I have had grand plans to road trip around France for many years. From researching and writing The Red Prince to researching and writing Sceptred Isle. But…man plans, God laughs, as the old idiom goes. During that time I never managed to visit more than a handful of spots, usually flying directly. Fast forward a few years and I am finally taking that road trip.

This was the first time I have (in my adult life) driven to France, crossing the Channel. We started in Normandy and went south to the Périgord region, about two hours inland from Bordeaux, stopping at Angers and multiple villages en route. It was spectacular and I was thrilled to see how many towns and villages were familiar to me from the surviving records of the Hundred Years War.

Normandy, in particular, has a legacy of war imprinted on its fabric. I was struck how warfare, that is mostly guerilla warfare, is such a part of the historical legacy of region spanning from well before the 14th century to the 20th.

During the Hundred Years War, Edward III landed on the beach at Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue before conducting a three pronged chevauchée through France, all the way down to Reims. That is, fast raids through towns and villages, destroying or looting everything in their path. If people resisted them, they were killed. It was a brutal incursion that was intended to totally destabilise national spirit and the rural infrastructure of France.

Where there is no immediate evidence of this war on the landscape today, there is plenty of evidence of the war that took place six centuries later. Churches across Normandy bear the scars of the World Wars. Many have been repaired, with towers, walls and stained glass being rebuilt or replaced. Many are left to nature and have been abandoned. Castles were used as military garrisons, much as they were in the 14th century and some older houses and villages carry the historical memory of occupied France. When the country became a battleground.

One aspect of the war in France in the 20th century that we do not have nearly to the same extent in England, was the number of civilian casualties, many of which are commemorated in the local village church. The number of families lost to the violence of the World Wars in northern France almost equal the number of local soldiers who also lost their lives. It is a startling reminder that those most impacted by war are civilians.

I don’t think this was any different in the 14th century. As we drove from Normandy to Bergerac I lost count of the number of villages and towns I recognised from the material I have worked on so closely. Almost invariably they feature as a community that was attacked and whose homes were burned to the ground. As part of this act of war, soldiers were permitted to take whatever goods they could get their hands on. Food, plate, coin, jewels (rarely). Women were routinely raped. Though this was strictly forbidden, Edward III could not have total control over his army. After all, he did recruit out of prisons, taking thieves, rapists and murderers to France, where they would inevitably thieve, rape and murder.

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Maddy’s book focuses on three major hoaxes that took place during the Enlightenment era, in the eighteenth century. This was a period when scientific evidence, logic and intellectual rigour began to overrule spiritual belief and tall tales. A ghost could be considered as a witness in a murder trial, a woman claimed to give birth to rabbits and a man said he could squeeze into a bottle of wine. Another woman who claimed to be a princess from Caraboo when she was actually a cobblers daughter from Devon. These are amongst many of the hoaxes and fraudulent events that took place during the age of Enlightenment. Hoaxes that people believed. The book also poses interesting and prevalent questions about what we choose to believe and what truth means today. I find myself reading about the ghost of Fanny Lyne, tapping in the bedroom of Betty Parsons. I am secretly hoping that there is some truth in the story — there are some aspects of the ghostly tale that have not yet been solved. It is a bit disappointing to read that the story that gripped the headlines then was no more than a girl with a wooden board smuggled beneath her nightie.

The month, other than wrapping on the Arthur doc (which is coming in a new post), has been quiet but productive. I enjoyed Chalke Valley History Festival where I interviewed Peter Jones on his book Self Help in the Middle Ages. I also got to listen to Elodie Harper discuss writing Boudicca’s Daughter, a brilliant fiction book about the Queen of the Iceni and her daughters who are pretty much lost to this historical record.

Other wise, I have started my next book in earnest and seeing the word count (slowly) clock up has given me a real boost. I don’t think people talk enough about the process of writing and how hard the start is. It might be easier for some but I certainly spend the first six months panicking that I have no idea what to write and generally linger in a state of paralysis, reading as much as possible. Then suddenly something seems to click. This paralysis is pretty normal but the process has looked a little different for me this time around. This is my third solo authored book, my fourth to be published. But it is the first that I realised I had committed to the wrong idea. It is a truism that pretty much all non fiction books deviate from the proposal. It is a sliding scale of how much, but few will do what they said they will do in the heady days of plotting it all out. Proposals are a weird business. Authors are expected to know what the book is going to do before they have done the bulk of the research. But, they are also useful because they provide a guidebook when one is lost in the inevitable panic moments of “what the hell am I saying/doing”. These moments happen. A lot.

Below the paywall: details on writing my next book and how that has been complicated this time around. There is also advice and honest experience about raising little children whilst writing, followed by this year’s Summer Solstice celebrations.

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In the Eildon Hills near Melrose southern Scotland, King Arthur lies, waiting in slumber with his knights until it is his moment to return. A messiah restoring order and unity to the broken world. This story was retold by Sir Walter Scott in his Tale of Canobie Dick as he describes a horse trader (Canobie Dick) who is approached by an old man in strange clothing who offers him ancient coin for his horses. In order to recieve payment Canobie Dick follows the man to the Eildon Hills, where, at the foot of the hills, he is lead through a secret door into a cave. Inside the cave are an army of mounted knights fast asleep. Among them is Arthur, clearly identified by his crown. Baffled, Canobie Dick is lead to a table on which he is presented with a horn and a sword. Picking up the horn — the least aggressive of the two objects — he blows into it and wakes the sleeping king and his knights. But they are not happy about it, in fact they are furious he was not brave enough to wield the sword instead. Dick is expelled from the cave with a forceful wind and hurries to tell local shepherds what he has seen before he falls down dead. This particular story, re-inscribed by Scott, is also closely associated with the thirteenth century border prophet, Thomas the Rhymer, localising the tale to the borderlands. But it is not the only version. Arthur is said to be resting in caves across the British Isles, from Somerset to Wales. Even as far as Italy and Mount Etna. He is universally known as the ‘Once and Future King’, his legend having occupied the minds of many for centuries, not only in Britain but in countries across Europe. His legend has not only infiltrated local culture through storytelling and the imprinting of Arthur on local landscape, but it has been adapted and contrived to serve kings politically. Arthur has been used as a vehicle by which nations can be claimed.

Just to be clear — Arthur was not, as we understand, a real person. He was legend, a figure akin to a god-hero (think Hercules or the like). But who he was even as a literary figure or whispered spectre has shape shifted.

This all depends on who or what you read.

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Medieval people were dirty and unhealthy with a low life expectancy and little knowledge of medicine and the human body. This is the popular, unshakable myth of the average medieval person. Riddled with fleas, maybe diseased. Katherine Harvey is determined to change this perspective in The Medieval Guide to Healthy Living, by shedding necessary light on how people actually understood health and healthcare in the Middle Ages. There are in fact plenty of examples of how the concerns of the medieval layman mirror those in the modern day, from digestion to aging, mental health to getting enough exercise.

According to the medieval medical mind, bodily balance was key to optimum health. At the heart of this philosophy was humoral theory, the idea that the body was made up of four humors, or bodily fluids: ‘blood was hot wet and airy, phlegm was cold, wet and watery. Black bile…cold, dry and earthy and yellow bile…hot dry and fiery’. Balancing all of these humors would, in theory, make you healthy and if they fell out of balance illness was the consequence. Complexion, lifestyle — the importance of ‘pure clean air’ could not be overstated — and digestion were also key factors in determining health. In fact digestion was something of an obsession for medieval people, who would go to extraordinary lengths to avoid a disruption in bowel movements. More recognisable solutions were available, such as boiling flax seed in water and consuming it, but failing that, one could ‘take a piece of soap, make it small and put it in your fundament [that is, your anus], and then rest upon your bed’.

Phlebotomy (drawing blood) and purging were an important part of life. Where vomiting was not encouraged, a confessional ‘vomit’ — admitting one’s sins to a priest, for moral failings were ‘just another superfluity in need of expulsion’ that often provoked another, tears — was deemed necessary for optimum. Mental health. For medieval people, health and faith were interwoven with images and idols provoking an extreme emotional reaction. People believed that just by looking, they could absorb some of the spiritual qualities these items possessed. Traces of salvia and oils have been found on religious manuscripts, suggesting kissing and stroking. This, for medieval people, was a type of anxiety relief in a world fraught with insecurities.

One of the greatest anxieties, particularly for women, was childbirth and childrearing. This was reasonable considering five percent of women in England died in childbirth — one in five women, according to Florentine accounts. Pregnancy was a precarious business, during which a mother could take precautions such as avoiding salty foods — ‘which would lead to a child with no hair or nails’ — and more reasonably, oysters. In birth however, a mother and baby were in God’s hands and Christian women could only look to Him for ultimate protection. Girdles, decorated with prayers and religious symbols were often wrapped around the belly of a labouring woman, proven by evidence of cervico-vaginal fluid on one surviving girdle. Women also had practical help from midwives, who in turn could be aided by texts such as the Trotula, a healthcare manual written by a woman. Pain was difficult to control and could, in some severe cases ‘lead to insanity’. It is comforting to know that the male physician, Michele Savonarola, ‘was in favour of loud screaming, which helped the woman but also made sure that her husband and family felt sorry for her, so they would light fires and bring her good food and wine’. If childbirth was survived then nursing a child was deemed essential. The theologian Thomas of Chobham was so dogmatic about it he believed a woman’s refusal to breastfeed was ‘tantamount to murder’. It was, seemingly, mostly men who disapproved of non breastfeeding mothers, accusing women of ‘vanity’. Yet, as we know, this may also not have been possible for many. In the absence of modern day formula the best option then was a wet nurse, often employed by wealthy women, who ideally would look as much like the mother as possible.

If children survived into adulthood there was ever present possibility of death by disease. Plague is the most famous example of mortality but Cancer was also prevalent in the Middle Ages as it is now, with cases of surgery being performed in the event of a tumour. Leprosy was also a major illness with people fearful of contracting it as a venereal disease or through close contact. Yet, there was more empathy than one would assume. Lepers lived ‘in a state of semi integration’, rather than living the life of an outcast. Lepers in Worms (Germany) were permitted to go shopping, providing they evidenced themselves with a grey hat. Those living with disabilities were equally shown humanity, evidence suggesting integration and familial support coupled with practical tools like mobility aids. There are similar cases of family being the care givers to the elder generation, when the time came to be cared for. Ageing caused the same anxieties then as it does today. Ageing was believed to be a loss of moisture in the body — drying up — and it was attempted to maintain a youthful appearance by adding moisture to one’s face with oils. But age also then meant a loss of independence. An aged Petrarch once told his physician he felt ‘like a sad weight, burdensome to others’.

This is a book that is finely researched and richly detailed and Harvey has gone to monumental efforts to make her case. Any reader surely could not help but be convinced that the trope of a dirty medieval person is an outdated one. Medieval people saw health as an important part of life just as we do today. The facts speak for themselves. There are, however, a lot of facts and the narrative can in places feel overburdened with detail which does not give the brilliant research the necessary space to breathe. However, it is impossible to come away from this book having not learned something new. The research is cutting edge and as social histories of the Middle Ages go, it is a valuable and eminently enjoyable contribution — warts and all.

It has been the longest, darkest winter and I feel like I have had to dig deep over the last few months — and I know I am not alone. A light at the end of the January-March deluge tunnel was the publication of my be-a-u-tiful paperback. Sceptred Isle has ditched the red and gone for a spring blue (purple?) and is looking mighty fine. This is like the final hurrah, the last birth of the publication journey and the time I wave a proper goodbye to Sceptred Isle and begin writing my new book. I announced to my subscribers but I can tell you all now that this will be a story about England and Scotland, through the border that divides them. A contentious space that has forged its own identity and cultural history across centuries. The book will be out in Spring 2028 — and I really need to start writing it.

I spend a lot of time in the north. I have family in North Yorkshire, friends in Northumberland and I do feel it is my heart’s home. Without getting all antiquarian about it, I find the landscape pretty amazing… it is like a gateway in Scotland but it is also a space that feels as though it does not want to be owned. I am interested in that. In the people that occupied the borderlands of England and Scotland and who were subject to violence and lawlessness but also created incredible art, through storytelling culture, mythology and folklore.

Prophecies formed part of the political atmosphere of England and Scotland, using mysticism and folklore to determine the politics of the region. Prophetic literature and ballads that emerged out of the border region were used as political propaganda to justify territorial claims and to muster support for kings on either side, attempting to recruit support from either side of the border. They were used to incite fear or anger, or draw support through the form of story telling and oral culture. Thomas of Erceldoune, otherwise known as Thomas the Rhymer or True Thomas was the source of much of this prophetic literature. Thomas lived in Earlston, in the Scottish Borders, around 1240 until 1294, shortly before the outbreak of the first War of Independence. Thomas became known as a soothsayer who delivered a series of prophecies about the political fate of England and Scotland, such as, ‘the greatest wind that ever was heard before in Scotland’ — predicting the power vacuum that would ensure Scotland struggled for centuries in its war with England.

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Have I read the book? Of course I have. Did I love it? OF COURSE I DID. Anya Seton was the master of historical fiction before Hilary Mantel came along and she captivated me with her novel, as she did so many others.

The novel, Katherine, centres on the life of Katherine Swynford, the long term mistress of John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster and it is the epitome of historical romance. The novel is very much of its time. Anya Seton was writing in the 1950s and her Katherine is a little bit pathetic. It is the sort of manuscript that would be tossed in the bin by any historical fiction editor today, looking to buy the next Wolf Hall or cast the next heroine. This aside, the novel is grounded in brilliant research and exceptional attention to detail in relation to the medieval world. Katherine’s childhood growing up in an abbey, the amount of time it takes to travel from Sheppey to London and the eye widening spectacle of Edward III’s court. The author clearly put a huge amount of effort into her research and that was obvious. I came across as much when I was working in the archive whilst writing my biography of John of Gaunt. There is a document, a warning to Gaunt from a former ladies maid to his daughter, Philippa, that a rumour was being spread about him that he was the son of a Flemish butcher. That piece of archival material must have been studied by Seton, for it inspires a scene in her book where Katherine is responsible for counselling a furious Gaunt against throwing his might at the people of London. It is, truly, a lovely book and the perfect distraction during difficult times.

The book itself, because it is so good, became something of a cult hit and everyone’s mum and mum’s mum has read it. I think it was Katherine that drew many people into the world of the Plantagenets. This leads me to the point of this post, which is not a review of Anya Seton’s book but a deep dive into the real Katherine Swynford. Who was she and what do we know about her?

I am a biographer of Katherine’s long term lover and husband, John of Gaunt duke of Lancaster, so I obviously encountered Katherine when writing about his life. This is the way that so many women are encountered, thanks to what is left in the historical record. Women’s voices are few and far between and in regard to medieval source material direct voice (a letter or a diary) are virtually non existent. One of the best sources we have, and the closest, are the fifteenth century Paston Letters which are a valuable source that reveal much about a woman’s life in the Middle Ages. discusses how to read them on her Substack, which I would highly recommend. This means that we largely learn about women through the lens of men, but it doesn’t mean we have to treat what men say about them as fact. Quite the opposite.

So the main way to read Katherine, or research her life is through John of Gaunt. The most powerful man she encountered and who, fortunately, left a wonderful paper trail for historians to follow. Notably, his Register (which acts like an account book or bank statement) recording all of his transactions and financial dealings. And helpfully, his location at any day or week.

Up until Katherine met Gaunt it is unclear exactly what her life looked like. We know that she was the daughter of a knight from Hainault called Paon de Roët — Paon possibly a nickname meaning ‘peacock’ for his vanity, or ‘pion’, which was effectively an usher, perhaps indicative of his role at court. Nonetheless, Paon was in the service of Queen Philippa of Hainault. He likely came to England with her when she married Edward III in 1328 and stayed, alongside a small retinue. We know nothing about Katherine’s mother, though Alison Weir suggests she might have had a connection to the noble House of Avesnes in her book on Katherine Swynford.

We know that Katherine and her sister Philippa were brought into the household of Queen Philippa, before Katherine was moved into the household of Blanche of Lancaster, the first wife of John of Gaunt. This is certainly where Katherine Swynford and John of Gaunt met, whilst she was still very young (around twelve) and working as a chamber servant for the duchess Blanche of Lancaster. Over time, the two young women became close, for eventually Katherine’s own daughter, Blanche Swynford, was placed in the same chamber as both Philippa and Elizabeth — the daughters of Blanche of Lancaster — and Gaunt was appointed as her godfather.

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After a week long trial by the Commons faction of Parliament, Charles I, King of England, was charged with high treason, as a tyrant, traitor, murderer and public enemy. He was condemned to death by the severing of his head from his body.

It was a freezing cold afternoon in Whitehall when the king, who wore two thick shirts to shield his frail and defeated body from the chill, laid his head on the low executioners block. In one swift, expert blow, he was decapitated and a vast groan rose from the crowd, described by an onlooker as, ’a groan as I never heard before and desire to never hear again’. The head of the king was raised by the executioner’s assistant with the cry, “behold, the head of a traitor.”

The execution of Charles I has shaped our constitutional history forevermore, however, this was not the first time a reigning king, or queen, of England was brutally deposed. Centuries prior to death of Charles I, kings and queens were executed publicly, or disposed of surreptitiously, leaving a legacy of intrigue and speculation.

The Middle Ages are often considered to be a merciless period in history, and when it comes to its monarchal history, it is a genuine ‘game of thrones’, with any monarch under an almost constant threat of conspiracy and deposition. It is also a period of bad kings. From the worst- King John- to the not very good- King Richard II, to the unfortunate- Henry VI. Only monarchs who demonstrated strength, military success, potency and charisma thrived; others slowly deteriorated or in some cases, met a bloody end. One of the most savage acts of regicide that took place in the Middle Ages was the purported murder of Edward II.

In September 1327, King Edward II was held as a prisoner at Berkley Castle when he was allegedly murdered under order from Sir Roger Mortimer, the maybe lover of Queen Isabella. Mortimer acted as a de facto king even through the heir to the throne, Edward III had been crowned . There are a number of chronicle accounts that refer to the death of the king. Some state he suffered ill health and died of natural causes, others that he was murdered. The Lichfield chronicle states ‘iugulatus’- strangulation, Adam Murimuth claims that the king was smothered to death. However, The Brut- written around six years after the event- stipulates the king was murdered by a red hot poker. This story (which I have previously discussed here) has endured and become most famous alleged means by which the king was killed. Gruesome but probably not true, this version was fabricated, a literary borrowing from the story of the murder of an Saxon king known as Edmund Ironside. Apparently he died on the toilet in a similar ‘death by anal penetration’ situation.

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When I told them we were going to the Tower of London for a behind the scenes tour it was the half term activity equivalent of a mic drop.

This was only made possible because my friend is a buildings archaeologist there and had a free hour.

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So here it is:

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In around 1323/24 a group of men from Coventry were arrested and put on trial for associations with a necromancer and a wider plot to kill King Edward II and his right hand man, Hugh Despenser the Younger, along with his father, Hugh Despenser the Elder. The trial itself is recorded in the main plea role of the King’s Bench 1324-1325 and twenty seven men were associated with it, many with names like ‘Richard le Taillour’ suggesting they were skilled local craftsmen or merchants.

The actual record is the testimony of Robert le Mareschal of Leicester, who was the accomplice of the accused necromancer (written ‘nigromancer’) and the eventual whistleblower, after getting cold feet. According to his testimony, this large group of local men came to the home of John of Nottingham seeking his help in having Edward II murdered, along with the earl of Winchester, (Hugh Despenser the Elder), Hugh Despenser the Younger and the prior of Coventry — who they accused as being ‘rough’, perhaps exerting his power beyond what was reasonable and behaving brutishly. Their issue with the king and the Despensers appears to have been that they were supporting the prior of Coventry, despite his punitive actions against its people. John of Nottingham agreed to help these men along with Robert le Mareschal of Leicester for a generous fee of twenty pounds — and fifteen for le Mareschal — and the promise of a safe house should he need it. They all swore each other to secrecy and everything looked promising.

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I will be divulging what that is very soon! I know, sorry.

I’ve been carving out a new routine which includes frequent day trips to the library, the British Library and the London Library. Both are fabulous hive minds and the former is free. It is well worth the visit, if you have not been, if not only to look at the Treasures of the British Library which boast a collection of letters and manuscripts from Bede to the Brontë Sisters.

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Last week I spent a couple of days there and visited a manuscript I have been working with, John Hardyng’s Chronicle (BL MS Lansdowne 204). John Hardyng was a chronicler working out of northern England during the early 15th century, who was fervent in his belief that English kings should rule Scotland. Hardyng wrote a verse Chronicle of the history of Britain and was determined to prove that the English were rightful rulers of Scotland he faked documents as ‘historical evidence’ in the attempt to prove as much. He was in the household of Henry Percy (Harry Hotspur) and witnessed the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1403 and is generally considered to be a key source for northern England in the late Middle Ages. His chronicle has been edited and a new edited version is currently in the works by Professor Sarah Peverley. My interest, though, was in one of the maps depicted within the chronicle. This particular map was drawn by Hardyng himself and is read left to right, south to north. It shows Scotland from the Border up and the castles within the country.

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Ok, truth be told I have been as gripped as everyone else by the Beckham feud. I am obsessed with the “dance” the cooking videos, the second wedding. I bow down to the queen of commentary over the whole thing, — if you have not read her work, please do.

History does not always need to be serious. I am pretty serious… 90% of the time but I feel like the appetite is there for a high-low history right now. I give you Beckhams vs Angevins. Victoria is the matriarch Eleanor of Aquitaine and David isHenry II. Brooklyn is the Young Henry in this yet to be titled Tragedy.

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Last week was not at all blue or black, but actually encouraging and fulfilling in regard to history, the way I think about it and how I have enjoyed it within my surroundings. I am going to talk about this and also share what I have been up to and my general musings about my week, In History (you get it). I am going to talk about my love of Anglo-Saxon art, my opinion of Hamnet (I don’t go on too long), the amazing two days spent at a Cambridge conference on writing medieval history today and a pretty special 18thC National Trust spot. Plus some recommendations I have enjoyed this week, from Ancient Mesopotamia to to Thomas Hardy.

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I think one of the best things you can give yourself in January is a trip to a museum. Generally they are pretty quiet. They are inspiring and they are inside. Win win win. I took my daughter to the British Museum and realised she is at the peak age to enjoy it, requesting specifically to see the Rosetta Stone and the mummies — for the obviously macabre reason that all eight year olds want to see a mummy. Because it is effectively a dead body and they were embalmed with a hook. Through the nose.

Between the mummies and the ancient history bit I managed to steer her towards ancient Britain and Sutton Hoo, to look at the Sutton Hoo horde, with the famous helmet and its eyebrows of interlacing serpents. I also showed her my all time favourite object, Franks Casket.

I studied Franks Casket as an undergraduate and it has remained my favourite piece of Anglo-Saxon art ever since. It is made of whale bone and likely Northumbrian in origin. You can almost imagine a whale being washed up on the beach near Bamburgh and every bit of it being consumed or transformed into something else. Food. Oil. Bone.

The Casket, for me, is interesting because it represents a cultural shift. When ideologies conflicted or intersected. It is a melting pot of iconography, Christian, Jewish and Germanic. It says a lot about the power of storytelling and the confusion and conflict around faith. There is a single Christian image, the adoration of the Magi, (aka the Wise Men coming to meet the infant Christ) and an image from Roman legend — Romulus and Remus suckled by the She Wolf. Legend has it they went on to found Rome. The front panel, though, has depicts a Germanic legend, Weyland the Smith. This is a weird and bloody story that reminds me of Titus Andronicus. Weyland has killed the son of the bad king Niðhad, who has previously disabled Weyland by cutting his hamstrings (!) In revenge Weyland makes a goblet from the boy’s skull and gives it to Niðhad’s daughter to drink from. But the ale is drugged, allowing Weyland to rape her. Weyland then escapes with a set of wings he has fashioned from feathers. This story lies next to the Adoration of the Magi… which is a sharp contrast in interest.

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Oh… you have done me a great favor by taking me to Long Study, for I am fated to practice it for my entire life.

Christine de Pizan, Le Livre du chemin de long estude.

Last week the programme that I recorded at Gloucester History Festival aired on BBC Radio 4 for the first time. It was then aired again a few days later and has subsequently shot into the BBC SOUNDS top picks list. The show was Great Lives, presented by the brilliant Matthew Parris, with the theme of a great life, or an inspiration to the guest.

I was asked to appear on the show as a guest back in autumn and then it was decided we would record it live at Gloucester History Festival where I was speaking anyway. The brief was that I would pick someone who has always interested me, who I knew something about but I could not be the expert. By nature an indecisive person this was actually very easy for me and I chose Christine de Pizan. A woman who was born in the 14th century and lived into the 15th as a court writer who had the rare ability to not only write for a career, but about a multiplicity of subject matters, often male dominated. I have always wanted to discuss Christine, write about her or bring her into my work (which keen readers will observe I have), but I have always felt too much of an imposter to do so. It is a sadness and a joy that I have never been able to be her biographer. I would love to know more, claim expertise, but equally I have been able to enjoy her from afar and learn from others far more skilled in literary history and French. Such as the brilliant Charlotte Cooper-Davis, whose book on Christine is rigorous and spirited.1

I encountered Christine when I was in my first year of my undergraduate degree, during which we travelled to the British Library to see the Treasures of the British Library collection, permanently on display at the BL. We were ushered into the dark gallery where the Queen’s Manuscript, or the Book of the Queen, was displayed. This was one of the first times I had been confronted with an illuminated manuscript and it showed Christine de Pizan presenting her manuscript to Queen Isabeau of Bavaria. I was captivated.

Christine de Pizan is hardly a household name. Few have really encountered her but in my mind she belongs within the canon. Dante, Petrarch, Chaucer, Christine…. an educated, highly literate woman of elite — but not that elite — standing. Her work survives in over two hundred manuscripts. As her biographer, Charlotte Cooper Davis points out, Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, a contemporary text, only survives in thirty-two.

Born in Venice 1364, Christine had the good fortune to be born into a family that prioritised education. Her father, Thomas de Pizan was appointed astrologer to the French court in Paris in 1368 and soon his four year old daughter joined him with the rest of the family. Christine was given the same education as her brothers, with her father never seeing sex as an obstacle to learning, instead he ‘was delighted to see your passion for study’.

Christine’s early life was imperative to her later career. She was not only educated, she lived at the beating heart of European scholarship, where King Charles V invested wholly in intellectual culture. It is likely that this environment was the essential platform for Christine and her career as a writer.

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I write this, back to my page, on the freshest, most freezing January morning and I have been up since 6am, training my body and mind for the marathon of writing and researching I have ahead of me for 2026. This is very very hard considering I have spent the best part of three weeks cosseted in swathes of blankets reading in bed until mid morning. I was explaining to someone over yet another Christmas drink a few days ago (ouch), that I write best early, snapping my head into action as soon as I wake, like an eager race horse out of the gate. There are practical reasons for this, time being one of them, when as a parent I have very little to work with. But I am also at my freshest, cognitively. Probably because my cortisol levels have not been raised yet in trying to persuade small children to put their shoes on. Basically, my mind is quiet, the house is quiet. Nobody bothers me and there is nothing to distract me. Better still…. it works.

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I have wanted to write about Maud de Burgh for a while after I discovered her story when writing Sceptred Isle. Where much of the book is pacy and narrative in accounts of kings and battles (well trodden ground, basically) with Maud I was able to dig my teeth into something that just did.not.make.sense.

Maud was the daughter of Richard de Burgh, the earl of Ulster. A formidable Irish politician and solider who proved endlessly loyal to Edward I. The earl of Ulster played a shrewd game in the marital market and placed his daughters Elizabeth and Maud in advantageous, if not opposing marriages. Elizabeth was married to Robert Bruce — prior to his uprising against Edward — and Maud was married to the young Gilbert de Clare. It is a tragic irony that Maud’s husband would be killed in battle against Elizabeth’s.

The thing about Maud de Burgh is that arguably she and her husband Gilbert de Clare were the root cause of Edward II’s downfall, or at least his death was. Gilbert was the unlucky nephew of Edward II who rode into battle at Bannockburn still fuming from the row he had with his infuriating uncle, telling him he was basically f**ked if he didn’t figure out his battle pan pronto. Gilbert was, incidentally, right, but that did not stop him being brutally killed on the battlefield. Gilbert de Clare was important in that he was the king’s nephew, but he was also the son of Joan of Acre and grandson of Edward I. He also owned the majority of the Welsh borders and a huge amount of land elsewhere in England, known as the earldom of Gloucester. He was loaded. This would not have been such a problem if Gilbert had an heir — he didn’t — this was something he and his wife Maud were working on pre-Bannockburn and Maud was left a newly pregnant widow. The story is actually really sad. The young earl of Gloucester dying on the field leaving Maud a young widow navigating pregnancy alone. This snippet of empathy to her plight is actually helpful in unpacking this case….

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His entire reign was a Machiavellian melting pot, playing out alongside a war with Scotland that Edward was losing. He was not a good king, he was also not a cruel one — the real cruelty was enacted by his favourite, Hugh Despenser the Younger who you can read about here. But Edward was an indisputable bad king. The first in a long line of Plantagenet monarchs who was deposed/relinquished his crown in favour of his direct heir. After this Edward was kept under house arrest first at Kenilworth Castle (until he tried to escape), and then in the more secure Berkley Castle where he died.

This sudden end to Edward II’s reign and life is shrouded in mystery for nobody really knows what happened. Edward’s death is one that school children recall with sniggers. It is part of the lyrics in the Horrible Histories ‘monarchs’ song. Edward is that king who was killed by a poker up the bum. But is it really true or is it fabricated?

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