This post evolved from my meditations about historical accuracy in fiction while reading and blogging about Scoundrel’s Kiss, a historical romance set in Castile at the beginning of the thirteenth century. It looks at why I believe that accuracy in fictional treatments of history matters, and uses some examples from Scoundrel’s Kiss as a springboard for this argument. If it seems odd to single out for critical discussion a historical romance that sets a high premium on organically integrated and careful historical detail, I should perhaps clarify that these were the qualities which engaged me in the first place and stimulated a dialogue with the representation of a period, if not a place, that has long interested me.
Warning: please note that this piece contains an abundance of plot spoilers.
The Middle Ages. There is dismissal in the very term used to define the millennium between the fall of the Western Roman Empire and the emergence of the self-importantly titled Renaissance and Enlightenment. By turns perceived as quaint and incomprehensible, by turns as darkly disturbing yet chivalrous, this period tends to inspire fiction that juxtaposes extremes of light and dark, holy and demonic, chivalric honour and barbarous inhumanity, benighted ignorance and zealous truth-seeking. Typically, every last drop is wrung from its share of darkness, pain, and suffering, even or especially when it comes to love. I adore intense, gritty historical fiction, but when it comes to the mediaeval period I sometimes think of its fictional depictions as the swords-and-sorrows genre. How often do you find even remotely comedic novels set in the Middle Ages?1
Scoundrel’s Kiss is no different in this respect, yet it exhibits an awareness of nuance that prevents the portrayal from becoming hackneyed. The spy, a standard character in the mediaeval genre, is Jewish, the also standard (sort-of-)warrior is actually a novice, the scattering of nobles are assigned minimal visibility, the light-relief-character turns out to have a poignant, secret life, the heroine is a translator, and another woman runs an unconventional, very setting-specific business. And of course, this being a romance, love is allowed to triumph. Where the representation does run aground on one-dimensionality is, paradoxically, one of the story’s most conspicuous areas; a fundamental one, too, in understanding the mediaeval world.
Matters of faith tend to receive short shrift in non-inspirational historical romance, and up to a point it can certainly work. In a story that takes place in a mediaeval European region on the border between Christendom and Islam (a cultural landscape that for eight centuries was moulded by religious conflict and co-existence), and blends major plot elements of a religious nature, a monastic setting, religious knighthood, a relationship forbidden by canon law, a novice hero about to take his final vows, a prominent Jewish secondary character, and an illegal relationship involving a minor Muslim character, it most emphatically does not work.
Despite its heavy reliance on religious elements Scoundrel’s Kiss sweeps faith under the rug. I am not referring to an atmosphere of agnosticism or a sceptical attitude to institutions or rituals. What I mean is that religion in Scoundrel’s Kiss is a trapping without substance. Spirituality and devotional aspects are non-existent; a blank void gapes where theology or Christian, Jewish, or Muslim faith-related concepts and practices are concerned. The priory of Uclés might as well be an office building, the monastics office employees, and the Catholic Church the human resources department where nobody has heard of this God-guy. Characters possess neither a vision of God/Yhwh/Allāh nor any relationship with defining, everyday concepts such as sin or virtue. For example, the hero-novice’s dutiful obedience lacks any spiritual dimension: when he violates a rule he is shown fearing only the consequence for his novitiate, not the displeasure of God or St. James (the patron saint of the Order of Santiago). His attraction to a cloistered life and suppression of sexual urges – exotic enough in this day and age to automatically confer a “mediaeval” flavour – are uncoupled from the belief systems and customs that governed the thoughts and behaviour of even the average lay person. Even while this would-be monk still clings to a future within the Order, not a heavenward appeal nor formal paternoster ever passes his lips (the Rule prescribed a minimum of twenty-three per day), not a devotional thought enters his mind, not a genuflection bends his knee. So devoid of meaning is the novel’s religious landscape that the narrative actually seems to confuse faiths: at one point, the Jewish character exclaims “Saints be!” (p. 328).
Listed separately, particulars of religious expression and the issues I discussed in my previous post are arguably trivial – inconsequential in a story written for entertainment. Pieced together, however, the sense of the period that emerges from this mosaic of errors and omissions has meaning for the understanding, or misunderstanding, of mediaeval civilisation. It blots out a larger truth and contributes to a common confusion about premodern periods: that, because we share emotional responses and physical needs, people in previous times were no different from us, as indeed wallpaper historicals would have us believe. Well, what does it matter, one might reply? After all, doesn’t each age impose its own moral judgment on the past? Isn’t the history we are taught merely an interpretation anyway?
If the past has no influence over the present then perhaps how it is represented truly makes no difference. If, however, the past does influence the present, its representation does acquire significance.
Try, if you please, to imagine a description of your country today written by a destitute vagrant, and another written by a wealthy investor. What motives/purpose/bias would drive their descriptions? Where and what would the differences be, and to whom would they matter? Would the descriptions garner equal credibility, equal respect? Should they be treated as equally valid or invalid? If one of the versions had to be chosen to represent your country to the rest of the world, which one would it/should it be? Why? Who should make that decision? Why? The answers to these and similar questions are among the things that have shaped and continue to shape received history.
How history is presented has consequences. Not merely for the often chanted reason about learning from the past to avoid repeating mistakes – a lesson history itself proves is often lost upon those it would caution. History is a living, shifting phenomenon that, among other things, lends itself to the the use and abuse of power. Its malleable nature allows it to be appropriated and reconstructed in a manner orchestrated to harm or benefit. Thus, asking whose voice is representing received history is delving into whose interests are being protected by that particular representation.
During the period in mediaeval Castile in which Scoundrel’s Kiss is set, the default writers of the text sources historians study today were Christian men. They were the lawmakers, the prelates, the chroniclers, the custodians, the judges, the educators. Most of them probably believed that their ideologies and actions were for the best of society and the souls of the people in it. In observing, commenting, explaining, exploring, obscuring, admonishing, advising, prohibiting, permitting, condemning, absolving, executing, freeing, imprisoning, isolating, segregating, uniting, questioning, answering, raising up, and pulling down, they dominated their world. These men became the official voices of the Castilian Reconquista. Therefore, a key question becomes: what was the consequence for the representation of those who were not Christian, not men, not text-writers? What does it all mean for the image we have today of mediaeval Castilian society? How do all these circumstances affect current study of Reconquista Castile and the transmission of its history?
The frontier that ran through the centre of the Iberian peninsula (where Scoundrel's Kiss is set) was not rigid and fixed but permeable, reflected in the variegated societies of the towns and settlements there. An ebb and flow of armed conflict, religious identities, emigration, immigration, legal and illegal trade, and cultural interchange washed through the region, producing diverse systems of coexistence now popularly described as “convivencia”. The praise2 for the (increasingly diluted) concept of convivencia3, has arisen in no small part from the Christian perspectives of the original studies of the sources. These suggest that an exemplary tolerance enabled people of disparate religions to live harmoniously and profitably together in the same community. Comparisons with the fraught conditions for religious minorities in other parts of mediaeval Europe and the stricter Islamic doctrine of the Almohads who had assumed control in al-Andalus (Muslim Iberia, now southern Spain and Portugal) reinforce the idea of a haven. For example, looking at convivencia from the standpoint of prerogatives and exemptions granted to Jews under various regulations, one could imagine that Jews in the Christian kingdoms of mediaeval Iberia attained roughly equal legal status with Christians in the more liberal period before the mid-thirteenth or early fourteenth century.
Yet, whether one takes a sunny or doleful view of religious, cultural, and ethnic relations in mediaeval Iberia, convivencia proved a volatile system that ultimately favoured the dominant culture and eroded the rights of religious minorities, forcing them into subordination and lower social status. In Reconquest Castile, there was room for only one authoritative culture: the Christian.
How, then, does Scoundrel’s Kiss address the interaction between characters of different religion in this dynamic yet fragile setting? First, some excerpts:
“Upon finding a Jew alone with a dazed Christian woman after dark, they would not ask questions before detaining him. Or worse. (p.19)
‘'I am...her friend' [says Jacob about Ada] 'And more if you’d have your way, judio?' Fernán asked. 'But she wouldn’t have you, would she?'” (p.23)
“As with most towns on the plateau, once governed by the Moorish regimes in the south, its citizens comprised an uneasy mix of cultures. Convivencia, the subtle art of living and prospering among diverse peoples.” (p. 53).
“'Relations between a Christian and Moor – that’s not legal.'” (p.255)
“'Some resist the idea of awarding parcels to Jewish courtiers, but I cannot think of a reason why you don’t deserve this.'” (p. 334).
While all but one of these snippets are instances of telling, not showing, they indicate a narrative that recognises the presence of discrimination and portrays it in the setting. If one then turns to the plot and character arcs, this impression seems confirmed by three particular components that reference these tensions. The first relates to the hero’s background: his (long dead) mother was a Berber slave, a Muslim. The second deals with a subplot woven into the main suspense plot: one of the secondary characters, a Christian, has a child with a Muslim lover. The third is the prominence of a secondary character who belongs to the Jewish minority.
These set-ups appear to reflect the multi-faceted societies of the frontier, but a closer look reveals the portrayal is generally window-dressing rather than an integral function of the story. The hero’s childhood baptism has eliminated the issue of discrimination. While his maternal heritage is exploited for emotion it does not lead to the character reconnecting with or in any way whatsoever exploring his Muslim roots. His hatred of his father is explained in language that describes the abuse and violence by a sadistic master against a defenseless slave and bastard progeny, not in terms of faith or religion. As for the subplot involving the interfaith relationship, this is a late-coming revelation, and the particulars of the relationship are implied and sketchy. Furthermore, the secret is shown only from the perspective of the Christian man. He is shown to love his concubine and to know that the relationship is illegal, yet when the plot puts him in danger of being found out, he buckles to extortion with the motivation that the relationship would incur the wrath of his family and cause him to lose his inheritance. Nowhere (that I can see) is it shown that were the illicit relation to be discovered, it would mean death, prostitution4, or slavery for the Muslim woman (who has no voice in the story). If her Christian lover were to abandon her, as the plot rather readily makes him do (whether permanently or not is unclear to me), she would be doubly damned: Islamic law, too, required women to be virtuous and forbade sexual liaisons with Christians. This method of introducing a religious conflict, then converting it into a non-religious issue is particularly observable in the characterisation of Jacob ben Asher. More about him in a moment.
A potential problem with prejudice and discrimination as it is handled in Scoundrel’s Kiss is that the sinister facets of an unequal society can become isolated along the fringes of the story, making them appear to have only distant or minor connection to normal daily life. The narration that in the first few chapters suggests that Muslims and Jews had to exercise caution in a society that “comprised an uneasy mix of cultures” becomes more ambiguous in its subtext as the story progresses. Some of it is due to imparting information by having a character mouth commentary or delivering it in passing, generic asides without actively integrating concrete instances of persecution and segregation into character actions and the plotline. Therefore the dark tone of the story arises primarily from the personal issues of the hero and heroine, the friction between them, and the external suspense plot. Moreover, since actual discrimination remains theory in Scoundrel’s Kiss and religious persecution is invisible, character responses to interfaith relations are reduced to indifference. The character who, as shown above, calls Jacob judio (Jew), is presented as an exception who must be reprimanded, and his prejudice does not translate into active discrimination or lasting suspicion. A final reason for the blurring of discriminatory realities is that the story takes place wholly within the dominant culture (the Christian), and that the viewpoints expressed are with one exception those of Christian characters. That exception, the Jewish character, lives and works successfully in a Christian environment and is not shown within a Jewish community or expressing his faith. His characterisation creates a bright foreground that is much more ideal than the setting makes clear. Thus the “uneasy mix of cultures” is more of a painted, static tableau that now and then briefly shivers to life, then resumes wooden immobility.
If anything, this speaks to the difficulty of placing a story written for entertainment within a setting that will intrude with inconvenient demands. If, for example, the author populates her romance strictly with the set that would receive an invitation to Almack's, then a sort of protective bubble forms around the story that serves to cushion or insulate it from conflicting realities. But once a story straddles separate worlds, for example by making an eighteenth-century noblewoman and her stable groom fall in love, contortions that involve artifice or fantasy will likely be needed to prevent social, cultural, and political realities from entering the story world and ruining the marriage prospects.
Regarding the Jewish character in Scoundrel’s Kiss, it is not the use of exceptions that is objectionable to me – commercial fiction thrives on exceptions – but the representation of exceptions as the norm. If an author of historical fiction does choose to include characters from minority groups it is not an inconsequential matter how those minority characters and their place in society are portrayed. Every selection about what to include and what to exclude builds a narrative relationship with history that can either distort or illuminate.
The closest interaction the narrative has with a member of a minority is Jacob ben Asher, a young man who learnt sword-fighting back in England and now works as spy in the service of a Castilian noblewoman. An appealing character who has something of the air of a younger, earnest brother of Andrea Orsini from The Prince of Foxes, he is nevertheless a token Jew whose characterisation is rife with potential for misperceptions about the life of mediaeval Jews.
First, some general context. Although free-born Jews and Muslims of Castile were technically not slaves but free, legally they were the property of the king (servi regis/servi camerae – serfs/servants of the king/of the Chamber, also translated as “Treasury” or “Royal Household”; Jews and Muslims were sometimes called the King’s Treasure) or his lords, who exploited them as a credit resource – special taxes in exchange for protection. Any rights or privileges granted to Jews or Muslims and any protection the law afforded them could at any time be undermined by conflicting Christian interests. In Toledo, for example, it was decreed that the judge in cases involving both a Jew and a Christian must be Christian. And in the business and legal documents of Toledan Christians, Jews, who often bore the same names as Christians or Muslims (a naming practice later made illegal, if I recall correctly), were meticulously identified as such; fellow Christians were not.
In Scoundrel’s Kiss, Jacob associates freely and closely with Ada. We are told that they have travelled together from England, that he has been her only friend, and that he has been the person looking after her in Castile. The limits historically imposed on such a relation, however, makes this intimacy somewhat tricky to imagine. Law forbade Christians and Jews from eating and drinking together as well as from sleeping under the same roof, although evidence shows that these were not prohibitions that were always followed to the letter. But Ada and Jacob’s close association also sidesteps the dangers of and anxieties about interfaith sexual relations. In this case, the fact that they are not lovers would be beside the point: merely spending time alone in each other’s company could be misconstrued and expose them to gossip and thereby capital punishment. In this period in Castile Jews were not yet required to wear outward markers of their faith, which would have made it easier for the pair where nobody knew them, but in Castile they both belong to the same, noble household. Travelling together through England and France presupposes that they would have taken measures to conceal their religious identities, and were comfortable to the point of arrogance with the inherent dangers.
The story solves the remaining obstacles and differences – synagogue attendance, dietary restrictions, Talmudic rulings on interactions with Christians, etc. – by purging every last vestige of Judaism from the description of Jacob’s inner and outer life. The only way the reader knows he is Jewish is because the characters tell us so. One of the distracting puzzles raised by his narrative is why this secularism never causes him to contemplate the resulting logic of shedding what essentially is a meaningless and irksome identity enforced only for plot reasons, and have him consider becoming a converso.
By making Jacob a character in the diplomatic employ of Castilian nobility, the author has found a first-rate way of demonstrating the harmonious and productive aspects of convivencia. What is not shown is that those who gained such preferments were an elite who nonetheless only periodically were on a near-equal footing with their Christian counterparts. For example, Jews were barred from holding political office as they were not allowed to be in a position of public authority over Christians. (Nor were Jews (or Muslims) permitted to employ Christian house servants, though farmers were allowed to have Christian agricultural labourers). Jews in Iberia were privileged to bear arms (some became famous soldiers) but Jacob wields his sword in attack, not self-defense, in public and with deadly effect, without the slightest murmur of repercussions. Admittedly, a lot of (guilt-free) killing by both men and women goes on in this book, none of it in war, and none leading to a single question by the authorities except at the end, and then only to put the heroine in trouble. But the reader is also informed that Jacob has become a master swordsman in England. English Jews had been stripped of the right to wear armour, and while merchants and travellers probably discreetly bore weapons to protect themselves, the increasingly restrictive and hostile climate (which climaxed in the explusion of Jews from England in 1290) would have made it perilous to stand accused of killing a Christian. In this instance, it takes an actual legend to circumvent this quandary: Jacob apparently honed his skills while a member of Robin Hood’s band.
This method of filtering out what plotwise may be justifiably extraneous detail without thoughtful consideration for the impact it has on the larger narrative can lead to a slant on history that, irrespective of the author’s intentions, becomes related to fairytale.
In sum, realities that shaped the life of minorities in mediaeval Castile in a different mould from the Christian majority are largely missing from the interpretation Scoundrel’s Kiss presents of convivencia. This arguably does history a double disservice. By refraining from commenting on aspects of Jacob’s Jewish life, the story never explains the unique reasons that for a long time made Iberia a far more desirable place to be Jewish than anywhere else in mediaeval Europe. And by advancing a minority narrative that is nearly indistinguishable from the majority narrative, a reader can be left with the idea that charges of severe anti-Semitism in mediaeval society have been exaggerated.
Calling for historical accuracy is not about forcing writers whose primary aim is to entertain into a critique of the past or comparative analysis of the present. Rather it is to do with the responsibility to observe a standard that does not unduly flatter and deliberately deceive. That is achievable if the writer approaches her/his historical material with respect, knowing that doing it complete justice may be beyond her/his means but that the concept of fairness is not. Where a precise picture of the past would force the inclusion of material that conflicts with the story goals, accuracy instead entails sharpened focus on the quality and legitimacy of the historical material selected. Rejecting things known not to be true is the cardinal rule, to which I would add the corollary that that which is an exception is not to be made out to be the norm. In the end, while fiction has the power to influence public perception about what is true or acceptable history (The Da Vinci Code, Georgette Heyer regencies), at its best historical fiction is an inspiring supplement to the study of history, and is neither intended to nor has any obligation to replace it. So when disciplined adherence to factual accuracy is the gauge by which the lay historian in a fiction writer (co-)operates, falling short is no dishonour however much such errors or problematic elements may be scrutinised by others. Some authors are new to a period and have yet to learn how much they don’t know (or wrote before technology and public libraries facilitated research), but, as in Carrie Lofty’s case, genuine effort usually shines through.
That said, I am not convinced that every writer merits charity for the way they use dramatic truth against historical fact. Some appear to subscribe to a philosophy which holds that historical accuracy in romances is a nuisance that must be tamed, remodelled, or mutilated in order to be fit to serve the (perceived) requirements of entertainment. Knowingly using popular but erroneous beliefs as a yardstick of what is an acceptable treatment of history in fiction because the alternative is having disgruntled readers who chide you for perceived errors which in fact are not errors at all, or altering factual events to cater plotline may seem innocuous from the point of view of escapism, which is perhaps why opinions to the contrary are commonly refuted with charges of snobbery and nitpickery, and the banner of artistic license is raised.
Nevertheless, by claiming to write historical fiction/romance an author implicitly sets herself/himself up to be held accountable for the history in her/his book. Certainly art can be as fanciful as it likes, but fanciful history makes the author who claims to write historical fiction/romance complicit in, at a minimum, willful historical amnesia, and at worst, falsifying history. In such cases, repairing the damage by filling the afterword with notes about deviations from known facts sometimes treads a thorny line between conscientiousness and laziness. In the latter instance, a frank note at the front that the historical portrayal has been adapted to better serve the story would seem more honest and, well, charmingly disarming.
Writers and readers who say that they are tired of discussions about historical accuracy/authenticity/historicism, or that, for a number of reasons, historical accuracy is unattainable or illusory, are not, I speculate, those whom received history forgets, mistreats, stereotypes, silences, dismisses, or otherwise discriminates against. Groups to whom a say about history and their place in it is a recent and hard-fought-for privilege seem fully capable of mustering enthusiasm for the topic. For example, in the USA romance author Beverly Jenkins has long gone looking for the exceptions or those ignored by the history of the dominating majority, bringing attention to the historical contributions of African-Americans rather than producing a more marketable Regency about English Dukes and Almack's heiresses or creamy-complexioned (pretend) courtesans. Writers of LGBT (lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgender) fiction are unlocking doors on historical sources that help to explore and claim a historical identity that has long been in the custody of the same authorities that were the instruments of its oppression. Writers from former colonies are re-weaving a past distinct from the usurping histories of foreign regimes. Through the efforts of those who probe the health of received history, whether through academic research or in fiction, our historical panorama grows richer, and stagnation, the ally of historical conceit, is averted.
1. I am told that The Adventures Of Alianore Audley by Brian Wainwright is an outrageous romp (but then it is set so late in the Late Middle Ages as to be virtually knocking on the door of the Renaissance). I can personally recommend The Long Ships, a classic, ironic Viking yarn by Frans G. Bengtsson.
2. See, for example, the romantically evocative The Ornament Of The World by María Rosa Menocal or the nostalgia of A Vanished World: Muslims, Christians, And Jews In Medieval Spain by Chris Lowney, both popular books for general audiences, or the “optimistic” views advanced in the academic works by Norman Roth. Obviously, an insistence on studying minorities solely through the lens of calamities can give equally myopic results as magnifying instances of harmonious interaction and glossing over discrimination.
3. Scholarly focus has been shifting away from the “inadequacy” of the original and increasingly misused concept of “convivencia”. Elka Klein notes in Jews, Christian Society, And Royal Power In Medieval Barcelona that “the debate about convivencia is, at its root, about acculturation, about the degree of influence of these cultures upon each other (or more accurately, in [Américo (who introduced philologist Ramón Menendez Pidal’s term convivencia to academic historical discourse)] Castro’s terms, the influence of the two other cultures on Spanish Christians). But with a few notable exceptions, it is mostly reduced to a discussion of tolerance, stability, security, and cordiality” (The University Of Michigan Press, 2006, p.14). In Conflict And Coexistence: Archbishop Rodrigo And The Muslims And Jews Of Medieval Spain Lucy K. Pick writes, “As convivencia is understood and used by historians today, it describes something far more problematic and interesting than simple tolerance between different groups sharing the same space. It describes a cultural situation in which potential cooperation and interdependence in economic, social, cultural, and intellectual spheres coexist with the continual threat of conflict and violence” (University of Michigan Press, 2004, p.1). It is worth remembering that tolerance meant something different to mediaeval people than it does today. To mediaeval Christians truth was absolute, not relative, and so religious dissension was condemned and had to be contained. At the same time, Jews, although seen as unbelievers, were the chosen people of the Old Testament, which obliged Christians to exercise self-restraint (but not love) toward them even as it was a Christian duty to police the boundaries of permissible liberties. In other words, in the Middle Ages discrimination had positive connotations. Muslims, who were not included in the Bible but whose monotheistic faith was influenced by it, were similarly “tolerated” but liable to be treated harsher than Jews.
4. See Isabel Bonet O’Connor’s essay, ‘Between Whipping and Slavery: Double Jeopardy against Mudéjar Women in Medieval Spain’ in Women and the Colonial Gaze, edited by Tamara L. Hunt.
