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By Rosanne E. Lortz Ascribing motivations—I’ve heard it said before that this is one of the main differences between historical novelists and historians. The historian aims to tell what historical characters did. The historical novelist aims to tell why they did it. The historian gives us the facts. The historical novelist embroiders the facts with what was going on in the actors’ heads and hearts. The historian gives us an impartial account of what happened. The historical novelist biases the account by giving us a hero and a villain and manipulating events to create a story arc. While it is certainly true that good historical novelists try to get inside the heads of their characters, it’s also true that historians do the very same thing. Historians are telling a story, just as historical novelists are, and instead of assuming that everything we read in a history book is plain, unadulterated fact, we should instead learn to look at it as a piece of literature that must be evaluated. W...

By Rosanne E. Lortz We thought that the clergy of our realm had been our subjects wholly, but now we have well perceived that they be but half our subjects, yea, and scarce our subjects: for all the prelates at their consecration make an oath to the Pope, clean contrary to the oath that they make to us, so that they seem to be his subjects, and not ours. On May 11, 1532, King Henry VIII uttered this complaint to Parliament, that the clergy of the realm cared more for the Pope’s commands than they did for his own. Any Tudor-phile can tell you what happened next. Two years later Henry issued the Act of Supremacy, severing the connection with Rome and making himself “the only supreme head on earth of the Church in England.” But how did the Church of England become so reliant on the Church of Rome in the first place? How did the Pope, the bishop of the far-away city of Rome, gain authority over what happened in the British Isles? Augustine of Canterbury The story of the Pope’s involvement ...

By Rosanne E. Lortz What’s the proper ratio of fact to fiction? It’s a common discussion among writers of historical fiction. Some authors feel bound to honor every known fact and only invent material where the historical record is silent. Others use history as a rough guideline and let their imaginations run wild. Some sit solidly on the historical side of the spectrum while others fly their flag more freely in the opposing field of fiction . But in both cases, historical novelists’ books meet the requirements of their genre. They are, to a greater or lesser degree, inspired by and based on the actual events of history, but no one mistakes them for history itself. No one looks for historical novels in the nonfiction section of the bookstore. Geoffrey of Monmouth lived in the twelfth century, an age where distinctions like history and historical fiction had yet to be drawn. His book, The History of the Kings of Britain , traced the history of Britain from its alleged establishment by B...

By Rosanne E. Lortz We have all heard the story of Thomas Becket, the archbishop who refused to surrender to the will of King Henry II and ended up lying murdered on the floor of the church at Canterbury. What many people do not know, however, is that Thomas Becket was not the first Archbishop of Canterbury to defy a king in order to protect the power of the Church against the encroachments of the monarchy. He was simply following in the grand tradition of his illustrious predecessor, Anselm of Canterbury. When William the Conqueror died in 1087, his son William Rufus inherited the throne of England. The office of Archbishop of Canterbury fell vacant. For four years, the king refused to allow the office to be filled, declaring that he would be his own archbishop. The flock of England was thus left with no shepherd to tend her while a wolf wore the crown. Eventually, King William Rufus was prevailed upon to fill the office in Canterbury. He selected Anselm of Bec for this privilege,...

By Rosanne E. Lortz Yesterday we considered seven different primary sources relating to the Norman Conquest, trying to discover the true story of what happened with the English succession. Three Anglo-Saxon sources told us that Edward the Confessor, on his deathbed, gave the crown to Harold, but they made no mention of Harold taking an earlier trip to Normandy to pledge the crown to William. Four Norman sources placed great emphasis on this trip and on Harold’s oath, although some of them, like the Bayeux Tapestry, were not clear on what the actual terms of the oath were. Today we will consider some sources written a little bit after the fact—fifty to a hundred years after the Norman Conquest.  SOURCE 8 William of Jumièges’ work, one of the Norman sources that we looked at yesterday, was revised in the early twelfth century by Orderic Vitalis. In the passage discussing Harold’s trip to Normandy, Orderic Vitalis adds these interesting details: (1) After Harold swore fealty to W...

By Rosanne E. Lortz One disservice that many historians do to readers is to weigh two sides of a disputed issue, form a judgment on what they think happened, and then present their judgment as if it is incontrovertible fact. The events leading up to the Norman Conquest are one such issue. School children everywhere learn that prior to Edward the Confessor’s death, Harold Godwinson, the most powerful earl in England, made a trip to Normandy and swore to support Duke William’s claim to the crown. After Edward’s death, Harold reneged on his oath, precipitating the Norman Conquest and his own death at the Battle of Hastings. It is interesting to note, however, that most of the primary sources of the period have fairly different versions of this tale. Things are not as cut and dried as the historians would have us imagine. Did Harold actually make a journey to Normandy? And if so, did King Edward send him? Was his purpose in going to swear an oath of support to William? Or was the oath ex...

By Rosanne E. Lortz A Crow having stolen a bit of cheese, perched in a tree and held it in her beak. A Fox, seeing this, longed to possess the cheese himself, and by a wily stratagem succeeded. "How handsome is the Crow," he exclaimed, in the beauty of her shape and in the fairness of her complexion! Oh, if her voice were only equal to her beauty, she would deservedly be considered the Queen of Birds!" This he said deceitfully; but the Crow, anxious to refute the reflection cast upon her voice, set up a loud caw and dropped the cheese. The Fox quickly picked it up, and thus addressed the Crow: "My good Crow, your voice is right enough, but your wit is wanting.”   This fable, attributed to the Ancient Greek slave Aesop, appears pictorially three different times in the margins of the Bayeux Tapestry. Other fables, also from Aesop, show up as well, leading historians to pose an interesting question: Why were they included? Are they merely decoration? Or are they commen...