Should I call what was in fact referred to as a wardrobe as an office? It is the closest comparison. I cringe a bit, but the meaning of the word wardrobe has changed.

It's a fine line to try to not confuse people, not jerk them out of the story when introducing historical concepts that they may not be acquainted with, and yet maintain some degree of historical accuracy.

Anyone else struggle with this? Thoughts? Suggestions?