An orphaned serf disguised as a boy rides with a fierce warlord and his men. The Romans left Britain a generation ago, but the island still faces rapid changes. Legends are rich and stories make history. So learns the girl as she watches the rise of one of the greatest stories of all: that of Arthur.
Here Lies Arthur by Philip Reeve is not medieval, but it’s a precursor to the world I write about (and it’s a book that always inspires me). In this magnificent novel, we see who the real Arthur (not a king in this retelling) might have been—a sixth century brutal warlord who pillages holdings and towns to forcefully take his kingdom. It’s also a profound narrative about the power of stories. Told by Gwyna, a young girl we meet as she flees the fire and blood of Arthur’s attack on her lord’s holding. The wily bard Myrddin discovers her “cold as a ghost, wet as a drowned dog…trying to hug some warmth back into my juddering, shuddering limbs,” and rescues her. He asks her to play a role in the legend he’s building around his master Arthur, and after that successful outing with a sword in a pond, Gwyna becomes Myrddin’s servant—and, with the appropriate clothes and a haircut, a boy named Gwyn. With Gwyna/Gywn, we see Arthur from the ground: his bullying, invasions, battles, and manipulation. It’s all to secure his place in the present, and in history; in this world, the stories that are told of you are more important than any of your actual deeds.
The landscape of this novel is bleak but beautiful in subtle ways, and always feels real; Reeve’s historical research is stellar. Expect gentle humor as well as grim survival in this powerful retelling of a legend.
Medieval castles dominate Scotland’s landscape, and they’re practical structures for their times. Most start off as giant stone boxes with incredibly thick walls (sometimes square, sometimes rounded, depending on when they were built), copious trimmings to help with defense (say it with me: “crenelated battlements!”), and all sorts of openings with murderous purposes. Many also have gatehouses (which can stand up to battering rams and also provided defenders with a platform from which they could dump truly awful things on the people below), towers (for prisons or pleasure), and, of course, curtain walls to hold everything in. From the outside, even a ruined castle can look pretty fierce.
I’m a bit obsessed with the entrances to these forbidding buildings. While I certainly photograph the whole exterior, I also take pictures of gatehouses, doorways, or whatever the entry is; I like to imagine what my characters would feel when they’re just about to walk in. Here’s a wee tour of a few of my Scottish favorites and their most impressive features.
We’ll start with Caerlaverock Castle. This Dumfries beauty, first built in 1270 by the order of Sir John de Maccuswell (the family known as the Maxwells), boasts a formidable gatehouse with its right tower from the 13th century and its left tower and actual entry from the 15th. The door itself is a nice example of a two-centered arch, a type of doorway that was very popular in castles in the early- to mid-medieval period. As you approach Caerlaverock, the front of the castle seems to bellow its power through its mighty presence. And it had to: this castle was on a prime spot in the border between Scotland and England.
In 1300 during the Wars of Independence, the English king Edward I brought an army of over 3,000 men to siege Caerlaverock. Despite the significant defense of its entry and moat, the castle, with a garrison of only 60 men, surrendered in two days.
Edinburgh’s Craigmillar Castle didn’t need to worry about sieges too much, though it has a massive curtain wall. For show? Because any self-respecting castle would have one? Just in case? First built by Sir Simon Preston (or his son, also named Simon) in the 14th century, this was a well-fortified home. And it stayed in the family for a long time. Sir Simon Preston IV was a keen supporter of Mary Queen of Scots, and Craigmillar served as a peaceful refuge for her during a particularly troubled time in her life (though it was also the place where the Queen’s advisors developed a plan to end her unpopular marriage to Lord Darnley by murdering him). Okay, so there’s the gossip. Let’s just focus on its beautiful entryway, a semi-circular arch, built in the late 15th century.
Past the timber doors, you see a cedar tree, one of two that dominates the inner courtyard. Defense was important, but comfort was, too, and this doorway shows that clearly.
Blackness Castle’s entry has a certain grandeur, but does not promise comfort. It’s a no-nonsense doorway, and you’re meant to be kept out. This West Lothian fortress on the Firth of Forth may have initially been a residence, but soon became entirely a defensive castle. It was built in the 1440s when Sir George Crichton, Admiral of Scotland, was lord. The Crichtons were enemies of the famous Black Douglases, one of the most powerful Scottish families, and this castle was strategically important for all sorts of reasons. The Crichtons held onto Blackness for many years, until Scotland’s King James II wanted it and invaded with a successful siege against Sir George’s son. Blackness soon passed into royal hands for good. (By the way, Sir George’s cousin William was the one who set up the murder of the young Black Douglas heir at Edinburgh Castle; see my post for more on that.)
A vast collection of shells now marks the entrance, just out of sight of this picture on the left. I wondered if that’s always been the case, and, if so, if their crunch provided a sort of doorbell or warning.
Because defense was so important at Blackness Castle, a yett would have been part of the entry. An iron gate of woven strips, a yett would have been very difficult for an invader to take down. It also gave defenders enough room between the iron weave to fire back.
Note the design: two horizontal strips are melded onto the vertical strips, a pattern that repeats throughout the yett.
Dirleton Castle, a grand East Lothian residence, has a dramatic façade. A fixed bridge now stands where the drawbridge once was, and the gatehouse has many layers you must walk past before you reach the courtyard. Dirleton was built in the 13th century for Sir John de Vaux as a fortified residence more than a fortress, and that fine: there was peace between Scotland and England, and he had nothing to worry about. But it was a good thing he’d built Dirleton as a castle; peace ended when the English king Edward I decided to invade Scotland and, in 1298, sent Bishop Bek of Durham (yes, bishops led armies back then) to capture Dirleton. Bek succeeded, though the Scots won it back at some point around 1306—and gave it a powerful gatehouse. You have to imagine its barriers these days, but they were formidable: a combination of portcullis, wooden doors, and yetts.
This was one of the strategic castles that the Scottish warrior king Robert the Bruce destroyed rather than risk its falling into English hands again.
One defense that you wouldn’t see upon entering Dirleton is this small chamber above the gatehouse passage. Here lurks a murder hole, called that because such openings were extremely useful for defenders to use in pouring dangerous substances (or throwing rocks) on invaders.
Think for a moment of what a rush of burning hot sand could do to a knight: it would trickle into his armor’s chinks, through his chain mail, past his padded tunic, and against his skin…).
A castle’s exterior is the first glance that you get of these behemoths of defense, but the door itself tells much of a castle’s intent: if it was meant to rebuff, or welcome, or perhaps just intimidate. A castle’s entry shows what a castle is all about. And, thanks to Scottish preservation organizations, we’re able to go through so many of them in Scotland today.
(The images in this post are my own photographs. Many thanks to Historic Scotland Environment, which owns and manages these properties and whose fascinating souvenir guides helped me with my dates and historical details. And thanks also to Malcolm Hislop for his How to Read Castles, a wonderful handbook that I look to whenever I need to remember an architectural note.)
A list of medieval books would never be complete without Newbery Honor-winning Catherine, Called Birdy, a rich story by Karen Cushman of a 13-year-old girl’s attempt to escape a typical medieval woman’s fate.
Filled with magnificent historical detail, the novel is a diary written by Birdy at the suggestion of one of her brothers (the only one she really respects). She’s no princess, just the daughter of a minor knight, yet she deals with unwanted marriage proposals like any fairytale maiden (well, like a singular one): through trickery, including attempts to utterly repulse potential suitors. Birdy’s ploys work until her father betroths her to a lord more disgusting than anything she could have come up with. Her protestations and ideas to escape that engagement fuel the main plot.
Birdy’s world is no melodic, clean, medieval paradise, but a real world: with fleas and filth, unbearably tedious “lady-lessons,” a blustering beast of a father, and disasters in spinning and weaving. Cushman depicts manor life and village life in vivid detail, from home remedies (“a gargle of strawberries, water, vinegar, and the dung of a white dog”) to the excitement of a village hanging (which changes quickly to horror for Birdy, at least, when she sees who the convicted “bandits” are: two scrawny, frightened 12-year-old boys).
Chapters—diary entries—start with just a date early in the novel, but soon include a commentary on saints and holidays assigned to that date, and these are one of this novel’s pleasures. For instance: “29th Day of March, Feast of Saints Gwynllyw and Gwladys, who bathed in the river Usk summer and winter and went for long walks completely naked until their son, the holy Cadoc, made them stop”.
Birdy obeys the rules of her world in some respects, but also frequent questions those rules. Her adventures and her voice are a delight for anyone interested in medieval life.
On with the next medieval book! In this engaging, fascinating volume, Laura Amy Schlitz creates a snapshot of a medieval life through its children with help from Robert Byrd’s detailed illustrations.
A blacksmith’s daughter muses sadly over her distance from a young nobleman who comes to have his horse’s shoe repaired. Hostility arises between a Christian girl and a Jewish boy when they meet at a river, until they begin skipping stones together and realize that they are far more alike than different. An impoverished villein’s daughter (a villein is a medieval serf) watches her widowed mother humbly outsmart the lord that has come to take their much-needed cow, a price they must pay upon her father’s death. The glassblower’s two daughters soliloquize about a likely marriage between one of them and their father’s apprentice, but with very different perspectives.
In this collection of monologues (and two dialogues), the young characters are vivid and lifelike, and the history is accurate and interesting. The children’s stories, as well as details of their lives—of farming, blacksmithing, poverty, and more—make this short poetic volume a rich one.
If you follow me on Twitter, you may have noticed my love for—oh, let’s just be honest—enormous obsession with Scotland’s castles.
Edinburgh Castle and its curtain wall looming (as all good castles should) over its city upon Castle Rock.
These are the stone behemoths that dominate Scotland’s landscape (particularly in the Borders), looming above cities, countrysides, and seas. Kings, earls, and lords—Scottish and English alike—built these fortresses from the 11th to 16th centuries to defend, intimidate, and rule the country. And though most of Scotland’s castles are in various stages of ruin, or have been rebuilt well beyond their original master masons’ plans, they’re impressive.
One of the most impressive is one of the most famous: Edinburgh Castle. Established as a fortified residence in the Bronze Age and built up into a powerful castle in the early 12th century, Edinburgh Castle stands as a centerpiece in Scotland’s capital and the country’s history.
The gatehouse at Edinburgh Castle is one of the most iconic (and photographed) parts of this beauty.
Edinburgh Castle’s lurid past includes a history of successful sieges, despite its strong defensive structure (and don’t forget, in later years, the cannons), but also a few wonderfully dramatic retrievals. My favorite of retaking harks back to 1314, when a brave Scot named William Francis led the Earl of Moray and 30 men up the cliffs of Castle Rock (at left) to overpower the forces of English King Edward II. Edward’s dad, Edward I, also known as the Hammer of the Scots, had successfully invaded the castle before, and so it was his rule that was crumbling as the Earl of Moray’s small war-band took the castle back.
There was also just plain murder here, such as the time an advisor to young James II executed the 16-year-old heir to the powerful Black Douglas clan and his younger brother in the middle of a dinner with the ten-year-old king. (According to records of the time, James II begged for the lives of his two friends, but was ignored.) James II demoted said advisor when he was old enough to wield real power. (This was a king who had witnessed horrific violence very young, which might be one reason why he was so fond of the latest weaponry.)
James II received one of the most powerful weapons of the late medieval ages—Mons Meg, cannon of cannons—as a wedding present. Let’s just say I’m a wee bit jealous.
During the English Civil Wars, Edinburgh Castle lost its status as a residence for royals and was turned into barracks for Oliver Cromwell’s garrison, then, later, for the Jacobites’, and, in the 18th century, a prison as well. But a hundred years after that, Sir Walter Scott, with his hugely popular writings and ongoing promotion of Scottish history, inspired new interest in the castle. That new interest eventually translated to renovations, including ones in a “medieval” style that may not be accurate but have done much to define how people imagine the medieval world today.
The Lang Stairs by Argyle Tower show the two styles clearly: a 19th century tower on the right (designed as the top of Portcullis Gate by Edinburgh architect Hippolyte Blanc), and part of the old structure to the left. The only original building from the castle’s early days is St. Margaret’s Chapel, a modest structure built in 1130 that now overlooks Mons Meg.
This castle today is a popular tourist site, but also a major part of the city. You can see it from the Royal Botanic Gardens miles away, as well as over the rooftops from the terrace level of the National Museum of Scotland, and from many other spots in the Old Town. I admit: I am absolutely in love with this castle. During my last visit to Edinburgh, I visited three times (my Historic Scotland Environment membership made that easy). Edinburgh Castle and I are now old chums.
A 20th century statue of Robert the Bruce, Scotland’s great warrior king (from 1306 to 1329), greets visitors from one side of a late 19th century gatehouse. As I was leaving from my final visit to the castle, I wished him goodbye—to the confusion of the tourists around me who didn’t quite know to whom I was speaking.
Many thanks to Edinburgh Castle and Historical Environment Scotland, which oversees and protects this and other important historical sites. Thanks also to the friendly staff at Edinburgh Castle and for the informative panels and excellent guidebook they put together, which broadened my knowledge and perspective of this, my favorite castle.
If you’re like me, you’ve surely fallen in love with at least one cover to a book. That’s the book you always carry around with its cover facing out. Before you sit down to read, you stare at its cover for a few seconds and feel warmth, awe, and inspiration. When you’re done reading, you keep it nearby, cover facing up, for at least a few days. It’s one the reasons you read print books.
A middle grade novel’s cover is a very particular kind of cover. It needs to be engaging, both a snapshot of the novel and an introduction to the novel’s world. It should tell a young reader what’s in store: the feel this book will have, the atmosphere, and a hint, at least, of what the book’s about. The best middle grade covers grab their readers to start, then stay in their readers’ minds long ago the book is done.
I’ve long admired Antonio Javier Caparo‘s art, and I’ve kept books he’s illustrated with the cover facing up on my desk for a few days after I’ve finished reading (A World Without Heroes and The Hostage Prince are two of my favorites). So I was thrilled when I heard that he would be the artist for The Mad Wolf’s Daughter.
Take that emotion up several notches for when I saw the actual cover:
Here were characters and scenes that had existed purely as my words on a page transformed into a visual reality. I love Drest’s fierce expression, Emerick’s downcast suffering face, that sly little smile on Tig’s lips. And Mordag the crow. And Faintree Castle lurking in the mist. And Drest’s father, and her two eldest brothers in the midst of a fight. And the mysterious cloaked figure on the stag…
This is my cover. It’s my own dream come true, a beautiful work in its own right, and a great promise to my readers of what’s inside. Thank you, Antonio.
There is a wealth of medieval-themed books for young readers out in the world. In this series of posts, I’m sharing some of my favorites for readers who might be interested in learning more about this world that fascinates me so much. These recommendations include works about northern Europe, which is where my own research has led me (it’s also been challenging to find texts for young readers that explore other geographic areas during the medieval period). I won’t include many books that have a heavy reliance on magic in this list, unless it’s as much a historical as fantasy with clear links to the real medieval world.
And we start with one such book: Adam Gidwitz’s The Inquisitor’s Tale.
This immaculately researched story follows three magical children in medieval France. Jeanne, who has had visions and owns a holy dog that has come back to life, is fleeing soldiers tasked with burning her at the stake. The oblate William, the child of an African Muslim woman and a Christian crusader, is expelled from his monastery and traveling to a new one in Saint-Denis. Jacob, a Jewish boy, escapes his burned village and goes in search of his cousin in Saint-Denis. The three meet up and together flee from the soldiers toward their common destination: Saint-Denis. But once there, their escape turns into a quest to save holy texts. A final confrontation at Mont Saint-Michel shows that kindness has the power of any miracle.
This book is especially notable for the three main characters’ ethnic, religious, and racial diversity. It will appeal to readers who loved Gidwitz’s A Tale Dark and Grimm, those simply eager to learn about medieval society, and those keen on a wildly funny and engaging story.
Thanks to my son for creating this colored collagraph print for me!
Story bites are a tiny but important piece of a story—a starting point, a detail, an action, or a character—written as short and fun pieces of writing. On this website, I’ll give you a prompt and invite you to respond to it. What to do next is up to you. Make your piece as short or as long as you want; it’s your writing.
Each month, I’ll post a new prompt and invite you to write a story bite based on it.
Please share your story bites!Submityour story bite to me through your teacher or an adult’s home email address and include: your first name, grade, town, and state. (Elementary, middle, and high school students only, please.)
When I’m able to, I’ll post a story bite that I’ve received the month before and say a few things that I like about it.
Teachers: if your make story bites part of a lesson, please let me know how it went. And share them! I’d love to see your students’ work.
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