Shell Shock Explodes in WWI

by M.K. Tod

Now working on my third novel set during WWI, I’ve had plenty of time to consider the horrific conditions and consequences for those who served. With trenches that were hellholes, deafening, bone-shaking noise, inadequate equipment, gas attacks and the prospect of death from shelling at any moment, it’s hardly surprising so many soldiers suffered from shell shock. Given this year’s centennial commemorations for World War One, it seems fitting to explore the topic.

Victorian and Edwardian times that preceded the war celebrated a particular masculine ideal, one where men had absolute power over the family, on the grounds that men were not only stronger but also nobler than women. Society expected men to rule the home with wisdom, benevolence and compassion. In the late Victorian period a renewed emphasis was placed on the physical elements of manliness linked to the state of fitness and alertness needed to defend and extend the empire. Hard work and thrift, the desire to improve one’s circumstances, self-reliance, duty and strength of character were seen as desirable attributes for men. Charles Darwin’s work popularized the notion of self-help and survival of the fittest; public school education instilled values of military discipline, duty, service and team spirit. These were the expectations of those who went to war.

In the medical realm, psychiatry had emerged as a specialty; however, medical schools offered little in the way of instruction or practical experience. Those deemed to suffer from mental illness were often incarcerated in asylums and the prevailing attitude was ‘once a lunatic always a lunatic’. Compared with other countries, Britain lagged behind most of the civilized world in the treatment of mental disease.

As early as December 1914, the British army estimated some 7 to 10% of all officers and 3 to 4% of other ranks were casualties of nervous and mental shock. Captain Charles Myers of the Royal Army Medical Corps first used the term shell shock in February 1915 citing symptoms of reduced field of vision, loss of smell and taste, and loss of memory. These symptoms were thought to be caused by severe concussive motion of the brain brought on by exploding shells. In other words, a physical condition.

In contrast, by May 1915, Dr Aldren Turner, dispatched by the War Office to investigate, offered this description of shell shock:
“ . . . a form of temporary 'nervous breakdown' scarcely justifying the name of neurasthenia, which would seem to be characteristic of the present war . . . ascribed to a sudden or alarming psychical cause such as witnessing a ghastly sight or a harassing experience . . . the patient becomes 'nervy”, unduly emotional and shaky, and most typical of all his sleep is disturbed by bad dreams . . . of experiences through which he has passed. Even the waking hours may be distressful from acute recollections of these events.” A nervous condition.

In late 1915, the Army classified shell shock as a wound and rather than risk ‘lunatics at the rear’ organized rapid evacuation of such cases from the front. However, as war progressed, shell shock reached epidemic proportions such that after the Battle of the Somme in July 1916 where some 40% of casualties were deemed to be shell shock, the need for prevention and rapid treatment became paramount otherwise the very success of the war effort was threatened. The British government of the time favoured a psychological model that blamed the individual rather than conditions of war, while the Army considered shell shock a condition of the weak. The medical profession, divided on causes and treatment protocols, was inadequately prepared to handle the volume of cases.

By 1917, medical officers were told to avoid the term shell shock and to refer to cases as Not Yet Diagnosed (Nervous). If the disorder was nervous rather than physical, soldiers did not warrant a wound stripe, and if unwounded, could return to the front as quickly as possible.

As a general statement, the British army considered those affected to be weak and cowardly; the ideal soldier was heroic, masculine and fearless. Veterans of earlier wars such as the Boer War – often senior officers or NCOs – felt that shell shock was simply a loss of nerve. Similarly, the French army considered traumatized soldiers to be malingerers, while the German army considered them unworthy and unpatriotic. Beyond military concerns, and in some ways even more galling, the British government worried about long term pension implications for those suffering shell shock.

Alcohol was used to combat fear and prevent the build up of horrible memories. Colonel JSY Rogers, 4/Black Watch stated that 'Without the rum ration we would have lost the war'. Passchendaele was another case of wholesale slaughter. For soldiers suffering shell shock during that battle, the army took speedy action to evacuate them away from the front so they could have temporary respite from battle, quieter conditions, sleep, food and a modicum of comfort. Within a few days they were returned to active duty.

Shell shock was very real. Symptoms included palpitations, fear of fainting, feelings of suffocation, throat constriction, depression, insomnia, nervousness, lassitude, loss of memory, diminution of self-confidence and self-control, and terrifying dreams. Some were struck with physical symptoms such as blindness, loss of hearing, facial and body tics, convulsive movements similar to epileptic fits, and limbs that could not move. As noted earlier, treatment protocols varied not only as war progressed but also physician to physician and facility to facility. Treatments included electric shock therapy, electric heat baths, milk diets, hypnotism, clamps and machines that physically forced limbs out of their frozen positions, rest, peace and quiet, calming activities and psychotherapy sessions. In a 1917 article written by Dr. G.E. Smith, the author describes an ideal treatment plan: firmness and sympathy, limited periods of isolation, suggestion and hypnosis, rational treatment (by which he means probing the individual to discover fundamental causes of the condition), and the therapeutic value of work. Sadly, many of those who suffered were not given the benefit of this approach.

Otis Historical Archives National
Museum of Health and Medicine
https://www.flickr.com/photos/27337026@N03/

The numbers are staggering. By the end of World War One, the British army had dealt with approximately 80,000 cases of shell shock. Four out of five cases were unable to return to active duty.  A decade after the end of the war, over 74,000 cases were registered with the Ministry of Pensions. As estimated 10% of over 1.6 million military wounded of the war were attributed to shell shock. Shocking to say the least.

During the war, Siegfried Sassoon was sent to Craiglockhart Hospital, a treatment centre for officers suffering from shellshock. He wrote many poems, one of which is called Survivors.

No doubt they’ll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk
Of course, they’re ‘longing to go out again’
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.

They’ll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they’ll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter’d their pride…
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is an Editors' Choice post, originally posted on Tuesday, December 2, 2014 and now updated by the author.
Sources:
Shell shock, Gordon Holmes and the Great War, by A.D. Macleod in JRSM

The Shock of War, by Caroline Alexander in Smithsonian Magazine, Sept 2010

Shell Shock during World War One, by Professor Joanna Bourke, www.bbc.co.uk

Shellshock and Its Lessons, by G.E. Smith and T.H. Pear, Manchester University Press, 1917

Masculinity, Shell Shock, and Emotional Survival in the First World War, by Dr Tracey Loughran, Reviews in History, http://www.history.ac.uk/reviews/review/944



M.K. Tod writes historical fiction and blogs about all aspects of the genre at A Writer of History. Her latest novel, TIME AND REGRET will be published by Lake Union on August 16, 2016. Mary’s other novels, LIES TOLD IN SILENCE and UNRAVELLED are available from Amazon and in e-book formats from Amazon, Nook, Kobo, Google Play and iTunes Mary can be contacted on

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Captain Henry Jennings : A war with Spain, wrecked ships and some sunken treasure – How the Pirates of the Caribbean started.

by Helen Hollick

Conflict flared up in Europe in 1700 because of the death of childless Charles II the King of Spain. The unease over who would succeed him troubled various governments throughout Europe. (The EU problem is nothing new!) As Charles lay dying he gave the entire Spanish Empire to the second-eldest grandson of King Louis XIV of France: Philip, Duke of Anjou. Obviously Charles II had a reason for doing this, although it was probably not the resulting War of the Spanish Succession.

With Philip ruling Spain his grandfather could claim huge financial benefits and great advantage for himself and his heirs. But if the French held such power, the rest of Europe could suffer financially, as France and Spain united for trade, and other perks, would dominate to the detriment of the Dutch and English.

Not liking the possible consequences England, the Dutch Republic and Austria, along with the Holy Roman Empire, formed a Grand Alliance in 1701 to support Emperor Leopold I's claim to the Spanish inheritance for his second son, Archduke Charles. Result: war.

The War of the Spanish Succession lasted from 1701-1714 and was a delight for the Caribbean-based privateers, for wealth-laden Spanish ships sailing from the gold-rich South Americas and Mexico could be attacked with legal impunity. Privateering was not piracy, it was legally condoned by governments and kings alike. The rule, though: you only attacked and stole from the country/countries your own sovereign was at war with, and you shared the loot with said government and king. This particular war was all too short, though. After those few rewarding years in the Caribbean and along the North American coast of the Colonies, sailors sat idle with no more money to spend and nothing to do. Ships were starting to rot in the harbours.

With the war drawn to a close, and privateering now illegal again, Spain resumed bringing treasure from Mexico back home, by the boatload. Literally. But the weather intervened. In July 1715 a fleet of galleons set sail from Mexico to Spain after many months of delay. The Flota de Nueva España (the New Spanish Fleet) set out intending to rendezvous in Havana, Cuba, with a second fleet, the Esquadron de Terra Firme. The combined fleet was a floating treasure chest of silver and gold coin, gold bars, gold dust, jewels, tobacco, spices, indigo and cochineal, as well as emeralds, pearls and Chinese porcelain. The combined value of cargo (not including any contraband  likely to have been aboard) neared a modern equivalent of £1,500,000,000.

The Tierra Firma under the command of Captain-General Don Antonio de Escheverz y Zubiza, with the New Spain Fleet, Captain-General Don Juan Esteban de Ubilla. Confusingly, both flagships were called Capitana. Other ships were the Almiranta, the Nuestra Senora de la Concepcion, Urca de Lima, San Miguel, the El Ciervo, the Refuerzo and a smaller unknown merchant vessel. Sailing with them, Griffon, a French ship commanded by Captain Antoine Dar.

All were top-heavy, overloaded and had delayed sailing for too long. July was hurricane season. The intended route was to sail along the Florida coast making use of the Gulf Stream and then veer across the Atlantic. One week after departure from Havana a hurricane blew in. With the exception of the Griffon which sailed on unscathed, the entire fleet was wrecked off the coast of Florida. Over one thousand men lost their lives, including Ubilla and his officers.

Some of the ships sank in deep water, most broke up in the shallows. The more fortunate ran aground close to the beach. About 1,500 men reached the shore, the survivors improvising makeshift camps while a party was despatched to fetch aid from nearby St. Augustine. This was the early eighteenth century; the American West had not been explored, the slave-labour plantations were only starting to expand. Florida was not the tourist attraction, heavily populated State that it is today. Apart from Native Americans and natural flora and fauna, there was nothing there. Many of the poor wretches who scrabbled ashore succumbed to exposure, thirst, shock and hunger before help arrived. Salvage ships were dispatched from Havana, but not for the benefit of survivors. The prime concern was to recover the cargo.

Most of the treasure from the holds of the ships which had run aground was recovered. A salvage encampment was built and a storehouse erected among the dunes behind the beach. Word spread, and many of those bored men sitting around doing nothing had the same idea: get a boat, get rich quick. Like moths to a flame they surged to the Florida shallows in the hope of picking up a fortune – literally. And then, in January 1716, Henry Jennings appeared on the scene.

Jennings was an opportunist. Like so many privateers (and pirates,) little is known of his early life. He had been a merchant captain and a respected, educated land-owner – and a privateer during the short war. He headed to Florida with his ten-gun sloop Barsheba accompanied by a second vessel, Eagle, captained by John Willis, with a combined crew of between 150-300 men.

Scrabbling around in the shallows for mere handfuls of the lost treasure was not his intention, though. Jennings was made of brighter stuff. He let the Spaniards do all the work then sailed in as calm as you please and raided the warehouses, getting away with something like 350,000 pieces-of-eight, the equivalent of about £87,000 British sterling. The raid was illegal, an act of piracy - the war had ended. A small, inconsequential fact to these men.

Jennings compounded his piracy by attacking a French ship, the Sainte Marie amassing another 60,000 pieces-of-eight. When he returned to Jamaica, where hitherto the Governor had welcomed Jennings (and a share of any plunder) things were different. The Spanish had complained and Henry Jennings and his crew were no longer welcome. They were more likely to be hanged. Sensibly, Jennings went to Nassau on New Providence Island in the Bahamas, which was rapidly becoming as notorious pirate haven.

At the start of this ‘Golden Age’ of piracy in the Caribbean, Florida Coast, Chesapeake Bay, Virginia and the Bahamas, many of the later infamous names sailed together, drank together, and probably enjoyed a bit of ‘bed-chamber entertainment’. In 1718 piracy had become so prolific – and was causing such damage to trade, that the English government introduced an amnesty for the several thousand pirates gathered in the area – most of whom had been lured there by the wrecked fleet. Jennings took advantage of King George of Hanover’s Amnesty, overseen in the Bahamas by the new Governor, Captain Woodes Rogers. Dozens of pirates surrendered, and Jennings, being educated, soon found himself in a position of leadership as unofficial Mayor. With his pirating days behind him, he retired as a Bermuda plantation owner, and became one of the rare ex-pirates who not only survived the prospect of the noose, but apparently enjoyed a leisurely retirement.

As for the treasure fleet: the Spanish continued salvaging what they could until 1719. It is possible that around £300,000,000 still remains on the seabed, the occasional haul being found by professional marine archaeologists and treasure-hunters. No wonder the Florida beaches are such an attraction for hopeful holiday-makers.

The sinking of the Spanish Fleet and Jennings’ derring-do inspired the initial idea for my novel Sea Witch, the first in a series of nautical adventures with a touch of fantasy. Fun sailor’s yarn tales. ‘What if,’ I thought, ‘it wasn’t Henry Jennings’ idea to raid that warehouse, but my pirate, Jesamiah Acorne.‘

Graphics: © Helen Hollick

designed by www.avalongraphics.org

Links

Website: www.helenhollick.net
Blog: www.ofhistoryandkings.blogspot.com
Sea Witch Page :
https://www.facebook.com/HelenHollick.SeaWitchVoyages/
Twitter: @HelenHollick
Author Page on an Amazon : http://viewAuthor.at/HelenHollick 

Sources: 

Life Among the Pirates   David Cordingley 

A History of Pirates  Nigel Cawthorne 

A General History of Pirates  Captain Charles Johnson 

The Buccaneers of America  Alexander O. Exquemelin  

The Pirate Wars  Peter Earle

Under the Black Flag  David Cordingly 

Margaret Beaufort: The King's Mother

By Judith Arnopp

3^rd July 1509, Westminster Abbey - the body of a woman lies in state in the Abbey Refectory. The light of a thousand flickering candles falls upon nun-like clothing, hands clasped as if in prayer, a lined face testament to a life of battle, a life of uncertainty, a life of unflinching duty. This woman was the King’s mother …

Literature has not been kind to Margaret Beaufort. She was not a pretty woman, but she was pious, and she was resilient. It is not easy to turn a strong, plain woman into a romantic heroine and so, in fiction at least, she has become a harridan, a half-mad zealot. Feminists today celebrate the few medieval women who stepped from beneath the thumb of masculine authority but Margaret is seldom among them.

Due to their illegitimate roots, the Beauforts were barred from succession but that did not prevent them from becoming one of the most powerful families in England. From the day of her birth Margaret was a prominent player in the story of what we now know as the wars of the roses.

In the first year of her life Margaret’s father, out of favour with the king after a failed campaign in France, took his own life and Margaret was placed in the protection of the Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole. When she was six-years-old she was married to the Duke’s son, John, a boy of seven.

Shortly after this the Duke himself fell into trouble and was killed trying to flee the country. Margaret and John’s marriage was quickly dissolved. As the country deteriorated into civil war the king’s brothers, Edmund and Jasper Tudor, were given the wardship of Margaret. At the age of twelve she became the wife of Edmund, the Earl of Richmond. She followed him to Wales where Edmund battled on the king’s behalf against Gruffyd ap Nicolas. They made their home at Caldicot Castle and Lamphey Palace which Edmund used as a base for his military operations. It must have been an alien environment for Margaret so fresh from the nursery at her mother’s home at Bletsoe.

After winning back Carmarthen castle, Edmund fell into dispute with the Yorkist, William Herbert, who imprisoned him at Carmarthen. Edmund died there, either of wounds, or plague, or a combination of both. He left his twelve-year-old widow, Margaret, six months pregnant with his child.

Margaret, vulnerable and alone, turned to protection to her brother-in-law, Jasper, who took her to Pembroke castle. It was in his cold, lofty fortress that Margaret gave birth to her only child, a son, whom she named Henry after her cousin the king.

Within weeks of his birth Margaret had taken her life into her own hands and arranged, with Jasper’s assistance, to marry Henry Stafford, a younger son of the Duke of Buckingham. Henry remained in the care of Jasper but, when Edward IV won the throne, he was placed in the hands of William Herbert to be raised at Raglan Castle in Wales.

How Margaret must have felt at handing her beloved son into the custody of the man responsible for her husband’s death can only be surmised. Henry maintained his title of Richmond but his lands and properties went to the new king’s brother, George, Duke of Clarence. As soon as she was able Margaret began to campaign for the return of Henry’s birthright. Henry was well treated by the Herberts, and given a place almost as a family member. Margaret maintained good relations with Herbert and his wife, wrote to him often and visited Henry on several occasions.

In 1469, after the Battle of Edgecot, Herbert was executed by the rebel Warwick, and Jasper took back control of his nephew until the Lancastrian defeat at Tewkesbury when he and the boy took flight to France, ending up in Brittany. They rode away without saying goodbye, and Margaret was not to see her beloved son for fourteen years.

Margaret seems to have been happy with Henry Stafford who sought peace with Edward IV, winning positions at court. Their main residence was at Woking where they made several improvements to the palace but Henry Stafford was wounded at Barnet in 1471 fighting for York. He died shortly afterwards, never recovering from his injuries. Wasting no time, before the year of mourning was up Margaret again made a strategic match, marrying Thomas Stanley in 1472.

Stanley was a prominent member of Edward IV’s court who offered her the position she craved. She seems to have remained loyal to King Edward but, on the accession of Richard III in 1483, she began to plot against him. There is no evidence she had anything to do with the disappearance of the princes in the tower but she was behind a series of rebellions. After a failed attempt involving the young Duke of Buckingham, despite her clear involvement, Richard was merciful and placed her in the custody of her husband – where she continued to conspire against the king. Her machinations eventually paid off and with her help Henry and Jasper raised an army in France and landed at Milford Haven in 1485. The Battle at Bosworth marks the beginning of the end of the Wars of the Roses and, like it or not, on that day Margaret achieved her life’s ambition. Not only did she finally see the ultimate victory go to Lancaster but she witnessed her only son, Henry Tudor, crowned King of England.

An objective look at the Wars of the Roses reveals no saints, no sinners; each side was as much at fault as the other. It is clear to me that Henry VI and his queen, Margaret of Anjou, were ineffective and unsuitable rulers. I can understand the frustrations of the ambitious Duke of York. On the other hand it is also clear that Edward IV became a lazy king, too fond of his leisure and exasperating his most loyal brother, Richard of Gloucester. In the few short years he ruled Richard III showed promise as king, he may have made a decent job of it given the chance. It would be a different world today had the outcome at Bosworth been different.

Henry Tudor, a complete opposite of Edward IV, cared nothing for the favour of the people. He ruled as he saw fit, his decisions often dictated to by his experiences as an exile. He made tough, sensible decisions regardless of contemporary opinion. On his death the royal coffers were full, riches that were quickly depleted by his son Henry VIII who seems to have inherited the love of excess from his grandfather, Edward IV.

During his reign Henry Tudor was guided by his mother, a woman who never for one moment faltered in her support for him, and to listen to her was probably one of his best decisions. She was a woman to be reckoned with, a wise politician, and a formidable opponent. Henry owed her everything. When he died in 1509 the future of the Tudor dynasty rested with his son, Henry VIII, a virile, golden prince whom everybody loved.

Margaret died seven days after the coronation of her grandson, Henry VIII. She had taken a prominent part in the upbringing of all her grandchildren, perhaps finding some solace for only having given birth to one son. It seems that on the death of her son and the accession of her grandson, her job was done. She had lain down her life for the Tudor cause, worn herself out for her cause, and for England. It was time to go.

Margaret Beaufort was a diminutive, self-reliant, determined woman whose piety was outstanding even in the devout days of medieval England. Most historic female achievers are saluted today. We see them as early feminists, pioneers for modern women to emulate, but Margaret is seldom celebrated. In her day she was a hallowed figure (she made sure of that) but today she is tainted with ignominy. I can only think it is her lack of romance, her lack of prettiness, her lack of sexiness, yet Margaret was awesome!

During my research for The Beaufort Chronicles I have discovered a new respect for Margaret Beaufort; I salute her metamorphosis from pawn to the most powerful person in England beneath the king.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Judith Arnopp is the author of eight historical novels, her latter work concentrating on the transitional years of the wars of the roses. She is currently working on The Beaufort Chronicles, charting the life of Margaret Beaufort. Book one: The Beaufort Bride is available now in paperback and on kindle. The Beaufort Woman coming soon.

The Beaufort Bride: Book one of The Beaufort Chronicles – out now

The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles – pre-order now

The King’s Mother: Book Three of The Beaufort Chronicles – to follow.

The Beaufort Bride
The Beaufort Woman
A Song of Sixpence

The Winchester Goose

The Kiss of the Concubine

Intractable Heart

The Song of Heledd

The Forest Dwellers

Peaceweaver

mybook.to/thebeaufortbride

www.juditharnopp.com

author.to/juditharnooppbooks

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https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/31/Margaret_Beaufort_2.jpg

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The Bishop and the Bread-knife

by Anna Belfrage

In a feudal society, the first-born son generally hit the jackpot. His was the future title, his were his father’s lands, and not very much was left for his younger brothers – unless, of course, the mother had her own lands and titles that could be settled on a younger son. Alternatively, the younger son entered holy orders. The church, you see, offered an interesting and lucrative career path to the ambitious younger son. Not that the younger son was always given a choice: your medieval ambitious daddy saw the benefits in having a son or two high up the ecclesiastic hierarchy.

Obviously, not all bishops in medieval England were younger sons of noblemen. Take, for example, today’s protagonist, Walter Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter and loyal servant of Edward II. Mind you, Walter was a younger brother. Big brother Richard was to inherit some minor landholdings from their father, and little Walter was therefore destined for the church. The Stapledon family was not without means, seeing as both Richard and Walter were educated at Oxford. Richard would go on to become a lawyer and local judge, on top of his day-to-day management of his lands. Walter, on the other hand, made his way to Exeter, where he became a cathedral canon in 1301. By then, Walter was in his mid-thirties, a well-educated man who in 1305 became a doctor of canon and civil law, which qualified him for royal employment.

In 1307, the bishop of Exeter died, and Walter was chosen as his replacement. Not a unanimous vote, and there was a lot of quibbling back and forth before Walter’s backside was firmly welded to the bishop’s chair. But once there, Walter had arrived: as a bishop, not only did he have access to substantial means, but he was also a member of Parliament. And somewhere along the line, Bishop Walter found favour with the king, Edward II.

During his first decade as bishop, Walter not only organised his diocese and founded Stapledon Hall in Oxford (present day Exeter College). He also served Edward as an envoy to Gascony on several occasions. Things weren’t all that good in Gascony, with the French encroaching regularly on English land. From a French perspective, the land was French. From an English perspective, Gascony was what remained of the magnificent Angevin empire that had been built by Henry II and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and which started crumbling the moment Henry II died – albeit that his son Richard held it together for some more years. Gascony therefore had immense emotional value for the English – and Edward II was not about to let this last toe-hold on the continent slip away.

Supposedly, Edward II

Edward had problems closer to home. Due to his blatant favouritism of the Despensers, father and son, he had alienated most of his powerful barons, who felt he was in breach of his coronation oaths, whereby he was supposed to take counsel from a larger group of barons, not only the Despensers. When Edward II repeatedly turned a blind eye on the Despensers’ rapacious (and at times illegal) appropriation of land belonging to others, the barons were further enraged. When Hugh Despenser the younger took it upon himself to hang, draw and quarter a man without a trial, the barons had had enough. In 1321, the barons, led by Roger Mortimer and Thomas of Lancaster, rebelled, and Walter Stapledon was one of ten bishops who had their work more than cut out for them as they hastened back and forth between the king and the barons in an attempt to broker a peace.

Ultimately, the king was given no choice: The Despensers were exiled and Edward retreated to lick his wounds and plan vengeance. Stapledon retired to his diocese, resigning from the role of Treasurer he’d been given by Edward a year or so earlier (this appointment was one of the issues of contention with the barons; such appointments should be discussed with the baronial council). Maybe Walter felt an element of relief at this development, hoping to expend his considerable energy on his diocese. Alternatively, he was disappointed, seeing as he’d earned the reputation of increasing his own wealth due to his position, not above applying extortion when so required.

In the event, Edward II rose like a phoenix from the ashes. Clearly, the risk of never seeing Hugh Despenser sufficed to have the king act swiftly and resolutely, and by 1322 the tables had been turned on the barons, with Mortimer languishing in the Tower and Lancaster very dead. The Despensers were recalled, Stapledon was reinstated, and things were, in Edward’s opinion, good. Well: except for Gascony, where things had taken a turn for the worse.

Stapledon had his work cut out for him as Treasurer. The hostilities in Gascony, the skirmishes with Scotland – it all cost money. And when Mortimer escaped the Tower in August of 1323, money had to be expended on increased security for the king and his favourites. Stapledon was an efficient administrator, but money was scarce – the king was not given to parsimony, neither was dear Hugh – and in 1324 the king seized Queen Isabella’s dower lands to supplement his income. Some say this was Stapledon’s idea, but whether it was or not, the bulk of Isabella’s holdings lay in his diocese, so Stapledon was put in charge of doing the actual seizing. This did not go down well with Isabella, who was reduced to a meagre allowance and blamed Stapledon for her humiliation.

The political situation in England became increasingly volatile. Spurred on by Hugh Despenser, Edward turned England upside down in his search for potential allies to his rebellious barons – first and foremost Mortimer. Suspects were hauled before the assizes, in some cases deprived of their lands, in others imprisoned or executed. Tensions rode high, putting it mildly. In Gascony, the French under Charles de Valois routed the English. If Edward wanted to retain his Gascon lands, he had to act – which he did, by sending his queen to negotiate with her brother, the French king Charles IV. Isabella was successful, Charles IV was willing to be magnanimous, and all that remained was the thorny issue of homage.

Paris - back then 

Charles IV wanted Edward II to do homage – in Paris – for Gascony. This would mean leaving England in Hugh Despenser’s hands, and while Edward himself had no problem with this, Despenser most certainly did, convinced that the moment the king was gone, he’d be attacked and murdered by the disgruntled barons. Probably a legitimate fear, and so in September of 1325 Edward II despatched his son, Edward of Windsor, to do homage in his stead. The young prince was accompanied by Walter Stapledon who was charged with one further task: bring Queen Isabella home.

By then, Isabella had been in France for six months or so, and she showed no inclination whatsoever to return to her husband. Seeing as Roger Mortimer was at large on the continent, this made Edward decidedly uncomfortable – he was intelligent enough to realise that his disaffected and humiliated wife might entertain the notion of supporting the traitorous (as per Edward) baron. He had repeatedly ordered Isabella to return, and at her non-compliance had cut off her funds, hoping this would bring his wife to heel. The only thing that happened was that Isabella moved in with her brother, still stubbornly refusing to return to England.

The future Edward III, doing homage

Stapledon oversaw the homage ceremony, tried to corner Isabella into having a private conversation, and when that didn’t work he chose to stand up before the entire French court and tell her she had no option but to return home immediately, her husband would not tolerate any more excuses from his disobedient wife. Isabella stood and told Stapledon she would not go home – not as long as Hugh Despenser the younger was the third wheel in her marriage. Stapledon turned to the French king – a man-to-man demand that the king send his sister back to her husband. Charles, unsurprisingly, refused. Stapledon had no choice but to retire, utterly humiliated. Some days later, he chose to flee the court in disguise, convinced there was a plot afoot to assassinate him. Left behind in France was Prince Edward, now firmly under his mother’s control. The rebellion against Edward II had just acquired its figurehead – the heir to the throne.

Stapledon returned to an England in turmoil. Over the coming months, it became apparent that Isabella and Roger had joined forces – more than that, they’d embarked on a passionate relationship, openly cuckolding Edward II. In England, all those suffering under the double yoke of Despenser and Edward II organised themselves, while the king and his advisors concentrated on defence strategies. Stapledon was made responsible for defending his part of the country, and as the winter of 1325 became the spring of 1326, people waited. And waited. And waited.

In September of 1326, Isabella and her son, accompanied by Roger, landed in England. In a series of rousing speeches, Isabella declared that they were here only to safeguard England from the tyranny of the Despensers and the other evil counsellors of the king (I am sure she included Stapledon in this little club), and to ensure the rule of law was restored within the land. At every opportunity, she presented her handsome fourteen-year-old son, ensuring everyone got an eyeful of the heir – the future king.

Despenser urged the king to flee. Edward II did not lack personal courage, and with the funds in his treasury he could easily have fielded an army substantially larger than that of Isabella and Roger. But in view of Hugh’s abject terror, he did as his favourite asked him to and rode west, making for the relative safety of Ireland. London was left in control of Stapledon – a dangerous task, seeing as the Londoners were major Mortimer and Isabella fans.

On October 15, 1326, London exploded. Angry citizens decided to take justice in their own hands and the mayor (who, incidentally, was one of the men who condemned Roger Mortimer to death in 1321) was forced to sign the death sentences of two men: one was a purported Despenser spy, the other was none other than the hated Treasurer, Walter Stapledon. Now Walter was a bishop, and as such could only be tried by an ecclesiastic court, but the mob had gone beyond trials – they wanted blood, and they wanted it now. The Despenser spy was hunted down and dragged to Cheapside where he was beheaded. And then they went in search of the bishop.

Stapledon was not at home when the mob burnt down his doors, ransacked his house and carried off his precious belongings. But upon hearing that his house was being looted, the bishop donned armour and rode into the city, ignoring the advice to stay away. By the time he’d realised his error, it was too late, the mob baying for his blood as they chased Stapledon and his squires through the London streets. Desperately, Stapledon made for St Paul’s, hoping to claim sanctuary. At the north door, the crowd caught up with him, and he was pulled off his horse, screaming in fear as he was hauled towards Cheapside. There he was forced to his knees and his head was sawed off with a bread-knife. I can only imagine just how much time that took…

Depiction of Richard Stapledon's Monument (S A Hart)

The ecstatic Londoners sent Stapledon’s head as a gift to Isabella. It is to her credit that she was horrified – mostly because one should not saw off the head of bishops. On Isabella’s orders, the body (and head, one assumes) of Walter Stapledon were returned to Exeter, where he was buried before the high altar. His brother, Richard, is also buried in the Exeter Cathedral. Whether or not they meet up at night to chat about the distant past, I have no idea.

(All pictures in the public domain)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Had Anna Belfrage been allowed to choose, she’d have become a professional time-traveller. As such a profession does not exist, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests, namely history and writing.

Presently, Anna is hard at work with The King’s Greatest Enemy, a series set in the 1320s featuring Adam de Guirande, his wife Kit, and their adventures and misfortunes in connection with Roger Mortimer’s rise to power. And yes, Walter Stapledon and his poor head features in Days of Sun and Glory, published in July of 2016. The first book, In The Shadow of the Storm was published in 2015.

When Anna is not stuck in the 14th century, she's probably visiting in the 17th century, specifically with Alex and Matthew Graham, the protagonists of the acclaimed The Graham Saga. This is the story of two people who should never have met – not when she was born three centuries after him.

Editors Weekly Round Up: July 3, 2016

by the EHFA Editors

Enjoy this week's wrap up of posts on the blog:

The Sailor and the Shark: an 18th Century Tale of the Thames

by Mimi Matthews

Who Stole Britain's Sixth Century?

by David Ebsworth

Medieval Monks' Meals

by E.M. Powell

Sherry: an Ancient Beverage Shared with Angels

by Lauren Gilbert

Who Were the Celts

by Annie Whitehead

Little Mothers and Proto-proletarians: Growing up in Mining

by Lesley Hulonce

The English Historical Fiction Authors blog has also been running a Giveaway this week. David Ebsworth is giving away a signed paperback of The Song-Sayer's Lament: A Novel of Sixth-Century Britain. You can find the details in the link below. Entries are open until Midnight (Pacific Time), Sunday July 3 2016.

Giveaway- The Song-Sayer's Lament: A Novel of Sixth-Century Britain 

Little mothers and Proto-proletarians: Growing up in Mining

By Lesley Hulonce

Elizabeth was using the last of the daylight to finish mending her brother’s trousers. The job often kept her until the early hours of the morning because of the long hours the miners worked. She hated the thick moleskin that prevented him being injured in the mine as it was almost impossible to get her needle through, and her fingers were hurting. The needle and thread had to be waxed for nearly every stitch before she could get it into the moleskin. He felt differently, these were men's trousers, miners’ trousers which showed that he was now a man, a wage earner and had at last joined the masculine ranks at the pit. Alan Burge identifies boys’ first pair of moleskin trousers as a ‘totem of manhood’. Getting their first pair represented their entry into the ethos of adult ‘manhood’ within the pit.

    (Welsh miners' children)

The South Wales coalfield was one of the few locations in Britain which adhered to a separate spheres agenda.  Unlike most of the country where working-class women went out to work as a matter of course, in the coalfield boys were trained to be miners and girls to be mothers and housewives. They were ‘little mothers’ as soon as they could look after their siblings, they could be taken out of school in times of crisis and were primed to marry a miner, probably from the same village and restart the cycle with their own (numerous) children. While American feminist historian Joan Wallach Scott felt able to claim with confidence that the ‘call for a history of women’ had been comprehensively answered by 1983, Welsh women's historian Deirdre Beddoe argued in 1984 that Welsh women were written out of Welsh history and, ‘if a creature from outer space landed in Wales and worked through Welsh history, she would be perplexed as to how the Welsh procreated. They were all men!’ Within the historiography of Wales, a complete work dedicated to Welsh women’s history was not published until 1991.

The study of childhood in Wales is an under-investigated area of scholarship. The gender roles and expectations of adult life were grafted onto children via the stratification of play, household chores and education. Building on Alun Burge’s study of miners’ learning in the first half of the twentieth century, a gendered analysis of both boys’ and girls’ positioning within coalfield society enhances our understanding of the gender roles ingrained during their formative years. Boys were widely seen as proto-proletarian heroes, union stalwarts and hungry for learning. But not by their mothers who imagined a different future for their children, one which did not include working a mile underground or struggling on after 13 stillborn births. As Dot Jones argues ‘the unremitting toil of childbirth’ killed and debilitated untold numbers of women in the South Wales Coalfield. Burge argues that boys were socialised and trained into the colliery ‘around the fireplace’.  Dai Dan Evans recalled that ‘all the young lads…in the village were steeped in mining, the only conversation you could get in the community was about mining…Therefore we were what you might term, trained for the pit, and nothing else’. Girls, it appears were trained for domesticity and very little else.

 (pithead bathing)

Although elementary education of working-class girls was intended to produce good wives and domestic servants, there is insufficient exploration of the offensive that exacerbated this widely held construction of femininity. Reports such as the Inter-Departmental Committee on Physical 

Deterioration in 1906 set the tone for girls’ education as it thought that the ‘annual sacrifice of infants’ was not due to poverty but to the ignorance of mothers about hygiene and nutrition and it recommended the teaching of cookery, childcare and cleanliness in schools. ‘Schools for Mothers’ were also established which leant heavily on lectures on personal hygiene and the necessity to eliminate dirt from the home. Girls were trained to refute this charge of slovenliness in the home by becoming respectable and ‘tidy’ women.   

Amongst girls who attended and completed a grammar school education, entry into the teaching profession was regarded as an appropriate progression. Sian Rhiannon Williams highlights the limited occupational options of educated working-class women and men in an article that shows that teaching may have not been the girls’ first choice, but as teaching was held in high regard and considered an appropriate feminine profession, many young women were encouraged down this avenue by their parents. Williams has shown that this ‘feminisation’ of teaching from the late nineteenth century did not necessarily lead to a fall in the social standing of teachers.

 (waiting for news)

However, a more complex gendered exploration of why the profession was considered so suitable for women, could deepen our understanding of a coalfield society in which teaching was perceived as the primary ‘escape’ from the pit or domesticity.

Elizabeth Andrews didn't grow up to darn her own sons’ moleskin trousers as she and her husband did not have children themselves. She became the Labour Party’s Woman Organiser for Wales for 29 years and following her retirement in 1948 she equated her work to that of a missionary ‘preaching this new Gospel of Social Justice and a new way of life’. Her long career of political activism had also included campaigning for women’s suffrage and the establishment of several branches of the Women’s Co-operative Guild in the Rhondda. She was a leading figure in the campaigns for pithead baths and better housing for miners; pit head baths were considered vital if women were to be able to stop carrying heavy coppers of hot water to bathe their coal-stained husbands at home. The evidence she gave before the Sankey Coalmining Commission in 1919 raised awareness of a coalfield society in which the health and life expectancy of miners’ wives and daughters was as damaged and diminished by the demands of mining as the miners themselves.

  (Elizabeth Andrews)

These were ‘tidy women’ women whose career was homemaking and mothering; ‘an army of women trained to wash and scrub and polish as men trooped in and out’. Mrs Hughes reminisces about cleaning:

‘I used to wash the path – and our toilet was down the bottom of the garden – and I used to ‘wash the path – we had flagstones – used to wash the path from the back door right down to the toilet…And then the front, flagstones was in front then, and I used to wash the pavement from the front door, right past the window, right down to the drain. The pavement, I used to wash all that. Beautiful, lovely. 

‘Coal House’ was a reality TV series, in which three 2007 families lived and worked in the south Wales coalfield of 1927. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/south_east/7086725.stm while the programme tried to follow the way life was in 1927, it was of course impossible to recreate the fear, worry and hardship that Welsh children and their families experienced on a daily basis. I was drawn to the way the women failed to keep the range up to a temperature for cooking and water for baths. Women in 1927 would never have let the range temperature drop – if they had done, their miner husbands would have come home dirty and hungry and been unable to bathe or eat; it was unthinkable.

(coal house)

A 1916 Local Government Report showed that some counties in Wales had more than double the average maternal death rate of England and Wales. Stillbirths in Wales were also over a 1/3 higher than England, and in Glamorgan and Monmouth maternal mortality had increased from 14.2% in 1929 to 42% in 1933. A damning report on Maternal Mortality in Wales in 1937 showed that maternal mortality had risen steadily and was over a 1/3 higher than England. Similarly In ‘Counting the Cost of Coal’, Dot Jones shows that in 25-44 age groups in Pontypridd, the female mortality rate was significantly higher than men.

Little girls were growing up to die in childbirth, and little boys were sent into mines where safety standards were low priorities. Mining companies in South Wales of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries took the children for the pits and lost them early to the killing fields of coal.
~~~~~~~~~~~

Select references:

For an insight into the pride taken by these ‘tidy women’ listen to http://www.museumwales.ac.uk/welsh_womans_history/9_weekly_routine/

Deirdre Beddoe, ‘Towards a Welsh Women’s History’ in Llafur, 3:2 (1981).

Alun Burge, ‘Swimming against the tide: gender, learning and advancement in South Wales, 1900-1939’, Llafur, 8, 3 (2002), 13-31

Joan Wallach Scott, ‘Women in History: The Modern Period’, Past and Present, 101 (1983), 141; 

Angela V. John, ed., Our Mother’s Land, Chapters in Welsh Women’s History, 1830-1939 (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1991).

Rosemary Crook, ‘Tidy women: women in the Rhondda between the wars’, Oral History Journal, 10 (1982), 40-6.

Neil Evans and Dot Jones, ‘“A blessing for the miner’s wife”: the campaign for pithead baths in the south Wales coalfield, 1908-1950’, Llafur, 6:3 (1994), 5-28.

Elizabeth Andrews (ed., Ursula Masson), A Woman’s Work is Never Done and Political Articles (Dinas Powys, Honno, 2006 edition).

Diana Gittins, Fair Sex: Family Size and Structure, 1900-39 (London, Hutchinson, 1982).

Francis and Dai Smith, The Fed: A History of the South Wales Miners in the Twentieth Century (London, L&W, 1980; UWP, 1998).

Carol White and Sian Rhiannon Williams (eds), Struggle or Starve: Women’s Lives in the South Wales Valleys Between the Two World Wars (Dinas Powys, Honno, 1998).

Graham Goode and Sara Delamont, ‘Opportunity denied: the voices of the lost grammar school girls of the inter-war years’, in Sandra Betts (ed.), Our Daughters’ Land: Past and Present (UWP, 1996), 103-24.

Dr Lesley Hulonce is a historian and lecturer in the College of Health and Human Sciences at Swansea University. She researches children, women, disabilities and prostitution and can be contacted at mailto:l.hulonce@swansea.ac.uk

She tweets at @LesleyHulonce and @histhealthcult and blogs at Workhouse Tales https://lesleyhulonce.wordpress.com

Her first monograph is available to preorder at Amazon for £2 (a pound of which goes to the Careleavers trust) Pre-order

Read a preview of Pauper Children

Who Were the Celts?

By Annie Whitehead

I had cause, a few years ago, to try to find out about the slightly mythical Celts. Who were they, where did they really come from, what do we actually know about them and how they lived? In this, the first of a series, I will attempt to answer the first question - Who were they?

The Celts in Europe
The origin of these peoples seems to lie partially in the inhabitants of north-Alpine Europe. The people here are known to archaeologists as the 'Urnfield People' because of their burial rites. They cremated their dead, and buried the ashes in cemeteries known as 'Urnfields'. Their culture is spread from about 1300-700 BC and there is evidence to suggest that they spoke a recognisably Celtic language.

Between 700 and 600 BC, there seems to have been a partial change in burial rite in central Europe, connected with the iron-using 'Halstatt' culture. The graves which gave their name to this phase were found at Halstatt in the Salzkammergut in Austria. (Painting of grave goods shown above - image Public Domain) Much of the wealth of these people came from salt mines and saline springs; salt was a much valued commodity, and could be traded for rich articles associated with burials. The burial rite changed in that the bodies were laid out un-burnt on four-wheeled chariots, and covered by an earthen mound.

Model of a Halstatt Grave Barrow - image under Commons Licence- author Wolfgang Sauber

In about 500 BC, further changes apparently took pace. The centre of Celtic power moved to the Middle Rhine. At burials, the bodies were now laid out in the light, two-wheeled chariots which were to become typical Celtic vehicles of war. This second, and most typically Celtic phase, is known as 'La Tène'. The name was taken from the discovery of a (presumably ritual) deposit of metalwork in the lake at  La Tène (The Shallows) on  Lake Neuchâtel in Switzerland. The La Tène culture brought with it a glorious new art style.

Bronze fitting - image reproduced under Commons Licence - author BastienM

From about 450 BC, movement and expansion of these barbarian people can be traced. It seems that bands of these people made their way down into the Italic peninsula, over-running Etruria, [1] settling there and further south, and, in 390 BC, pushing into Rome. Others went further east, into Asia Minor (Turkey), and in 279 BC they made an unsuccessful attack on Delphi.

The Classics tell us that the Celts were organised into tribes. The Greeks and Romans make comments on their social organisation, and some of their habits and customs, and much of this information can be regarded as genuine.

After the fatal attack on Delphi, it would seem that the Celtic retreat commenced, although a few Celts remained in the east for many centuries.

The Celts in Britain
There is archaeological evidence to suggest that there were Celts of Halstatt ancestry in north-eastern Scotland as early as 600 BC and settlements of people of Halstatt origin from France and the Low Countries would appear to have taken place about 500-450 BC. The initial settlement of these people occurred on the east coast of Yorkshire, and in the south and east. These Halstatt derived cultures are grouped by archaeologists under Britain Iron Age A. [2] *

Bronze Halstatt tool, possibly a razor - image Public Domain

Although elements of the La Tène culture were present from the first, the next movement into Britain seems to have taken place about 250 BC. These settlers came across to the east and south coasts, and spread to the south and west. It was these people who introduced the two-wheeled war chariots and, of course, the La Tène art style. It is not known however whether it was these people or their Halstatt predecessors who introduced the Druidic priesthood to preside over religious rites. These, and other bearers of  La Tène derived cultures, are contained within the British Iron Age B.

The third phase of Celtic settlements is contained within British Iron Age C. It consists of the influx of Belgic peoples who settled in southern Britain. This movement can be dated to around 100 BC. These people may have introduced the art of enamelling, and brought over the gods and cult symbols from Gaul. It would appear that it was the hostility of this group of people towards the Romans, that was the main reason for Caesar's invasion in 55 BC. Between this date and Claudius' conquest in AD 43, further Belgic settlements took place.

The famous Snettisham (Norfolk) Great Torc, 1st C BC - Under Commons Licence- author Ealdgyth

The south soon settled down to Roman rule, although the north put up opposition, and in the years between the two Roman invasions there was a great deal of movement to the north by those anxious to escape the Roman domination.

Scottish versions of the Iron Age A cultures of England were present, and trade relations show some connection between southern Scotland and the Iron Age C (Belgic) area of southern England. After the establishment of Roman rule, restless tribes beyond Hadrian's Wall put up resistance, especially the Maeatae, and the Caledonii, who were the fore-runners of the historical Picts. [3] (Information on Celtic settlement in Scotland was and remains, for the time being, somewhat confused.)

Certain Celtic Peoples
Information about which Celtic tribes settled where is confused, because for much of the Celtic era, the results of archaeology and history cannot be made to coincide. More is known about certain tribes than others. The La Tène culture was certainly important and, as we have seen, was known for its art. Yet these people were masters of many other techniques. Not only could they inlay metals, but long before the invention of the necessary rolling equipment, they were also capable of producing the finest iron. They even seem to have mastered the art of casting soft iron, a technique once thought to have been perfected only in the nineteenth-century. They could boil ornamental glass, coloured and white, and they knew how to enamel. They could cover copper objects with tin, and may have been the first people in the world to silver them with mercury. They devoted much care to the manufacture of weapons. the chain-mail of Celtic princes could have stood comparison with those of the high middle ages, if stone representations have been correctly interpreted.

Ornamental gold mounts on bowl - Commons Licence - author Rosemania

The Celts of Gaul were apparently most hospitable people, never locking their doors, and always welcoming passers-by. The Gauls were known to  Caesar as 'Galli' and to the Greeks as 'Galatae'.

On the other hand, the Cisalpine (on this side, i.e. the Roman side of the Alps) and Transalpine Gauls (across the Alps, i.e. the other side) used to cut off the heads of defeated enemies and hang them up, like trophies, outside their houses. [4] The Gauls were described by Diodorus [5] thus:

"They are very tall in stature. Their hair is blond, but not naturally so; they bleach it, washing it in lime and combing it back from the foreheads. Some of them are clean-shaven, but others, especially those of high rank, shave their cheeks but leave a moustache that covers the whole mouth."

According also to Diodorus, the Transalpine Gauls were men of few words who spoke in riddles, leaving most of their meaning hidden, and he thought them intelligent and capable of learning. Yet Strabo [6] found these same Transalpines simple-minded and limited. Much of what we can learn about the Celts is, of course, subject to such opinion.

Overview map of the Hallstatt (yellow) and La Tène (green) cultures. After Atlas of the Celtic World, by John Haywood; London Thames & Hudson Ltd., 2001, pp. 30-37.

By Dbachmann, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4003285

Next time: How the Celts Lived.

[1] Etruria - a former region of Italy between the Tiber, the Apennines, and the River Magra. The Etruscans were a superior intellectual Aryan race originating from Asia Minor. Although they settled in Italy, they were different from and far more advanced than their Italian neighbours. They spoke a strange language, all traces of which have unfortunately been lost.
[2] More on these groupings can be found in Pagan Celtic Britain - Anne Ross p39
[3] Generally regarded to be Celts - they could merely have been Picti - the painted people (more of which in the next part of this series) or they could have been Pictones, a conquering aristocracy from Pictavia, or Poitou. Anne Ross believes they originated form the Caledonii Op cit p41
[4] Diodorus says that they preserved the heads in wooden boxes.
[5] Diodorus (Sicilus) of Sicily was a Greek historian. His 40 books were a universal history from mythical beginnings to the time of Caesar. He used varied literary sources with little judgement of his own, and often without regard to exact chronology. For certain periods, though, he provides the best evidence available.
[6] Strabo was a Greek geographer. He lived from about 58 BC-25 AD. He spent his life in travel and study. His Geographica in 17 books included in Book 4 a study of Gaul, Britain and Ireland, although the countries he travelled through were not described with equal accuracy and fullness. (Below - Strabo's map of Europe - Public Domain)

Further reading:
The Celts - Gerhard Herm
Celtic Britain - Lloyd Laing
The World of the Celts - G Dottin
*The classification of the Iron Age is, according to archaeologist and author Louise Turner, in a state of 'flux' at the moment. For more information visit Here

Annie Whitehead is a history graduate and prize-winning author. Her novel, To Be A Queen, is the story of Aethelflaed, daughter of Alfred the Great, who came to be known as the Lady of the Mercians. It was long-listed for the Historical Novel Society’s Indie Book of the Year 2016 and has been awarded an indieBRAG medallion. Her new release, Alvar the Kingmaker, which tells the story of Aelfhere of Mercia, a nobleman in the time of King Edgar, is available now.
Annie's Author Page
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