Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors (76 page)

On the right is a silver Unicorn with a gold horn, a mane, beard, and hooves, representing Scotland. Chained to the compartment, he has a coronet around his neck with alternating crosses and fleur-de-lis.

Unicorns were well known through classical Greek and Roman texts and medieval bestiaries. They were described as large and very fierce. Thus they were chosen to guard the Royal Arms, and and it explains why they are always shown chained up. A unicorn’s whiteness symbolized purity and chastity, later leading to them being seen by some as symbols of Christ and his incarnation.

In England, supporters were not integral originally to the Royal Arms and were subject to frequent change. Only in the 15th century did their use became consistent. Since then, various imaginary and real beasts have been used. Examples include the hart, greyhound, dragon, and bull.

My information in this article comes from the Churches Conservation Trust who contacted me to share this information near the time of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. Please visit their website (
http://www.visitchurches.org.uk/
). There’s so much history to be seen! I hope you have enjoyed the symbolism that they have worked so hard to share.

An Englishman and His Dog...

by M.M. Bennetts

W
hether it’s Fielding’s Squire Western with his Horses, Dogs, and Bottle, or Austen’s Sir John Middleton with his dogs, or Bronte’s Mr. Rochester with his dog, Pilot, Siegfried Farnon, the vet from
All Creatures Great and Small
, or James Fleet’s character in
Four Weddings and a Funeral
with his beloved black Lab, Englishmen are known for their close relationships with their dogs. And never more so than in the past.

Englishmen have always had dogs, haven’t they? Yes, of course, they have. They’re mad about the creatures. But the stereotypical image we have today of the Englishman with his Labrador retriever or his Jack Russell terrier is actually quite a recent phenomenon, dating only back 150 years or so.

The short-coated Labrador retrievers (which are ubiquitous in the country) didn’t originate in Labrador, but in Newfoundland, and the first mention of them there is in 1822, when a traveller there wrote of “small water dogs”, commenting that:

The dogs are admirably trained as retrievers in fowling, and are otherwise useful.... The smooth or short-haired dog is preferred because in frosty weather the long-haired kind become encumbered with ice on coming out of the water.

Subsequently (sorry I can’t find a date for it), the Earl of Malmesbury saw one of these animals which had been brought home by some English fishermen and instantly decided to have some imported.

By 1830, a sportsman by the name of Colonel Hawker was writing of them and calling the St. John’s breed of water dog, saying they were:

by far the best for any kind of shooting. He is generally black and no bigger than a Pointer, very fine in legs, with short, smooth hair...is extremely quick, running, swimming and fighting...and their sense of smell is hardly to be credited.

But it isn’t until a letter, written in 1887, by the Earl of Malmesbury, that they’re given the name by which we know them today:

We always call mine Labrador dogs, and I have kept the breed as pure as I could from the first I had from Poole, at that time carrying on a brisk trade with Newfoundland.

The Jack Russell terrier, such as those which travel about with HRH, the Prince of Wales, is equally modern.

John Russell (1795-1883), known as Jack, was a sporting mad young man, studying at Oxford prior to taking holy orders, when he encountered a little white terrier bitch. According to a memoir by E.W.L. Davies, published in 1883, the meeting went like this:

It was a glorious afternoon towards the end of May, when strolling round Magdalen meadow with Horace in hand, but Beckford in his head, he
[Jack Russell]
emerged from the classic shade of Addison’s walk, crossed the Cherwell in a punt, and passed over in the direction of Marston, hoping to devote an hour or two to study in the quiet meads of that hamlet, near the charming slopes of Elsfield, or in the deeper and more secluded haunts of Shotover Wood.

But before he reached Marston a milkman met him with a terrier—such an animal as Russell had as yet only seen in his dreams; he halted, as Acton might have done when he caught sight of Diana disporting in her bath; but, unlike that ill-fated hunter, he never budged from the spot till he had won the prize and secured it for his own.

She was called Trump, and became the progenitress of that famous race of terriers which, from that day to the present, have been associated with Russell’s name at home and abroad—his able and keen coadjutors in the hunting-field....

In later life, John Russell became known as The Sporting Parson, and the line of dogs he bred from Trump live on in the flat-coated or wire-haired Jack Russell terrier—full of spunk and personality, the very best ratters one could hope to find, and generally, a beloved nuisance.

So...what’s the novelist to do when writing about pre-Victorian times. What kinds of British dogs would have been common in the homes of the gentry or aristocracy? In the homes of farmers?

Spaniels are and were always popular. They’re brilliant gun-dogs—and that in any age when shooting was a means of putting food on the table would have been essential. Spaniels in some form or other date back at least to 1368 and these dogs come to be referred to as either land spaniels or water spaniels.

Brittany spaniels, for example, probably date back as far as the 3rd century. But the first records that really pin down an actual Brittany-type spaniel are in 17th century tapestries and paintings.

Perhaps the best known though are what we now call Cavalier King Charles spaniels. These small companion dogs are direct descendents of the small Toy spaniels that were popular throughout the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries and are often seen in the paintings of those eras. (Madame de Pompadour had one.) Even in Tudor times, they were popular as pets with court ladies. But it was the Stuart kings, particularly Charles II, who gave them their name and reputation.

The diarist Samuel Pepys accompanied Charles II from exile. Here are a few of his comments from his Diary for the date 25 May 1660—the date King Charles landed back in Britain:

About noon (though the brigantine that Beale made was there ready to carry him) yet he would go in my Lord’s barge with the two Dukes. Our Captain steered, and my Lord went along bare with him. I went, and Mr. Mansell, and one of the King’s footmen, with a dog that the King loved (which
[dirted]
the boat, which made us laugh, and me think that a King and all that belong to him are but just as others are), in a boat by ourselves, and so got on shore when the King did, who was received by General Monk with all imaginable love and respect at his entrance upon the land of Dover.

Here, though is an even more interesting morsel of trivia from Pepys’ diary, a note about the dogs:

Charles II.’s love of dogs is well known, but it is not so well known that his dogs were continually being stolen from him. In the “Mercurius Publicus,” June 28-July 5, 1660, is the following advertisement, apparently drawn up by the King himself: “We must call upon you again for a Black Dog between a greyhound and a spaniel, no white about him, onely a streak on his brest, and his tayl a little bobbed. It is His Majesties own Dog, and doubtless was stoln, for the dog was not born nor bred in England, and would never forsake His master. Whoesoever findes him may acquaint any at Whitehal for the Dog was better known at Court, than those who stole him. Will they never leave robbing his Majesty! Must he not keep a Dog? This dog’s place (though better than some imagine) is the only place which nobody offers to beg.

Anyway. These dogs fell out of fashion during the reign of William III, who preferred pugs (usually accompanied by a small black page boy). And it wasn’t until the late 18th and early 19th century that again they resurface, bred by the Duke of Marlborough at his home, Blenheim Palace. (Which is why the chestnut and white coloured variety are referred to as “Blenheims”.)

Other breeds which are surely old enough to figure into the lives of earlier generations of dog-loving Brits include Mastiffs, which Caesar described in his account of the invasion of Britain in 55 B.C.

The Scottish Deerhounds and Irish Wolfhounds were originally one breed, but by 1576, the Deerhound was recognised as different, and highly valuable for the pursuit and killing of deer—a most coveted sporting occupation. Both animals, although technically hounds, are rarely kept as kennel dogs because of their affectionate natures and love for human companionship.

And then of course, there are the packs of hounds—foxhounds and beagles, both of which are used for hunting and are kept in kennels and hunt in packs.

And yes, we love them all. Truly, madly, deeply, and forever….

The Isle of Anglesey

by John Wheatley

T
he isle of Anglesey stands in the Irish Sea, separated from the Welsh mainland by the beautiful Menai Strait, once described—with its treacherous tides and unpredictable currents—as the most dangerous waterway in the world.

Wherever you go on Anglesey, you find stories.

When the Romans were fastening their iron grip on Britain, two legions under Suetonius Paulinus crossed the strait to
Insula Mona
to destroy the Anglesey stronghold of Druid culture, and by all accounts the bloodiest of slaughters took place. In ensuing centuries, as the emergent kingdom of Wales defended its freedom against powerful enemies, Anglesey was the retreat of the Princes and a royal household was established at Aberffraw.

Ancient historical and cultural ties with neighbouring Ireland were consolidated when, after the Act of Union, 1800, Holyhead on Anglesey was chosen as the final stage of the mail route to Dublin, and it was this which led to the building of the Menai Bridge, completed in 1826.

My first Anglesey novel,
A Golden Mist
, was inspired by the story of the loss of the
Royal Charter
. Returning, in 1859, from Melbourne, with a company of 500 men, women, children, and crew, and laden with bullion from the Australian gold fields, the
Royal Charter
was only thirty miles from her destination, the port of Liverpool, when she was wrecked in hurricane conditions on rocks close to Moelfre, a fishing village on Anglesey’s northwest coast. Only forty people survived.

The sad evidence of the
Royal Charter
disaster is still to be found in remote and scattered churchyards along that stretch of coast, and it is said that many of the drowned, reluctant to lose the fortune they had gained on the far side of the world, went to their death weighed down with pockets full of gold. Many stories, too, are told of villagers from Moelfre who grew mysteriously rich in the aftermath of the disaster!

In
A Golden Mist
, Saffy Williams, visiting the UK from South Africa, finds evidence that one of her ancestors lived in Moelfre at the time. Through her quest, and two fictional contemporary narratives, the diary of Sophia Davis on board the
Royal Charter
and the memoir of Richard Williams, a young man living in Moelfre in 1859, I tell the story of the lost treasure ship and the lives and passions of people associated with it.

In 1770, “the great discovery” on Parys Mountain, near Amlwch, on Anglesey`s north coast, was the uncovering of rich copper deposits, and it led to a furious mining operation, lasting fifty years, which turned Amlwch from a tiny coastal village into a busy and tawdry industrial town—the copper capital of the world. My second Anglesey novel,
Flowers of Vitriol
, is a moody story of love, betrayal, jealousy, and vengeance set during this early chapter of Britain’s industrial revolution.

Baron Hill, the fabulous neo-Palladian mansion set on the hillside, above Beaumaris, and overlooking the celebrated castle—one in the chain of fortifications by which Edward I attempted to subjugate the Welsh—represents the wealth and influence of the Bulkeley family, who provided statesmen in the courts of Elizabeth I and James I, and who played a vital role in Anglesey politics from the Civil War to modern times.

When I found, in my research of Baron Hill, a true story of love and adultery leading to an almost Oresteian tragedy of family vengeance and self-destruction, I chose this as the subject for my third Anglesey novel,
The Weeping Sands
. Over the centuries, Baron Hill played host to many distinguished guests, including royalty, but the Bulkeley family quit the mansion in 1926. Troops were billeted there during World War II, and after substantial fire damage, the house was finally abandoned. It now stands, a derelict and awe-inspiring ruin, camouflaged by trees, on the hillside above Beaumaris.

Mottisfont: The Evolution of an English House

by M.M. Bennetts

I
n the beginning there was a man and the man’s name was William Briwere.

A sketchy history of this man, Briwere, suggests he was a successful businessman who went on to be a rather savvy administrator for the Plantagenets. First as a judiciary left in charge of the kingdom when in 1189 Richard Lionheart embarked on the Third Crusade. Then latterly when he was made a baron, and became a trusted advisor to King John.

In return for his loyalty and service to the crown, he was awarded considerable lands upon which he was permitted to levy taxes. And upon some of this land, he founded four religious institutions: Dunkeswell Abbey and Torres Abbey in Devon, the Hospital of St. John in Somerset, and the Priory of the Holy Trinity at Mottisfont in Hampshire.

Was he trying to buy his way into heaven after a lifetime of financial gain and dubious piety? I can’t tell you. I don’t know.

The Priory at Mottisfont was founded in 1201 and it housed not monks but Augustinian priests (known for their black hoods), who numbered among their duties ministering to those in need, preaching to the community, and welcoming pilgrims passing on their way from Canterbury to Winchester, or even those on their way to the far-off shrine of Santiago de Compostela in Spain.

Throughout the 13th century and into the 14th, the Priory remained prosperous, supported as they were by the Briwere family and their descendants. And even throughout the modern-day property, there remain traces of this first house at Mottisfont—there’s the vast cellarium which was the giant larder for the community as well as traces of the mediaeval church.

But in 1348, the Black Death swept over the country, killing over a third of the population and, in some cases, wiping out entire villages. The Mottisfont cellarer, Walter de Blount, fell victim in 1349. Robert de Bromore and Richard de Caneford, his two successors, died too, in quick succession. And like the rest of the land, Mottisfont was caught up in the subsequent civil and economic hardship of the age.

(An earthquake in Hampshire in 1457 didn’t help matters any. William Westkarre, the then Prior, recorded that this had “greatly crushed and loosened” the buildings.)

Still, a generation later, though, things were looking up. Henry VII now sat on the throne and he initially planned to change the priory’s status, making it a Collegiate Church. But that was never enacted. Instead, Mottisfont became a subsidiary of Westminster Abbey, before gaining, in 1521, a new patron—Henry Huttcroft.

Then in 1536, Henry VIII ordered the dissolution of the monasteries.

They made quick work of it, for Mottisfont had been sold by June of that same year to William, Lord Sandys, (the king’s Lord Chamberlain for five years) who at once set about transforming the place into a grand new Tudor dwelling.