One of Scotland's great heroines! Part 1

We should not be surprised that Agnes Randolph, Countess of Dunbar, often called Black Agnes because of her black hair and dark complexion, was a heroine. She was after all the daughter of one of Scotland's greatest heroes, Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, companion and nephew of King Robert the Bruce. There were many female heroes in medieval Scotland though, and she was one of them.

There is some doubt when she was born since there is no record of it. Wikipedia says 1314, but I believe that is in error and that she was born four or five years previous to that. At any rate, she was one of four children of Sir Thomas and Isabel Stewart of Bonkyll.

Like all women of noble birth, one of her primary duties was to marry to establish an alliance or increase the family's wealth and power. The Randolphs, whose earldom covered a large swathe of Scotland north of the Firth, did not need more wealth or power. However, Sir Thomas wanted to tie the sometimes-fickle Patrick, 9th Earl of Dunbar more closely to the Scottish cause. After all, while supporting the English, the earl had given shelter to the fleeing King Edward II after the Battle of Bannockburn and aided in his escape to England. Many felt his loyalty was in doubt. Surely Randolph marrying his eldest daughter to him, a man at least three decades her elder, and thus tying him to the royal family would fix his loyalty. 

However, imagine her reaction when on 20 July 1332 her father suddenly died on the way to do battle against invading English-supported pretender to the throne of Scotland. Rumor had it, whether true or false, that her father was poisoned by supporters of the English.

With a child king and only, at best, second-rate or very inexperienced commanders left to protect Scotland from the invaders, it was not long before disaster struck at the Battle of Dupplin Moor at which her older brother was killed. A shocking loss of much of her family in a very short time. 

Thus began the up and down fortunes of Scotland in the Second War of Scottish Independence. The pretender was chased from Scotland and then returned with a larger army, given him in payment for making Scotland his vassal state, a much larger army. A year later after the equally disastrous Battle of Halidon Hill, Earl Patrick surrendered the city of Berwick-upon-Tweed to the English and switched sides. 

No one knows what Lady Agnes thought about this. Her remaining brother was one of the defenders of Scottish independence, after all. However, both her father and King Robert had supported the English in order to live to fight another day. Perhaps she was pragmatic. But her husband attended the Scottish parliament in 1334 which shamefully ceded Berwick, Dunbar, Roxburgh and Edinburgh Castles and all of Scotland's southern counties to England. At the least, it would have been a painful period.

Earl Patrick's reward for switching sides was being forced to rebuilt at his own expense Castle Dunbar, only 20 miles from the English border, which had been slighted (torn down) at the orders of King Robert. It was then garrisoned by the English. Extended by passages onto rocks in the sea, Dunbar Castle had always been a formidable fortress. Now it was even more so. Not surprisingly at first the English garrisoned it and kept it for their but apparently confident that Earl Patrick had truly changed sides, they eventually returned to him. 

Image of Dunbar Castle from a painting by Andrew Spratt

By 1335, when he fought on the Scottish side at the Battle of Boroughmuir along with his brother-in-law, the castle had been returned. He was firmly on the side of the Scots where he remained for the rest of his life. I suspect Agnes always had been. 

By 1338, the fight for independence was going much better for the Scots. North of the Firth, only Cupar Castle, Stirling Castle and the strongly fortified city of Perth remained in English hands. (Most of southern Scotland still was although under pressure from Scottish guerilla tactics.) Dunbar Castle was the southernmost Scottish castle.

The English had no intention of sitting back and allowing their newly conquered nation to be reclaimed by the Scots. In December of 1337 at King Edward's command, William Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, raised a large army to take relief to the remaining northern strongholds in English hands. First they must take Dunbar Castle which they dare not leave at their back. So on 13 January 1338, he laid siege.

Perhaps Montagu thought because it was held by a woman that taking Dunbar would be an easy task. If so, he was wrong. He demanded the castle's surrender, assuring her that she would be well treated. She had an unequivocal response. The exact words may be apocryphal. The sentiment is not.

Of Scotland's King I haud my house, 

I pay him meat and fee, 

And I will keep my gude auld house, 

while my house will keep me.

And so began the famous siege of Dunbar Castle.

The Intelligencer is off the the editor! Here's a look at Ch. 1

Intelligencer: a person who gathers intelligence, especially an informer, spy, or secret agent.

"Careful you don't give her a good show," said Cormac the minstrel, lanky and grinning, one shoulder resting on the wall.

"Wheesht. I'm giving no one a show," Sir Law Kintour said. He reached for a tiny jar sitting in the window, pulled out the cork releasing a sharp, musty smell. The canoness had told him swallowed it was poison, but when the cream was rubbed on his scars it eased them a bit.

When there was a tap on the door, Cormac opened it. Anny Cullen stood there with a steaming bowl in her hands. At twelve, she had started to look much like her mother, sturdy and muscular. She smiled at him shyly.

He watched as she put the bowl on the wobbly little table in the middle of the room and pulled a long rag out. She twisted it hard to wring out the excess water.  He held out his hand. "Give it. You'd best run along to help your mam." He took the rag gingerly away from her since it was still steaming in the chill morning air.

"Careful and don't let it cool off."

"You could have brought us up some bread and cheese when you came," Cormac grumbled. He gave her his best attempt at a piteous look, but it worked poorly with the wry twist to his mouth.  

"If you want bread and cheese, you go down and tell my mam." She frowned at him, but then her round, freckled face lit up with a smile for Law. "Go ahead, Sir Law. You dinnae want to wait. It will only help while it's still hot."

Law smiled but he thrust his chin toward the door. "Not until you're gone, now shoo."

"You will use it?" she asked.

"I shall." He forced a smile over his gritted teeth, just anxious for her to leave. "Thank you, lass."

"You're welcome." With a glance over her shoulder, Anny left and the door closed behind her.

Law unfastened the laces of his tights and pushed down the one on his left leg. He rubbed a bit of the thick, numbing ointment on, and gave Cormac a look. Cormac had seen the ropy, red scars before, mangled by a lance during the Battle of Verneuil in France, but Law still didn't like showing them. But Cormac had taken out the deadly sharp sgian-achlais  he had taken to carrying in an armpit sheath and was cleaning his fingernails.

Law breathed out a soft snort. You could take off a finger with that knife but shook his head and quickly wrapped the steaming cloth around his thigh and sucked in his breath at the heat on the sensitive scars. He trained the day before with wardens of the burgh to keep himself in fighting fit, and now his bad leg felt like it was being ripped with a lance all over again. Even after these months, he missed his life before. It had been good, but in the end the battle lost him his lord, his rank, and his dearest friend. Now he had nothing but his armor in a bag, some worn clothes, and a limp. He still had a fading bruise that covered his forehead from when he was attacked a few weeks before by a mad friar. 

Cormac held out his hand, examining his nails closely. They were longer than most men's because the clàrsach that he favored was plucked with the fingernails.  "She's sweet on you, you ken." He seemed satisfied with the state of his nails and slid the blade away.

Law lived in a small room above a shabby tavern run by the girl's mother and father, although she was now old enough to do some of the serving. "She's still a wean," Law said. "What is she? Twelve?" Law grimaced at the heat from the cloth wrapped tightly around his leg. It hurt so that he could barely keep still, but it was beginning to ease the deep pain in his leg. He could feel the muscles unknotting as the heat seeped in. Though still a bit tight lipped, he said, "She'll soon find someone else to make doe eyes at. You, mayhap."

Cormac threw up his hands. "Not if I can help it. Her mam would have my hide and hers if she looked at a Hielander. Any road, soon enough they'll look for a sturdy burgher for her. Neither of us are such a prize."

He grunted. Cormac was right that he was no prize. A landless knight was never a sought after, and he even less than most. He might have been born into the small nobility from a family with ties to the great Douglas clan, but he had fallen as low as a knight could. He still had his gold spurs and his arms, but what good did that do him with a lame leg? He wasn't so bad looking, or so he'd some had told him even if it was at night in a hot embrace. He was taller than most men and lean and muscular with a full head of light brown hair, but a lord didn't take a knight into his service for his looks, but on how well they could fight. He might hold his own in a street brawl, but he would never be fit for battle again.

Cormac smoothed his red and white striped doublet and re-tied one of the green ribbons on his sleeve while Law unwrapped the cooled cloth from his leg and pulled his stocking up. He turned to look for his boots to find Cormac holding one and shaking his head over its worn state. "That's pathetic. Dinnae you ever buy new ones?"

"Give it here," Law said.

Cormac tossed the boot to him and turned to open the door. "I'd better find someone to pay for my songs," he called back. "Bidh mi 'gad fhaicinn." He ran down the rickety stairs.

"Aye, see you later, Cormac."

Law drew on the boot, found the other and followed Cormac down the stairs. The minstrel had disappeared although he'd be back later to play for the inn's customers. For now, the only people there were Anny sweeping the bare wood floor, Mall stirring a big pot that had a scent of thyme that must be for dinner, and Wulle talking to the only customer, a tall red-haired man named Andrew Bouquhen, a candle maker with a shop not far away.

There was barley bread and a big round of cheese on the long table that separated the room from the barrel of ale, so Law helped himself. Mall nodded, and he knew she'd add a chit to his tab for his room did not include meals. The he carried them to seat at the back of the inn. He put a sliver of cheese on a bit of the barley bread and chewed them. Simple but hearty and he was not going to complain. Besides, he was glad not to have any reason to go out. Here inside, the rich cheese and the soft crackle of the peat fire in the open hearth were as warm as a grandmother’s embrace. He chuckled at the thought. He must be getting soft.

Mall brought over a cup of ale. He was about  to take a swallow when he noticed a small, bow-legged man standing in the doorwas, picking bits of straw off his blue knitted cap.

"You're letting in the damp," Mall scolded.

The man closed the door, raised his blue knit cap to Law, and clapped it back on his head. “You’re Sir Law Kintour, are you?”

Law contemplated his half-finished piece of cheese, the fire and the cup of malty ale. He sighed. “Aye. What is it you need?”

“Mistress Elspeth Buchan said to fetch you, sir,” he said. “The maister has gone missing and she wants you to come right away. She’s that upset about it.”

Cover Reveal: The Templar's Cross

First I need to apologize to any followers. Because of a problem with depression, I took a lengthy break from blogging which I rather desperately needed. My writing schedule was also down. I am happy to say that I am now much better and have novels on the way.

The Templar's Cross will be out on August 6.

Sir Law Kintour has returned from the war in France crippled, broke, and in need of a patron. In desperation, he reluctantly accepts a commission to find a nobleman's runaway wife. He enlists the help of a fellow Scot with whom he escaped after their defeat at the Battle of Verneuil. But his friend is murdered, and Law discovers he has been lied to. As the murders continue to mount, powerful interests come into play. When the Sheriff of Perth considers him a convenient scapegoat, it gives Law no choice but to untangle the lies and find the killer or hang for the murders. 

And the cover reveal:

The Templar's Cross: a snippet

Templar's Cross will be out soon. It goes to my editor next week, so the snippet is not yet edited and takes up about when the last snippet ended.

On the way out of the tavern, Law sat down next to Cormac who had his harp in his lap tuning it. “Do me a favor?”

Cormac raised an eyebrow. “Aye, if I can.”

“Go to the blindman’s tavern and ask quietly if they’ve seen someone with hair so light it is almost white.” He slipped Cormac a merk. “I dinnae have time to go there myself.”

Rain dribbled down Law’s leather cloak, and cold water soaked through the seams of his boots. He turned west on Northgate and sloshed through the gate of North Gate Port where the road became rutted dirt that sucked at his boots as he slogged toward the Whitefriars Abbey. He wasn’t sure if they had a women’s hall since it was smaller than Blackfriars, but he knew it had a men’s guest hall for Duncan had stayed there when they first arrived at Perth. It was a long trek.

The dark hills loomed before him and soon the tree branches met and mingled overhead plunging the path into shadows as though he were passing through a long dark tunnel. The day smelt of rain and mud, and the wind carried a hint of a peat fire somewhere in the distance.  

When he stepped out from under the trees the the stone monastery and its high stone spire stood before him, surrounded by wooden buildings, guest houses, barns and fields of crops and cattle. Between knee-high rows of kale, two friars in brown robes with leather girdles with hoes over their shoulders trudged toward through the mist. There should have been a porter at the gate, but no one answered when he tugged on the bell.

He pushed open the gate and walked to the front door of the church, stamped the mud from his feet, and shook out his cloak. As he had hoped, bells for None, the midafternoon prayers, had not yet rung. Inside, a heavily veiled woman knelt before a statue of the Virgin Mary and another at the altar rail muttered a despairing prayer interspersed with sobs. A gray-haired, tonsured lay brother was polishing a silver reliquary.  Law cleared his throat and the friar looked up at him, allowing Law to catch his eye. The man, hands tucked into his sleeves, made his way to the nave where Law waited.

“Can I help you, my son?” he asked.

“Brother,” Law said with a nod of his head, “Mayhap. I recently returned from the war in France and seek to locate an old friend. I think he may bide in your guesthouse.”

The friar shook his head. “It isn’t the season for pilgrims, so we haven’t any guests with us the now.”

“He’s middling height and his yellow hair is so light it is almost white. Has anyone like that been here in the past weeks?” At the friar’s raised eyebrows, Law explained, “Mayhap I waste my time seeking him, but I’ve few friends left since—” He swallowed. “I was at the Battle of Verneuil, you see. So I am eager to find my one friend.” He knew putting one truth about his past in a tangle of lies made Law would make the story more believable.

The friar quickly crossed himself. “It was a sad day when we heard that news. The king ordered prayers for all lost there, especially the earls. I wish I could help, but no one like that has stayed in our guesthouse.”

“You are certain you’ve not seen anyone of that description?”

Rocking backward and forward on his feet, the friar stared into the distance. “Aye,” he said at thoughtfully, “I did see a stranger similar to what you mentioned not long past, two days ago it was. He was speaking to another man when I was carrying alms to the leper house. But he never abided here, so I fear it is no help to you.”

“No, brother, learning he has been in Perth and may yet be here does indeed help me.”

A bell began to toll above them. “I need to go,” the friar said hastily. “But I wish you well in finding your friend.”

Law pulled his cloak around himself when he went out into the dusk, but the rain had finally stopped. He picked his way along the path, back through the port into the dank streets of the burgh. Blackfriars was on the far north side of the city, and he preferred it was full dark when he met Duncan so he took his time as he walked.

A fog, thin and clammy, blurred the buildings as he passed. The crisp scent of autumn was quickly overlaid with the stench of blood and offal from slaughtering that was done in this part of Perth. His throat closed and he choked on the smell. Shutters were banging closed as he passed the tightly clustered buildings with jetties that thrust out above the street turning it into little more than a warren.  

He passed shadowy shops as the sun sank below the high city walls, shops with bloody beef carcasses stood next to poulterers where dark, motionless lines of birds hung, blighted, as far as he could see into their shadowy depths. The last of sunset’s light faded into black night.

In an open doorway a burly man stood silhouetted in lamplight, a pig’s carcass over his shoulder dripping gore down his apron. “Beannachd leat,” he called out to Law congenially.

Law had never had Gaelic but even he knew a civil good night so he replied, “Mar sin leat,” with a brisk wave.

Blackfriars was out of Perth and into a suburb at the far end of past the Red Brig Port. The street narrowed once through the port and his boots squelched in icy muddy of the roadway. A wing moaned through the pines setting branches to scraping and groaning. A fragment of moon slithered from behind clouds only to hide again. He grunted when he stumbled in a pothole.

Finally, he heard a mournful chant of vespers prayers roll from the monastery: Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. O Lord, make haste to aid me indeed, Law thought, and snorted softly at his foolishness. If he needed help he’d do better to depend upon his good sword arm for God, if the priests weren’t lying about there being one, did not seem eager to aid him.

Behind the monastery’s high stone walls, beams of light from the windows of the monastery broke the thick darkness or Law might have missed the alley were he was to meet Duncan. Fences on both sides formed a dark passageway.  He peered in and took a step into the narrow path. He didn’t want to call out but apparently Duncan had hidden himself well. Or perhaps he’d given up and gone back to the room he rented above a bakster. The faint chanting from the monastery ceased.

“Duncan, where in Hades are you?” Law called softly.

Running his hand along the damp wooden fence, Law walked into the dark pathway. A blackbird burst out of hiding almost at his feet with a clatter of feathers and a harsh squawk. The waving, pewter moonlight seeped through the clouds to make strange passing shapes on the ground over a dark lump against the dyer’s fence. Then through a break in the clouds a passing gleam of the moonlight reflected in wide-open eyes. The stench of blood and urine and shit mixed with hit Law’s nostrils. He stood frozen, hand on his hilt and then turned in a slow circle searching the shadows. Nothing moved, so he squatted beside the body...

Cover Reveal: A King Uncaged

To be released June 23!

Blood Duty Reduced to 99 Cents for One Week Only

For one week, Sunday, Feb. 19 through Saturday Feb. 26 I have reduced Blood Duty from it's regular price of $2.99 to only 99 Cents.

It has some good reviews--4.8 star average. I hope you'll check out the reviews and the sample. It might just be the read you're looking for.

Tamra Dervon, Captain of the Guard of Wayfare Keep, thinks her biggest problem is her love affair with Jessup. The scout is holding things back from her, and she doesn't know what. But when a seemingly unbeatable army of demons invades, Tamra's personal problems look very small. Tamra and Jessup find themselves leading a last-ditch defense. Their army is defeated. Jessup disappears in the retreat, and her duty calls for a desperate self-sacrifice. Alone, she must face the demon horde.

Available for 99 Cents on Amazon US and Amazon UK this week only.

Thanks!

And back to our regularly scheduled author interviews tomorrow.

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Sarah Woodbury

I would like to introduce you to historical fiction writer Sarah Woodbury, the author of several fascinating novel with medieval settings, my favorite setting for novels. Thanks for dropping in, Sarah.


First, I'd like to ask when did you start writing? What was it you first wrote? 

Reading and writing are a part of my earliest memories of something that I liked to do. What I wrote most when I was younger was poetry (I’m sure very bad). Then, when I was about twelve, I began to focus more on schoolwork and almost forgot that I loved to write fiction and that I even had a creative side. Having children (and homeschooling them) encouraged my creativity again in my late twenties and thirties. A little over five years ago, at the age of thirty seven, I took the plunge and started my first novel. It was a straight-forward fantasy which will never see the light of day, though I’ve raided it since for characters and scenes.

I know you write medieval fiction. Would you explain why?

My books are all set in dark age and medieval Wales. It’s a crazy time period, in a way, because we know so little about that era. This gives more scope for fiction, which is an aspect I particularly enjoy. I fell in love with Wales when I lived in the UK during my college years. Plus, my family is historically Welsh, and I found learning about my own history fascinating.

What is your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be? How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: how did you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real” history?

I write historical fantasy, alternative history, and medieval mysteries, so I cover the whole gamut of types of novels where history needs to be more or less real. With my After Cilmeri series, which is time travel/alternative history, I very rigorously adhere to the culture of the day and the historical events that I don’t change. At the same time, my books take off on a trajectory that never happened, which eases some of these concerns.

For my historical fantasy books, I apply the same standard, in that the events are as historically accurate as I can make them, except when I add the fantastical element (in The Last Pendragon Saga, this would be the interplay between the Celtic gods and our world, and in Cold My Heart, it’s the use of the sight and that the book is about King Arthur, who may not have existed at all).

For The Good Knight, the first of my Gareth and Gwen medieval mysteries, the events related in the book really happened. I include no ‘fantasy’ elements, except for the existence of Gareth and Gwen, my two detectives. That and the specifics of the crimes they solve are the fiction part in my historical fiction.

What is the most surprising thing in the period you write about?

One of the continually surprising things to me about medieval Wales is how little we know about it. We don’t know birthdays. We don’t know the names of mothers. We don’t know the exact location of Garth Celyn (Aber), the seat in North Wales of the Welsh princes. Ignorance about the history of Wales is so rampant that there’s a story that one of the twentieth century owners of what might be Garth Celyn found ancient documents stuffed into a wall and burned them because they were in Latin and she couldn’t read them!

Do you run into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in your fiction?

I think there is very few common understandings about Wales in the United States, because so few people know anything about it. At the same time, the country has been sidelined and the people ridiculed by the ruling power (England) for 700 years. I spoke with one Welsh person, living in the United States, who talks about his grandmother being ‘put out in the yard’ as a schoolgirl for speaking Welsh. The prejudice and misunderstandings between the English and Welsh are too numerous to mention.

Who would you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us about them.

I want to meet Prince Hywel. He is the second bastard son of Owain Gwynedd, a king of North Wales in the 12^th century. He’s not the main character in The Good Knight, but he plays a central role. He’s smart and resourceful and always strives to stay one step ahead of everyone else.

What is your next project?

I am writing the second in the Gareth and Gwen medieval mystery series. The first draft is almost complete and I’m very excited about the book. I can’t wait to share it … I estimate it should come out in mid-2012.

Sarah, thanks again for telling us about your fascinating work. 

You can find The Good Knight on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.  You will also want to check out her other novels such as The Last Pendragon and Footsteps in Time.

Sample of A Kingdom's Cost

I have removed the sample due to the terms of exclusivity I now have with Amazon. However, you can read or download a sample here on Amazon. The prequel, Freedom's Sword is also available on Amazon.

Review of Blue Bells of Scotland by Laura Vosika

This is a well-written and entertaining time-travel novel. I enjoyed the author's rather different take on time travel, and the fact that, for a change, it was men who were the "victims" of the phenomenon. Two men 700 years apart are ripped from their places in time. How does it happen that they look so much alike that they can be mistaken for each other? That may well be related to the mysterious cause of the time-travel, but it is left to be explained in later novels. This doesn't detract from the story.

Shawn Kleiner is a world-renowned musician, selfish and self-indulgent. It took about five minutes for me to be ready to slap him up the side of the head. Niall Campbell is a medieval warrior and bard, loyal to his clan and the opposite of Shawn in every way, except in looks.

One day, Shawn's much put-upon girlfriend has had enough and leaves him stranded at a Scottish castle. While he sleeps, the two men are time swapped. Suddenly, Niall is trying to figure out how to cope with modern life, and Shawn is traveling through Scotland to the Battle of Bannockburn. However, this is a different Battle of Bannockburn. It is one that the Scots would tragically lose instead of winning unless Niall does something to change history to what it should have been and save King Robert.

The puzzlement and attempts of the two men to cope with their situation made for an entertaining novel. Whether it was Niall trying to fend off adoring women while he finds his way around a modern symphony hall. Meanwhile, in medieval Scotland, Shawn is being chased rather improbably by an English army.

I was put off, I must admit, by the story having an English army freely roaming around in Scotland just prior to the Battle of Bannockburn. This was historically inaccurate. It simply wouldn't have happened, and since the novel seemed to go to some length to try for historical accuracy, it rather stuck out like pimple on one's forehead. Nor were Scots still in Scotland debating their loyalty to King Robert. Either they were loyal, or they were expelled from Scotland.

Also, the Campbell's were very closely associated with the Scottish crown at that time and the head of the Campbells was married to King Robert's sister. Ignoring this rather important fact struck me as odd. The fact that the Campbells are represented as some poor, ill-connected clan bothered me.

I also simply didn't believe that King Robert, who had spent eight years successfully forcing the English out of Scotland, suddenly couldn't figure out how to win a battle, but an inexperienced young man could. Nor did I believe that Allene would have run off to try to take part in a battle. It simply isn't how medieval women behaved. I raised an eyebrow at that. I must admit these were issues that probably wouldn't bother most readers.

However, the author managed to get the reader invested in the characters, which helps one get past some improbabilities. The two protagonists are very well-fleshed out and fully drawn. They grow and mature over the course of the story. The secondary character of Amy was also very believable. I found that I came to like her a lot. The story did draw me in spite of my criticisms, and the prose was strong.

So as a story, I would give this 5 stars. As a historical novel, I'm afraid I would only give it 3 because of the inaccuracies about what was happening in Scotland at that time. On balance, I'd give it 4 stars, and it is well worth the price as a fun read. You can buy Blue Bells of Scotland on Amazon priced at $2.99.

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My new novel, A Kingdom's Cost, is now available on Amazon and Smashwords for $2.99.

Freedom's Sword is price reduced to 99 Cents through May 14 at Amazon and Smashwords.

What a bad blogger I am. *shakes head*

If it is any excuse I am in the midst of a new novel and it is taking a lot of research to do properly. I am deeply into studying and writing about the brief, heroic life of Andrew de Moray. It's a fascinating project.

However, I do want to share something. I recently came across a reference to one of my favorite poems which happens to be by an unknown Irish monk (translated).

Pangur Ban

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will,
He too plies his simple skill.

Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

I have always loved that poem and it is proof, although I could refer you to much more, that the stories that people during the middle ages did not keep cats are quite apocryphal. People then as now often had them--sometimes as the poem shows as mousers and often as pets.

Another amusing medieval reference to cats comes from the Distaff Gospels which is a fascinating compilation of medieval beliefs:

When you see a cat sitting in the sun in a window, licking her behind and not rubbing her ear with her leg, be sure that it will rain that very day.

We are assured there are no exceptions.

Remember not to always accept the myths about medieval life.