Witch. Witchcraft. Witchery.

Your witch has a guest on here today; Barbara Henderson on her new novel:

“Isn’t language wonderful? Some words have an impact far beyond their literal meaning. How apt then that I should write about the witchcraft angle in The Boy, the Witch and the Queen of Scots for the Bookwitch blog. Nothing could be more fitting!

Scotland has form when it comes to witches and warlocks, particularly following the Scottish Witchcraft Act of 1563 when both the practice of witchcraft and consulting with witches became capital offences, punishable by death. Shockingly, Scotland executed at least 15 times as many witches as England relative to its population. The act came into effect during the troubled reign of Mary, Queen of Scots. In 1597, her son King James VI of Scotland (and later I of England) became the only European monarch to publish a treatise defending the reality of witchcraft. Is it the dark nights of winter|? The dreich, foggy weather? Whatever the reason, the supernatural has always occupied a key place in the Scottish psyche.

My book, The Boy, the Witch and the Queen of Scots, is set just before the Scottish Witchcraft Act comes into force – but my characters already inhabit a world which is steeped in religion and superstition. It was an age of fear – the plague was ravaging Europe, wars and counterwars spilled across borders and as if that wasn’t enough, you had to remain wary of witches and devils, too.

The idea to make a little more of this angle in the story arose when I read up on one of the villains in my story, the Earl of Huntly, also known as the ‘Cock o’ the North’ on account of his showy and proud conduct. Keen on a Catholic counter-reformation, the Earl staged a revolt against the newly arrived Queen when she refused to be manipulated by him. And guess what – his wife, the Countess of Huntly, is rumoured to have been partial to witchcraft. Soon, the very association with sorcery was to carry the death penalty. It inspired fear. It generated power. It made one feel invincible, perhaps. It is said that the Earl’s wife received a witches’ prophecy that her husband would emerge from the final battle without a wound on his body. This proved true, if not in the way she expected – the Earl was captured and died of ‘apoplexy’ (probably a stroke or seizure). Queen Mary was victorious.

Of course, prophecies and witchcraft also gave me the opportunity to put one of my main characters in danger through vicious and false accusations: a young seamstress called Lizzie simply repeats a prophecy she has overheard. When the events prophesied come to pass, she is accused of witchcraft and treason, and dragged away to Edinburgh’s notorious Tolbooth prison. Witchcraft may not carry the death penalty yet, but treason most certainly does. The stakes could not be higher for my young protagonists.

And then there is the title. Initially, the book was called The Queen’s Hawker. Not bad – but where was the jeopardy? A rethink was needed. The Spy and the Queen of Scots? Yes, better. But then I discovered the existence of a novel for teens called Spying for the Queen of Scots, by Theresa Breslin, an author I respect and admire greatly. Time for another rethink, no doubt about that. The Boy and the Queen of Scots? It was one of my teacher friends, Steven Kenyon, who had read the novel draft and suggested the threefold title: The Boy, the Witch and the Queen of Scots.

Once more, aren’t words great? My work here was done. That single additional word delivers threat, drama, jeopardy, intrigue, and an echo of the iconic The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It took me a while to get there, but I have arrived – with the supernatural angle firmly embroidered into the story, as if by Mary’s own hand.

Read more about the Witchcraft Act at https://blog.historicenvironment.scot/2022/06/the-witchcraft-act-and-its-impact-in-scotland/”

Due North

Ten years on I see things differently. The online reminders of what happened on this date bring stuff back, and the memories of the move north helps me reflect on what my Bookwitchery caused.

I happened to mention on social media that the old Bookwitch Towers had sold, and how I now merely wanted for a new one to replace it. You know, those days when you’re waiting, holding breaths and crossing digits.

One of my online author friends said how she wanted a comfortable cave in Umbria, with cappuccino on tap (to paraphrase a little). Just knowing that one of ‘my’ authors was listening to my housing woes gave me a warm glow.

This led eldest Offspring to pitch in by mentioning Due South, the Chicago based television show that wasn’t filmed there. That in turn made my Umbrian wannabe very happy, hearing from another Due South fan, and she decided to pop downstairs to watch an episode. Because some people own the box set.

Finally another friend piped up to say she too was a Due South fan. Aren’t we all?

And I’d only aired my worries about having nowhere to live…

Meet the Britwitch

Every year, without fail, on this day I tell you how old Bookwitch is now. And in case you want the latest figure, she is 17.

But today I have other news. I can now call myself the Britwitch, after spending vast amounts of money, and some time, on acquiring British citizenship.

Many thanks to my dentist, and to Helen Grant, who both put their reputation on the line to vouch for me being me. I did sit the Life in the UK test, but in the end I grew so old it wasn’t necessary; nor did I have to prove I can speak English. Old age has something to say for it. The biometric man who was too cool to like ABBA when he was younger, being punk, was also very helpful and friendly. And Daughter has cajoled and helped fill stuff in and organised ghastly photos in Sainsbury’s, as well as coming along today to ‘hold’ my hand. And the Resident IT Consultant rushed home from his morning walk to come along as well.

This is turning into a veritable Oscars acceptance speech, isn’t it? There was a medal for me.

The Registrar was nice too. I even managed to speak my Affirmation properly, only stumbling a little bit on the wrong Monarch, but remembering the new one is Charles, he is King, and his number is three. We didn’t have to sing the national anthem, although I could have. It’s the kind of thing us little foreigners learned at school. In my case close to sixty years ago. The recording of the anthem played was rather lovely, sung by someone with a much better voice than the three of us could have managed.

It didn’t even rain. The storms held off with no rain, some sunshine, and very little wind.

It’ll be back to books tomorrow. Or next week.

Scots, ten years on

Some of you did see me coming and exited swiftly(ish). But that’s OK. I mean, it’s not, but it’s a free country, and if I saw fit to move to Scotland ten years ago, I dare say others are allowed to move to England, or even further afield.

I refer – of course – to my retort to Herald Scotland’s panicky article about who was left now that Julia Donaldson had left the country. And yes, seeing as I was close to moving in the opposite direction, I didn’t exactly want to see any of the other nine authors disappearing too.

‘Nine?’ you say. Precisely. I started counting and came up with ‘a few’ more Scottish children’s authors. Some of them pretty major, too, so the Herald wasn’t looking too carefully. (Won’t list them again, as it’s easy to get too listy, but read my post from January 15th 2014. Such a long time ago.) It was back in the day when authors regularly commented on here, and I was particularly taken by Kathering Langrisk who took three comments to get her own name right. ☺️ (With me it’s usually my address I can’t always manage. Crescent, Avenue, Gardens, Terrace.)

I ruled against listing adult crime writers, and if I stick to this, I still have well over twenty more authors than I did in 2014. And I’ve not exactly gone out of my way to find every last one, although for my lunches I did scour every possible literary lady I could come up with. Among them were ones who ‘followed me’ to Scotland, like Che Golden, Lee Weatherly and Philip Caveney. Much appreciated.

Geographically closest to me are Alex Nye and Moira Mcpartlin. Distance is not a problem though, and I have enjoyed getting to know Barbara Henderson and Lindsay Littleson. Artists Kate Leiper and Ross Collins are people I admire greatly. Sarah Broadley, Sheila Averbuch, Vikki Gemmell and Lynne Rickards make for good company at parties. And many more, from launches, events, awards.

Moving to England is one thing, but anyone who moves to Vienna is likely to find me on their doorstep at some point.

I have still to get my cinnamon bun act together. But one of these days. Slowly learning who likes coffee, or who must have tea. And if it should be Earl Grey, or absolutely not Earl Grey. And I had no idea how popular Prosecco would turn out to be. Not much call for Irn Bru.

Covid – and Brexit – have changed lives. But there is still plenty of hope for the future of children’s books in Scotland.

The single gift

Our latest Christmas present rule was one only, from each person to the other persons, which in our case meant two from me to the other two. I reckoned that putting more than one book into the same wrapping paper could count as one, so I gave the Resident IT Consultant four books. All four were books I wanted to read. I was fairly sure he’d like them too. (But it does kind of deal quite nicely with what I want.)

He started on the one I had expected him to reach for first, and I have to thank the facebook friend who recommended the – to me – unknown E C R Lorac. The next one was by Nicola Upson, another fb recommendation.

I have just finished reading them myself, and it’s interesting how they coincidentally are quite similar. Lorac’s Fell Murder is set in a Lancashire farming community during WWII, and also written at that time. Nicola’s book is brand new but Shot With Crimson is set in 1939, in the countryside near Peterborough.

Nicola’s style is modern, both in plot and language. The Lorac novel is its complete opposite, being a little slow – but not in a bad way – and thoroughly of its time.

Shot With Crimson doesn’t shy away from the seriousness of murder, but I found myself looking at it from my current day view point. In Fell Murder the most shocking thing to the modern reader is how the farming population refuses to speculate when urged to by the police. Because they know that the murderer will be executed, and have no wish to send the wrong neighbour into the arms of death.

You tend to forget this. You know that murder was a capital offence back then, but somehow it’s quite easy to overlook. Because I had this book in such recent memory, I was able to contemplate Nicola’s various suspects differently. Was there someone I would be happier to see die for their crime?

The death of an elderly farmer in Lancashire, with relatively few suspects, is vastly different from Shot With Crimson, which features both Daphne du Maurier, Josephine Tey and Alfred Hitchcock, with the action both in old England, and in Hollywood. (There was also an unexpected mention of George Devine, which I won’t bore you with now.)

I recommend both books, as well as the way I managed to lay my hands on them.

Some folk

We’re back to reminiscing about the raisin and the nostril. Both mine. Because it’s Twelfth Night, and this time I actually have the invite for you. Apologies for the dog-earedness of it all. It’s done long duty as a shopping list template. (That’s on the back.) I used it for years. Not quite the 65 years that it might lead you to believe, but decades.

That’s why it’s so strange – or maybe it isn’t? – that I only realised what it says, some time last year. One of those times when I fondly gazed at the back, thinking back to the raisin. And the nostril.

It was Favourite Aunt’s 50th birthday dinner. As a good socialist she had obviously booked Folkets Hus for her gathering. It’s something most towns have, where all kinds of events take place. For the people. Folk.

I discovered a whole pile of these invitations when we cleared FA’s home. Nice and fresh and not used. I assumed she’d had too many printed, and had hung on to them in a frugal sort of way. Even if she didn’t use the back for shopping lists. As for me, I worked my way through the pile, until I only had the one left, which got more and more frayed over the years.

And then, last year, I could see clearly. It doesn’t say Folkets Hus. It says Folkes Hus. A typo. Folke is a man’s name, but never mind him. The missing letter ‘t’ will be the reason for the pile of cards. FA must have had the invites reprinted, whilst still hanging on to the first lot. It only took me twenty years, whereas I guess my hawk-eyed Aunt noticed in time. And Folke wasn’t gatecrashed by party-hungry revellers.

Anyway, I was still not invited. But I had raisins.

I’m in my book!

I joked with Daughter before Christmas, suggesting maybe she was knitting me a present.

She was, after a fashion. She made me a photo book of our North American tour a year ago. It was a complete surprise, and between you and me, far better than a jumper.

I have ‘read’ it several times already, and will return to it any minute again. It features diners, grilled cheese, trains, some tall buildings, and much more.

The cover photo shows the two of us queening it in Queens.

The Resident IT Consultant also gave me a book, but a more conventional one, found on the Witch’s wish list.

Benjamin Zephaniah’s Dead

Sad to learn that Benjamin Zephaniah has died. Far too young at 65, and such a good person. That sounds a strange description, but he was steps apart from many of us. Wise, vegan, knew what he wanted, and able to say ‘no’ when required.

In the very early days of my Bookwitchery I requested one of his children’s novels from a publisher I’d had no previous connection with. That first email led to years of a good relationship with this one publicist, and I never think of her without also thinking of Benjamin.

Back then, when I often emailed authors, I knew I couldn’t email him as he didn’t do email. Instead I wrote Benjamin an old-school letter, via his publisher.

He wrote back. A brief handwritten note.

On who you are

‘Yes, I know who you are,’ they say. Or they look vague. Or you simply don’t go up to them because you’re not sure they will remember you, either your face, or your name. So you often don’t even try.

And the more famous they are, the faster your feelings of inferiority kick in.

I came across A S Byatt, who died last week, a few times at events. Never spoke to her, and to my shame, I have not read any of her books. I will need to remedy that. She seems to have been not only a very good writer, but also a nice person.

I sort of knew that. At one of Terry Pratchett’s launches I saw her go up to him and gently tell him who she was. Seeing as I knew they did know each other, I wondered at her modesty. She was famous, after all. So was he.

And then, not that long ago, the penny finally dropped. She did what any sensible person chatting to someone with Alzheimers should do. You tell them a pertinent fact, whether or not they need it. She did not assume he’d be able to place her, among all the rest of us.

I could have done that too. I was fairly certain my face alone would not have sufficed at that moment. But Bookwitch and interview might have been enough. I suspect a lot of us circled Terry quite cautiously that evening. Which might have felt lonely.

We should stop thinking of ourselves and our vanity.

And if I look blank next time we meet?

Wet wet wet

Should have paid more attention to the photo of the Northern Ireland woman online in thigh-deep water yesterday. She was illustrating the dangers of storm Ciaran, and I absentmindedly wondered why she was out at all. To be fair, when we arrived in Edinburgh Daughter and I merely ended up foot-deep in the raging streams by Haymarket. Our umbrellas kept our hair dry, but that was all.

We were there because Daughter was taking part in a panel, on AI in space, at the Data Summit 2023. She was keen to get out there talking again. More fun if you’re dry, though, but her socks and boots just squelched quietly.

There was a keynote from Moriba Jah before the panel, and I haven’t yet decided if I was more taken by his talk or his hair. Close thing. (I jest. Obviously. Marvellous hair.)

It was a popular panel; hordes of people arriving as it kicked off. The panellists had things to say, from common sense to selling politics. Daughter told them about poor Kepler – the telescope, not the man – and how it managed to change what it could do when its first purpose failed, leaving it with many more years of service. That’s sustainable.

In the end not much was said about AI, or even about the man who puts so much junk into orbit round Earth. We seemed to be in agreement on how to be sensible.

Feet were still wet when we got home, and I am looking into waterproof backpacks, having had to dry every last thing in my bag. Never saw such a damp Kindle.